I'm about to leave the country to go on a 2.5-week trip to Europe and will most likely be unplugging during that time! I have so many ideas on what I want to write next, but it's been a lot between college graduation and now, this trip, but here are some things to look forward to for me to write and you to read!
The Unveiling of Darkness II - Titus Danforth x f!reader
Oral Fixation - Jack Abbot x f!resident
Untitled - Brett Richards x f!firefighter
His Resident - Jack Abbot x f!resident
Untitled - Sammy Bryant x f!bartender
I have many other ideas that I am working on! I am looking forward to being able to be more active, produce more content, and also just interact more online! University took a lot of my time and attention over the last four years, so am very excited to get back into writing what I want to write! Feel free to reach out, send me hot Shawn gifs, or just say hey.
I WILL READ THE ORAL FIXATION READER WITH ABBOT YOU ABSOLUTE GENIUS 😭😭 I NEED THIS
Already ahead of you! ;)
I can just picture him getting so annoyed with reader but not wanting to cross a line as your boss. He would only get more irritated too when Robby notices his noticing (Robby sees and hears everything).
just the idea of a younger resident reader realizing that jack hyperfocuses on their mouth, and they begin to tease him.
it started with pens, straws from coffees shen brought you--anything that could find a place between your parted lips, teeth leaving soft indents on the plastic. it's not like you were doing it on purpose. it was mindless, a reflex, something you've always done--an oral fixation--that formed early on, that lasted far into adulthood. it never seemed to bother anyone, except for dana who was sick of finding small bite marks on the pens at the nurse's station. but no one else really ever took notice of it, that is, until it was all your attending could focus on.
your hot older attending, who hadn't been with a woman in years, not since the last time he tried after his wife passed, a year or so ago and he found he couldn't even get hard---the girl was young, younger than him, pretty and worked in the coffee shop in the hospital---but the night ended in her grabbing her heels and purse and leaving with an awkward smile.
it seemed getting hard was all he knew what to do around you---one sight of you with something pressed into the warm heat of your mouth---and he'd be straining against his scrub pants, palming himself each moment alone he got, trying to rid his mind of your wet mouth.
one day he made the mistake of agreeing to a cookout at dana's house---most of day shift was accounted for, half of night, including you. kids were running around, cold beers being passed around as pool water splashed up onto hot concrete. he manned the grill with robby and dana's husband, but that only lasted until he almost burned a batch of burgers. all because you were sat near the pool, a popsicle slipping in and out of your lips, red food dye staining your tongue, your spit, it even slipping down your chin. he had to excuse himself when your tongue darted out, swirling around the tip of the frozen treat.
he was in the bathroom for over ten minutes, trying to ease the tent in his jeans, trying to keep himself from pushing them down and circling his hand around his cock. it took over ten minutes for it to ease enough that it wasn't noticeable, only for it to shoot back up as he opened the door to find you making your way towards him---popsicle stick discarded but red cherry flavoring sliding and beading along your skin, moving towards your cleavage. you were so innocent then, staring up at him, asking him if he was done with the bathroom.
jack abbot left the cookout after that, going straight home to fist his cock, to try and get it out of his system, you out of his system until your next shift together.
what jack failed to notice, though, is how aware you are of his eyes on you and your little fixation.
it then becomes a game on how far you're able to push jack until he finally snaps and gives in...
summary: you're the youngest member of the newest family admitted to the high council—a world built on blood, power, and rituals older than the country itself. a world where killing is tradition, loyalty is currency, and the annual hunt is the closest thing these people have to religion. after surviving two hunts, you're chosen for the champion's hunt. the heirs are older, faster, hungrier, and as the youngest you're expecting to die... until titus danforth corners you in a storm and offers you a deal that's far more dangerous than death.
pairings: ready or not 2: here I come - titus danforth x f!reader
word count: 11.1k (I don't know where this came from)
warnings/notes: minors DNI (18+ please), murder!plot, killing for fun, violence, gore, blood (like mention of it a lot), choking, age!gap (reader mid to late 20s), ultimatum/blackmail (?), predator/prey dynamic, murder fantasies, titus being a freak, p in v, no protection, breeding kink, slight blood kink, reader lowkey loving it, cursing, possible inaccuracies (haven't seen the movie)
update: there will be part 2! it's in the works
Mud lined the Danforth entryway, the hand-woven rugs from centuries ago splattered with footprints, rain…blood. It was an art in itself, the way the scene after a hunt revealed the true humanity of people—their fears, their character, if they were one to fight, or accept defeat. Beauty is truth, and truth is most evident in death—when they are desperately trying to live, killing for each incoming breath, falling in and out of the natural relationship of predator and prey. And there was nothing more rewarding than being the one to put an end to all of that, take away someone’s breath, feel their heart stop, drain it of all of its oxygenated warm blood.
Titus Danforth was a man who got off on a moment like that, playing god.
A “petulant child” who has gotten everything he’s ever wanted in life, and yet he wanted more. Revenge. Power. Control. Blood. Everything.
Control over their family’s “High Council,” his father dead, and an heir that can carry on not only his genetic makeup but the power of the Danforth name. He wanted all of it, and before Ursula could get it first. That all began with the ritualistic Hunt that was taking place weeks from now. The first in two solar eclipses, this one signifying a sort of champion’s game. Those who had been surviving for years, killing since they were old enough to hold the weight of a weapon, carved out of stone and darkness. The last one standing sure to be promised the most influence and power among the High Council. And this year Titus would win—there was no other option. Kill or be killed, and he promised that as soon as it was decided, he would be the one seated at the forefront of that table come dawn.
The only thing that stood between him, that title, and from killing the other ten high council heirs was you. Belonging to one of the newer elite families that hadn’t been around as long as all the rest—those who still needed to prove themselves—and you were their youngest. Far younger than him, decades younger, with soft, unmarked skin and a certain naive spark that intrigued him more than he would ever admit. Which is why he didn’t, not when Ursula would never let him hear the end of it for going after a young thing like you.
But some things are inevitable, written out in the stars, promised by the hands of Satan, sure to be sealed by the spillage of blood. Whether that meant you lived or died, he didn’t know yet, but he was sure he’d have it figured out by the time of the Hunt—when dusk finally fell, leaving the acres of land into a playground of darkness for the monsters to come out and play.
And so as weeks passed, social events being shoved down his throat by his father and the other high elite parents, he took the time to take in his opponents, to take in you. Among the glinting chandeliers and flutes of champagne as black market investors looked on, seeing which of the elite hunters they wished to invest their money into, he watched you.
In weeks, he came to understand your routines, mannerisms, expressions—claiming he was looking for weaknesses to use during the Hunt, but a selfish part of him was trying to find the right moment to approach you. An opportunity that never came until one night, a week before their game of hide and seek, at a gala no less, where parents spent the night speaking highly of their children in anticipation of the slaughter, and those participating in it drank.
Drank in celebration.
Some in grief.
He found you late into the evening, tucked away in a corner, an emerald dress fitting you in all the right places, hair pulled up, revealing the smooth skin of your neck. Titus was unable to look away, couldn’t stop himself from devouring you while you remained oblivious. With two or three flutes of champagne having been washed down, your cheeks held a gentle rosy hue to them, the alcohol taking shape and form in your body. You stood talking to a server, a man who Titus killed later that evening with the man’s own serving tray, just because of the sight of you blinking up through the thick wisps of your lashes, smiling in such a way that he knew he was entirely fucked. If it wasn’t his brain that had made the realization, his dick definitely did in how it twitched, hardening slightly as you rolled your eyes.
Hours later, while sandwiched between Ursula and Tobias, another heir they had known since their childhood, he watched you slip out in between dances down the hallway. How he stared even when you were no longer in sight, only brought back by the cool touch of Ursula’s fingers slinking around his wrist, nails digging into his skin lightly. She raised a menacing brow, a warning—don’t even think about it.
She noticed more than he had given her credit for. Titus pulled his arm free, downed his fourth flute of champagne, and sent his sister a tantalizing smile, one she was quite familiar with in all their years growing up with one another—one that said I don’t give a fuck. Tipping his head to Tobias, he excused himself and walked in the direction you had disappeared, with the sound of his sister spitting insults following him.
He found you on a balcony, sitting in a chair, one leg crossed over the other, dress blowing in the wind. Stray pieces of hair blew into your eyes as you peered down, picking at your fingernails, deep enough to draw blood.
Your doe-like eyes looked up through the shadows at the sound of the door opening, shoulders stiffening at the sight of him—all broad and serious—so Danforth-like, intimidating you to a point that you felt you couldn’t move. As he stepped outside, his silver curls caught in the moonlight, and his deep gaze traced you up and down silently. You had never seen him like this—so close, so intimately—and you couldn’t help but just stare and keep picking at the torn skin around your fingernails. Blood smeared around your thumb, and he watched the crimson bead from the wound.
With his hands tucked behind his back, there was a certain curiosity laced between his wandering gaze and the tilt of his head. “Not having a good time?”
“What makes you think that?” you asked, voice steady, steadier than either of you would’ve expected. “Have you been watching me, Mr. Danforth?”
God, he hated the way his surname sounded coming from your parted lips—the way his cock twitched again—realizing that you played into the innocence card, molded yourself into exactly what everyone else saw you as. The youngest elite heir—lucky, inexperienced, too pure to survive all of this.
“Mr. Danforth?” He chuckled, the sound deep, honest. “You must think you’re speaking to my father.”
“As if you don’t like it.” You mused, raising an arched brow up at him.
He cleared his throat. “Titus, is fine.”
You sighed, looking away, over your shoulder, over the estate—one that was beautiful, but far too small for the Hunt. One that you knew better than the Danforth’s, having spent more time here than there.
Your mind turned on itself then, as you thought about it with the eldest and future board member of the high council standing there—you, the outlier, the youngest, least experienced, having only participated in two hunts before this one. Everyone was expecting your death.
Even you.
“I heard you won your last two hunts. Quiet on the ground, like a cat, experienced with a bow and arrow. You killed Senator Calcius’s son at the last hunt, right? He was what? 6 '3? And roughly 210? And you took him down one shot, one arrow, right to his heart.”
You picked at another piece of skin, feeling it give away, blood forming immediately as you refused to look back at him. Your shoulders were raised and the images from that hunt came back, clearer than ever despite it having been over a year ago—a hunt that had taken the lives of your cousin and brother, each with a 3 inch hole in their skulls from another elite who had turned on the rest of the party. You had killed him right after you had taken care of the senator’s son.
“That’s impressive,” Titus admitted, his voice warm, pooling in your stomach. “You know, for someone who’s twelve.”
Your head snapped towards him then, glaring in a way he found neither intimidating or serious. But your lips curled in on themselves and while he hoped for you to say something back, insult him, you only sighed and turned back to the garden below.
“You’re not excited for the Hunt?” he asked, the sound of his steps loud in your ears.
You hummed softly standing and brushing your hands across the bottom of your dress, a few droplets of blood staining the silk material. Titus’s eyes dropped to the action before drifting back up your body, past your lips, and to your eyes.
“How can you tell?” You crossed your arms, tone becoming snappy with him faster than he anticipated.
He gestured to the balcony as if you escaping outside wasn’t telling enough but your expression did not shift, if anything it deepend further. Looking once over his shoulder, Titus stepped closer and then again when you didn’t move back. He moved until the tip of his shoe was touching yours.
His hands were still behind him, not even tempted with the idea of touching, but he leaned forward, enough that his chest brushed up against your arms. Then your last name was falling off his tongue sweeter than you had ever heard it.
“You’re the youngest,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting so softly, just for you.
Your walls fell just a little bit, your head tilting in a way that he was eating up—so innocent, naive, so enticing. Your tongue slipped out to wet your lips, and his eyes followed it.
“Yes,” you admitted softly.
Another step forward. This one coaxing you to take one backwards, your pulse rising, and you hating how he was able to catch it. Your back met the cool metal of the balcony railing, hand suddenly darting out to meet his chest, anything to keep some space between the two of you. His lips curled up further into a smirk, a dark look evolving across his face.
“So pretty,” he whispered.
A gasp slipped from your lips, eyes narrowing up at him as the warm tip of his finger trailed up the side of your thigh, so gently, you weren’t sure if it was even real, until his palm grabbed the railing, caging you in entirely.
“So young,” he continued, breath suddenly colliding with your lips. “A waste of a life to have in the Hunt. But it’s never fair is it? Hm, I am sure your blood will be pretty too, especially drenched across my hands.”
Titus was used to people cowering, the air shifting in a room at his mere presence, those groveling if he threatened their life. But you didn’t shudder or react, and it annoyed him that you were as lock and key as ever—hidden away from him—your humanity not there for the taking. You merely stared at him, just as intensely, not a lick of fear within you, not prey-like one. Single. Bit.
But this wasn’t the first time you had been threatened by one of the large men of the elite family heirs. Your family hadn’t been around as long as the others, but around long enough to have a knife pressed to your jugular once or twice, and wandering hands trying to reach up your skirt. This life you were familiar with, and it had become a part of you at this point, your first hunt being when you were sixteen, and then the second when you were twenty.
And you were still alive.
So you smiled, instead. “I guess that all depends on if you can find me, Titus.”
“You mean when I find you?”
You tutted softly up at him, your expression cracking only when you felt his knee wedging itself between your thighs. “I am sorry, but am I forgetting a time when you and I have been a part of the same hunt? Oh, right. We haven’t.”
“You think that means I can’t hunt you down?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know, Titus. I tend to pick the best hiding spots. It’s done me well so far.”
His dick was completely hard at this point. The way you were saying his name over and over again, creating a response out of him that he couldn’t control.
Leaning forward, his mouth hovered over yours, his stare so dark now as they flickered between your mouth and eyes. “Except that I know every inch and crevice of the Danforth estate. You’re right, we haven’t been a part of the same hunt before, but you also have never done one on my property. So tell me, what’s going to happen when I find you?”
You thought about it for a second, heart beating loudly in your chest. Then you jutted your chin out, planning to defy him every second you could while alive. “We settle up and strike a deal.”
Chuckling, he smiled down at you softly, a new challenge forming in his eyes as he took a step back, body peeling away from you altogether.
“I’ll see you at the Hunt, little lamb. I wish you luck. Rest assured, I will find you, and when I do, prepare to beg for your life.”
Then, as if the great Danforth’s eldest son had never been there at all, he slipped back inside, the glass door shutting softly, hinges creaking in a call and response. He disappeared down the hall, not looking back once, as he retreated into the boring party, to the lies that had beseeched everyone into a life of death and murder, but with more money than anyone could ever fucking imagine. His black suit reflected across the walls like a loose shadow, one begging you to run—run so far that the big bad wolf couldn’t get you.
You knew what kind of hunter Titus Danforth was—he was intense in everything he did, ruthless, and most importantly, he didn’t fear death. He dances around, waiting for the day his blood will return to the earth, all of the darkness within him going back to where it came from. It was what made him the scariest contender out there. And although you were fairly certain he would catch you eventually—hopefully not before dawn, before the light can bargain for your life—you’d die trying to kill him before he could kill you.
The night of the hunt, you got ready, ate with your parents and your older brother, the last one of the two, as clouds billowed and moved through the area. The wind was picking up, and the air was humid, water droplets bubbling on your skin from the increase in temperature.
“Great hunting weather,” you said, standing on the back porch of the estate, the screen windows revealing the shadows that loomed outside. “Easier to hide in. Covers up scents, tracks… won’t have to do as much to conceal my presence.”
Your brother stood in the room, taking in the side of your face as you stared out at the dark green fields, already dressed in a dark long-sleeved shirt and black pants that hugged your body tightly. Eyes glassy, your fingertip traced over the scar at your collarbone, the first one you had ever gotten during your first hunt.
Elias wasn’t chosen for the hunt this time around—it was a plus when families had lost multiple children and were running low on who could keep the lineage alive. He had tried to have them pick him over you, but Le Bali wouldn’t permit it.
You were mumbling now under bated breaths, feeling yourself spiral the closer to the witching hour it got, the closer you got to the start of the Hunt and the promise that Titus had made you. He wanted your blood, and what a Danforth wants, a Danforth gets.
Elias whispered your name, it deep, drawing your attention back to him and the table full of weapons. Guns, knives, crossbows, an axe—anything you can imagine on one table. Your brother gestured towards the bow and the bag of arrows. It had been your chosen weapon for the first two hunts—the thing that had ultimately kept you alive.
But this wasn’t just any other hunt.
You walked around the table, fingers tracing handles, blades, the way triggers felt under your touch. Suddenly, as the first raindrop fell, your hand stopped near a five-inch hunting knife, the handle wooden and engraved with your family emblem.
Picking it up, you tested its weight before slipping it into the guard at your thigh.
“What are you doing?”
“Thinking of switching it up this year." You shrugged, trying to dissociate as the clock got closer.
“Are you crazy, sister? Take the bow.” Elias reached for the knife at your hip, but you stopped him.
“This isn’t any other fucking hunt. Risking the bow would be risking my life.”
“And you think the knife is any better? Look, I know you’re stronger now, but you should stick to what you know. That bow got you through your first two hunts.”
You smiled sadly, running your palms over his shoulders. “When have you ever believed in superstitions?”
He pleaded then, in a way you would’ve never expected from him—you knew what kind of life you guys were getting into when your parents were picked to be an elite family. Death would be a commonality, murder even more so. He even used to enjoy the hunt, enjoy how it felt to end someone’s life. No one had ever been innocent—not even you. But when Leo was killed by Titus’s cousin, something in Elias changed that day. Something shifted how he felt about the hunts.
“Elias, this is the champion’s hunt. Everyone here is either older than me, stronger, or has more kills than I probably ever will. The bow can’t save me if I get caught in close combat.”
He paused, frame relaxing under your touch, a few seconds passed, only to drift away at the sound of your father entering the room. The car was here.
Squeezing Elias’s shoulder, you parted, only for him to call out your name as you reached the threshold of the doorway.
Turning over your shoulder, you met his melancholy gaze. “Go for the throat, ribs, and the base of the skull. The hunting triad. I remember.”
You didn’t look back again and followed your father down the stairs of the estate, taking in the smell, the way it looked under dim canary lights, the staff who had been nothing but loyal for almost ten years—all just in case you wouldn’t come back. With one squeeze to your shoulder from your father—signaling that he didn’t even believe you’d live—you stepped out into the stormy dark abyss of the night, the light diminishing behind rolling clouds. Slipping into the black, sleek car sent for you, you leaned back into the seat, head rolling to the side, and you watched your home until it disappeared completely from view.
Ready or not, you would be participating in a hunt tonight.
One weapon, one night, survive until dawn…again—how hard could it be?
The first crack of thunder came a few mere minutes after the sky erupted in a bright light. It rolled across the Danforth estate like something alive. The trees shook against the windows, the darkness of the sky matching what darkness would commence on the ground. Clutching your knife against your thigh, you listened as the grandfather clock ticked away—the rest of the heirs standing around you with their weapons of choice.
Chester Danforth was more than a member of the high council; he was the greatest—cold, detached, lacking an ounce of empathy that would stall his order on the world. He stood at the top of the entryway steps, a dark suit buttoned up with a bright maroon tie—hair white, he sneered down at the competitors, at the children of his most trusted associates, sure to have their blood spilled.
His eyes flickered over you, the youngest of the heirs, having already survived two of your own; it didn’t create any more favorable odds the third time around. You knew he would beam, maybe even laugh at the sight of you dead, especially if at the hands of his eldest son.
Titus stood next to him, leaning up against his axe, grinning as if he were a kid who had just stumbled across a carnival. Like a predator stalking his prey, he scanned the crowd, the cusps of his teeth chewing on his lip as every dark fantasy flew in and out of his mind—blood, so much blood, god, he wanted to be drenched in it by the end of it all. There was no smell, no feeling better than it.
Something in you stiffened as Titus’s pupils locked onto you, dark and unblinking. His smirk widened, slow and predatory, as his gaze dragged down your frame, pausing at the hunting knife strapped to your thigh. Mr. Danforth’s voice droned through the hall—rules, warnings, the same ritualistic speech you’d heard twice before—but Titus didn't look away. Not once. His stare was ruthless, hungry in a way that made your pulse stumble. The words went in one ear and out the other, only appearing in shortened phrases.
…One weapon.
Dawn or until there’s only one…
Different release points onto the estate.
…Bell sounds, hunt begins.
His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and you couldn’t look away. Not until a staff member brushed your elbow, drawing your attention from Titus. They were to guide you to your release point on the far side of the estate. You nodded and followed, not missing the small wink Titus sent your way as you passed him—a silent promise, or a threat, you couldn’t tell—deeper into the Danforths’ world that you were sure was about to swallow you whole.
And then Ursula’s voice cut through the marble hall like a blade, echoing off the high walls as she gagged in disgust. “Really, Titus? We’re minutes from the bell, and you’re already hunting the wrong thing.”
You didn’t hear his reply.
And you didn’t want to.
The staff member led you through a side door and out into the storm. The air hit you hard. Thunder rolled across the estate grounds as the Danforth mansion loomed behind you, its windows glowing like the watchful eyes of Chester Danforth.
The older staff stopped at the edge of the treeline.
“Here,” they said. “Wait for the bell.”
You peered up at the sky and slipped back into the shadows of the forest, rain soaking through your clothes in seconds. Your breath fogged in the cold air as you waited, trying to hear past the storm. The first thing that came to your mind was what always had, it getting you through the first two hunts—hide, wait, survive. Let the others kill one another while you disappear deeper into the dark.
The bell tolled somewhere from the direction that you came—low, resonant, like one that you used to hear at church. It vibrated in your ribs, your teeth, in the wet air around you. For a moment, everything went still.
And you ran.
The storm swallowed you within seconds. Rain soaked into you and blurred the world around you. Your boots tore across the lawn, the mansion shrinking behind you with every stride. Thunder clapped overhead, close enough to make you jump.
You ran and ran, not stopping until the shapes of the estate garden rose out of the dark. The old stone fountain was overflowing with stormwater, the row of greenhouses standing like glass skeletons under the stormy sky. You slowed there, hands meeting your knees, lungs burning.
But then the lightning split the sky again—a white, violent flash—and in that instant you saw them. Another one of the hunters could be Vance’s son, aged thirty-eight. He wasn’t far. Back turned and scanning the dark for threats that weren’t you.
Your breath stalled, and then your fingers were curling around the hilt of your knife. Clutching it tightly, you felt your pulse quicken, and for a moment you hesitated. That childlike old instinct tugging at you, the one that said run, don’t stop, let them kill each other first.
But something in you was stalling. It could’ve been the storm, the exertion, or the fear that hiding wouldn’t save you anymore. It was a Champion’s Hunt—they would find you.
It could’ve been the realization that this was your third hunt, two since Leo was murdered. But whatever it was, it had you moving forward, timing your steps with the storm, moving when the sky spoke, holding your breath when it was silent. The rain masked your approach, suddenly becoming so close you could see the rise and fall of their shoulders, close enough to smell the wet fabric of their jacket.
When the next crack of thunder tore through the sky, you struck. It was quick, clean, up through the back of their skull, finding that sweet spot like it wasn’t the first time. The hunter collapsed into the mud, and the storm covered the evidence. Standing over them, rain running down your face, your knife slick in your hand, for the first time in any hunt, you felt no remorse.
You didn’t shake, and you didn’t feel the guilt.
Only a cold understanding.
Eliminate them one by one. The more you killed, the sooner it'd all be over.
Wiping the blade on the grass, you began to move around the perimeter of the estate, moving close to the trees, you let the shadows of the night swallow you whole. The storm worsened after your first kill; it was more grueling, coming down like soft pellets. As you passed along the garden path and toward the old orchard, somewhere in the distance, someone screamed.
The Hunt was already eating people alive.
You kept moving. The ground was slick, the mud sucking at your boots. You slowed for a second time and listened, trying to steady your breath. There, a few feet away, you see another figure crouched by a tree, the lightning revealing their position to you, and you followed it like a beam. Waiting for the thunder, you reached around without any hesitation and slit the person’s throat, angling it to hit their carotid.
It was quick, instinct, and gravity brought them down. You stood there, chest heaving, rain dripping from your hair, staring down at the body. This one felt messy. Desperate.
Your hands were shaking slightly now.
Two kills—two people suddenly unalive and no longer breathing.
After that, you didn’t make it much further, just passed the orchard towards where the trees thinned when the ground suddenly sloped upward. Your energy was waning, but still strong, but that’s when you heard it.
The voice deep, taunting, and cruel—a Danforth through and through.
“Look at you,” he called, stepping out from behind a twisted apple tree. Lightning flashed, illuminating his smirk. “Didn’t think you’d make it this far.”
Your ears perked up, chest stalling for a moment.
Titus’s cousin.
He stalked closer, looking you up and down and lingering on the cut on your arm and the blood that covered your clothes. He laughed; it was sharp, loud, and absolutely terrifying. “Looks like someone got you there.”
You tightened your grip on the knife, jaw clenched because there was no way you were going to die at the hands of this asshole. Tilting your head ever so slightly, your tone came out threatening, “Move out of my way, Arlo.”
He grinned wider. “You know I can’t do that.”
He lunged first, and you barely dodged him, slipping in the mud. At the same time, his blade came up and grazed your cheek, a hot sting that made your vision spark. He laughed again. Then he went for you, this time taking a hold of both your hips and slamming you down on the ground. You slipped, boots flying out from under you, your back hitting the ground, knocking the air out of you. The knife fell from your hand, and Arlo’s hands found a place around your throat.
You kicked and struggled, but he only squeezed harder, his fingertips pressing into your windpipe. He exhaled heavily, his weight crushing you. Your lungs burned, and you flailed your arms, trying to free yourself, trying to find something, anything that you could use to get him off of you. But as seconds passed, the air filling your lungs slowed, and with the feeling of a nearly crushed windpipe, the only thing you could think in that moment was I’m going to die.
It was then you saw it out of the corner of your eye. Your hunting knife. It was too far for you to reach, but still close enough if you were just able to move. As you struggled to get the air in, Arlo’s face was red above, his hands tightening again and again. You thrashed against him, hands clawing at his hands, moving from side to side so frantically that you managed to get your knee free from under him. You thrust it hard into his groin.
His hold loosened and fell away altogether, only for a few seconds, but enough for you to slip out slightly from underneath him, palm meeting the handle of the knife. The next thing you knew, it was twisted underneath Arlo’s ribcage, up and towards his chest cavity.
He gasped, surprised as you drove him into the mud. He tried to grab your wrist, but you were already moving, pulling the knife from his chest and going in again and again.
He tried to push you off of him, but you were stronger in this moment than you had ever been in your entire life. And you didn’t stop, until his body had crumpled beneath you, until his breathing ceased, and the rain was washing over you both—like a cleansing of your sin. You sat there for a long second after that, chest heaving, hair plastered to your face, hands trembling.
Your throat screamed as you still struggled to get air into your lungs.
But you were alive.
And you had managed to kill three of them.
But that’s when you heard it, the wind shifting, settling just for a moment, and the sound of ground moving under a footstep. You turned, and then you saw him.
Titus.
Standing at the edge of the orchard, soaked, blood-splattered, his axe resting casually on his shoulder. His eyes flickered from the body at your feet to the cut on your cheek, to the knife trembling in your hand. His brow arched up like he was almost impressed.
Almost.
Light flashed behind him, turning him into a silhouette of death.
“You’ve been busy,” he said, a certain darkness in his eye that told you he had killed too.
You sighed. You were exhausted. Your muscles were trembling, and the energy that carried you through the first few hours of the hunt and through three kills was running out. Still, you stood, wiping the blood from your cheek with the back of your hand. Reaching down, you pulled the knife from the body of Titus’s cousin at your feet, and you met his gaze.
He smiled. Slow. Cruel
It was a smile that was meant to unravel you. Scare you into submission.
“How many have you killed?” he asked.
You didn’t hesitate.
“Three.” Your voice cracked, and your throat ached.
He nodded, stepping closer, his eyes never leaving yours. You raised your knife, something in your chest hardening at the playful glint in his expression. He was such a mind fuck.
“You?” you asked.
His grin widened, “Four.”
The number caused a shiver to run down your back.
You tried to shift right but he lunged—moving faster than you—and his hand closed around your wrist before you could react. The world tilted as he yanked you off balance, the storm even louder in your ears now as your boots slid in the mud. Titus’s weight crashed into you, his broad body sending you down to the ground.
The knife dropped from your hand.
And you fell on your back, hard, breath knocked from your lungs. Before you could scramble away, Titus was already on you, hips pinning yours and one knee braced in the mud. One hand held your wrist to the ground, pressing down hard enough to keep you from escaping.
His other hand wrapped around your jaw, holding it steady, forcing your gaze up to his.
Rain dripped from his hair onto your cheeks as you struggled underneath him. His breath was uneven, eyes dark and searching. His hand was around your jaw, causing you to whimper out in pain. Keeping you still, his pointer finger found your lower lip. He brushed it so gently, his eyes boring down into yours, something in him softening just a little bit.
His grip tightened around you, but he didn’t rush.
He wasn’t angry.
Merely waiting.
“Just fucking do it, Titus,” you snapped, breath shaking, voice hoarse. “S-Stop dragging it out.”
He pinned your arms harder into the ground, but he didn’t say anything. Not one word, not a shift in his expression either. His eyes narrowed in a way that would’ve made you listen if you weren’t dying either way. “Be quiet.”
“No, no, Titus,” you cried out against him, lip trembling in a way that had his chest tightening ever so slightly.
“Shut up,” he groaned, feeling a subtle shift in the air.
“Just... just kill me.”
But something changed in his posture then. His body pressed down harder, pinning you completely. “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”
Your mouth parted but no sound came as he clamped his hand over your mouth. He lowered his head and you could feel the hardness of him poking into you. It made you stiffen, the pressure of him, the heat of him becoming too much to bear quickly. His hand stayed over your mouth, his grip unyielding, as he looked out at the darkness around you.
There were footsteps. And they were close.
You felt his breath against your temple.
Squeezing your eyes shut, you hoped in that moment he would make it quick, but it was a feeling that never came. The footsteps lingered only for a moment before moving and fading up near the back of the estate.
You exhaled but still refused to open your eyes. If death were to come, you didn’t want to look at Titus as it did. But as a strike of lightning illuminated behind your eyelids, you never felt the blade come; the feeling of coolness, his touch remained where it had been before. Slowly, you peeled one eye open and then the other. He stared, eyes suddenly black as his chest heaved up and down, rain sliding down his face and his neck, curls matted to his head.
He managed to reach your knife, and suddenly it was pressed into your side. You felt his hardening shaft poke harder, even harder than the hunting knife, only for a moment before he was loosening his hold. With his hands still tightly holding your wrists, he managed to haul you up onto your feet. The blade returned to your side, poking into the last intercostal space of your ribs.
“You’re going to move, and you’re not going to make a fucking sound,” he whispered against your ear, his breath hot.
He pushed you deeper into the forest, the land going back so much further than you thought it did. Over rough terrain, creeks, you felt all patience dying on your tongue—he was making his own little game out of this, and it was fucking cruel. Whereas he could end this, he could win this. But he let it stretch out, counted the minutes with you pressed up against him, the way you were so close as the storm raged on.
But then he hauled you to a stop—in the distance the bell rang once, then twice, and finally a third time—signalling that there were only three of you left now. You were sure the third being was Ursula. She never missed out on a hunt.
Releasing your arms, he pushed you forward, and you cringed at the soreness that you felt from how long and how tight he’d had your arms bound behind your back. He gestured with the knife towards the ground in front of the two of you.
“There’s a hatch, open it!”
You crouched down, fear taking hold of you now. The hours had long since passed from the start of the Hunt, but you had no way of knowing just how much, or if dawn was close. You also had no way of knowing what Titus was up to, but you were so tired, so hopeless. Your fingers matted into the soft ground, hands sinking into the mud. Pushing back soft ground, twigs, and branches, your heart stuttered as your skin felt the coolness of metal.
You scrambled to move the branches, and you could hear Titus behind you tapping his foot impatiently. The rain was only getting worse as time went on, blurring your vision into shadows of silver and black. Managing to clear off the hatch, you pulled at it, but it didn’t budge.
You tried again, but Titus stepped forward, gave you a look that had you staying put as he grabbed the handle, managing to open the hatch door away from the ground, the sound a soft creak amongst the storm. He motioned you forward, and you hesitated for a moment, peering down into the tunnel of darkness.
He sighed, your name falling off his tongue menacingly, your knife still clenched tightly in his fist. “Go.”
You listened because what else were you going to do? Running didn’t feel like an option. He was more likely to kill you sooner the less you cooperated. If you played into his little game, the closer you could get to morning. And if you had to decide between which of the Danforth twins to encounter, you’d pick Titus.
You saw the way he looked at you, how attentive he was; with him, you could buy yourself time. Ursula would’ve struck as soon as she could—with him, you at least had a chance of survival, no matter how slim.
As your feet found the hard ground beneath, you shivered as you stared into the dark tunnel. The latch fell shut above you. Titus locked it and dropped down behind you. A ringing echoed in your ears, the storm above still loud and deadly, and for a moment, you wondered if you were already dead, confined in the darkness now forever.
But then the sound of a click filled your ears, once and then twice. A small light birthing through the blackness illuminated Titus’s face, a smile twitching as he took in the sight of you, soaked through and with fear flickering at the edges of your irises.
He looked like a lion through and through on his final hunt, having discovered his last prey. Stepping closer, the tip of your knife poked into your back, his other arm with the lighter winding around your shoulders, illuminating only a few feet in front of you. His hard, wet chest pressed into your back, his breath falling short along your ear as he urged you forward, slowly, one step at a time.
“Titus.” His name slipped past your lips in a soft whimper.
“Shh, pretty. Just keep walking,” he replied, the knife kissing your skin a little closer.
The further into the lion's den you crept, the more sure you were he was going to kill you—in what way you weren’t sure, but if you knew anything about Titus, he liked blood. The dark tunnel walls opened up, the air cooling with every step. The storm faded from above, replaced by the low hum of generators buried somewhere in the stone. When he finally pushed open the heavy steel door, the room inside suddenly felt like another world entirely.
Titus pushed you forward into the dark, the knife leaving your side. You tripped slightly but caught yourself as the light began to spread, forming across the walls and the floor.
He lit a lantern while you struggled to gather your bearings. Silence echoed, confining you as the concrete walls were smooth to perfection. A cot with a thick mattress, crisp sheets, and a wool blanket was tucked into the corner. Metal shelves lining the other side of the room were stocked with water, food, and a Danforth jacket hanging up on one of the nails. A map of the whole estate was pinned up on the wall, and the most unsettling thing of all was a drain centered in the floor. You wondered if that’s where your blood would end up, under the Danforth estate, soaking back into the ground.
You turned to see Titus still near the door. He leaned his axe up against the wall, then dropped your knife down onto a metal table. His stare never left yours, not as he shrugged off his jacket, water droplets dripping onto the concrete floor below.
He wore a black shirt, which stuck to his body, revealing even in the shadows, hard lines underneath. You wondered then if everything about Titus was sharp.
You inhaled deeply, pressing yourself back against the cool concrete wall, stare darting back and forth from him to your knife. But then he was too close, as close as he had been the last time you saw him, his toes meeting yours. The only sound filling the room was the two of you breathing.
Hair stuck to your face and neck, your arm still bleeding, beads of red mixing with the water to become a muted pink. Despite the goosebumps that arose on his arms, you could feel the heat radiating off of him, feel the tension that was threatening to snap.
“Titus, this is cruel,” you said, finally speaking, the exhaustion in your voice palpable.
He tilted his head at you, taunting in more ways than one.
“You’re being fucking cruel.”
“Am I?” he teased.
Your stare hardened then, chin tilting up defiantly. “What are you doing? Just why won’t you kill me?”
He didn’t respond but only moved even closer, a gasp falling from your lips at the way his wet chest pressed against yours. Titus’s eyes were glazed over with a lens of darkness that softened ever so slightly. His hands hovered as if unsure of where to touch you. Seconds passed, and they remained raised at his sides, weaponless. He could feel your heart beating, meeting his, and he wondered if there was ever a way to have them, without all the mess, all the blood, conjoining into one.
“Entertain me,” he mused, his nose nearly bumping into yours. His finger reached up and traced the cut along your cheek, collecting the dried blood there. “You’re young, but I know you’re smart enough to connect the dots.”
Bringing his thumb to his mouth, he sucked it clean. You gasped, every part of you equally afraid and intrigued. He was close enough now that you could see a scar peeking out from the collar of his shirt, specks of blood staining his skin, as a certain sort of reverence settled in his eyes. Your head pressed back into the stone wall, as far as you could, looking up at him so honestly, every raw part of you showing. He could see it all—your fear, your humanity, your soul.
It was laid out bare.
This was his favorite part of killing—you knew it was. And yet he didn’t strike, didn’t reach for your throat, your skull. He just stood staring, hands still hovering, and you realized then that if Titus was really going to kill you, if he wanted to as much as he did, he would’ve done it—out in the open without shame, showcasing his prize if it meant getting the recognition he always craved.
“You’re not going to kill me.”
The words scraped out of you, thin and uneven, like they’d been dragged across broken glass. You hated how afraid you sounded. You hated that he heard it.
Titus didn’t answer at first. His hand lifted to your jaw, thumb tracing the line of it with a focus that made you stutter. Not gentle—just deliberate. Assessing. Studying you the way a predator studies something it hasn’t decided the fate of yet.
“This,” he murmured, tilting your chin up, “is why you think I couldn’t.”
Your breath caught.
He smirked then, slow and sharp, brows lifting.
“I could kill you,” he admitted, voice low, matter-of-fact. “You know that. And I won’t pretend I wouldn’t take satisfaction in it.”
Your stomach twisted. He wasn’t bluffing. He never did.
“But,” he continued, “I need an heir. And you’re more useful to me alive than dead.”
Your lips parted, the feeling of him pressing into you mixed with his confession, had heat pooling at the bottom of your stomach.
The merging of families—the merging of power—the idea of you becoming Mrs. Danforth, both delightful and delicious. The Lawyer advised you before, at one of the galas, of a loophole—if you were to offer up marriage, offer up a union between two of the high power families, your survival was almost imminent. The elite families were addicted to the smell of blood, feeling someone wither under their touch, but there was something they would always crave more… power.
“You said you wanted to strike up a deal. This is me offering you one.”
It seemed Titus had beaten you to the punch.
You let out a breath that was almost a laugh—sharp, disbelieving, exhausted—your patience having completely thinned after this hellish night. “A deal? You want me to…what? Become some kind of vessel for your legacy.”
He actually chuckled. “Not just that. No.”
His eyes flickered over your face, reading every reaction.
“I would’ve thought you knew me better.”
Your pulse hammered.
You didn’t know him at all.
That was the problem.
“You’d be more,” he said. “Much more. Mrs. Danforth.”
The title hit you like a blow. It was heavy, suffocating, impossible.
You swallowed hard then. “And if I say no?”
He didn’t hesitate, tilting his head, a glint forming at the mere thought of it. “Then death is still on the table.”
The words landed with a cold, heavy finality. But there was something else beneath them—something he wasn’t saying out loud. He could kill you, but he didn’t necessarily want to. Not anymore. Not after everything that has been revealed tonight.
Your gaze dropped for a moment, it all becoming too much too fast, as if this hadn’t been building between the two of you. You forced your stare back up to meet his.
And you couldn’t deny it then—how handsome Titus was, even a few decades your senior. His authority, while terrifying, was doing something to you now, and you knew that if the heir of the Danforth name and estate was offering up everything under the sky, you’d be an idiot to say no.
“I don’t trust you,” you admitted instead.
It wasn’t a refusal.
It wasn’t an acceptance of any kind but it was honest.
His mouth curved—not a smile, not quite. It was more like an acknowledgement. His thumb pulled at your bottom lip, humming at the way it snapped back into place. “You don’t have to trust me. You just have to survive. And with me, you will.”
Titus didn’t move, letting his hands mold around your body. He didn’t blink, just watched you, the way he always did. Your breath hitched, thinking about the options as you had them, a life as Mrs. Danforth, a life with power, money, with Titus as your husband…or no life at all.
He could see them weighing on you.
“You’re afraid of me,” he said softly. “You should be.”
Your pulse stuttered at his words, the way his hips hitched forward, meeting yours, pulling out a gasp with ease. His eyes narrowed slightly, doing it again to get another reaction out of you. “But I know there’s more you’re hiding in there. A want, a desire.”
Your chest tightened.
Heat rose up your neck. You looked away again—instinct, maybe self-protection—but he guided your face back towards his with some force.
“Look at me,” he said.
You did, unable not to. And it all hit you in that moment, after all this time denying, refusing that any of this could be true, it shifted deep into your chest. It wasn’t because he touched you, not because he leaned in, but because you finally understood what had been weighing so heavily all this time.
You weren’t just afraid of him.
You were drawn to him.
You always have been.
Your breath trembled and his did too. For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke—the hunt was nearly complete above you, but down here, it felt as if it was just beginning.
It was then his knee wedged between your thighs, pressing up in a way that you had you leaning into his warm touch. You bit down on your bottom lip to conceal the whimper, and Titus grinned at the sight of it.
“So, what do you say, pretty?” he asked, voice lowering, reaching down into places you didn’t think he had access to. “‘Til death do us part.”
His lips brushed along your jaw, his knee pressing up further against your center, the pressure making your head spin. Holding your breath, your chest was rising and falling quicker than before. As his knee met the spot where you wanted him most, a small moan fell, and you were nodding then. Nodding, you bit down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.
His thumb hooked the side of your mouth, stare blown out, and cock twitching within his pants. “Words, I need words.”
His knee pressed against your clit again.
“Y-Yes…fuck,” you sputtered. “Yes.”
Something in him broke then, his hand fisted your hair and pulled you forward, your chest pressing further into his. His lips fell messily on yours, consuming you in just the way that was so Titus, it had your head spinning.
You kissed back, mouth falling open, teeth colliding as if this wasn’t the first time. And he took you within seconds, his tongue slipping into your mouth. He groaned at the taste of blood that bloomed on your lower lip, mixing so well with the sweetness that was you and only you. He pulled back, just enough to suck on your lower lip.
It felt like sin, having him touch you like this. But you knew in the way you sighed, and you arched into him, that all your defenses were falling away. Hands wandering like loose canons, they slipped up under your shirt, finding bare, damp skin underneath. Your head was reeling, body flooding with every ounce of energy and feeling you had left—all of it suddenly screaming for Titus.
Secretly, this had crossed your mind for years, starting after your second hunt. You had caught sight of Titus after the other heirs came to admire the winners. He had less grey in his hair then, but he was still just as beautiful as he was now. He was deadly, a name that held more power than you would ever touch, and it became a dying thought when you thought he wouldn’t go for you because of the age gap or that he would have more interest in killing you than fucking you.
You were pulled back by the feeling of him groping at your hips, your sides, any skin he could grab—nails leaving crescents as his lips continued to kiss bruises into your lips.
“You smell like blood,” he mumbled as his lips found your jaw.
“I thought you liked that,” you teased, and as he chuckled, you felt it in your chest—almost as if the sound came from you instead.
He didn’t respond. Instead, he reached down, hooking his hands under your thighs and lifting you as if you weighed nothing. Resting you on top of his hips, your feet hooked around his waist, and you smiled down at him—a real smile.
The side of his mouth twitched as he lay you down on the cot, his thigh once again parting your legs. He kissed you again. This one slower, deeper, wetter.
His hands dove under your shirt again, kneading, his lips moving across your jaw and down your neck, hesitating once they met the raw skin of your throat, two red handprints glinting back at him under the low light.
Arlo’s hands.
He glanced down at your shirt stil matted and damp from rain water and blood.
Arlo’s blood.
He had only gotten there as you had managed to free yourself, hand wrapping desperately around the handle of the hunting knife. It was your kill, and he’d let you claim it. Instead, Titus stood back, watching with satisfaction as you thrusted the knife up and under Arlo’s ribs, gasping for this earth’s sweet, sweet air as you did.
He had never liked Arlo anyway.
Didn’t like how his touch was left on your skin.
Titus moved slowly as he stared down at the marks. Hand hovering for a mere moment, his fingers traced them. You stiffened first under his touch, his hand so close to your throat, you cringed second at the feeling. A part of it excited him, how wide your eyes got, the spark of fear that appeared in them.
His hand drifted up higher, finding the side of your head instead, brushing hair behind your ear.
“Sh, it’s okay,” he lowered his voice, hips pressed against yours, his hardness pressing through his pants into your thigh. “What kind of husband would I be if I hurt my wife?”
You met his steady gaze, the way it traced over your features, hand resting at the side of your head. Wife. The word was so foreign, so thick, so enigmatic. Was this the right thing? Marry a man who proposed with ‘will you marry me, but if you don’t say yes, I will kill you.’ But you’d be a Danforth, married to the very man who had fantasized about your death.
And yet you got it.
Completely.
After all, you had thought about his death, too. The Hunt made you envision everyone’s death. How would you do it, for every possible scenario you could think of. You had wanted to kill him, too.
But not now. Not as he reached up, hands grabbing at the back of his wet shirt. Not as he pulled it up and over his head in one swift motion, leaving him bare underneath. Your eyes dropped to the expanse of skin—broad-shouldered, freckle-coated chest, taut muscles under scars and wounds both old and new.
You traced your fingers over the scar that was peeking out of his shirt before. It was so much larger now, extending from the top of his shoulder, along his collarbone, ending where the bone met sternum. He shivered, and it only made you want to push further. Dragging your pointer finger down his chest, you moved lower and lower. His stomach clenched as you found the waistband of his pants.
“Fuck,” he swore, head dipping to meet yours.
“What was that?” you teased.
Titus shook his head, brows furrowed. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”
His hands pushed your shirt up and over your chest.
“So fix it,” you smirked, leaning up and nearly kissing him.
He grinned then, pulling the shirt the rest of the way up and over your head. Titus’s stare dipped at the new expanse of skin, at the blood that stained through your clothes, your own scars, your own stories of near encounters with death. He took you in slowly, then, slower than he ever had, orbs taking you one inch at a time.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered, fingers thumbing at the button of your pants. He popped them, and you involuntarily arched into his touch.
“All I’ve ever wanted.”
Titus chuckled, and you lifted your hips just enough for him to get the material under your butt before pulling them the rest of the way down, leaving you in nothing but your underwear. His fingers twisted in the material, and you rubbed your thighs together. He noticed it, took in the sight of the wetness gathering at the center of your grey panties.
Pulling his fingers free, he stared down at you, pupils blown, chest heaving, and with a look that made you realize he was about to ruin you—ruin you for anyone else. He reached for the front of his own pants, the zipper, and then the button.
“You know,” he paused, eyes tracing the skin and bones of you, following them with his lips. “There's nothing I want more than to devour you.”
His lips found the space right above your underwear. Your breath stalled, hands fisting around the sheets. He moved up further, placing another one below your navel.
“What I would give to taste you, over and over. Stretch you out with my fingers until your legs are shaking.”
Then, between the valley of your breasts, just above the band of your bra. He pushed his pants over his hips and down his knees. He kicked them off just as his lips met one of your nipples, your bra dampening under the hot wetness of his mouth.
You whimpered, hips pressing up into his.
His smile widened further. “There’s nothing more you deserve after tonight than to cum—”
“Titus,” you moaned.
“And, I haven’t even done anything yet,” he quipped, fingers dancing up your thigh to the front of your underwear. “Also, you shouldn’t interrupt. What kind of manners did your parents raise you with? Well, I can just fix that, can't I?”
His finger moved up along your lips, finding your clit with ease even over the cotton material.
“If you’re going to be my wife, I'm gonna need to teach you a few things.”
He pressed down, and you arched into him again, palms wrapping around his arms, nails digging into his biceps.
“So number one, if I'm talking, you're not, got it? Wives shouldn't interrupt their husbands,” he ordered, his finger beginning to move in steady circles.
As seconds passed, he circled faster, harder—head tilting as he took in the way your face moved, eyes squeezed shut, fingers digging into his arms that he hoped you drew blood.
“Fuck, what I would give to see you like this all night, face twisted up, chest heaving, body slick just because I'm touching you. I'd make you cum again and again,” he whispered against the shell of your ear, pushing you further and further towards the edge. “But wouldn’t it be more interesting to leave that for the wedding night…”
Just as the coil in your stomach began to tighten, maybe even close to snapping, he pulled his fingers away. You gasped and swore, nails digging in deep then. He groaned at the pain, his lips falling down onto yours, saliva finding your tongue as he took everything that he could give.
“Titus, I swear to—”
Your words died at the feeling of his fingers tangling back into the sides of your underwear, this time pulling so hard, it dug into your skin before ripping altogether. The relief from the pain and the garment breaking away made you whimper.
“You were saying?” he smirked, his hands leaving yours to push down the only thing left between you.
His hard cock twitched as it slapped against his stomach. Leaking pre-cum onto your thigh, your eyes nearly rolled into the back of your head, until his hand was back around your jaw, thumb pressing firmly into the divot of your chin.
“Lose your voice, pretty?” His voice was condescending, dick warm and eliciting your walls to flutter, as if they could suck him inside of you.
He didn’t move, content in that moment to take you just how he had you—your nipples peeking through the fabric of your bra, chest rising and falling, lips slick with his saliva and your own blood.
You were getting impatient, and as the hours had waned into the early morning, you were desperate to seal this deal with him before the hunt was over. Before the blood dried and the storm ceased.
His lips parted, and you knew he was about to make another remark, anything to make you suffer—because you could tell that Titus was the kind of guy who liked his partner like he liked his kills: desperate and begging.
But you had lost your patience, body shaking, energy slipping out of your pores from the extent of everything you had been through. So before he could tease you further, you leaned back and spit in his face—pink and bubbly, it splattered along his cheek and at the corner of his lips.
Titus’s hand tightened around your jaw, and you whined. His eyes darkened, but with his lips curled in satisfaction, he licked the side of his mouth clean.
“Titus Danforth, if you’re not inside of me in the next few seconds, don’t think I won’t find a way to cut it off. Forget your heir—”
Your words died suddenly at the feeling of his cock slamming up against your clit, then down through your folds. He thrusted inside, everything all at once, basking in how you clenched around him, jaw falling as a cry ripped free from your throat.
The tip of him met your cervix, and you arched into him just at the rawness and the fullness alone—the heat from his body making you melt into a momentary bliss. His breath was heavy, meeting yours in a tangled mess of tension and near confessions.
“Forget my heir, huh? I guess then I can pull out right now, then.”
Almost as if you were afraid he actually would, your legs tightened around his waist, keeping him sheathed tightly inside. His smirk widened at the response you gave him, so desperate, so wet, so completely his.
“That's what I fucking thought,” he grunted against your lips.
Titus then pulled back all the way before thrusting right back in, his tip hitting the same spot he was just resting. So like him to take in that moment, and you would let him. His fingers laced into your hair and pulled your lips up to meet his. He hummed then, setting a rough pace that already had you seeing stars.
“You’re already taking to the role so nicely, Mrs. Danforth,” he grunted and then hissed as you clenched just as the name slipped off his tongue.
His other hand slipped down to find your clit. Your fingers found his shoulders and dug in nicely. “You like that, don’t you? Mrs. Danforth.”
You nodded, nails leaving creases close to breaking skin.
“It’s got a nice ring to it,” he continued, hips snapping forward, meeting yours with a soft chorus of skin meeting skin. “Fuck, there were so many things I thought about before tonight’s hunt—your smooth skin, the way it could slit open with the sharpest blade. How your body would feel going limp in my arms, my name the last thing you’d say on bated breath. I thought about killing you in every possible way.”
You moaned, head thrown back as your nails finally broke skin—blood seeping under your nailbeds. Earlier, you would’ve cowarded, spat at him in disgust for this admission, and now it was bringing you to the point of an orgasm.
His index finger pressed harder on your clit, cock twitching inside of you as your gummy walls pulsed and shook, desperate to suck him in as deep as he could—desperate for his seed, his DNA, him in any form you could get.
“But I would also be lying if I hadn’t thought about this—if I hadn’t been thinking about this for months. You under me, taking my cock so well. So deep… after a hunt, during a hunt, covered in someone else’s blood—claiming you as mine and only mine.”
Your head was spinning at this point, stomach clenching, that coil in you tightening further and further—the pressure building in a way you had never been able to get with your own fingers.
His pelvis met yours rougher than before, and you knew you were both close—bruised, panting, bleeding. “Mine. You're all mine and don't ever forget that.”
Just as he whispered that promise across your tongue, his finger circling your clit one more time, that feeling in you snapped. Your body tensed, legs quivering as your walls fluttered, the euphoria pulsing through you in a way you had never experienced.
Titus didn’t stop but only thrusted hard into you over and over, your slick on his cock propping him forward, walls clenching him once and then twice as he tried to drive his own orgasm into you. “What do you say, we get ahead, put an heir in your womb right here, right now… getting you pregnant before the wedding, god that’d drive them all crazy.”
Your bloody fingers laced into his hair, and you pulled him down as close as you could. Your eyes were lidded, your fucked-out expression paired with your pouting lips, had him tiptoeing across that edge. You pressed an open-mouth kiss against his, tongue rolling over his before the words left you with ease, with so much certainty, it had him.
“Come inside of me, Titus. Fill me up—you, I only want you.”
That was all he needed to hear. Paired with your wet mouth, it had him stalling above you, his warm release shooting inside of you, mixing with your own. His head collapsed into your neck, his body crushing yours into the mattress. Silence filled the room then, both of you trying to catch your breath as the evidence of what the two of you had done, agreed on, began to slip out of you.
It felt almost like a binding contract—as if you had already been at the altar, already cut your hand and released your blood into the golden chalice—as if you were already connected to him both body and soul.
As he grew soft in you, he lifted his head, dark gaze meeting yours still somehow just as full of lust as before. Your stomach turned as the reality of it all washed over you slowly and then all at once—how had you gone from being the hunted, the one he wished to cut open, to being the one pinned underneath him who so willingly offered herself up to a life full of killing and devil worship?
Worst of all, why did it feel like this was exactly where you were supposed to be?
Hi, I am alive, although I know many of you at this point might not believe it.
I don’t quite know my purpose in this post or even my account (lol.) and I know many of you probably have grudges with my disappearing act, but unforutanely that's just something that comes with the author and this blog itself.
I guess with tonight being the first time I am going to be seeing Avatar: Fire and Ash, I was feeling nostalgic. It's been three years since I wrote One of Us, and I am still overwhelmed with disbelief and gratitude at the responses I get from this series. Tumblr for me in that time was a safe space. I was nineteen, and a freshman in college, trying to figure out who I wanted to be (a lot of the time I still don't know). And three years later, here I am, about to graduate college and so much as happened in that time--growth as a woman, a writer, and a human being. Growth that I hope I will be able to share with all of you.
Since starting this blog, I have pursued creative writing within an academic setting and will be graduating this spring with a degree in both biology and... creative writing! And that is something that I don't think would have happened without my experience, dedication, and all the support that I have received during my time here on this platform. So I thank and applaud all of you because the belief that I have in myself wouldn't even be where it is today without your belief in me as well!
I'm going to be twenty-three this year and a college graduate and despite the way my passions have diverged or changed, I still think about the connections and the love that was expressed here on this blog and on this app.
I know in the past I have had made promises that I would write more, that I wouldn't disappear, that there was more to come. Sorry, that those promises fell flat---real life got a little too exciting I guess---and I don't want to lie to any of you. I don't know if there is more coming or when. Because truthfully, I don't know what's next for me as a writer, whether that be professionally or even with fandoms. But do know that I see all of your messages, all of your requests, and I have so much appreciation for all of you continuing to reach out and show love even in stretches of my absence.
I don't want to get people's hopes up and say I will be back tomorrow or even the next day, but I want to keep this door open as a place for my creativeness, for my heart, and for my writing to continue to express itself.
So I am offering a possibility, not a promise, and I hope you all can accept that with a grace and love, I know you all are capable of! With that being said, happy new year, and if anyone wants to reach out to talk about the new Avatar movie, please do!
P.S. kind of want to do a Q & A, because I have been gone so long. Unsure if that's a stupid idea or not, so I guess you can let me know!
summary: after three years spent away from home because of nasty divorce between your parents, you finally come back & realize that this time you might not be able to keep sam monroe away any longer.
pairings: sam monroe x reader
word count: 1.6k
warnings/notes: swearing, mentions of death, mentions of past feelings, mentions of childhood trauma, divorce, daddy issues, allusions to sex
masterlist
There was a lot of things you could attest to even only at twenty-one. After experiencing everything you had under one roof, it wasn’t hard not to grow up fast. To learn just how horrible it is loving someone because of what it can do to you. Something that still remained true even if both of your parents remarried because everything still sounded the same within that forsaken house.
The walls spoke the same languages that your parents would as they whispered, which eventually would become yelling. The indents still lingered with chipped paint near where your height marks resided in the doorframe. It was just as it had been at six and then eleven. Yet at twenty-one, having come home for the first time in over three years, to a house that now only is full of your father’s stuff, it only felt more vacant. More sad and debilitating.
Your sister never seemed to really accept any of that though, instead choosing to ignore it in favor of the free meals your father cooked or the platinum credit cards he would hand over. Something you were sure would pass along to you as well, anything to try and make you forget it all. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.
Which was why you still hadn’t ever been in a relationship, let alone ever hangout with anyone long enough to form an attachment. It was the only real reason you had never made a move on Sam Monroe when you were seventeen and in high school. Even as you both sat on a dusty couch littered with weed and beer in some abandoned basement. Even as he stared at you the way he had from behind, the black eyeliner and shadow, blue eyes practically undressing you, almost pulling you forward by a string. You had been a little high and a lot drunk, and yet, you still couldn’t. Not even after having had a crush on him for well over three years. Three years and you left that basement without one kiss or his fingers even tracing along the inside of your underwear.
Seventeen and even then you couldn’t let yourself like someone let alone get to the point of loving them.
So, how would it be any different? Sam Monroe stood in front of you that afternoon, under the hot sun, just outside the new house he and his father had built. Sweat stuck to his shirt, dark hair still present but void of blue dye. His piercings were there but left empty, and you couldn’t see any makeup. It hadn’t even looked like him at first.
But it was, and the shirt gave him away, that in the way your stomach immediately clenched, the familiarity of him enough to make you fall back into that last summer spent in that town before you left for college.
“Y/N?” his voice was deep, deeper than you had remembered, a sudden twang of confusion filling your ears as he processed your presence.
Standing in your father’s driveway, boxes scattered at your feet, hair pulled back messily out of your face, and beads of sweat appearing along your shoulders and neck. Still beautifully you.
“Sam, hi!”
You were just as surprised as him. Even more so as he seemed so different and yet still completely Sam; just taller, broader, even more like his father than you were expecting.
“You’re here.”
It sounded so much more like a question than a statement.
“Yeah.”
“Like you’re here in your dad’s driveway.”
You couldn’t help but laugh, “Yes.”
“It’s been three years.”
You stiffened, feeling as if your bones would break like they really did feel how long it had been and how much time had passed. It really had been that long. “I know. It’s been a while.”
“Too long, really,” he admitted, and somehow it had never sounded so charming before than it had then. That sudden shock seemed to melt away, and what only remained was a softness you hadn’t seen in him before. A teasing smile appeared as he took you in again.
You felt the lump appear in your throat, somehow matching the tightness in your chest. It was only Sam who could ever make you feel that way, even after three years.
“How are you?” he asked, stepping forward, his hand extending almost as if he wanted to touch you, possibly pull you into him. You didn’t know, but some part of you wished it would be the latter. A part of you craved a touch you had never met before.
“I’m good. Really good, actually.”
“Yeah, it looks that way,” he replied, enough to stain your cheeks with a newfound pink. “How in that time did you manage to grow up?”
“Me?” you giggled, pushing him lightly, your fingers lingering where they touched his forearm, “Look at you.”
He chuckled, that glint evident as ever, “What about me?”
“You have a house, Monroe. An actual house that I’m sure you pay taxes on with a job.”
“Yes.”
“And college?”
“Online classes, yeah,” he confirmed and you coudn’t deny the wide smile that appeared.
Almost like a swell of pride had formed — a sudden amazement that he really had done it proved everyone wrong in that fucking town.
“That’s great, Sam. It really is,” you smiled, that urge to touch him again appearing, but it somehow waned at the thought, “I was sorry to hear about your dad.”
He cleared his throat, the light diminishing but only briefly as his eyes danced across yours, almost trying to find something in them, “Yeah, thanks.”
“I can’t assume it was easy.”
“No.”
“I wish we could’ve been here for the funeral. I wanted to, but my professors wouldn’t let me reschedule my exams.”
“It’s okay, I understand. Both your parents sent very kind letters to us. I really appreciated them.”
You nodded, not knowing a response to it other than you should have done more. Texted, called, or tried to come back earlier, earlier than now, when you were only moving home for the summer. It was Sam. The way you felt about him was everything, really. Yet you were too consumed in the comfort of the distance and hiding. That was what you had focused on for so long.
Your head bowed, eyes unable to meet his, instead finding comfort in his sambas, and the green grass. Inhaling, you glanced up at the house. The house you never even saw complete until then. You took it in. “It truly is a beautiful house. You guys did a great job.”
“Yeah I think so too. Plus, it looked like it needed an adult to live in it.”
You looked back at him, the teasing demeanor having completely taken over his expression in the form of dark knitted brows and his bottom lip tucked between his teeth. “Adult?”
“Yes, since you think I’m so grown up.”
“You are, and I never thought I would see the day, Monroe. But, it seems I have.”
“It seems so. Finally, Y/N Y/L/N is home.”
“Yeah,” you agreed, somehow feeling a small sliver of the universe realign. Perhaps by the way he was looking at you or the reality that would become of you because of him. Feelings you were sure never really left in the first place. “I will say not much has changed around here. Well, except for one thing.”
His brows furrowed, lip lifting in interest as you took in his clean face.
“The black eyeliner. I'm not lying when I say I might miss it.”
“Really?” he chuckled.
“Yeah, it was totally working.”
“Working?”
You nodded, a teasing look of your own apparent, “Yeah. It was hot. Hm, just never thought you would be so different.”
“Different?” he scoffed, the words somehow completely wrong as they left your lips, “I’m not that different, Y/N. I’m still me.”
“Right,” you nodded, eyes following how his chest rose and fell, the t-shirt alone catching your attention, the bright yellow words somehow something you would expect to be said, “Well, I’m glad some things stayed the same.”
He smirked, following my gaze to the front of his shirt. It was black with bright yellow bolded writing which said, ‘I’m good in bed. I can sleep all day.’ The same type of fucking shirt that seventeen-year-old him would wear, seeming unable to part from the looks he would get when people would read them.
“God, you wore stupid shirts like this all the time.”
“Hey! I find them pretty funny. They’re charming if anything.”
“Charming?” you laughed, the word fitting Sam exactly though you were sure no other girl would have described it that way back then. “It can only be charming if it’s true.”
“True?”
“Yes,” you replied, the word a mere mumble as you truly noted how it felt with him standing so close, looming over you.
“Well, how about you can be the one to decide if it’s charming. Let you tell me if I am good in bed or not. Would make for an interesting summer, wouldn’t it?”
You knew then you were fucked. So completely and inevitably because you had waited that long. Since you were seventeen sitting in that hot gross basement, him only a few inches from you. You had waited, and suddenly Sam seemed so much more tantalizing, enough so you would maybe give in. Just this once.
request: and for anakin I love the idea of how he comforts his girl. hugs, nicknames, cuddling together.
summary: being in the midst of a war came with many problems, but you had never accounted for the possibility of your general anakin skywalker being one of them, especially when a specific nurse seems to be all over him
pairings: general!anakin x jedi!reader
word count: 2.7k
warnings/notes: swearing, mentions of war, mentions of death, jealous!reader, fluff, mentions of sex, 501st clone trooper battalion, forbidden love
masterlist
It appeared almost out of thin air, like a billowing blow that seemed to almost knock you on your ass. It was worse than the battle you somehow had survived only a few hours before, sure to be stuck in the same predicament again soon. After all, when in an active warzone, it was always the reality, the scenery unable to escape but practically tattooed across your skin. It was means for disaster, of a bleakness that was sure to leave you depressed at night as you lay awake listening to the constant gunfire and screams from men and women meeting their fates.
That deserves your full attention, your care, and yet something else had appeared. It made you feel guilty, like a horrible person, at the way your heart tightened and ached. How had it come to be?
This thick grimy green monster that had latched upon your shoulders, interfering with the only mission you had been focused on for months. When you were assigned to the 501st Clone Trooper Battalion, you hadn’t even thought of the possibility, the mere ability to let your guard down, have it risk ruining everything. And yet there you were, in complete inept with your General, with a man you had been pulled towards as if the force was willing it to occur.
You wished then you could have run, somehow been taken captive, at least to save your heart from falling into the same fate. Captive she was, but not by the Separatist enemies; no, it was so much worse. It jeopardized everything it meant to be a Jedi, a knight, a warrior of the Republic.
It appeared, and now suddenly, it was all you could feel. Even more so as you found her delicate hands brushing along his bicep, eyes surveying the minimal cuts that littered his perfect skin, mixing within the dirt. Blood dried, but marks that would remain for most likely the rest of his life. As she did her job, you surveyed from the corner of the tent, the large tan tent you had spent a few nights in yourself, staring at the ceiling as a lamp crowded the darkness in the softest of golden light.
It felt diminished in some way as her eyes, so doe-like, innocent, unwilling to be caught up in a war, stared up at him through her lashes. A blush appeared on her cheeks, the same soft pink that you had so clearly seen even that first day when she had met him. She was smitten with the general, and you had never cared, and yet at that moment, you felt the rage swell in your chest.
He wasn’t paying attention, not to the way she oggled him or the small smile that appeared every time she noted the muscles of his bicep. He was too busy staring down at the latest casualty report one of the other soldiers had brought to him. It was long, at least five pages, three pages longer than it had been for most of the course of the time you had been here. Names and ranks littering them, sure to fade into the road of forgotten ones, only to be kept alive by the mark they left on wherever they came from.
Your chest ached then for a moment at the thought, but it only hardened further as you heard the nurse’s soft voice fill the tense air of the tent. “General Skywalker, I was told you experienced some impact that was quite severe along your abdomen. I’m afraid I’ll have to take a look.”
His blue eyes snapped up to hers, that stone-coldness commonly there met her kind ones, and you hated how your stomach turned involuntarily. You huffed slightly, brows knitting in so much anger. His glare flickered over to you, but only for a second, barely surveying your stiff posture.
He sighed then, almost of disappointment, before nodding, “Make it quick, will you?”
“Of course,” she replied, almost too enthusiastic.
Anakin peered back down at the list of his soldiers, but his face hardened again as the nurse cleared her throat awkwardly. He looked back up at her.
“I’m going to need you to remove your clothing, sir.”
He didn’t look at you again, and you felt your arms drop in defeat. You were crazy; you knew that much, but it didn’t stop you from turning on your heels and storming out of the tent. He had asked you there to go over some details of the battle, and yet the five minutes you spent standing there had you feeling so out of place even though you had spent the night there two nights before. He was silently staring down at the reports for the entirety of those few minutes, but you couldn’t care, and you couldn’t stay. Too blindsided by the anger that filled your chest, eliciting your veins on fire from the sudden rush of your blood going straight to your balled fists.
It was something that could surely wait because you were too afraid.
Afraid if you stayed any longer, you would do something that would have the nurse talking, sure to have the rest of the troop and brigade in a state of knowing. Sure, to go back to the Republic, then you both would be in trouble because, after all, Jedi had responsibilities, a code to follow, and work to do. And attachments weren’t allowed, even in a state of sadness, even in the darkest places where it’s the only form of comfort to have.
You found the only way to really deal with this sudden feeling that seemed to consume you was to take it out on anything you could. It was why you had gone and trained, your lightsaber stretched out, meeting the clashes of another soldier you commonly fought with. Your blows were more forceful, fueled by the sudden rush of feelings you hadn’t known you could even feel. You hated it, the way it seemed to never fade, never fall to the back of your mind even as hours passed. Instead, only the images of her possibly tracing his bare chest and stomach with her fingers remained.
It was hours upon hours of training, trying to tire yourself into a state of exhaustion, even with the possibility of having to go off into battle at any moment. You couldn’t care, knowing this had to be gone when that time finally came. Not only for your survival, for the mission but to keep him from ever knowing.
General Anakin Skywalker, the chosen one, the professed hero of this war, could never know. Never know of the sudden feelings that had befallen you.
That night, you stood in your own tent, far smaller than the General’s, you were getting ready to sleep. Bathed as well as you could manage, you were bundled in clean robes, ready to succumb to the darkness of sleep; it somehow more comforting than being awake. However, as soon as you were ready to do so, a soldier appeared at your door with a message.
“The General requests your presence.”
It had taken all day, hours, for Anakin to ask for you, to seem willing to want to talk to you, and that seemed to enrage you all over again. Perhaps, he enjoyed the comforts of the innocent nurse warming his bed rather than you. Perhaps she was some sort of light, untouched by the true grit and devastation of war, having never truly left the camp. She had not met death, had not drained life from someone so carelessly. You, on the other hand, were tainted, left in a wallowing sense of pain that only others could understand who had watched death parade day in and day out.
Yet he had called for you, as he did most nights, but you didn’t go.
You couldn’t.
Something you had never done. Something no one had ever done. When the General requested you, you went, no questions asked, and yet your feet were glued to the ground.
A half-an-hour later, it seemed he became tired of waiting because he had appeared in your doorway, the tent falling closed enough that not even a sliver of the outside world could see inside. He stood in clean black tunics, grime washed free from his delicate features, but that stern look was still apparent.
He was so breathtaking, like sin itself.
“I called for you,” he said, voice breaking the air, sounding demanding.
You stood, fingers carding through your hair, pulling free a knot, back turned towards him. “Did you?”
His furrowed look only deepened, somehow confused if the message had gotten to you or if you had chosen to ignore it, “Yes, hours ago.”
“Hm, it seems I must have forgotten.”
He could hear the spite in your tone, it unable to be hidden. He became frustrated at that point, “Forgotten?”
Stepping further into the tent, he approached and you felt his presence seem to wrap around you completely, leaving your heart an aching mess. “You don’t merely forget. When your general fucking requests you, you come. Do you understand me, Y/L/N.”
You turned then, anger palpitating, sure to burst any second as you thought of just how much you were suffering. Your knitted brows met his glare intact, “I was merely giving you time, sir. Time for you to recover, have your wounds tended to.”
It seemed your words, paired with the spite in your tone, revealed something to him because suddenly his expression was waning, collapsing in on itself into one of wonder. A single brow raised, lips almost lifting in a smirk. His hard exterior disappeared, the General in him no longer there, but only Anakin himself. The true twenty-one-year-old man he was.
“Seriously?” he chuckled then, spotting how your chest rose and fell in frustration.
“What?” you spat.
He seemed to be enjoying it, evident in the way his smile only widened, a look of pure amusement appearing. “I wasn’t sure at first if I was imagining it, but damn it seems I haven’t.”
He had caught on, you realized then. You were unable to truly hide it, not when the fear filled you of what exactly this could mean. Caring for a man this much who you were sure to never see again one way or another when this war ended. Sighing, you turned away again, unable to face him.
“You can’t just call me whenever you need a woman to nestle yourself into, Anakin.”
It seemed your words had pulled all air of the room, the amusement he felt somehow falling away at the way your shoulders slumped into themselves. “Y/N.”
You couldn’t reply then, too shocked, too afraid to.
“Baby,” he corrected himself, the name only heard at night under the stars. You hated how it felt paired with the way his hands took hold of your arms, turning you to face him again.
You couldn’t meet his stare though, instead focusing on his shoes.
“Look at me.”
You denied him again.
“Look. At. Me.” This time, his thumb and forefinger took a hold of your chin raising it so your eyes were forced to meet his, the blueness the only comfort you had found in this life. He chuckled again, “You’re cute when your mad.”
“This isn’t funny.” You huffed then, willing to push him away but his hands stopped you, taking a firm hold of your wrists.
“Oh, but it is. You’re so clearly jealous.”
The word awoke something in you, because you felt your glare appear in a moment of defense. “I am not.”
“Are you sure about that?” he goaded and you felt your entire resolve crack, it so easy when his hands traced down your sides to your hips. They rested there comfortably.
A side only you got to see of the general somehow convincing enough.
“Does it always have to be her?” you asked then, letting it all out, “I mean, every time a nurse is requested to check you over after you return from the front, it is always her. Every fucking time, and she isn’t good at hiding it either. She is so fucking obvious with how she looks at you. How she even touches you. It’s…”
“Not anything to be worried about,” he finished then, his hand coming up to cup your cheek softly.
Your eyes met his and softened them almost immediately.
“You really think that I would do that to you? To us?”
“I don’t know what to think, Anakin.”
“Why is that?”
“This is wrong, and you know it. If the Council found out, what would come of you? Of me? It seems like a lot to risk just for sex.”
“Just sex? Since when have I ever given you that impression?”
You couldn’t answer, somehow feeling as if the weight of the world would crush you if you did. It was all too much once again. How you felt about him, about this predicament of life that had befallen you.
“You were never and have never been just sex to me. You must know that. The way that I feel is…”
He trailed off as if trying to find the words, find how to say the exact things he had promised himself never to say, because of the code, of his Master, of fear of what would become of him. Leaning forward, his forehead met yours, and suddenly, you could only squeeze your eyes shut, breathing unevenly.
“When I go out on the front every fucking day, when I have to leave everything else behind to ensure that I am giving everything to these men, to this mission, to the prophecy, one thing still remains. The only comfort I have in all of this is returning so I can see you. Living for the possibility of hugging you, seeing you, kissing you. When I first convinced you to fall into my bed, it was never just for sex. It was because I felt as if you could save me. Save me from the darkness that looms too close to my heart most days.”
“Anakin,” you whispered in disbelief, in an ache of how much you truly cared, possibly loved this man.
“You’re the future, the only future I can focus on day in and day out. So understand when I say you have nothing to worry about. No nurse, no other woman, could take the place of that, okay?”
You nodded, eyes squeezed shut, trying to will the tears away, so desperately hoping they wouldn’t fall in front of him. You couldn’t let them, evident in the way your hands dug into his shoulders, as if afraid of him walking away. Leaving you as you always thought he would one day. Instead, he held you back just as tightly, his forehead pressed along yours.
You heard him chuckle again, though, remembering why you had been so upset. “I still think you’re cute when you’re jealous.”
You couldn’t help it, not as your own laugh appeared, the tears falling then as you opened your eyes to meet his kind and loving stare. “She was all over you.”
“I’ll make a note to ask for another nurse then. Or even better, ask that you are the one to take care of me. That way, you can be the one all over me.”
You smiled, that ache falling away, somehow being buried back where it came from. Simply cured by the man before you. How inevitably screwed you were one way or another.
“Now, can your general request you to his tent? Or are you going to deny him of that for the second time today?”
What were you ever to do? Compassion is one thing Jedi acted upon, something so completely unable to be avoided, and Anakin Skywalker had practically laid himself out to you. There was no way not to fall inexplicably for a man. No possibility or other life where you couldn’t have loved him. Especially when you didn’t know if you would be alive tomorrow.
Hi sweet girl , I want to tell you that your me & the devil fic is one of my favorites and one of the best I'm reading. For me Anakin x reader is perfection 💗.
I don't know if I'm being too ambitious but in blurb ideas I have one for Hayden and one for Anakin. I would like it to be fluffy.
From Hayden it could be something like : How is an outing with him ? ( I love how homey he is ) . Cooking together , watching movies in his living room while cuddling . Him giving that charming smile he has .
And for Anakin I love the idea of how he comforts his girl . Hugs , nicknames , cuddling together .
summary: a night staying in, resulting in getting high, has you unable to focus on the idea of sex when you're too busy laughing & realizing the extent of your feelings
pairings: hayden christenson x young!reader
word count: 1.0k
warnings/notes: age!gap (reader in mid-twenties), mention of weed/getting high, fluff, honeymoon phase af, mentions of sex, mentions of anakin skywalker
p.s. to whoever requested this, I will be doing your second request as well sometime soon.
masterlist
Blue pupils stared back at you, up through the dim lighting of the bedside lamp. Slightly blown out, from the weed in his system or you, you weren’t sure. You couldn’t know as this wasn’t something the two of you ever did often, yet the sudden fire beneath your skin and the precious need to press your body close to his was something you craved. Perhaps, it was the way his lips felt along your collarbones, the sides of your neck, or how his warm hands, calluses in all, felt along the bareskin of your sides. Maybe it was just him in general, how much and how quickly you had found yourself wanting him.
Or maybe it's just the drugs.
The way they seemed to warp your senses, filling the air with some sort of stamina that left the particles buzzing and your breath astray. The music sounded quieter than it really was, but perhaps it was masked by the soft giggle that poured out freely.
“What? What is it?” Hayden sighed, almost disappointed, his head lifting up from where his lips had been attached to your collarbone, kissing softly.
A quirk appeared in his brow, a teasing look in his eyes as he took in the way you appeared so perfectly pinned underneath him. His body on top of yours, legs parting yours, his weight light as they pushed you deeper into the mattress.
Your laughter quit but only for a moment as you tried to explain just what was so funny to you in the first place, something that wouldn’t have been nearly as funny if you hadn’t smoked as much as you had. For not having done it in a while other than the edibles you had at least once a week, you had forgotten how much to inhale.
“Nothing,” you said, trying to appear as serious as can be, a smile forming in a fine line as you met his stare.
Your laugh burst out again, though, and your eyes crinkled shut, unable to stop the way the hormones attacked the neurons in your brain.
“Right,” Hayden replied, narrowing his eyes playfully, the redness in them no doubt matching your own. “Clearly, it’s nothing if it has you laughing as much as you are.”
You shook your head, hands automatically wrapping around his strong shoulders, fingers carding through the back of his hair almost like they had a mind of their own. The softness of the short curls had your heart bursting if that was even a feeling.
“Seriously, tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“And why not?” he demanded, thumbs rubbing soft circles across your hips.
“Because…”
You were laughing again, and his head was falling, meeting your chest with ease, a sigh filtering out of his lips.
“Baby,” he mumbled, lips pressed along your collarbone again, but this time no longer gracing them with the kisses you had come to love so much. Almost too much.
“Fine, okay,” you gave in, laughter diminishing again to nothing but a soft chuckle, tears pricking your eyes as you tried to get the words out, “I was just thinking…”
“Yeah?”
“When you’ve hooked up with girls in the past, have they, ever, you know. Asked you to like dress up in costume?”
A deadpan look appeared on his face as his head lifted, eyes finding yours again, “What do you mean?”
“Like, have they ever been mid-foreplay and straight out asked you if you can dress up as Anakin or Darth Vader?”
“Where is this coming from?” he chuckled, too, lips lifting into that smile that somehow had convinced you to leave all the guys your age in the past.
“Or have they asked you to pull out your lightsaber?”
“Y/N,” he shook his head, mouth forming in an ‘o’, almost in surprise as you continued to laugh. “I’m trying to initiate sex here, and you’re laughing about if other girls have asked me to make their Star Wars sex fantasies a reality?”
“Well, yeah,” you replied, the tone almost accusatory tone as if it was something you would be asking, especially five hits later from the joint that was now stubbed out in the bathroom.
“You’re ridiculous, you know that,” he laughed then, too, “Why, is that something you want? Do you want to know about my lightsaber?”
“I mean, yeah, who wouldn’t,” you retorted, laughter falling away to complete seriousness.
Staring down at him, you felt the silence lull, almost swallowing you whole as the realization appeared again, almost like a car hitting you out of nowhere. The realization that you had fallen for an older man, a man you hadn’t expected to ever want you back, to notice you the way he had. Worse, to love him as you did so quickly, so immensely was too much, too much to understand, to accept.
Yet there you were, pinned beneath him, heart so full, so well-kept, hoping that it would stay close within his palms for the rest of time.
That charming smile appeared then on his face, his eyes crinkling slightly, a certain sort of contentment appearing as if he had had a revelation of his own. Words were not enough in that moment, so evidently as he leaned up, connecting his lips with yours, softly, deeply as if he was trying to pour his very own breath into your being.
You loved this man; that was inevitable.
After a few seconds, he pulled back, only enough for his lips to depart from yours. That smirk of his still firmly sat along his face. “So, what are you saying? Do you want me to go grab my wardrobe from set? I’m sure you would really have something to laugh at then, wouldn’t you?”
You loved this man, and you wanted him like this forever.
summary: anakin skywalker was like a forbidden fruit, the roommate to the guy that had been sleeping with your roommate for most of the school year. the very man who lived just down the hall from you & quite possibly the only man who was capable of silencing you, because he made you that nervous. you thought he had disliked you, despised you even, but it turns out when you lose one pair of red lacy underwear in the laundry room, that isn't quite the case.
pairings: anakin skywalker x reader
word count: 12.9k
warnings/notes: modern au, college!reader, SMUT, minors DNI, like actual filth, p & v, slight degradation, mentions of masturbation, slight enemies to lovers if you squint, dominant!anakin, public nudity (slightly), no protection mentioned (but please do use it), sorry not sorry, it had to be written.
masterlist
song inspo: lose face - daniel di angelo
Anakin Skywalker despised you. He did. He would never admit it. But it was the kind of disdain that had only appeared, almost bubbling over time since the very moment he met you, over your complete obliviousness when it came to him. Or it was more ignorance, perhaps.
You ignored him. His existence, his looming eyes that seemed to filter over your frame whenever the two of you were in the same room together, which was often. Often since you lived in the same apartment building and your two roommates had been fucking since a few weeks into the new semester. He would have to endure your impending silence, your lack of awareness of him for hours on end, sometimes many days in a row. It was excruciating how much he disliked you. Disliked those who got your attention, even his roommate, because it was something you would never give him.
At first, he didn’t think much of it. How could he? You were gorgeous and hot, his attraction something evident from the beginning, but you could barely exchange a few words with him, let alone meet his eyes if it ever was just the two of you in a room, this one more rare. You seemed shy. Innocent. Unwilling to be tainted by him. Something he could understand, even get behind. That is until he noticed the way you interacted with others.
You were a Pre-Law major, and Pre-Law majors couldn’t afford to be shy or even mute like you appeared around him. It was a surprise when he found you late on a Friday night in their apartment, where his roommate was hosting a party, surrounded by five guys playing cards. A drink sat in front of you, lipstick stains coating the glass in the most enticing of pinks. A low-cut top that was tight hugged your torso, making it hard for Anakin to hold in any physical sound.
You were ethereal at that moment as you tipped your head back, laughing, eyelashes batting with ease — innocence void from your lustful gaze. You were putting every one of those five guys in their place, practically pulling the cash out of their wallets from simply your tongue, all while you threw progressive law jargon their way. All of which he could understand easily, far smarter than he ever let on but it all went over their ungrateful heads. You were intelligent, so breathtaking, and completely squandering it on meatheads like the ones his roommate often interacted with, and he hated them. Hated them because you would never look at him the way you did them.
Hated them because you seemed to despise him just as much as he did you, enough that your interactions were left to drown in the thickest silence. The kinds where his pants twitched, and he wished to force you against a wall, just so you would look at him, for once. It was all that he asked, to feel what it was like to have your eyes on his. To either face the itch he got for you head-on or come to terms that it was all in his head. That it all was manifested in the truest form of need; arousal.
How could he though when your roommate was at his apartment a few nights a week? The last thing he needed was for her to glare at him, and take him to be some asshole with a weird obsession that lacked boundaries. He couldn’t live in that reality, not when he was so much nicer, even without the possibility of your legs wrapped around him.
It didn’t mean it was easy. Truthfully it never was.
Especially that afternoon as he found you parading around your apartment building’s halls, laundry basket in hand, headphones pulled over your ears. It was actually almost painful. The way your loose university sweatpants hugged low on your waist, rolled once, dipping enough that he was able to see your naval piercing. Your shirt was small, a tanktop that left little to his imagination, especially your perky nipples that stuck out enough he noticed them right away. Your hair was pulled back by a clip, but a few pieces framed your face, and even that alone frustrated him. Frustrated him that you walked around like that, almost to torture him, almost oblivious to how you looked.
It seemed you were just as oblivious about his presence, evident in the way you walked into the laundry room on their floor, mouthing the words of the song you were listening to, hips swaying far too much, but blind to the fact that he was in the room too. Or you knew and just didn’t care. That was something he could believe, a hundred times.
He stood a few machines away from yours, pulling his clean laundry out from the washer to put in the dryer. His eyes flickered over to your form every few seconds. It seemed to be something he couldn’t help, unable to stop the way his blue irises traced the skin along your waist and how there was nothing but a thin shirt that separated your chest from him. He knew he shouldn’t be looking at you that way. If it was anyone else, it could have been creepy, but because it was him.
You hadn’t even looked his way, your eyes never gracing his form as being the one in the room and not just another guy from the floor. Anakin was sure, though, that if it had been anyone else, you would have acknowledged them. He hated how much he thought of it. Hated how much you hated him.
“Fuck,” he whispered, the word unable to slip as he saw you from the corner of his eye, bending over just enough to grab your dry laundry from the dryer.
He hated how he wasn’t in front of you or behind you for the view but rather just witnessing from the side of you the way your shirt loosened around your frame enough that he could have been able to see down your shirt. He was able to see the back material of your underwear hugging your hips, though. The thinness of it taunting like it could have snapped under one flick from his fingers.
You pulled your laundry out, slowly, almost purposefully dropping it in your laundry basket. It only took a minute or two but it felt longer when you finally stood closing the dryer door, with your laundry basket now balancing along your hip. You turned, and yet your eyes never found his, never once acknowledging his form there standing near the washer.
He hated how his chest tightened, the way his brows furrowed in frustration because you were likely avoiding him. Without a word ever spoken, a second of some sort of acknowledgment, though you could have been sitting in his apartment later that evening, you turned towards the door. You walked out, the door falling shut before you.
Anakin sighed, his hip leaning against the side of the washer as he stared at the spot you were once standing. His brows were still furrowed, but they relaxed, lifting instead as he noticed the left behind bright red garment on the floor. He smirked almost devishly then as he strode across the laundry floor, bent over and plucked it from the floor.
He tutted softly then, hating himself for how he clutched the thin piece of lace underwear in his hand like it was a lost treasure.
The apartment was dark all but for the overhead lights in the kitchen and the candles that decorated the countertop. You sat in your room, almost encompassed by darkness other than the sunset lamp on your windowsill and the lamp on your nightstand. You sat back against your pillows, university sweatpants loose along your waist, revealing most of your stomach as you stared at your phone, unable to stop yourself as you scrolled.
Harrison had posted a picture, one from the other night when the guys had gone out for drinks. Of course, he had been there. Anakin Skywalker. You almost let out a noise at the sight of him in the picture alone. It was embarrassing. Embarrassing how you stared at it for at least a minute, and even worse when you clicked on his profile name that was tagged. Something that happened more often than it should.
Your stomach tightened as the familiar page appeared, his profile picture enough to have your legs tightening involuntarily. It was easy to say that he was breathtaking, or perhaps the devil himself, because of just how tempting he truly was. From the way his short curls brushed along the back of his neck, the front swept out of his eyes, or his strong jaw that seemed to always appear clenched unless it was just always that sharp. His eyes. Oh god, those were the worst of all. The blue hues that you swore could burn holes into your very being. The sole reason you couldn’t even meet his gaze; not if you didn’t want him to know.
Know about your secret attraction that actually had you aching most nights. Nights where you couldn’t help but have your hands dip in between your legs, with him being the only one on your mind, the only voice you conjure up. It was unholy. It was wrong on so many levels, how much you wanted this man, so much so, you became mute when he appeared.
You were a fumbling idiot around him and you never had been with anyone else. Usually, you were the one who would make them squirm, but with Anakin, you found yourself dripping with a need you had never had before. It didn’t help that he was so fucking quiet, unable to say or initiate anything unless it was his eyes somehow taunting you. It was like he didn’t like you, unable to really say much if he wanted to keep the peace.
It was torture then as you were left to do nothing but stare and scroll aimlessly on his Instagram.
It was stupid how he was just as perfect in real life. Not a single fault to be had. Even as he stood in the laundry room that afternoon in nothing but a t-shirt and sweatpants, it had you forcibly clenching your legs shut. The way his shirt hung on his frame was still tight enough to show his muscles underneath. It was casual in a way, something you would only notice if you looked hard enough, which you tended to always do.
There was nothing to do except act as if he wasn’t there, grab your laundry from the dryer as quickly as you could, and leave before he could say anything before it became too much that you felt like spreading your legs for him right then and there.
As you scroll down to the previous August and a shirtless picture of him in a boat appears, you couldn’t take it. You shut your phone off, dropped it onto your bed, and fell back against your pillows. Sighing, you stared up at the ceiling hating the bloom of warmth that was appearing in your chest.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” the knock on your bedroom door had you looking over, already expecting the view before you. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Your roommate stood in your doorway in her shower robe, towel wrapped around her head, concealing her pale blonde hair. Her freshly spray-tanned skin glowed after her shower. As you looked over at her, she raised her brows at you, curiosity appearing.
“Nothing,” you shrugged, stiffening as she glanced at your phone left faced down on your bed.
She hummed almost in interest but decided not to comment on it, instead taking in your appearance, still dressed in the clothes you had been in for the day as you cleaned the apartment and did your laundry, “Well then, that’s the problem. Girl, we have to be there in an hour.”
“It’s seriously ten steps down the hall,” you rolled your eyes, “I think we can be late. Why are we going anyway?”
“Because it’s Saturday night and he invited us.”
“I know, but we could be going out.”
“Why so you can go home with someone?” she asked, catching onto the heavy sight that left your parted lips.
You felt your tongue catch along your teeth and unable to defend yourself, Iris smiled, a laugh emitting with ease as a smirk appeared.
“That’s so funny,” she noted, so amused by your obvious frustrations, “You know there are going to be guys there.”
“New guys?” you asked sitting up then with new-found interest, “Not like all of the ones at Harrison’s last party?”
“Well, that I can’t know for sure. You were flirting with at least four of them while you were playing cards. You know, Harrison doesn’t have that many friends, right? So every time one of them is attractive and tries to have sex with you, it’s not like he can go out and find three new ones right away. I’m sure some of them will be there, yes.”
“Fuck.”
“But, you know, Anakin will also be there. Apparently, it was his idea for them to throw another one tonight. So, if you want to talk to him,” her voice slowed like she realized what she was saying as it echoed in her ears.
“Iris…”
“What?” she laughed, “Maybe if you just talk to him, you’ll realize you don’t have to go and click through his Instagram so much.”
“Iris!” you gasped, face already beginning to twinge with heat.
She chuckled, but that quieted at the sight of your embarrassment. If it was any other day, she would say more, but she had had that conversation with you so many times before. It would only sound the same. “What? Right, sorry, anyway, I think Harrison did tell me he invited some guys on his club soccer team. So, I guess you can talk to them.”
You huffed then, knowing that there was one reason you didn’t want to go the apartment down the hall, even if they did throw the best parties. “It’s just we are always there. Almost every weekend. I miss the bars. We’re legal, which means we should use them.”
“What’s wrong?” she questioned almost immediately, that furrowed look returning.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“You never don’t want to go to the guys’. In fact, sometimes you’re the one who suggests it, especially if they are throwing a party.”
You were quiet, struggling to find an excuse, anything, as the thought of Anakin Skywalker flashed across your head, the picture of him shirtless still very much the screen that would appear when you unlocked your phone.
“Y/N. Speak. If this is about Anakin Skywalker, I swear—”
“I just thought something else could be fun, that’s all,” you shrugged.
Her expression faltered slightly. She and Harrison weren’t even officially dating, and still, the thought of not seeing him that night pulled all the excitement out of her. You knew then you wouldn’t be getting your way. “I mean, we can. I would just have text the girls and tell them that—”
“No, it’s fine. I’ll get dressed,” your voice cut hers off, a sheepish smile appearing, knowing that you had just doomed yourself for the rest of the night.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” you smiled, it slightly fake, dread appearing in your stomach, “As long as we don’t go early and we have a round of shots when get there.”
The hallway was dim, the low lights not as bright as usual, the beige walls seeming to be the only thing able to hold your attention as you trailed after Iris, your hands nervously fiddling with one another. Sometimes you were lucky, as Anakin was not always at the parties his roommate liked to host. Other times, he would show up late, allowing you to settle and drink lots of alcohol to prepare for his presence. And rarely he never showed up at all or was there from the beginning. Tonight would be the latter, and you weren’t ready.
Even with the two drinks heavily poured with vodka, you felt unsteady, anxious, and warm. It was like the further you walked down the hallway, the more the walls seemed to warp within your mind into a funhouse. It was as if you were high on something, distorting your sense of reality, but really, it was just your heart beating so loudly in your ears and the lack of dinner getting to you.
You couldn’t eat, not as you paced around your room, half of your closet thrown onto the floor, one drink already leaving rings of water on your coaster upon your desk. It was humiliating. Actually, the worst thing to ever happen to you, as no man had ever done this to you. They couldn’t. It seemed impossible, and yet there you were, acting like a blithering idiot who would surely remain throughout the night until you were too drunk to notice.
“Y/N, you’re walking slower than my grandma here,” Iris called behind you, stopping near the guys’ door, a chuckle echoing off the walls mixing with the sound of the loud music inside.
“I’m sorry,” you mumbled back, trying to speed up but almost feeling as if you would fall with how much your legs were shaking.
“Are you even going to talk to the guy?” she suddenly asked, turning to face you fully, her hands on her hips and a single brow raised.
“W-What?”
“Anakin. Are you going to talk to him tonight, finally? Or is this just how you’re going to act about seeing him.”
You sighed, her words registering, making you question truly what you were so nervous about, “Iris, I…”
“Look, if you want to talk to him, that’s fine, but if you’re just like this because he is going to be there, you need to take a second and breathe. Y/N, he’s just a guy. That’s it. A guy you don’t even talk to, trust me when I say he is not that special. You’ve spent enough time in the same room as him to know that.”
“Right,” you whispered, suddenly finding your shoes more interesting to stare at as you felt your roommate speak. The heat in your face was only worsening, “He’s just a guy.”
He was, and yet he drove you crazy.
It was disappointing to find that Iris had to be the one to remind you of that when you had spent the past two years of college seeming to be the one always reminding her of that. You were the one who seemed to understand men, especially idiotic man-child twenty-something-year-olds, and yet here you stood in the hallway of your apartment complex, her finally being the one to give you the reminder.
Sure, Anakin Skywalker was just a man.
A twenty-one-year-old man who was quite possibly carved from the most expensive and luxurious marble and gold. He dressed in baggy jeans and warm sweaters, some of which seemed to be designer. He was quiet, unfunny at times, and was so frustrated all of the time. He wasn’t perfect, yet he seemed better than any of the guys you had liked in the past. The loose term was not used often.
“Just a guy,” she smiled, keeping her sarcasm on lockdown as she reached for your forearm and began to drag you towards the door, “I have never seen you like this.”
“Like what?” you asked, lowering your voice further as you stood outside of the door, confusion-filled gaze meeting her curious one.
“You this obsessed.”
“I am not obsessed,” you glared, finding your chest to tighten in discomfort at the thought.
“Fine. I just mean, usually you don’t care. You never have, and somehow he has you sweating and unable to speak coherently.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Okay, well, whatever it’s like, it’s cute,” she laughed, it only getting louder as you bumped her side with your own, almost begging for her to stop. “You’ve never acted like this over a guy.”
“Are we going to fucking stand out here all night, or are we going to go inside?” you asked rather flatly, not caring how it sounded as long as it meant she would stop staring at you the way that she was.
She only smirked, nothing else left to say as your face said at all. The gentle blush on your cheeks, the way you were trying to avoid eye contact, most of your confidence waning as you stood there, outside of that apartment door.
Shrugging, she finally reached for the doorknob and opened the door with ease. The second the door was cracked, the music became increasingly louder, enough to make you cringe at the way the bass echoed in your ears. Usually, you welcomed it; the sound, the smell of cigarettes and marijuana, the stickiness on the floors by the end of the night, the way you always stumbled your way back to your apartment only a few feet away. It was a life you had gotten used to, and yet you dreaded it all that night.
Iris stepped in with ease, and you followed, inhaling as you did with the smell of cigarettes hitting you straight in the face. Even with the windows open, allowing the winter air to bask in the room, it wasn’t enough to completely drown out the smell. I
t was dark in the apartment, all but the LED lights that hung up around the ceiling, paired with a spinning disco ball on the coffee table, which Harrison swore by every single time.
There was maybe a total of ten people in the room so far, but you knew it wouldn’t be this easy to walk through by the end of the night. As soon as the door was shut behind you, concealing you both inside, it was like he had known she was there. All of a sudden, you heard Harrison’s loud voice from across the room, him standing from where he was leaning against his sound system.
“Ah, you guys made it!” Harrison strode over in a pair of baggy jeans and a graphic t-shirt, his arms immediately finding Iris’ hips, giving away that he had already been drinking for a bit. “You’re later than I thought you were going to be.”
“I texted you,” she mumbled, chuckling lightly.
“I know, but…” his voice trailed off slightly, and his bluish-green eyes found your frame still almost pressed against the front door, and it was like he had connected the dots. “Y/N.”
“Harrison, hi,” you smiled sheepishly while also trying to peer around him to the rest of the people that filled the living room, hoping but equally dreading catching sight of a head of short curls.
“What, you didn’t want to come tonight?”
He was joking, he always was, as he spun Iris around so her back was pressed to his front. You laughed, it so fake as you tried to hide it all but your roommate could see through you easily. “What? No. You're a funny guy, you know that? We always come to your parties.”
“Yeah, but you’re usually one of the first ones here.”
“Relax,” you rolled your eyes, “Clearly, we’re still here early enough. Great turnout.”
“There are more people coming, asshole,” he laughed, pulling his hat by the brim down further across his forehead, concealing his blonde short, cropped hair.
“Oh yeah? Anyone worth talking to?”
“You told her about the guys from my soccer team, didn’t you?” that question was directed down towards Iris, who suddenly peered up at her non-boyfriend boyfriend with both guilt and humor.
“What?” she shrugged.
His eyes found yours again, that playful look now filling yours, “They’ll be here in about an hour or so. Just can you try not to screw them over?”
“Me?” you feigned a laugh, “I could never. How do I look, though? Something they would be interested in?”
Doing almost a little curtsy with your Converse squeaking against their hardwood floor, you turned after a moment. Noting the baggy jeans and the black sheer tube top, Harrison laughed almost in disbelief but could only look over his shoulder towards his own roommate, who sat in the middle of their couch, legs sprawled out, head dipped back as he snubbed out the cigarette that was in between his fingers. “Hm, you know you could go ask Anakin? He has expensive taste.”
You felt yourself freeze, hating the way they both laughed, equally looking back into the room. Following their gaze, you stiffened further as you found him, sure to be the only thing that you would focus on for the rest of the night. Especially if he were to be sitting that way for most of it. You felt like a deer in headlights as you peered over Harrison’s shoulder, eyes trailing over the way his legs were spread wide, his back leaned into the couch, and his head tilted back as he blew out rings of smoke.
He wore dark jeans and a black knit-long sleeve; underneath the collar, his white t-shirt poked out. His hair was pushed back out of his face, and the curls along his neck and around his ears seemed perfect even in the dark.
He would be the death of you.
Your mouth was dry, and suddenly, your fresh sarcasm was gone as he sat up against the couch, his stare almost splitting through the room to find the three of you. His expression was unreadable, almost cold, and you hated the way they found yours immediately.
You looked away, aware of the way the other two were intently making notes about the interaction. Side-stepping into the kitchen out of eye-sight from the roommate, you glared back at Harrison, “I hate you.”
“Nah, you don’t.”
“I thought you said you were going to make me a shot when I got here.”
“What do you want?” Harrison asked, his arms dropping around Iris, instead allowing his hand to find a place along her back, guiding her to follow him into the kitchen.
“The strongest thing you got,” you suggested peering up at the masses of liquor upon the cabinets, a devilish look appearing in your eyes as you smiled innocently back at the man.
He sighed that familiar Harrison sigh, the one where he knew there would be no stopping you that night, not as you came over with a box full of seltzers and a large handle of tequila. You were looking for trouble or perhaps something to ease the noise into nothing but silence within your mind. Either way, he couldn’t tell, and though Iris was looking at him, almost afraid to let him give you the shot that would start a very long night, she just shrugged anyway.
A long night it would become.
By the time it was eleven-thirty, the apartment was full of many familiar faces, the typicals you saw at almost every party, and then masses of the very unfamiliar. Some of them including Harrison’s very cute and very athletically-built soccer teammates. It had become your mission to catch at least one of their eyes quickly as if to avoid the looming stare from across the room that you were sure would have you dripping humiliatingly if you focused on him too long.
When he moved, you did too. Further away, it seemed, anything to keep your distance, almost afraid of what you could say if given the chance to. The alcohol wasn’t enough because just knowing he was in the same apartment had you unable to think about anything or anyone else. Even when you were four seltzers deep and a quarter of the way through with the concoction that had become of your water bottle, Anakin Skywalker was all you could think about.
It had been hours, hours of dancing awkwardly, avoiding the cards table, and yet you felt unaccomplished with the night. The ache between your legs was enough proof as it was, but you knew that couldn’t be taken care of by anyone unless it was Anakin. Even as the lanky soccer player with fluffy brown hair and bright eyes practically had you concealed against the wall in the living room, your mind was completely inept at what he was saying.
He was hot, relatively, nothing like Anakin, but enough that you would have slept with him. His hands were ghosting over your waist, one tickling the bare skin above your jeans, the other leaning against the wall, caging you in against his warm frame. His eyes were hooded, a look in them you knew all too well, but one you were sure you wouldn’t act on.
“You know, Harrison warned me about you,” he joked, it sounding so deep that his name somehow slipped from your mind, unable to be retrieved.
Your lips were wrapped around the straw of your drink, eyes peering up at his through your lashes, and you couldn’t help but smile, almost like a tantalizing forbidden fruit. “Really? Is that so? And do you think you should have listened to him?”
“No, not at all. That’s the funny part, I guess. Told me you would probably have your pick of us for the night.”
Your smile lessened slightly as a discomfort appeared front and center within your chest. You flirted. That wasn’t something you would deny, but the way he was putting it made you feel like you were other girls that they talked to. Ready to offer themselves like a consolation prize by spreading their legs just to never be spoken to again. You flirted, but you never really gave them what they wanted, and that’s why Harrison was cautious about bringing new guys around. They would chase after something they’d never get, and you would string them along as a form of entertainment. Or that’s what he thought.
It never had been like that, not even as guys started to notice you freshman year of college. It was never supposed to be a game but rather something else entirely.
You shifted back towards the wall, eyes dropping to your cup, the way it was nearly empty, the last few drops clinging to the bottom of the glass. The guy spoke again, and you found your brows furrowing in discomfort. “I’m just glad it was me if I’m being honest.”
They always thought that way. That it was them. That they were something special, as if worthy of your attention, but it never was about them.
You sighed, head falling back against the wall as his hand rose along your bare skin, almost inching to move up and under your shirt. A second of dissociation left you looking over his shoulder at the crowd of people around you, filling the living room to be full and packed. You scanned their faces trying to find anything that you knew could ground you.
Instead, there was only one thing, one person, and it made it all so much worse.
Peering through the room within the darkness of flashing vibrant lights and smoke, you somehow found him, only a few feet away or so. At the sight, it was almost like your legs were going to give out from beneath you. He would never not have an effect on you. It didn’t matter how stupid you felt, how humiliating it was. Inevitably, Anakin Skywalker would always have you wrapped around his finger.
He was leaning against the wall near the sound system, surrounded by Harrison and a few of their other guy friends. His arms were crossed over his chest, arms bulging slightly under the material of his shirt. Smoke billowed around the group from cigarettes, vapes, and joints alike, yet his hands were empty. He wasn’t listening to anything they were saying. He couldn’t have been because, just as quickly as you found him, he was already peering over at you.
His blue eyes, almost as sharp as steel as they traced your frame, pressed up against the wall under the soccer player, your drink cradled close to your chest. You almost physically shuddered, having not expected it, not in the slightest. His lips were pulled into a fine line, brows slightly furrowed in a way that made you want to ease the small wrinkle, pulling every frustration clean from his body.
Yet you felt intimidated because, after all, it was a look that was directed at you. One that often wasn’t.
His expression barely flickered or faltered, even as your eyes so clearly locked with his. Instead, he could only lift a single brow in your direction in interest. It was like a challenge, almost as if he was daring you to do something you would regret, something he wouldn’t like.
“Hey,” the guy’s voice broke through your facade, a gentle mumble as his hand squeezed your hip. The feeling brought your eyes to flicker back to him but only for a second before you were glancing back at Anakin. “Are you listening?”
You weren’t. Instead too distracted by the man across the room, whose jaw had suddenly tightened.
“I… uh, need to get another drink,” you forced a smile, voice gentle as you gestured to the empty cup.
“Do you want me to get it?” he asked then, yelling over the music, and you hated the way it made you feel.
“No, that’s okay. I’ll be right back,” you replied, almost like a false promise, as you slipped under his arm, separating his frame from yours completely, and with it, a weight seemed to dissipate. The ability to breathe suddenly a grace you didn’t know you were missing.
It was like you could feel his eyes following your frame. The coldness that was his blue orbs as you swerved your way through the crowd of people, bumping into them as you went, recognizing very few. Iris had been gone from your side for almost an hour, somehow slipping away with Harrison’s cousin to talk about probably Harrison. You had been left to fend for yourself, which was nothing new. Something you had done the whole semester prior, and yet it was the first time, you couldn’t stand the thought.
Even as the alcohol had left you swaying, vision slightly blurred, and mind a slurring mess, there wasn’t much comfort in the feeling. You managed to squeeze you were way to the kitchen, the music enough to have your ears echoing. Sighing, you found only a few people littered throughout, mixing new drinks or leaning against the countertops to speak too closely. It would be too good to be true to find it empty.
Slipping into the kitchen, which seemed nearly as dark as the rest of the apartment, you found the corner of the countertop where you had been taking alcohol from all night. Harrison had been kind enough to offer you something better than what you had mixed, and it had become the thing you began to drink as soon as your seltzers were long since chugged. Reaching for the liquor bottle, you uncapped it and began to pour, heavier than you had been before. Mixing the remainder of the lemonade in, you picked it up, already reading for the strong sip.
“How many of those have you had?”
The voice was low but loud as it spoke over the music. Scaring you, you turned around on your heels quickly, the drink nearly spilling all over you if it wasn’t for his hand that came to grasp the cup, part of his palm covering your own. It was warm.
“Fuck,” you whispered, the only vocal response to how close he was and all of a sudden.
“Careful,” Anakin chuckled, taking the drink from your hand, to which you pouted in dismay, hating how he pulled it closer to himself.
You stared, expression wary as he towered over you, closer than he ever had before, his eyes tracing the startled look as if he were the predator cornering his prey. His stare flickered following the way your chest rose and fell, your bottom lip tucked between your teeth as you stared up at him, eyes slightly glassed over from the amount of alcohol you had.
God, you hated him. You really did as he stared down at you, smirking the way he was, only a few inches away. If you leaned closer, your chest would press against his, and at the thought, you had to squeeze your legs shut, trying to keep as much space between the two of you as you pressed yourself back against the countertop.
A glint appeared as he noticed the way you shifted with discomfort, something he knew wasn’t a common occurrence with you. Tilting his head innocently, he glanced down at your drink, which now was in his grasp, a teasing tone emitting, “You never answered my question. How many of these have you had?”
You shrugged, trying to wipe off the look on your face as if you could picture it was anyone else in front of you. “I don’t know. A few.”
“How many is a few?” he demanded, eyes tracing the way you swayed on your feet, almost like he could know your head was spinning, nearly seeing two of him.
“You want a number?” you laughed, thinking he was joking.
His expression never faltered, “Yes.”
“Three, maybe four, I don’t know.”
He hummed, almost like he was dissatisfied with the answer. Instead of offering the drink back to you, he brought it closer to himself, that serious look never disappearing. “You should be done for the night.”
“Really?” you mused, a single brow raising at his tone.
“Yeah, in fact, I’ll finish this one off for you. Maybe try a water there, Y/L/N,” he said, bringing the cup to his lips, covering where your lipstick stains had been.
He took a sip, and you felt your blood boil out of both annoyance and something else. He wasn’t even touching you, and yet there was more of a reaction out of you than earlier when the soccer player had his hands inching up your shirt. It seemed he knew that too, and it was infuriating.
“Anakin!”
“By the way, your flavor of the night is looking for you. I think I saw him over by the bathroom where Iris was waiting. I’m sure he was asking about you.”
“You know what,” you said then, raising your hands up in the air, an almost look of acceptance on your face as you slipped out from under his frame you hadn’t realized had gotten so close, “Fine.”
With that, you walked away out of the kitchen, palm empty of your drink and heart heavy by the man who had taken it so easily from you. It was like taking candy from a baby, you almost offered it willingly if it meant getting a few more seconds being pressed close to him, his blue eyes tracing your drunken frame.
He had gotten you then. He was under your skin, had practically dug himself a hole, and you knew you couldn’t; not willingly go find Harrison’s teammate just to think about someone else all night. How much further could you even go than flirting? You usually wouldn’t, and you definitely couldn’t, not that night, not in that state, not when Anakin Skywalker flashed through your mind on repeat, feeding the worst desires.
The apartment was hot, still messy, lingering with stenches of alcohol, weed, and cigarettes. It was like all of the sweaty bodies were still gathered within their living room when really it was nearly three a.m., most of the lights were turned off, and the only thing that could be seen was Harrison and Iris slightly tangled on the couch. Anakin was slumped over on their second couch, now in a pair of sweatpants that hung loosely off his frame and dark long sleeve. His head lulled to the side as he stared at the TV in front of him, unable to really get comfortable on the couch with the warmth of the room.
Unable to open the window due to them being almost frozen shut, he sat up, his feet meeting the floor. He wanted to sleep. It was the only thing he could think about; hoping it would be enough to quiet the thoughts along with the twitch of his dick. But he couldn’t, not as he felt the sweat along his eyebrow and the smell that seemed to not dissipate even long after he thought he had gotten used to it.
“Fuck, it still smells.”
“Well, I don’t know, maybe open the door, see if it airs out in the hallway,” Harrison said, his words slurring slightly, his eyes narrowing in tiredness.
Anakin became deadpan then, “The door? You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Or not. Whatever.”
“Well, do we have a fan or something?” Anakin offered, standing from the couch in the darkness, stretching his arms up and over his head, “I had one, but I can’t remember the last time I saw mine or even used it.”
Harrison peered up at his roommate, a shy smile on his face seeming oblivious or rather uncaring of the problem at hand, too focused on the feeling of Iris’ head resting along his collarbone. It was then the girl perked up, her eyes shifting away from the TV and the creepy murder documentary she had recommended.
Her blonde hair peeked up from the couch, and she chuckled lightly at the realization, “That’s because we have it.”
“What do you mean we?” Anakin replied, brows raising slightly in interest.
“Y/N and I…” she said carefully, “Harrison let us borrow it at the beginning of the semester when our AC system gave out. I’m pretty sure we forgot to give it back. It’s in our linen closet.”
He stared down at her, somehow at a loss of what to say or if that meant she was willing to get up and give it to him then or expected him to wait. Before he could decide, she reached the coffee table and picked up her keys before tossing them to Anakin.
“Here. Take my keys, you can go grab it.”
Catching them, he stared down at it on the brass key ring, the very key that led to your apartment. An apartment you very much could have been in fucking around with one of the new guys’ Harrison had introduced you to. Anakin’s hand tightened around the keyset at the thought, a certain discomfort appearing at even the picture he could conjure up. The guy had been practically all over you all night, and you hadn’t done anything to reject his advances. Instead, you let them happen all while a set of eyes were staring at you from across the room.
“I… uh.”
“Relax,” she laughed, “Y/N said she was going to shower and go to bed. You’re not going to run into any naked soccer players fleeing from her bedroom.”
“Funny,” Anakin glared, a fake smile appearing as he noticed the familiar glint that had appeared on his roommate’s face. Not ready for the constant teasing, he stepped out of the living room towards the front door.
Walking out, he barely processed the sound of the door closing behind him, too focused on the key in his hand. It took less than a minute when he came face to face with the dark door. Tall with gold brass located in the middle displaying just how it differed from all the rest — what it meant. The numbers he thought about more often than he should.
802.
Fuck. He thought about it too much, so much so it felt easy to let the key slide into the hole and unlock the door with a mere turn of his wrist. Stepping through the threshold, the first thing he noticed was how refreshing it felt compared to the smell of his apartment. It was cooler in there, with a smell of almost clean laundry and vanilla. He couldn’t help but wonder if the whole apartment smelled that way or if somehow your room was different.
The floors matched the ones in his dark paneling that showed all of the dirt that fell on them. There were a few entrance rugs he couldn’t see much in the dark, as well as the entrance to the kitchen. He wanted to look around, turn on a light to take it all in, but he couldn’t, not with you only a few doors away, possibly naked and in the shower. He felt so gross about it, that he cared so much.
Especially as your underwear sat in the top drawer of his dresser. He had been contemplating about it all night, just how he could bring it up or return it to you. But he wasn’t sure the best approach without it coming off as disgusting. If he told Iris, she would never look at him the same, probably confused why he had them at all. Harrison would only make jokes, almost applauding Anakin, just to take Iris’ side when he tried to pass them off to her. And you, he couldn’t even think about what your reaction might look like upon finding out that he had your underwear, had them all day.
Moving further into the apartment, he entered the vast hallway just as Iris had explained, eyes locating in the dark the few doorways that appeared. With his flashlight on, he was able to find it halfway down the hall on the left. Just as he opened the door, though, he took notice of the dim light a door down, a purple hue peeking out from it that was left cracked open. With the familiar sound of The Weekend, Anakin smirked as he picked his way through the linen closet.
There on the top shelf was his fan.
Grabbing it, he shut the linen closet, but halted in front of the door, a new sound grabbing his attention. A breathy sigh, almost like a huff of frustration. His shoulders stiffened slightly, stomach tightening at the sound alone. As another noise slipped, but much louder paired with the gentle lull of a vibration, Anakin knew for sure. Knew that you were getting yourself off, and he couldn’t ignore just how pretty it sounded.
It was too much, so he stepped away from your door towards the other end of the hallway, but he had only made it two steps before he felt himself stop.
“Ani…” The whimper was not quiet, and he felt his jaw tighten at the way the syllables formed on your lips.
The sounds were louder, your moan breathtaking.
Anakin’s hand cupped his dick, your voice going straight to it. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, but they snapped back open as another one echoed out from your room, this one a little more desperate.
“Oh, Anakin.”
He didn’t know how he didn’t drop that fucking fan. Wasn’t sure if it would slip through his fingers or if he would throw it on purpose, anything to make his presence known. Anything to make the sounds continue but due to his fingers rather than your own. He had never felt such pain then at that moment as he forced himself to walk away, the sounds of you undoing yourself deliberately with his name breaking apart across your tongue.
There wasn’t a doubt then anymore. Not a single ounce of question.
It seemed that was enough to know. Enough to have figured out just exactly what to do with the red lacy underwear that sat tucked into the top drawer of his dresser.
“No, fuck, where is it?”
The sound of your voice grumbling from your room droned out into the hallway. Your hands were shoved into the bottom of your dresser drawer, rummaging through the clean laundry you had folded the day before. The sole piece of clothing you were looking for was nowhere in sight. As soon as you hadn’t found it near the top when you had started getting ready for your date, you felt your chest tighten. You groaned loudly, arms balancing along your knees as you moved to find it not hidden somewhere in your laundry basket either.
“Y/N/N, I’m going to head to work,” Iris poked her head inside, but her voice trailed off at the sight of you crouched in the middle of the room, tearing apart your dresser drawers. “What are you doing?”
“I can’t find them,” you mumbled out.
“Find what?”
You sighed, almost hesitant to even say it out loud, “My panties. The red ones.”
“The ones with lace?” she asked, for clarification, her brows raising in interest.
“Yes, I washed them yesterday, I swear.”
“Don’t you have your date tonight?” she asked, eyes looking around the room, spotting the few outfits you had laid out across your bed and the mounds of makeup and hair products spread out at your vanity. “The one with Harrison’s teammate?”
“Yeah, Cole.”
At the name, a flash of recognition formed across Iris’ face. It was the same guy you had been with most of the night before at the party, practically pressed up against a wall as he eye fucked you for most of the night. By the end of it, you were so drunk he hadn’t even gotten a kiss out of you, only your number. He texted you that morning about going out for drinks and dinner. You were hesitant at first, almost inclined to say no, but then something else made you change your mind. Perhaps the sight from the night before of the smirk that laced over Anakin’s face as he teased you about Cole. No inclination at all that it bothered him, the sight of you pressed up against someone else. It was annoying, so annoying, that you couldn’t help but say yes to Cole for a date.
What else were you going to do?
Anakin Skywalker barely spoke to you and noticed your presence. It was a joke. All of it.
Iris smiled smugly, then down at you as you continued to search through the dresser drawer. “And you need your red lacy panties for a first date?”
“I mean, I don’t need them, just want them, you know, in case.”
“Who are you right now?” she laughed, the sound bringing your attention away from your underwear drawer. Her arms were crossed over her chest, that smile still evident as a hint of amusement flashed across her eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t usually think about sleeping with a guy until at least the fourth or fifth date. The last time you were talking to someone, you made him hold out for the sixth date just to ask him to leave after twenty minutes of making out. And you want to wear your sex underwear on the first date?”
“I’m not a prude, you know,” you laughed too, your anxiety easing slightly even though your favorite underwear was still missing.
“I never said you were. I’m just saying, you’re different. That’s all.”
“Is that such a bad thing?”
She shook her head, almost a sense of pride appearing, “No. Not at all. Anyway, I should go.”
“Okay, I’ll see you later,” you replied over your shoulder, your attention going back to the clothes scattered around you.
“Yeah, have fun on your date. I can’t wait to hear how it goes. Oh, and maybe try looking in the laundry room.”
You cringed almost at the thought that they had somehow been left in there overnight, all while other people were coming in and out to do their laundry, “Right.”
Standing from your bedroom floor, you looked around the room one more time before inevitably giving up. Instead, you slid on a pair of shoes, and left the apartment, the door closing and echoing behind you. Making your way down the hall, you passed the guys’ door and the memories from the night before flashed again in your head. Anakin taking your drink, cutting you off from anything for the rest of the night. You wish you wouldn’t have listened and continued to sneak some. You didn’t have to listen to him at all. That was the funniest part, and you did it anyway.
Entering the laundry room, the automatic lights clicked on upon your entrance illuminating the room in cascades of bright LEDs. It was warm, just like it usually was when someone was doing their laundry. The familiar rumble of the dryer and washers caught your attention. The sound of it clouded your thoughts as you approached the washer and dryer you had been using the day before.
With one simple open of the stainless steel washer, you found it empty of any sort of clothing. You sighed, the annoyance deepening at the thought of having lost them. Expensive underwear you had bought on your trip to France over the summer. A pair Iris had to convince you to buy because you typically weren’t one for buying sexy underwear. It was the pair that opened the vault for you, leading you to not only buy so many more since then but a string of memories confined to that pair of lace, all from the few pairs of hands that had slid them down your legs with ease late into the night.
It was your favorite pair of underwear.
The only pair you felt like wearing on nights when you knew inevitably they would end up on someone’s floor.
“Fuck,” you cursed again lowly as you stepped over to the dryer you had used.
Sure enough, as you opened and closed it, you found it just as empty as the other machine you had checked. Your stomach dropped at the thought, and it had come to desperate measures as you crouched down near the machines and began looking around them on the floor.
It was not your proudest moment, and that only became clear as it only lasted around thirty seconds when you heard the door open, paired with a voice you were dreading to have to face anytime soon.
“What are you doing?”
Your eyes closed, your breath falling short in your throat. Sighing, you stood from where you were crouched along the floor, surely giving him a show in the shorts you had been wearing since your shower that afternoon. You wouldn’t turn to face him, not if it meant seeing some sort of teasing look appear. It was embarrassing enough. Instead, you pressed yourself closer to the dryer, peering over the back of it, hoping just maybe the red lace would appear behind it.
“I am looking for something.”
Anakin chuckled, subtly tracing the curve of your ass through your pajama shorts, his fingers curling around the silky material in his pocket. “What?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Well, maybe if you told me, I could help,” he offered, and at that, you froze.
Turning around slowly, you faced him, heart picking up at the sight of him alone. He looked just as fine as he had the night before, maybe even a little bit more. He wore jeans, ones that were loose around his frame, paired with a hoodie, hiding away the definition of his torso you craved to see after so long. His hair was slightly damp, leaving a ringlet curl along his forehead. It was slightly shorter, too, the back especially, meaning he had gotten a haircut. You had thought you would be sad when he had finally done it, cut the small curls that lay along the back of his neck, but now that he had, you couldn’t help but stare, knees practically giving out at how good he truly looked.
Sure enough, that smirk was plastered along his face, paired with a glint you knew all too well.
“Help? You want to help me?”
He shrugged, “It could maybe make it go faster. You look like you need to be somewhere.”
It was the most he had ever said to you. The last two days had crossed every line that had been between the two of you over the past four months of knowing one another. This was it. The past two days of his intimidating stares and forceful words.
Placing your hands on your hips, you raised a brow over at him interest, “And why would you think that?”
He stepped closer, and that alone had your chest rattling and hands practically shaking. He was so tall, so breathtaking, and you had wanted him for so long, so badly, it had consumed you. Just the sight of him as he stood before you, looming over your frame, had your core twitching, aching already, and he hadn’t even touched you. There was the reality that he probably wouldn’t.
His tongue clicked along the roof of his mouth, his blue orbs falling to trace over your bare legs, freshly tanned, smooth, up to the short baby tee that hugged your frame; no bra. You looked as if you were ready to settle in for the night, but he knew better.
“You did your makeup,” he said, observingly, “And you look as if you put something in your hair. Maybe, styled it for someone. You got a hot date or something?”
Your mouth was dry, and you had to look away, guilt appearing that you would be with another man that night, all while you would probably be thinking about him. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“So, that’s a yes,” he chuckled, the deep sound making your legs clench slightly. “Harrison’s teammate from last night? I could see him asking you out just to get in your pants.”
“Stop,” you fumed, brows furrowing in annoyance, arms crossing over your chest, “Why does it matter?”
“It doesn’t. So, what are we looking for Y/L/N? What’s going to make you late for this dick appointment?”
“You know what. Forget it. I can find it myself.”
“No, no, come on, now. I’m just trying to be helpful,” he smiled, that smirk widening, almost getting off at the sight of your pout and knitted brows. “Seems like you might need it? So, what a top? A bra, maybe, something he’ll want to pull off of you later.”
“Anakin,” you warned as he took a step closer, his head tilting antagonizingly, taking in how your chest rose and fell nervously. There was still a foot or so between you and yet you couldn’t help but step back until you were up against the dryer, the warmth of it felt through your shorts.
“Or is it not either of those things? No. Can’t be,” he paused, voice trailing off as his stare flickered down to your lips, “Underwear?”
Your lips parted in shock, stomach turning at the way it sounded like he was trying to torture you with his presence.
“So that’s it? Panties, huh? Must be some nice fucking ones if they have you bent over in the laundry room looking for them. What do they look like? I’m sure I can find them.”
You couldn’t form words, not as he taunted you, even from so far away. Not as his hands were shoved in the pockets of his pants, the most casual look about him. He alluded to sex just from how he looked, and that was hard enough, but him standing in front of you, lips glistening from his saliva, spouting these things at you, they might as well have been the dirtiest things a guy has ever said. They had you wet. You knew they did, and it had you shrinking in humiliation. Humiliation that he could say your name alone, and it would have you so pent up to the point of reaching for that familiar blue vibrator on your bedside table, desperately trying to relieve the tension he built up inside of you.
Inhaling, you tried to relax. “They’re lace.”
“Okay. See-through?” he asked, unable to say it with a straight face.
“Yes.” The word was so quiet coming from your lips, almost like a whisper.
The tip of his tongue traced over the top set of his teeth, highlighting his cuspids you wanted more than anything to bite into your neck. All while his hand dug between your legs. The thought fell away though at his next words, them enough to have your heart stop altogether.
“They wouldn’t be red by chance, are they?”
Your mouth fell open in shock, and for a second, you thought he was going to take hold of your lower lip to close it, anything to touch you, but he didn’t. Why would he? With widened eyes and that knitted expression forming once again across your face, you were silent as you watched his hand appear from his pocket, that all too familiar red color appearing before your eyes.
“Or something like these, right?” he held them out on his index finger, the expensive material from France staring back at you, “Fuck, I didn’t expect it, Y/L/N. That you could own a pair like this.”
Your face felt warm, annoyed, and embarrassed by his taunt. Enough that you reached forward to pluck them from his hand, but he pulled his hand back further to keep you from taking hold of them.
“Anakin,” you warned, hand out stretched.
“You know, you should pay closer attention when you do your laundry. Some creep in the building could have picked them up instead of me. Who knows what would have happened to them then.”
It was like he could see the steam coming out of your ears, the heat on your face that he somehow could see even past your makeup. He was frustrating you, and he could do it all day, every day, he decided.
“Give them to me.”
“Or what?” he quipped, “Tell me why I should? Just so some guy can take them off of you later. Some guy you don’t even want to fuck you.”
“Stop this,” you whispered, it almost sounding like a plea as you tried to reach for the underwear again, but as you did, he pulled his hand away. This time, going as far as to stuff them into the back pocket of his jeans. You groaned in annoyance at the sight. “You’re being an asshole.”
“And you’re a fucking liar,” he taunted, stepping closer again. This time until he was no more than a few inches away. Your body was fully pressed against the dryer then, it hot along the skin on the back of your thighs. “So admit it.”
“Admit what?”
He leaned closer, his lips nearly tracing the shell of your ear, all while his hands moved up, fingers brushing across your bare ribs so softly it hadn’t felt real. They slipped away, instead pressing along the dryer behind you that was still running. He had you caged in, his chest warm against yours.
“That you want this. That you want me.”
A breathy sigh fell away, your lips practically trembling as all of the hair on your body seemed to stand straight up.
He continued, “You say I’m the asshole but you’re the one who walks around doing your laundry in nothing but a skimpy shirt. You fucking want me to see you like that, don’t you? Like this? You want to tempt me. But that’s the thing isn’t it? You only act like a whore if it means getting my attention. Isn’t that right?”
“Anakin…” his name almost sounding like a moan as it slipped, body leaning further into his involuntarily.
“Say it, Y/N. Fucking say it, and I’m yours.”
You sighed, the most hopeless sound because he had you. He always did. How was it happening? You weren’t sure, but it was all that mattered. “Fine, I want you.”
He smiled a grin that was so full of himself as he reached forward, his hand gripping your jaw so firmly in his hand. It happened so quick, then, the feeling of him pulling you forward. It was almost like you could have gotten whiplash as his lips consumed you, enveloping you in what could only be described as pure sin. Without a moment to even feel them on yours, his tongue was parting your lips, slipping in without you giving much of a fight. A moan was ripped free from your throat as he branded you over and over, his taste coated along your tongue, faintly tasting of mint gum and cigarettes.
Somehow it wasn’t anything you thought it would be like. It was better, intangible, unable to fully grasp until it was happening, leaving you to spin, to drip with need, and in a way, begging for penance. His body collided with yours, his other hand roughly grabbing your hip, slamming you further into the dryer, the vibration of it catching your attention as he did so. As his knee parted your legs, you twitched, the feeling of his clothed knee too much as he pressed it up against your core.
Gasping, your hands shot forward, pushing at his chest. It was enough for his lips to part from yours, with a string of his saliva pooling around the corners of your lips. “Wait, not here.”
You looked around the empty laundry room, suddenly awfully aware of the possibility for anyone to walk in. Especially those who had their laundry going in the machines.
He chuckled, the sound making your legs clench again, but this time around, his knee stood in the way. He smirked at the sight, his voice lowering, “Yes, here.”
You couldn’t deny how it had made you feel, the dominance doing something to you. So much so that you relaxed under his hooded eyes, giving in once again. It was enough of an answer for him as he immediately went to your cotton shorts, yanking them down from your hips. The material loosened and pooled around your feet, leaving you in nothing but the black pair of soft panties you had slipped on after your shower.
“Not red,” he chuckled, hands ghosting along your ribs, thumbs tempting to brush along your nipples through the material of your shirt, “But fuck are they still pretty.”
His knee pressed up further against the material, the thin material that was soaked to the point that he was risking having a stain left when he pulled it away. You whimpered at the feeling, desperate for any relief you hadn’t been able to get since you laid eyes on him for the first time. You couldn’t help but sink down on him, the feeling sending a shock through your core and another sound to fall from your blissfully kissed lips.
He took in the sight, not caring who saw. Not if it meant he had his claim on you, that everyone knew. That they all were aware of how fucking obsessed you were, with him, his cock, that you would be willing to get caught. With lidded eyes just as desperate for you as you were for him, he let his fingers trace down your body, leaving goosebumps in their wake as he found the waistband of your underwear. Your chest tightened again in anticipation, as his fingers slid down further until they were pressed along the front of it, able to feel the wetness that had soaked all the way through.
His ego was huge at that point, almost feeling accomplished by his handy work. His thumb found the bundle of nerves with ease as if this hadn’t been his first time with you, but rather had memorized your body, knew just how exactly to get you to come undone. Pressing down, he bit down on his bottom lip, watching as your head lulled back, a desperate sound-emitting.
He couldn’t take it then, and neither could you. When he pulled away, you gasped in protest, ready to glare at him, but that inclination disappeared as he reached for the button of his jeans. You were practically drooling as it popped, followed by the sound of the zipper being yanked down. Your chest was rising and falling, so much anticipation forming along your skin in the form of sweat, the spot between your legs throbbing to the point of it almost being painful.
You were ready to beg. If he wasted any more time, you would. You didn’t care how desperate and defiling it felt then because if it were any other man, you wouldn’t, but for him, you would. You would over and over if it meant it would lead to this. Your breath hitched as he reached for the waistline of his boxers, sliding them down just enough to release his dick from the confines of the material.
Fuck, even his dick was perfect.
The sight of it had you nearly collapsing, completely acting like an idiot just at the sight. Who knew all it took was one cock to have you completely silent, lost for words. It had never happened, never thought it could, until him. It was the way it erected out, almost touching the material of his hoodie, red, already slick with precum. A world where he wanted you back seemed so implausible, and yet the sight of that alone could have had you cumming on the spot.
“Is this okay?” he asked, wrapping one of his hands around the base of it, he hissed slightly at the contact.
“Anakin, fuck just, please,” you whimpered further, and you hated how it sounded across your tongue, but that thought disappeared quickly as he moved closer.
With one hand pushing your underwear to the side, the other aided his dick in sliding in between your folds. It was only the tip, and yet at the feeling, you were a mess. A mess of chewing on your lower lip, just desperately wishing for this feeling to never end. If you could have this for the rest of your life every day, you would. The feeling of him over and over again would be a mantra you would strive for if it always felt like this.
Your walls were tight around him, and both being so impatient, he thrust forward, bottoming out quickly. A small noise fell from your lips at the feeling of his tip colliding deeply inside, your walls tightening, sucking him in perfectly.
“Ah, fuck, Y/N,” he groaned, his voice enough to make you clench again, stomach fluttering as his forehead softly met yours.
There was a second, a brief moment where neither of you moved. It was only heavy breathing accompanied by the sounds of the dryers, and you knew it was equally the nastiest but most perfect moment of your life. Then with his lips collapsing on yours once again, he began to move. Pulling out, he trusted back in, rocking his hips against yours. He swore under his breath, dick twitching though he had barely even started. With his lips claiming yours over and over, his hand trailed up along the side of your leg, taking hold of your knee to hike it up along his waist. At the new feeling, the stretch, paired with his dick still prodding, you moaned, the sound loud, louder than you anticipated it to be.
He laughed, the sound vibrating against your chest. It only got worse as his other hand slipped down in between your bodies locating your clit with ease through your underwear. Pulling out all the way, he shoved himself all the way back in, eliciting sounds you didn’t know you could even derive. Your body arched into his, legs already like jelly as his thumb circled the bundle of nerves slowly, almost too slowly. The feeling of the soft fabric of the underwear only added more friction and you were spiraling at how quickly your pussy tightened around his length.
He grunted, a string of curse words slipping as he harshly pinned your body back against the dryer, the vibration of the machine only heightening it all further. You wouldn’t last long, you knew that, practically able to hear your heart in your ears, stomach clenching with that familiar knot. Your hands reached out to grip his shoulders, the material of his hoodie curling under your fingers as you held onto him so tightly as if you were trying to mold the two of your bodies into one.
Moving so quickly at that point, he was reaching that very spot inside you couldn’t do yourself, and it had your head spinning, chest rising and falling, as you desperately craved the high more than even drugs or alcohol.
“Say my name, baby,” he pleaded then, sounding so whiny as his blue eyes met yours. “Come on. Say it. Say it like you do when you’re laying in bed, hand going to fucking work in between your legs.”
Sweat gathered along his brow, while the tops of his cheeks were staining red. The sound of the pet name had you almost crying, leg tightening around his waist, as every part of your body seemed lit on fire.
“Anakin,” you moaned softly.
“No,” he demanded glaring down at you, “Not like that.”
He began to speed up his assault on your clit, and you could barely stand at that point, body almost leaning completely back on the dryer. That was enough to get what he wanted as his name began to spill from your mouth louder than it ever had before.
He swore again, his grunts filling your ears as his palm tightened around your hip. He was moving so quickly, sliding in and out, you could feel your wetness dripping down your inner thighs, the sounds so loud in your ears. His thumb never faltered or stopped as he pulled all the way out and then back in, wanting you to take him in inch by inch. Before you had even realized it, your walls were tightening around him, your stomach clenched, eyes squeezed shut like you were chasing stars.
That feeling snapped, a lull, and you were a moaning mess as you held onto him, knowing you couldn’t stand on your own. Fingers digging deeply into his shoulders, body relaxing slightly while the orgasm washed over you, he didn’t dare stop. Anakin only pulled out to slam back into you, the flutter of your walls pulling him in over and over again. Chasing his high so desperately, it didn’t take long, until he was stilling completely, cumming inside of you.
You hadn’t let anyone else do that, but for him, it was a privilege. It was almost like your pussy was promised for him and him alone. His forehead fell down against yours, body relaxing into yours for a moment, only a few seconds, not long enough as your walls pulsed around him, now soft inside of you. He pulled out with ease, the loss of him and the cool air startling you to clamp your legs shut.
He stuffed himself back into his pants and looked down at you almost proudly, your fucked out gaze enough to have him wanting to take you back to his apartment and keep it going all night long, but you had places to be instead. Smirking, his eyes fell down to your lower half, and he couldn’t resist then. Fingers finding the sides of your underwear, they hooked around them before pulling them down your frame and to your ankles. Though confused, you followed, stepping out of them.
At the loss of them, you could feel the mixed wetness pooling out of you and down the inside of your legs, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Proud of his handiwork, Anakin reached behind him in his back pocket and took out the red lacy underwear. He held them out in his hands, stretching them as he demanded softly, “Step in.”
Listening, you stepped into the underwear, the clean red lacy underwear that had started all of this. Then tantalizing as if he wanted to torture you further, he pulled them up your legs slowly, agonizingly slow, and then up and over your butt until they sat comfortably along your hips, surely soaking in what the two of you had done.
Leaning forward, he left a lingering peck on your hip bone, and you sighed at the feeling. He slid your shorts back on next before standing and as he did, you could still feel the flush in your cheeks, reality catching up to you.
Having exchanged the red underwear for the black ones you wore, he shoved the dirty ones into his back pocket. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t think straight, as your heart seemed to be beating out of your chest. With that smirk, that glint on his goddamn face, he reached forward, thumb pulling your bottom lip free before letting it snap back into place.
“I expect those panties of yours to remain where they are your whole date, got it? And tell Cole ‘hi’ for me, will you?”
There was one thing for sure, Anakin Skywalker despised you, or not anymore, at least because, after all, he got the one thing he had been dying of thirst for. He would make sure you never ignored him again, even if it was when you were doing your damn laundry.
does anyone have any hayden christenson or anakin skywalker blurb ideas. I am feeling very deprived and have been struggling with having motivation the last few days to write.
if there is a lot, I might introduce blurb nights one day a week, to give you guys stuff to read in between longer posts. 🥹
I read your past series, and when I saw the new update of a new series, I just said to myself, 'I'm going to read this series because I just love your writing!'
No matter what fanfiction you create, I am willing to read it. I'm here for your writing, girl, and again, I just want to emphasize how much I love how you write!
this is so sweet! truly.
I got so nervous and overwhelmed with the amount of love I got for my series last year, and I was worried when I had to step away for a while to focus on school and some personal things.
obviously, since then, I have left the avatar fandom, and that was also something I felt so guilty about, but I am one of those people who do tend to like a lot of things and have a hard time keeping up with a bunch of works at once. It is something I want to get better at, but it's not easy, as I can't just be a writer all of the time. Especially, if I am not as passionate about it anymore, it gets hard.
I appreciated this ask so much because it really shows the amount of support that is still there. I hope you enjoy the new works as much as the last!
Hi there! I hope you're doing well. I'm really interested in how you write your stories and what inspires you. Could you share some tips on how you put your stories together and what helps you be creative?
I just want to add that I really love your series, and I'm looking forward to new ones in the future, but also take your time. I know all of your readers, including myself, are always willing to wait and support your works.
hi, I am, thank you.
I answered an ask similar to this one about a year ago, that I'll link below but considering that a year has passed and I've taken a few more creative writing classes at college, I'll add a few additional ones.
previous ask
tips
outlines. i mentioned this in my previous ask, because it literally is the first thing that i do. as soon as I think of an idea, a person, a scene anything, I write it down. whether that be in your notes app (which I prefer to use) or a notebook, w r i t e it d o w n. this is the best way to truly craft and add onto those ideas as well as plan out your series, story, whatever. with that, I also really like the flexibility it allows when you want to change something or allow other thoughts to appear.
when it comes to fanfiction specifically, it helps me a lot to research the world I am trying to contextualize, whether that be watching scenes, googling, or scrolling through interests -- all of these allow me to get into the right mindset when writing as well as helping if I feel stuck.
as of lately, what I have relied on so much is pinterest. I know it's not exactly for everyone, but I have absolutely loved it so much. I will usually create private boards for short stories or even the books I have written, allowing myself a place to really go and identify the main vibes or feelings I want to convey. it provides motivation when I am maybe not feeling inclined to write, as well as another resource to use to organize my thoughts and intentions.
there aren't many more I can name off the top of my head right now, but a lot of the ones I listed in my previous ask still apply a lot to me as a writer now. so please go read those as well. I hope this helped!
