who's asking?

I can't write to save my life *** I do think I have decent taste so my blog is basically a bunch of reblogged fics from different fandoms. Peruse at will *18+only - things are NSFW here*

[itisjustwhatitis]

Fic Recs (in progress)

Fandoms

Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon

https://www.tumblr.com/itisjustwhatitis/781799040676429824/fic-recs-gothotd-ongoing?source=share

HPU (including Hogwarts Legacy)

MCU

The Pitt

https://www.tumblr.com/itisjustwhatitis/781799263930892288/fic-recs-the-pitt?source=share

Rivals

Stranger Things

https://www.tumblr.com/itisjustwhatitis/781799211310120960/fic-recs-stranger-things?source=share

Vikings

[warmfrequency]

hard-of-hearing!john price x wife!reader

inspired wholly by this hard of hearing!simon by @ynstark — i’ve been plagued by the thought ever since

cw: suggestive

he hears the kettle just fine when it whistles, and he hears the front door when it slams with the wind. what he doesn’t hear, almost ever, is you.

“john,” you call.

you get nothing in return. he’s got his feet up on the coffee table, his reading glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, some dense paperback open in his hands.

“john,” you try again, huffing.

still nothing. the corner of the room he’s not facing may as well be another county.

you cross to the sofa and stop right in front of him until the shape of you finally registers and he looks up over the rim of his glasses, eyebrows lifting like you’ve appeared out of nowhere.

“what?”

“i called for you twice.”

“did you?” he asks, lips pursing slightly.

you’ve been dealing with this for a long while. over dinner, leaning across the table, repeating yourself, watching him nod at the wrong moments and answer questions you never asked. in the kitchen, talking to his back, getting no reply. in bed, breathing his name against his neck, not getting the same response from him you would’ve got a few years ago.

decades of gunfire and breaching charges and the thumping punch of helo rotors, year over year. by the time anyone thought to check, preserving it was out of the question because the damage was already there. the audiologist had been matter-of-fact about it. showed him the chart, the slope of it dropping off. he nodded along like it was someone else’s ear.

the hearing aids have been sitting in the dish by the bathroom sink for weeks, untouched. they’re good ones too. tiny things. they sit down in the canal, you’d have to be nose-to-nose with him to spot the little nub of them, and even then you’d have to know to look. nothing hooks over the ear or catches in the light.

he just wont wear them.

“i’m not seventy,” he’d said the once you really pushed it. “m’not puttin’ in hearing aids.”

“you’re wearing them, john. you already had them fitted.”

“i don’t need them,” he’d protested. “not day to day.”

which is how you ended up here, two weeks later, watching the back of his head while he reads and ignores the sound of you existing.

so you change tactics.

you don’t say his name again. you take the book out of his hands gently, dog-ear his page with your thumb, set it on the table next to his feet. and before he can do more than open his mouth you climb into his lap, knees bracketing his thighs, settling yourself down onto him.

his hands land on your hips instinctually, his whole expression changing. the annoyance smooths out and something warm comes up slowly in its place, you can read his thoughts as clearly as if he’d said it out loud — ‘well, this is alright’.

“well, hello,” he says low, hands sliding up your sides.

he thinks he’s won something. he’s already tilting his chin up for you, lips looking for yours.

you reach into the pocket of your cardigan and pull them out, cupped in your palm where he can see, and his face drops.

“oh, you’re joking,” his shoulders sink with disappointment.

“hold still,” you grumble, leaning forward.

“i was comfortable,” he complains.

“john.” you get the first one in before he can turn his head, fingers careful at his ear, and he huffs through his nose like a dog that’s been told no. “other side.”

“this is entrapment.”

“mm-hm.” you fit the second one in, tucking his hair back where it’s gone astray. you sit back against him to look with your hands resting on his chest. “there,” you grin, satisfied.

“i was reading.”

“and you weren’t hearing a single word i said all night.”

“i can hear!”

“so you’re choosing to ignore me then?”

“i wasn’t— i just—,”

“you answered ‘fine’ when i asked if you wanted chicken or fish for dinner.”

his jaw works. he doesn’t have anything to say to that. “they itch,” he tries instead, pressing a finger against the front of his ear, rubbing the cartilage there.

“they don’t itch. you’re being dramatic.” you shift your weight, just slightly, settling in more solidly against him, and watch his breath catch. “tell me they itch now.”

he’s still scowling, but his hands have tightened on your hips. “i don’t see what hearing’s got to do with this…” he looks down at where you’re pressed to him.

you roll your hips down against him, folding forward, letting your mouth go to the side of his face, right up close to his ear, and you breathe out — soft, the smallest sound, half a moan and half a laugh because you can’t help yourself.

you feel him go still beneath you.

you do it again. rocking down against the shape of him through his trousers and let the noise come up out of you naturally, quiet and close and meant only for him, the kind of sound you make without thinking when his hands are on you. his fingers flex and splay and grip harder, his head turns toward you like it’s being pulled.

“there you are,” you murmur.

“…christ.”

“you hear that?”

he doesn’t answer. his eyes have gone heavy lidded and his hand’s come up into your hair and he’s turned fully into you now, chasing it, the small wet sounds of your breath against his ear, the catch in your throat when you press down and he pushes up to meet you.

these little intimate things he stopped hearing a long time ago and never noticed he’d lost because of how gradual it happened. this way you sound when you want him, the quiet things. the things you only ever say just for him, the things you’ve been saying into the dark for a year now with no return.

“say my name,” you breathe.

“…what?”

“in bed. i always say your name and you never—,” you rock against him and his breath stutters, “you never answer anymore.”

his hand comes up to the side of your face. he pulls back just far enough to look at you, and there’s something that’s gone serious under the want, something that’s caught up with what you’re telling him.

“m’so sorry, love,” he nudges his nose under your jaw, kissing the soft of your neck. “say it now. again,” he says, rough. “go on.” he’s gone hard under you, rolling his hips up, hands keeping your hips down. the seam of his zipper pushing through the thin cotton of your joggers

“john,” you breathe.

he hears you and you watch him — watch his eyes close for a second like it’s gone straight through him.

“yeah,” he says, his thumb moving slow against your cheek. “heard that.” then your name unfurls from his tongue and you kiss him before he can pretend he wasn’t affected, and his arms come all the way around you, and he doesn’t say a single word about the hearing aids again.

john wears them after that without making a fuss over it. just puts them in every morning before you’re up. you never mention that you notice. don’t wanna spook him.

[itisjustwhatitis]

You know the more work nightmares I get that have me up at 2am in a panic attack leading me to lose grip on what was real, what was being processed and what was just a likely outcome given the circumstance - the more I understand Daeron

[yeah-iveheardofbears]

lessons in sociology

pairing: eddie munson x reader

summary: Eddie Munson is your good friend and study buddy for sociology. when he mistakes the novel you're reading for your sociology textbook, you get a more...hands on approach to learning about power dynamics.

wc: 7.2k

order up: college!au, friends to lovers, d/s dynamics, jealousy, confessions

tw: explicit smut, p in v unprotected, d/s dynamics, use of petnames [princess, sweetheart, baby, honey, guys a whole mess of honorifics], spanking, eddie eats pussy because of course he does, ropeplay mention

a/n: hi hi hi, i have so many eddie requests in my inbox and while he isn't my brainrot rn, i really hope you guys enjoy this one because i loved writing it.

masterlist

Your dorm room felt smaller during midterms.

Books everywhere. Highlighters bleeding through thin pages. Half-drunk cans of cola sweating onto your desk because you kept forgetting they existed. 

Eddie Munson was sprawled across the floor on his stomach, boots kicked off, rings tapping idly against his soda can as he flipped through his notes.

“You’re overthinking it,” he said for the third time, pushing his hair out of his face. “The professor literally said the theme was power dynamics. That’s, like, my whole brand.”

You shot him a look from your desk chair. “It's not a campaign metaphor, Munson.”

“Everything is a campaign metaphor,” he countered. 

There was a comfortable rhythm to this.

You quizzing him. Him derailing you.

It was easy, being like this. Friends who studied together. Friends who argued about symbolism. Friends who definitely did not think too hard about the way the other stuck his tongue out a little when he concentrated. 

Eddie groaned dramatically and rolled onto his back. “I need a different book. The one with the red tabs. It’s on your bed, I think.”

Your stomach dropped.

Because yes, there was a book with red tabs on your bed.

But it was not the sociology textbook.

It was tucked half beneath your comforter, face-down, like it had tried to hide itself at the last second. Black cover. Embossed lettering. A very intentional ropework design worked into cover in a way that was… not subtle.

You opened your mouth.

“Wait—”

Too late.

Eddie was already on his feet, crossing the room in three lazy steps, reaching down to grab the book from your bed before you could physically launch yourself at him to stop it. His fingers curled around the spine, and he lifted it casually, flipping it over—

—and froze.

"This is... not your sociology textbook." He says, eyes wide as he flips through the pages.

Your blood ran cold. It was a specific, visceral feeling, like an ice cube sliding down your spine. 

Everything faded to a dull roar in your ears. The only thing that existed was Eddie, standing there, holding the single most damning object you owned.

He didn’t flip through it with shock or disgust. There was no theatrical recoil. Instead, his thumb brushed against the pages with a strange, focused curiosity. His eyes, wide and dark, weren't judging; they were reading. Absorbing.

He finally looked up, but not at you. His gaze landed on the open textbook on your desk, red tabs that marked actual academics and not fantasies. 

A slow, disarming smile started at the corner of his mouth, one that you’d seen a hundred times after a good roll of the D20.

“Y’know,” he said, his voice a low, conspiratorial rumble that felt like it vibrated right through the floorboards. “This… is a much more practical application of power dynamics than our textbooks.”

Your throat was dry.

"Thats not funny, Eddie." You turn, face red. "Give it back."

He tilted his head, studying your blush as intently as he'd studied the book. He didn't move to give it back. 

"I promise you, my porn stash is way more embarrassing than this." He waved the book around a little. "At least yours has literary merit."

"It's not porn!" you shot back, your voice a little too loud in the small space. "It's research!"

The excuse sounded flimsy even to your own ears.

Eddie's smile widened. "Research," he repeated, testing the word on his tongue. "For what? Your dissertation on rope burns?"

He was teasing you, but it wasn't cruel. It was… interested. He wasn't making fun of you. He was engaging. He held the book out, not quite close enough for you to snatch back.

"This shit isn't even accurate," he said, tapping a page. "This is all showmanship. They forgot the most important part."

You blinked, confusion warring with humiliation. "What part?"

"The conversation." His eyes met yours, and for a second, the teasing faded. There was something serious there. Something intense but inherently safe. 

"Well, the conversation isn't the sexy part." You mutter. 

"Oh so you're admitting it's porn now?"  He smirks and you narrow your eyes. "And also... the conversation is definitely the sexy part," he added, stepping closer. "It's the whole point."

You held your ground, even though every instinct screamed at you to snatch the book, throw him out, and crawl into a hole for the rest of eternity. Instead, you lifted your chin. "You think so?"

"I'm well versed, yeah."

He finally lowered the book, setting it down on your desk, on top of your sociology textbook. The juxtaposition was dizzying. Academia and anarchy. Theory and practice.

He took another step into your personal space. Close enough that you could smell the faint scent of the joint he smoked outside. 

"I'm going to guess you haven't put this into practice yet," he said softly.

You couldn't answer. The lie was stuck in your throat. Because he was right. The book, the fantasies—they'd always been in your head. A private world.

A world he had just stumbled into.

"So tell me," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, looking you directly in the eye. "Is it something you only like in fiction or would you like to learn it for real?"

He waited.

And the silence that followed was the loudest thing you'd ever heard.

His question hung in the air between you, shimmering and dangerous. 

Is it something you only like in fiction or would you like to learn it for real?

It was a test. A doorway. A chance to step out of the theory and into the practice.

"I mean, I don't exactly have a partner to, you know..." Your hands flew up in a vague, helpless gesture. "It's not like I can just walk into a bar and ask 'Hey, any of you guys into safe, effective, and nonjudgmental bondage?'"

The joke landed weakly, but Eddie didn't laugh. He just watched you, like a predator assessing prey. He leaned against your desk, crossing his arms, the casual posture doing nothing to hide the focus in his gaze. He picked up the book again, not to mock you this time, but to flip to a specific, dog-eared page.

"Okay," he said, tapping the pages of a sex scene you had clearly marked with interest. "This, for example. The rope work is all wrong for this position. It would cut off circulation after five minutes."

You blinked. "You... you know about ropes?"

He shrugged. "I have hobbies. Guitar isn't my only practical area of expertise." He met your eyes again. 

"I guess that makes sense for your whole... look." You gesture vaguely at him. 

That one does make him laugh a little. "Yeah sure the whole aesthetic probably doesn't hurt." He smirks at you, eyes scanning over you again. "But the look is just a bonus. Not a guarantee. I know people who are vanilla as hell who dress like me. And I know people who would put this whole book to shame who wear polo shirts."

You think about that for a second, mulling it over as he speaks again. 

"Do you like my 'look' or something? You getting off on the thought of me being the one tying you up?" He teases you, but it's not a joke, not really. It's a question.

The question hung there, an invitation wrapped in a dare. Your cheeks burned, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze.

"Okay, light teasing was fine but don't purposely be an ass about this." You warn him, the bite in your words making him raise an eyebrow. "And... yeah. The thought occurred once or twice. I'm not blind." The admission felt like ripping off a band-aid—painful, but necessary.

Something shifted in Eddie's expression. His smirk was softer, like he didn't expect you to admit it. He let it hang in the air for a beat, savoring the victory.

"Once or twice, huh?" he mused. "That's... nice."

He set the book down again, this time closing it. The conversation was moving on, past the fantasy and into reality.

He sits on your bed, not like he usually does where he's just sprawled out with no care in the world. This was different. He sat close to the edge, leaving a space between you, but the air crackled with new possibilities. He rested his hands on his knees, a position that was open, non-threatening, but still completely in control.

"I've thought about it like, way more than once or twice honestly. I've thought about what it would be like with you. So, like, if you want to try some things, or even just talk about them, I'm more than willing to be your partner in crime."

You couldn't speak, but he continued. 

"Unless, you know, you'd rather ask that guy from your history class. What's his name? Mark? The one who looks like he was grown in a lab to sell minivans."

"Mark is just my project partner." You roll your eyes. "He's literally been here once to study." 

"You laugh at his jokes a lot in the dining hall." He shoots back. "I've seen it."

You had no comeback for that. Because he'd noticed. And you had laughed. But Mark's jokes were safe. They were about midterms and dining hall food. Eddie's jokes were about things that made your stomach flip.

"Okay, that doesn't mean I want to jump his bones. And even if I did, which I don't, how is that even rele--" 

It hits you then

"You're jealous." You say it out loud, a statement, not a question.

Eddie didn't flinch. He didn't deny it.

He just shrugged again, that infuriatingly casual gesture that meant everything and nothing.

"I'm territorial about things that interest me," he said simply.

You were no longer just a study partner.

"Look. We've been friends for a while. You know me. You know I'm not a creep. We can just… talk. No touching, no ropes, nothin'. Just words. We lay it all out. Boundaries. What you're curious about. What's an absolute hard 'no'." He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering again. "Safe words. Pet names. the whole deal."

He was laying out a curriculum. A syllabus for your most private, secret class. And the professor was the guy who made fun of your D&D character for being too lawful good.

"This is insane," you whispered, the words feeling like bubbles in your chest.

"Is it?" He stood up and walked to your door, closing it and twisting the lock. 

"Eddie... what if I say yes?"

He paused, his back to you for a second, before turning around. He leaned against the door, hands in his pockets.

"Then the real research begins." He gave you a small, genuine smile. "But only if you say the word."

The choice was yours.

"Okay." The word was barely a whisper.

He pushed off the door and walked back toward you, gesturing at your bed. "Okay. Rule one. Sit."

You carefully moved from your desk chair and sat on the bed, your back ramrod straight, perched on the very edge of the comforter like it might give way beneath you.

He sat down, leaving a careful foot of space between you. The mattress dipped with his weight, pulling you closer.

"You're tense as all hell, princess. Relax." The pet name was new. It wasn't teasing. It was... grounding.

You tried to unclench your shoulders.

"Let's start easy. Your safe word. It needs to be something you'll remember even if your brain is all fuzzy. Not something you'd normally say during sex. 'No' and 'stop' can be part of the scene. Your safe word is what makes the scene stop. No questions asked."

"Scene? That's so formal. So..."

"It's practical," he corrected gently. "It keeps things from getting messy. So. What'll it be?"

You thought for a moment, your mind racing. "Dragonfruit." It was stupid, random. No one would ever shout it accidentally.

A slow grin spread across Eddie's face. "Dragonfruit. I love it. Okay. That's ours. If you say it, we stop. Everything."

He shifted a little closer, the warmth of him seeping through the thin fabric of your shirt.

"Is there anything you like to be called? Or don't like?" He says, more seriously now. "Some people like being called a slut or a whore. Some people like 'good girl'. Some people hate it. There is no right answer, it's all about you."

The directness of the question made your breath catch. "Good girl," you admitted, your cheeks flushing with heat. "I don't think I'm ready for degradation yet..."

Part of you was worried saying that like you'd dissapoint him or something. but he just nodded, like you'd given him a perfectly reasonable answer.

"Alright. 'Good girl' it is. We can save the other stuff for an advanced class." The wink he threw you was both a joke and a promise.

"What about you?" you found yourself asking.

He seemed surprised by the question for a second. "Oh, well, I guess I'm pretty fine with most things. I mean, you could probably call me an asshole and I'd still like it cause it was your voice."

He said it so casually, as if he were discussing his favorite brand of guitar strings, and not the thought of you moaning for him. 

"I liked when you called me princess..." You admit. "You could call me that."

"Princess," he repeated, the word soft on his tongue. "I can do that."

He was so close now. You could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.

"Okay, new question..." Those big eyes drag down your figure. "Can you come sit on my lap? I want you closer."

He wasn't just asking a question about a hypothetical scenario anymore. This was real. This was happening.

Your body obeyed before your brain could catch up. You slid across the small space between you, the comforter a whisper under your knees, and settled yourself onto his lap.

His big hands went to your waist automatically, steadying you. He was warm, solid. You could feel the worn denim of his jeans against the thin material of your leggings.

"Alright. First lesson." His breath was warm against your ear, making you shiver. "Power isn't about force. It's about control. My control, your surrender."

You nod, mentally taking notes and he smiles before leaning into to whisper in your ear. 

"You can always say no." He says gently. "Right now, to me. You can say 'no, Eddie, I don't want to sit on your lap' and I'll let you go, no questions asked. This is still a conversation."

"I know." You say, a little breathless.

"But you aren't going to say that, are you? No... you want this."

"I do."

"Good girl." The words were a low rumble you felt straight between your legs. "I'm going to put my hands on your thighs now. Just to hold you. Alright?"

You could only manage a small nod.

You could feel the weight of his rings through your leggings. 

"Looking so pretty, all for me." He whispers and you lean into him, your head falling to rest on his shoulder as your eyes flutter shut. You trusted him. You'd known him for years. He was safe.

This was what he meant, about the conversation. Every touch was a question. Every reaction, an answer.

"Are you going to be good for me?" He asks.

"Y-yeah," you manage. "I'll be good."

His grip on your thighs tightened just a fraction.

"I know you will." He nosed at your neck. "Now, hands behind your back. Let me hold them."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You swallowed, your throat tight, and slowly, deliberately, you moved your arms behind you, lacing your fingers together at the small of your back. The position pushed your chest out, making you feel incredibly vulnerable, incredibly exposed.

He made a soft, satisfied sound.

"Always like it when you wear a low cut top like this." He admits. His hands slid from your thighs to your back, covering your clasped hands with one of his own. The gesture was light, not restrictive, but it felt impossibly final.

His other hand came up to trace the neckline of your shirt, a single finger grazing your collarbone, then dipping lower, following the curve of your breast. He didn't grab, didn't grope. He just… explored. Mapping the territory.

"Your heart's beating so fast," he murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "I can feel it."

You couldn't answer. All your focus was on the path of his finger as it drifted to the peak of your breast, circling your nipple through the thin fabric of your shirt and bra.

"Responsive little thing, aren't you sweetheart?" He teases.

He circles it a few times, making you squirm on his lap and you can already feel the hard length of him through your layers of clothes. The evidence of his own desire.

His other hand still holds your wrists.

"You like your nipples played with? I know you're sensitive." He asks and you nod again. "Let's see more of these pretty tits."

He doesn't ask to take your shirt off. He just does.

He expertly pulls the shirt over your head in one fluid motion, momentarily freeing your hands before he catches them again, this time pressing them more firmly into the small of your back. He then goes for the clasp of your bra and he undoes that too, pulling it down your arms until you're topless for him.

"Look at that." He whispers and it's the most turned on you've ever heard him.

He runs his thumb over the pebbled flesh of your nipple, and your breath hitches. The calloused pad of his thumb created a delicious friction, a direct line of heat pooling in your core.

"I'm going to pinch," he warned, his voice a dark promise. "Just a little. To see how you like it."

You tensed in anticipation.

He didn't make you wait long. He rolled your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, applying a slow, deliberate pressure. A sharp, surprising jolt of pleasure-pain shot through you, pulling a soft gasp from your lips.

"Good," he rasped. "You like that."

It wasn't a question. He read your body as easily as he read the tabbed pages of your sociology textbook.

He keeps pinching and playing as he trails soft kisses from your collarbones and lower, purposefully avoiding where you want his mouth. He was kissing all around your breasts, teasing you with featherlight touches until you're squirming and whining.

"Shh, be patient." He whispers against the skin of your breast. "I'll get there."

He does it again to the other breast. The pinch, the pleasure, the feeling of being completely at his mercy. He was testing you, seeing what made you gasp, what made you squirm. And you were arching into his touch, a silent plea for more.

He finally lowered his head, taking one peaked nipple into the warm, wet heat of his mouth. He sucked gently, his tongue swirling around the sensitive nub, before grazing it lightly with his teeth.

The whimper that left you was undignified. Needy.

He pulled back, releasing you with a soft 'pop'. He looked up at you, his eyes dark with an emotion you'd never seen directed at you before. Possessiveness. Pride. Awe.

"Look what you do to me," he murmured, one of his hands releasing yours to guide your own down, pressing it flat against the hard bulge straining against the denim of his jeans.

"You're going to have to take care of that later, aren't you?" He says, pushing your hips down a little, making you grind against him.

The friction was obscene, a delicious drag through the layers of clothing that sent sparks skittering up your spine. You did it again, a little more boldly, rocking yourself against the rigid length of him. A groan rumbled in his chest, a purely male, primal sound of appreciation.

"Not yet," he said, his grip on your waist tightening, stopping your movements. "That's a reward. And you haven't earned it yet."

He shifted you slightly, adjusting your position so you could feel him more acutely, a perfect, infuriating pressure against your clothed core. His free hand drifted down to the waistband of your leggings. His fingers toyed with the elastic, a casual touch that made your entire body clench with anticipation.

"You're soaked through already, aren't you, princess?" he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "I can feel it. All this fuss just from me playing with your pretty tits."

"Is that weird?" You ask, a little nervous now.

"Not at all. It's perfect." He says gently. "It means your body is honest. It tells the truth. And right now, your body is telling me how much you want this."

His fingers dipped below the waistband, not touching you where you craved it most, but just resting against the soft skin there. 

"We could stop right now," he offered, his tone maddeningly level. "We can stop anytime you want. We can just put your shirt back on, order a pizza, and fail our sociology midterm together. All you have to do is say one word. Do you remember our word?"

"Dragonfruit," you whispered, testing it on your tongue. It felt foreign, distant. Not what you wanted at all.

"Now, tell me what you do want."

You took a shaky breath. "I want you to touch me."

"Touch you where? You have to use your words."

Every nerve ending was on fire. "My... I want you to touch me between my legs."

"Good girl."

He finally moved, his hand sliding further down, past the damp cotton of your underwear, through your slick folds. He didn't rush, exploring you with a surgeon's precision.

"This pussy is so fucking wet for me, princess." He breathes out in awe.

He found your clit with an unnerving ease, a single finger circling the sensitive bundle of nerves. You jolted, a sharp inhale of pleasure.

"Right there?" he asked, feigning innocence.

You could only nod, your head falling back against his shoulder as he continued his slow, torturous circles. He was drawing it out, making you feel every spark, every tremor. You were wound so tight, a trembling knot of need.

Your hips began to move of their own accord, chasing the friction, the building pressure. But he stopped you again, holding you still with a firm grip.

"Uh-uh. My pace," he chided softly. "You don't get to finish until I say you can."

A whimper escaped your lips, a sound of pure frustration.

"Patience," he murmured, kissing your temple.

You notice now, that he hasn't kissed your lips, but you don't make a comment on it, too busy feeling everything else to care.

He was a master of this, a conductor of your pleasure. He varied the pressure, the speed, watching your every reaction, learning what made you gasp, what made you whine. He slipped a finger inside you, then a second, curling them upward to stroke that spot that made your vision blur.

"You think I should let you come soon?" he asked, his voice a dark, intimate rumble. "You've been so good for me. Sitting still. Taking what I give you."

"Please," you begged, the word ripped from you. "Eddie, please."

"Please what?"

"Please let me finish."

He chuckled, a low, wicked sound. "Since you asked so nicely."

He increased the pressure on your clit, the circles becoming faster, more demanding. His fingers inside you stroked with renewed purpose. The tension in your belly coiled tighter and tighter, a spring ready to snap.

"That's it, sweetheart. Let go. Soak my fucking hand." he commanded.

You were cumming by the time he said 'let go', your body convulsing in a blinding wave of pleasure. You cried out, your back arching, your hands still trapped behind you, leaving you nothing to hold onto but him. He held you through it, his movements slowing, gentling, as you shuddered and trembled.

When you were riding out the after shocks he released your hands, letting you decide where to put them. You immediately brought them around to his shoulders, clinging to him. Your face was buried in the crook of his neck, catching your breath. 

His hands came up to your back, stroking you slowly, grounding you. He whispered sweet nothings against your hair, words of praise and affection.

"I know that wasn't as extreme as what your little book had, but trust needs to be built up slowly for things like that." He says softly, kissing your shoulder. "We'll get there. 

You could feel the rapid, steady beat of his heart against your cheek. You could still feel the hard press of his arousal against you, a silent testament to his own restraint.

"Eddie..." you whispered, your voice hoarse. "You didn't..."

He shushed you, a finger gently tilting your chin up. "Hey. it's okay. Tonight was about you. About learning you."

You looked at him, really looked at him. His hair was a mess, his lips were swollen from where he'd been kissing your skin, and his eyes were dark and soft and full of an emotion that made your chest ache.

Without thinking, you leaned in and finally, finally kissed him.

He didn't move at first and you pulled back quickly, suddenly feeling stupid. 

Was kissing not okay in this arrangement?

Did he only want the physical part?

Did he even like you like that? 

Before you could speak, he did it first. 

"Hey you, don't look like that. It's not what you think." He says gently.

"I- I just thought..."

"I know what you thought. And it's okay. I wanted to kiss you. More than anything."

"So why didn't you?" You ask, not in an accusatory tone, but a genuinely curious one.

"Because if I kissed you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I wouldn't have been able to handle it if this was just a one-time thing. Or if this was just about sex. I wouldn't have been able to control myself, and we might not be here right now."

This confession was so raw, so vulnerable. It was more intimate than anything you'd done.

"So... what is this then?" You ask, your heart pounding.

"It's whatever you want it to be." He says honestly. "But I want it to be something. Something real."

You lean in again, slowly, giving him the chance to pull away.

He didn't.

He met you halfway, his lips finally claiming yours. It wasn't a kiss of frenzy or desperation. His hands cupped your face, holding you tenderly, as if you were something precious. His lips were soft, tasting faintly of you, of the cola he'd been drinking hours ago. He kissed you slowly, deeply, a conversation without words.

When you finally parted, you were both breathless.

"Do you still want me to do something about..." You trail off, letting your eyes flick down to the very prominent problem in his pants.

He groaned, pressing his forehead against yours. "Princess, you have no idea how much I want that. But I also want to do this right. So... right now, nothing too demanding, just let me fuck your brains out?"

You laughed, a real, genuine laugh that made your whole body feel lighter.

"You're an idiot."

"You know what?" He says with a teasing smile, before flipping you so he was hovering over you on the bed. "I like it better when you're on your back, anyway."

He made quick work of your leggings and underwear, tossing them aside. He stood up to strip off his own clothes, and you watched him, your gaze hungry. You'd seen him shirtless before, at the lake, at a party, but this was different.

The chain around his neck rested in the dip of his collarbone. His chest was lean, a smattering of dark hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his boxers. He was all sharp angles and wiry strength. And as he pulled down his boxers, your breath hitched.

"You want this huh? This is what you were grinding against earlier?" He smirks. He was long and thick, flushed with arousal, curving up towards his stomach.

He climbed back onto the bed, settling himself between your legs.

"Take what you want," he commanded, his voice a low growl.

Your hand trembled as you reached between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around him. He was hot and heavy in your palm as you guided him to your entrance, and he pushed forward, just the head breaching you.

A shared gasp. You were so wet, so ready for him, but the stretch was still intense, a delicious burn.

"Oh, good girl, you listen so fucking well," he praised, before sliding the rest of the way home with one slow, deep thrust.

He filled you completely, and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

"Fuck," he breathed, burying his face in your neck. "You feel better than I ever imagined."

He started to move, a slow, deep rhythm that stole the air from your lungs. Every drag of his cock against your inner walls was a fresh wave of pleasure. This was different from the sharp, focused intensity from before. This was a deep, all-consuming fire.

"Look at me," he demanded, pulling back just enough to see your face. "Hold on to the headboard."

You obeyed, your hands finding the cool metal bars of your headboard, as he began to move again. This new angle let him hit that spot inside you with every thrust, making your toes curl. He wasn't just fucking you anymore. He was claiming you. Marking you from the inside out.

"Who's making you feel this good?" he grunted, his hips snapping a little faster.

"You are," you moaned, your knuckles white where you gripped the headboard.

"Whose cock makes you feel this good?" He asks, a dark look in his eyes.

"Yours," you gasped, the words torn from you. "Only yours, Eddie."

"Fuck yes, it does." He says, a smirk on his face. "Not some loser from the dining hall." He speeds up a little, getting cocky. "Not your project partner. You wanna know who knows exactly what to do with you? Me." He punctuates his words with a hard thrust and you can't help but arch your back.

"You're mine now, sweetheart. This pussy is mine to use." His voice is a rough possessive rasp as he leans down to whisper softly in your ear. "Gimme a color, princess. Are we green?"

You were so far gone, but you knew what he was asking. "Green," you moaned. "So green, Eddie."

He smiled, a triumphant, feral grin. "Good girl. You want me to keep talking like this, honey? You want me to tell you how I'm going to fuck you every day after our study sessions from now on? How I'm going to bend you over that desk until you're screaming my name?"

"Yes," you whined, a desperate, needy sound. "Please."

"Then I guess I'll have to do it." His hips began to piston faster, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady, rhythmic beat. "Would you like that, sweetheart? To be my good little girl? To cum whenever I say?"

"I would," you cried out. "God, I would."

He brought a hand between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again. He didn't circle it this time. He pressed down, hard, in direct counterpoint to his thrusts.

"Cum for me," he commanded. "All over my cock."

Your orgasm ripped through you, violent and overwhelming. You screamed his name, a raw, ragged sound, as you convulsed around him, your body spasming with the force of your release.

"Mmm, gonna wake up the whole dorm." He praised. "Such a good fucking girl." He kept thrusting through it, prolonging your pleasure until you were a sobbing, writhing mess beneath him.

He pulled out and kissed you softly, the kiss slow and deep as you shook under him. You could feel his erection against your thigh, hot and hard and insistent.

"You still haven't..." You begin, trailing off again as you try and catch your breath.

"I haven't bent you over the desk yet." He grins, before he pulls you up from your comfortable spot on your back.

His hands were on you instantly, guiding you to your feet and then turning you, walking you the few steps to your desk. He swept his arm across it, the textbook with the red tabs, a stack of flashcards—all of it clattering to the floor in a mess of academic debris.

His lips are kissing by your ear as he speaks, caging you in from behind. "You need me to get a condom?" He asks, and you are a little surprised by the question.

"I'm on the pill." You say quickly, and he makes a happy humming sound, kissing the back of your neck.

"Perfect." He whispers, before he's pressing your chest flat against the desk. The cool wood was a shock against your heated skin.

"Think you can handle a little more for me, baby?" He asked, his hands stroking over your ass.

You nod, your face turned to the side, your cheek pressed against the smooth wood.

"Use your words."

"Yes," you breathe out. "I can handle more."

He doesn't enter you right away. Instead, he kneels, spreading your cheeks, and you feel the hot, wet shock of his tongue against your pussy. He licks a long, slow stripe from your clit to your entrance, groaning at the taste.

"Fuck, you're delicious," he murmurs, before diving back in.

He was relentless, eating you out with a single-minded focus that left you trembling. He alternated between broad, flat strokes of his tongue and pointed, targeted flicks against your clit.

His hands grip at the fat of your ass as he eats you out like a man starved, and you can't help but push your hips back against him. He eats it until your legs are shaking and you're whining for him to stop. When he does, he stands up, his chest heaving.

He pauses and you furrow your eyebrows in confusion. You glance behind you to see him taking the rings off his right hand, leaning over your back to put them on the desk as he places small kisses on your back. 

"What are you..." 

Your whisper turns into a whine when a callous palm  hits your ass cheek. Not hard, but enough that you gasp at the suddenness.

He shushes you gently, rubbing the reddening mark. "Just a little color for my pretty girl." He murmurs. "You like that? Just a little sting?"

You nod, your mind fuzzy with pleasure and confusion.

"Words, baby." He reminds you.

"Y-yes. I like it."

He spanks you again, this one harder, and you feel the jolt of it deep in your core. He alternates between spanking you and rubbing the tender skin, until you're a quivering, whimpering mess.

Another smack and you don't even register when he lines himself up with your entrance, and glides in, slick and easy, bottoming out with a deep groan. The angle was different, deeper, and it made you feel utterly possessed.

He set a brutal pace, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the small room, mingling with your moans and his ragged breaths. One of his hands grabs your face as he leans over to kiss you. 

"Taste how fucking sweet you are?" He whispers against your lips. You're nodding dumbly as he continues to fuck you, tongue licking into your mouth.

His other hand slides around your body, finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles. It was too much, too intense, and you tried to squirm away.

"Uh-uh. You take it," he commanded, his voice a low growl.

"Take everything I give you, princess." He was praising you, his words stoking the fire in your belly. You were already so sensitive from your previous orgasms, every drag of his cock against your walls a fresh wave of pleasure.

"Please," you begged, not even sure what you were asking for.

More? Faster? For it to never end?

"I know, I know." He cooed at you. "Good girls like you need to be fucked until they can't think straight."

You clenched around him, and he grunted, his rhythm faltering for a second.

"Yeah, you like me saying that, don't you? You like being my good girl." He punctuates his words with a hard thrust that makes you see stars. 

Your clit was throbbing under his thumb, the pleasure so sharp it was almost pain. Your body was a live wire, humming with a frantic, desperate energy.

"Gonna cum," you sobbed, the words barely intelligible. "Eddie, I'm gonna cum."

He pressed you down more against the desk, his hips snapping faster, harder. He leans over your back so you can feel the sweat from his chest on your skin as he speaks right into your ear.

"Come on," he urged, his voice rough with strain. "Cum for me. One. More. Fucking. Time."

You whined out, needier than ever, as your body convulsed, your inner walls clamping down on him. Your legs gave out, and you would have collapsed to the floor if he hadn't been holding you up, pinning you to the desk.

He gathered your hair in one of his hands, pulling your head back slightly, the angle new and dizzying as he keeps fucking you through your orgasm. This let him see your face as he uses you for his own pleasure. He looked wild, untamed, his pupils blown wide with lust.

"That's it, baby. Milk my cock. Such a good fucking girl." He moans as he starts to lose the steady rhythm. You could feel him getting closer, his thrusts becoming erratic, more desperate.

"Gonna fill you up," he growled, his grip on your hair tightening. "Mark this pretty little pussy as mine."

With a final, guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt, and you felt the hot pulse of his release deep inside you. He stayed there for a long moment, his forehead resting against your back, both of you breathing heavily, trying to come back to earth.

His hand in your hair changed from a grip to soothing stokes

His fingers danced up your body from their ruthless attack of your clit, to splay across your stomach. You feel him press gently. He was still inside of you. Softening, but still present. 

"You okay?" he murmured against your spine, the words muffled by his soft kisses to your skin.

You managed a weak nod, not trusting your voice.

He laughed softly, the vibration traveling through you. "Good. Because I'm not done with you yet."

He slowly pulled out, and the emptiness you felt was acute. You could feel his release begin to trickle down your thigh, a sticky, intimate reminder of what you'd just done.

He helped you to the bed, tugging you back into his arms. You both were sweaty, sticky, and your room was a mess. You couldn't bring yourself to care.

You curled into his side, your head on his chest. The steady, reassuring beat of his heart was a comforting anchor in the haze of satiation.

His hands never stopped caressing through your hair.

He was quiet for a long time, just stroking your hair and pressing soft kisses to your forehead.

"So," he said, his voice quiet. "Is the reality better than the book?"

You thought about it for a second. The book was theory. This was practice. This was real.

"I thought you said you weren't done with me?" You manage, weakly. 

He just pulls his head back enough to get a proper look at your face, the most genuine smile accentuated by his dimples. 

"Yeah, the aftercare. The cuddles. The praise. That's all part of it." He said, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. "Being the one who has to clean up our mess."

He sits up, leaning over the side of the bed to grab the t-shirt he'd been wearing earlier. He carefully, almost reverently, began to clean you up. The cotton was soft against your sensitive skin.

"You're so good at that," You say softly, referring to the entire night, but more specifically the way he was taking care of you.

"Yeah? Well I'm a man of many talents." He teases, but the way he's looking at you is soft.

He's gentle, methodical, as he wipes away the evidence of your night together. Once he's satisfied, he tosses the shirt aside and pulls the comforter over both of you, cocooning you in the warmth of the small bed.

You're quiet for a long time again. Just listening to each other breathe.

"Hey," he whispered.

"Hm?"

"About the kiss earlier..." he started, his voice a little hesitant. "When I said I didn't know if I could handle it if this was just a one-time thing... I meant it."

He shifts a little, so he's looking you in the eye. "This was never gonna be just a one-time thing for me. You have to know that. I've been wanting this for so long."

You are looking up at him in the dim light of your desk lamp. He's looking at you with a unguarded expression that you'd never seen from him before. 

"You really have? I thought... I thought this was just... you know, because of the book."

He let out a small, breathy laugh. "Sweetheart, the book was just a convenient excuse. A cosmic sign from the universe to finally do something about the massive, soul-crushing crush I've had on you since we were assigned as lab partners in freshman chemistry."

His signature smirk reappeared then.

"The fact that you're also into the same filthy shit I am? That's just a very, very lucky bonus."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound bubbling up from your chest. It was a laugh of pure, unadulterated happiness.

"So, what now?" You ask, your voice barely a whisper.

"Now I get to enjoy this body being all soft in my arms." He says, kissing your forehead. "Now I get to wake up next to you and make you breakfast. Now I get to walk you to our sociology class and sit next to you knowing exactly what you sound like when you orgasm."

He pulls you closer. "And now I get to tell you that I want to be your boyfriend. If you'll have me."

You tilt your head up to look at him, a slow, genuine smile spreading across your face.

"I'll have you," you said simply.

"Oh, no enthusiasm for the man who made you cum three times in an hour?" He teases gently. You just lean up and kiss him, soft and sweet.

"I think you fucked all the enthusiasm out of me." You mumble against his lips.

He chuckles, satisfied and proud. 

"It's a skill." He smirks. "But don't worry. I'm a great teacher. We'll build up your stamina." He winks, and you feel a fresh wave of heat wash over you.

He pulls you to his chest, safe and warm. You could get used to this.

"Next time," he whispers against your hair. "Next time I'll bring my ropes."

You press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "I'll hold you to that."

He held you tighter, a silent promise. The night wasn't over. Your time exploring each other, it seemed, had really just begun.

[itisjustwhatitis]

There was a post like a decade ago aboht someone who was sharing that things will eventually get easier when you live with depression and it was all about how they didnt think they'd make it past their teens but they were currently writing a post while sitting on a couch with their partner and their kid in front if them and i just wondrr where that post is. I think about it a lot. Particularly lately as i reach another birthday I never thought I'd have. I wonder if that person knows how many lives they've saved.

[midniqhtt]

steve harrington ── .✦ recs five

˗ˏˋone I two I three I four I ao3 I gif @/djoˎˊ˗

꒰ masterlist • stranger things • 01/15/26 ꒱

ᝰ.ᐟ key: A- angst I F- fluff I S- smut I C- comfort I ~S- implied smut I H/C -comfort

☆ steve hears it all the time ── @mischievousmoony I S

it takes some coaxing to get you used to steve’s size

☆ peaking in high school ── @/mischievousmoony I F

there's only one thing that could possibly be going better for steve harrington—you finally realizing he's been flirting with you for months

☆ summer buzz of cicadas ── @little-miss-dilf-lover I F

you're on road trip, driving across the states in a car that's definitely not made for such travels. you take a detour through hawkins for some hometown nostalgia, stopping by to check in on your favourite —only— nephew, dustin before he graduates high school. and it's then you meet his suspiciously aged older friend once again, only you don't quite remember him like he does you

☆ a humble descent ── @ellecdc I F

who he calls accidentally

☆ takeout for two (and a half) ── @/ellecdc I H/C

who gets pregnant early in their relationship

☆ earth to dingus ── @/ellecdc I F

Of course Steve leaves you under Robin’s supervision for maybe twenty-seven-and-a-half minutes only for you to wake up after suffering a head injury unable to recall that you’re dating the biggest dingus from high school in your severely concussed state.

☆ love line ── @/ellecdc I F

who asks her boyfriend to be her boyfriend

☆ the town flasher pt2 I @/ellecdc I F

Dustin's older cousin moves in with Claudia and Dustin at the beginning of summer. She's worried about how secretive Dustin has been and finds him hanging out with someone much older than him. Assumptions are made, accusations are thrown, chaos ensues.

☆ all that matters ── @colouredbyd I H/C

when borrowing steve’s car ends in an accident that destroys his darling car, you’re left shaken and terrified of his reaction. except when he finds you, it’s painfully clear he couldn’t give a fuck about the car.

☆ sweep you away ── @/colouredbyd I F

when Steve wakes up with a concussion in a hospital bed after a crawl gone wrong, he can’t help but fall for you—the pretty girl sitting by his bedside—completely unaware that you’re already his girlfriend.

☆ tolerate it ── @/colouredbyd I A + C

you accidentally overhear steve calling you “clingy” to robin. instead of confronting him, you retreat into silence, letting your hurt fester. steve notices and becomes desperate to understand, but the more he reaches out, the wider the distance grows.

☆ good old-fashioned lover boy ── @rimtrbl I F

3 times steve harrington couldn’t keep his hands off you, and the 1 time everyone called him out on it.

☆ nettles ── @levanterhaze I A

You've known about the prophecy since the day you were born. The curse of the older sister.  Ever since you and El were raised together in that sterile, white hell—shaped into weapons of war—you knew your life wasn't yours. Dying wasn’t brave. It wasn’t noble. It was simply the inevitable conclusion you had been walking toward since birth.

☆ beyond the sea ── @luveline I F

Steve finds a girl in his pool. A very wet, very bloody, and very scaly girl.

☆ mermaid!reader pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 pt7 pt8 pt9 pt10 pt11 pt12 pt13 pt14 pt15 pt16 pt17 pt18 ── @/luveline I F

drabbles for beyond the sea au.

☆ mean!bf steve ── @/luveline I F

☆ drabble ── @formallery I C

max hates the way billy treats girls, steve is nothing like billy 

☆ mike wheeler pt2 pt3 ── @/formallery I F

mike realized his parents didn't love each other when he was very young, and he rationalized this as all couples don't love each other. that's until he sees the way steve treats you.

☆ forever ── @urawizardharry I A + F + S

In which Steve doesn't realize that his way of coping with Nancy and his breakup is hurting Y/N in the process. He also doesn't notice that Billy Hargrove is not only trying to take his throne, but the girl he's loved forever too

☆ enemy territory ── @underoospeterparker I F

☆ ugly little thing ── @/underoospeterparker I C

☆ in the dark pt2 ── @/underoospeterparker I A

When Steve gets migraines, he gets angry. This time, he takes it out on you. Or, you're Steve's punching bag, and this time it hurts too much.

☆ let’s hear it for the boy ── @chestharrington I F + S

steve has a problem. he can't cum unless he's thinking about you. except you're his friend and he definitely doesn't have any romantic feelings towards you. at least, that's what he tells himself.

☆ hidden things ── @gnarly-words I F

despite dating for over a year, your boyfriend still doesn't know everything about you.

☆ if tomorrow never comes ── @hellfire--cult I A + F + S

The doom of the world ending has you thinking if you should be honest for once in your life. You might not survive, you might not live to see tomorrow, and you didn't want to regret anything... But he was still hung up on his ex... Yet, you feel the need to look for him before the battle... You weren't the only one with that idea.

☆ back on you ── @keerysfreckles I A + C

steve realizes how he affects people twice in one day, after a confrontation with dustin henderson, then his girlfriend.

☆ playing with steve’s hair ── @loveshotzz I F

☆ the henderson variable ── @loupiotesworld I F

☆ if you leave ── @helaintoloki I A + F

your strained friendship with Steve finally reaches its breaking point— can he fix it before it’s too late?

☆ future with you ── @hanwritesthings I F

a glimpse into what you and steve are up to eighteen months after the final battle.

☆ request ── @voidreynolds I A + C

being tortured by russians under the mall you work in, with the boy you have grown rather fond of was not on your summer to do list…

☆ i think we’re alone now… ── @lesservillain I S

after days of endless bullshit and with an ever growing need for your boyfriend, you finally come home and get to spend some much needed alone time together, with a closeness you've never shared before.

☆ scars ── @jordiemeow I F

[chestharrington]

Thank you for including me!!! I can’t wait to dig into the rest of these fics 🩷

[piece0fgarbag]

bopper? yes please - s. h.

(Steve Harrington x F!Reader)

Summary: Helping your old classmate with his damaged van gave you two rewards: a Bopper and a good fuck.

Word count: 6.4k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI. SMUT (m!receiving and f!receiving oral, fingering, unprotected p in v sex —use condoms, guys—, dick riding, big d steve, sex in a van —does that count as public sex?—, the reader is great at sex, kinda jealous Steve), fluff at the end. 

Tolerating Jonathan Byers after the crawl went to hell was already stressful enough for Steve. And now, because the universe was never on his side, the WSQK radio van had stopped working in the middle of the road. Perhaps it was the brakes or the battery, but it just wouldn’t start.

“C’mon, piece of shit.” Steve opened the hood harshly. 

“It’s the battery.” Jonathan confirmed and sighed. “We need another car to power us up.”

“Genius idea, Byers, and where in the hell are we—?”

“Look!” Jonathan cut him off and pointed at a pair of approaching headlights.

They awkwardly waved their arms in the hopes that the driver wasn’t a serial killer.

The red van began to slow down and came to a stop next to them. The window rolled down to reveal you.

You.

How come Steve had never seen you around Hawkins? He would definitely remember the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

“Y/L/N?” Jonathan’s question brought him back to the present. 

You smiled. “Byers? Harrington? Why are you hanging out in the middle of nowhere?”

Steve quickly gathered his thoughts and answered before Jonathan could. “We think our van’s battery is dead. Do you think you could help us?” He placed an arm on your window to lean closer. He gave you his signature smirk. “If it’s not too much trouble, of course.”

Jonathan gave him a weird look. But your smile grew wider as you nodded. “Sure! Let me park.”

The boys gave you space to place your van in front of theirs. Steve turned to Jonathan and muttered, “How do you know her?”

The Byers boy rolled his eyes. “Are you serious? Y/N Y/L/N doesn’t ring a bell in your empty head? She was in our class since kindergarten, idiot.”

Steve groaned as a memory came back to his mind. “Fuck. Nathan’s girl?”

He vaguely remembered you dating Nathan Smith, one of his basketball teammates, for almost the entirety of high school. Why were all of the pretty girls in town taken or uninterested in him? 

You got out of your van, still smiling, and approached them with jumper cables. “Here you go.”

Steve discreetly pushed Jonathan aside to receive them. “Let me.” He opened your hood and started connecting everything.

“I thought you were in California,” you said to Jonathan.

“And I thought you were in New York,” he replied. 

The two of you chuckled, making Steve glare at Jonathan. Couldn’t he be more annoying?

You cast nervous glances at both boys. Not that you disliked them, but you hadn't said much more than five words in high school.

“I was at New York, but I came back to see my family just before the quarantine started and…” You shrugged. “Now I’m trapped.”

Steve gave you a pitiful look as he rushed into the conversation. “That must suck. I’ve always wanted to study in New York.”

He received another confused stare from Jonathan, which you didn’t seem to notice as you replied, “Oh, it’s great! I never wanted to leave. And I hate Hawkins. It’s so boring.”

Steve snorted. Oh, if she knew… “So true.”

“How’s Nathan?” Jonathan asked, and Steve wanted to throw a car cable at him.

Your smile faltered, though. You placed your hands on your pockets. “I don’t know. We broke up right after graduation.”

Steve gasped but quickly covered it up with a cough. He had just finished connecting the jumper cables to both cars’ batteries. 

“Alright, we have to wait some minutes and… yeah. Umm, Byers, you should stay inside the van in case someone tries to contact us.”

Jonathan appeared to have connected the dots, and he was eager to comply. A new girl in Steve’s life would mean he would leave Nancy alone… 

He forced a smile. “You’re right. Thanks, Y/N.”

You frowned as Jonathan practically ran to the van. “No problem?” You glanced back at Steve, who was leaning against the open hood with a smirk. “Uhm… I didn’t know you two were friends.”

Steve scoffed. The simple idea of it was repulsive. “We aren’t.” 

You crossed his arms. “Right… Because you only hang out with Tommy and those assholes.” 

Oh, Steve needed to save his case quickly. 

He grimaced. “Ew, no. Not anymore. They were horrible. Don’t know what’s of them. Stopped talking, like, years ago. Before graduating and all. Don’t even remember their last names.”

You fought back a smile at his rambling. “Oh, right. Because you are dating Nancy Wheeler.”

Steve’s eyes went wide. “What? No! I mean, we did. We dated a long time ago, but now she’s with Jonathan.”

Your jaw dropped. “With Jona—?!” You closed your mouth, remembering that the boy could see you from his spot in the passenger seat. What if he could read lips? “Wow. Good for them, I guess.”

Steve bit back a snarky comment about how that relationship was steadily destroying itself, but he just pulled out a dessert from his pocket. “Bopper, while we wait?” 

Gasping, you grabbed it out of his hands. “Oh my God, I love this! Where did you get it? They haven’t sold this here since quarantine began.”

Steve was pleased with all of his choices that had resulted in the discovery of a fellow Bopper lover. He leaned close to you and whispered, “It’s a secret. But I’ll give you a call every time I get them.”

Your cheeks turned pink at the sudden nearness. But you smiled and stared at the Bopper in your hand as if it was gold. “And it’s peanut butter, my favorite.”

“Mine too!” Steve said excitedly.

You wanted to say more, but Jonathan’s quiet stare was making you uncomfortable. “You wanna sit in the back of my van while we wait and eat?”

Steve almost fainted. Had Robin’s, Dustin’s, and basically everyone’s prayers for him to find a girl been answered?

“S-sure, yeah. Yes1 Umm. Sure,” he stammered nervously.

You fidgeted with the Bopper excitedly as you guided him to the back of your van. Steve dashed to your side and opened the doors for you. 

It seemed pretty cozy with its floor carpeted, the walls decorated with various posters and stickers, a mini fridge at the side, plushies and pillows scattered around, and a drum set right before the seats.

“Wow, do you play it?” he asked with genuine interest.

You jumped into the van, prompting him to do the same. “Used to. It’s my sister’s now. She called me an hour ago, begging me to take the drums to her friend’s house because she wanted to show them how good she is.” 

You crawled to the mini fridge, and Steve had to use all of his willpower to look at the ceiling instead of your ass. “And when I arrived there, she told me to go back home ‘cause they were ‘watching a movie now and it would be rude to stop it.’” You pulled out two Coke cans and passed one to him. “So this whole ride was for nothing.”

Steve snorted. “How old is she?”

“Twelve.”

He tilted his head. “They’re pretty annoying at that age.”

“Absolutely,” you groaned and opened your drink. “Do you have siblings?”

“Not exactly, but…” Henderson’s face appeared in his mind, along with all his friends and the adventures they had dragged Steve into. “I’ve babysat a lot.” He grimaced playfully, making you laugh. 

“Yeah, kids are crazy. But I love my sister. Though, I sometimes feel like her—”

“Mother?” Steve completed it. “Yeah, been there.” He raised his can. “A toast to raising kids who aren’t ours.”

You chuckled, clinking the cans together. As he took a long sip, your eyes dropped to his Adam’s apple. His neck… He had such a pretty neck. You wanted to—

“So… What are you doing now that you can’t go back to college?” he asked.

Your randomly dirty thoughts vanished as you came back to reality. “Uhm…” What had he asked? “Oh, I’m a substitute teacher at Hawkings Primary School. The actual teacher went on vacation right before the quarantine started, so I’ve been replacing her all these months.”

He raised his eyebrows and leaned back to rest on his elbows. “That sounds cool. Which class?”

“Math.”

Steve smirked. Now he was remembering more of you. “You went to the Math Olympics every year, right?”

You rolled your eyes, a bit embarrassed. “Yeah… the teachers hadn’t forgotten that so they hired me instantly.”

He leaned closer to you and teased, “You denied my application. I remember now.”

Steve had applied to the Olympics once, during his freshman year. He’d gotten an A on a math test he’d cheated on, so he figured he could do it again over there and win an award.

Your cheeks turned pink. “I’m— Yeah, that’s possible. Lots of people wanted to join the team, but most weren’t the smartest.” The pink morphed to red when you realized what you had said. “N-No offense!”

Steve was finding your nervousness endearing. “None taken. I wasn’t smart. I’m not. But I was part of the student council for some months during sophomore year.”

You quickly averted your gaze and focused on opening the Bopper. “Actually…” You hesitated, looking from the dessert to him. “I have to confess something.”

He sat up and frowned, waiting as you took a big bite of the Bopper. You moaned, delighted with the flavor, and it was now his turn to look away. He discreetly grabbed a pillow and placed it over his slightly hard crotch.

You passed him the bitten Bopper. “Okay, confession time… I snitched to Miss Larson that you weren’t going to the council’s meetings.”

Steve almost dropped the Bopper as he looked at you in shock. “What—? You got me kicked out?” 

You covered your face, feeling like you didn’t deserve the dessert he had given you. “I’m sorry! I was pretty nerdy and annoying back then. It pissed me off that you only went to the parties.”

He couldn’t help but snort. “Well, that’s true. The meetings were boring as hell, while the parties had booze and music.”

You stared at him quietly, your mind reeling with memories.

Confused by the sudden silence, he gave you the Bopper back. “I forgive you. Have the last bite.”

It was an offer you couldn’t deny. You grabbed it and whispered, “You don’t remember me very well, right?”

Steve hesitated. An hour ago, he wouldn’t have reacted at the sound of your name. But after some small talk, he had a vague memory of young you. “Umm, sort of.”

You finished the Bopper and fidgeted with the empty package. “You don’t remember Spin The Bottle at one of the council’s parties?”

Steve had never sat up quicker in his life. His jaw could’ve hit the floor from the surprise as he understood what you meant. He covered his mouth when the memory came back. 

He had kissed you before.

“Oh my— It was you. Of course I remember! You were super nervous.”

You scoffed and blushed again. It felt as if your face had been red for the past fifteen minutes. “Okay, I wasn’t that nervous… but it was my first kiss.”

He gasped. “No way!” And during sophomore year he had already kissed half of the sporty girls, the goth girls, the church girls, and even some of the drama club girls… 

Steve hadn’t even recognized you when you stopped to help them, but you’d probably always remember him as the first boy to kiss you. Oh, he wanted to punch himself. 

“And you know what?” You smirked as you poked his shoulder. “Because of that kiss, Nathan got jealous and asked me to be his girlfriend two days later.”

Great. He wanted to punch himself more.

“And I said no.”

Oh?

“Because I was hoping you would ask me out.”

Oh!

Steve grunted and lay down on the carpeted van floor. He covered his face. “And I didn’t because I was young and stupid.”

“Exactly,” you chuckled. “So I eventually accepted Nathan’s advances and we dated for three years.”

“You could’ve asked me out,” he joked.

“Yeah, why didn’t that cross my mind?” you joked back. 

Even though he was searching through all of his memories, Steve couldn’t remember more of you after that party. He had been kicked out of the council a month later, so he wasn’t invited anymore.

As if reading his mind, you said, “I never went to any school party again. I wasn’t a fan of them, and Nathan didn’t let me.” You rolled your eyes, your fists clenching slightly. “He was the worst. Forbade me from having my hair down, forced me to wear my big glasses all the time, and hated when I spoke to any men. Even professors!”

Steve had never been close to Nathan, but even from afar he had seemed like an asshole. “Is that why you broke up?”

You were looking past the opened doors, at the vast set of woods, as you explained. “Not really. He got into a college in Florida. We were gonna try long distance, but he cheated on me three days after he arrived.”

Steve sat up again. “What?!” 

‘God gives bread to those who have no teeth,’ or whatever the saying Robin had been obsessed with for two weeks was. He hadn’t let her watch any more Spanish movies after that, not even as a joke.

You shrugged. “I wasn’t that bummed. We were already falling apart.”

Steve shook his head, angry at your stupid ex. “Still. How could anyone cheat on you?”

You sighed and shrugged. “When you realize that cheating has nothing to do with you and everything to do with the other person, you don’t care as much.”

He wished he had heard that phrase a couple of years ago. Maybe Nancy hadn’t done so physically, but she had definitely cheated on him emotionally. 

It didn’t matter anymore, though. Not now.

“So I technically ruined your life with that kiss?” he teased you, glad you were smiling. “And that’s why you ruined mine by kicking me out of the club and making it impossible for me to get into college?”

Your smile vanished and your eyes went wide. “Wait, really?”

He chuckled loudly. “I’m messing with you. My bad grades were enough to be rejected everywhere.”

You rested on your elbow, looking at him with pity. “Grades aren’t everything. Maybe you’re good at other stuff.”

Steve snorted, his smile wavering as he recalled his father's disappointment at him not being accepted to college. “Not really.”

 “You still have time to figure that out. We’re just twenty,” you tried to comfort him. 

Steve looked at you, sitting right beneath the faint van’s light. The yellow streaks were shining on you like a halo, as if you were an angel coming down to take him. His eyes fell to your lips. 

“You tasted like strawberries,” Steve blurted out. He wasn’t sure how he had suddenly remembered that.

You smiled excitedly and crawled to your bag. “My strawberry chapstick. I still buy it.” 

This time, Steve shamelessly stared at your ass. Those jeans were hugging your legs and bottom in all the perfect ways. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine things that would calm his cock. 

Today’s crawl. Grannies. Hopper. The president. Jonathan. Ugh, how he hated him. 

It was working. His cock was softening until you whispered, “You want another taste?”

Steve opened his eyes widely. You were kneeling next to him, smirking down at him with a hand on his chest. After tonight, he would kiss his van’s battery, thankful it had died and led him to this blessing. 

He nodded eagerly, not trusting his voice to say anything coherent. He closed his eyes, braced himself, and… 

You uncapped the chapstick and applied it across his lips. “There you go! The same strawberry taste.”

Steve blinked, confused and gutted. A bucket full of ice dripping down his neck would’ve been less depressing. “Umm… T-thanks.”

You laughed out loud and, with a sudden move, straddled his lap. “I’m messing with you.” And you leaned down to kiss him.

He sat up to meet you halfway, crashing desperately into your lips. God, you tasted so good. He wrapped his arms around you and tried to match your rhythm. It had been a long time since he had made out with anyone. Probably two years by now. He was hoping you wouldn’t notice.

On the other hand, you were also hoping it wasn’t obvious that you hadn’t kissed anyone since you left New York. Hawkins was small, and you hadn’t found anyone attractive enough to risk rumors flying around town.

Until tonight.

You had always found Steve handsome—who couldn’t?—but your loyalty to your shitty ex had made you forget exactly how hot the boy was. Your hands grasped his biceps eagerly, lowered to his abdomen, and scratched him over his shirt. 

Steve accidentally moaned against your lips. He pulled away and looked nervously around the van. “We should probably, uhm, close the doors.”

Deep in a haze, you were momentarily confused by his words. You just wanted to kiss him until you passed out. But then you became aware that you were in the middle of the road, where anyone could pass and catch the scandalous acts.

“Shit, yeah,” you mumbled before crawling across the carpet to close the doors.

Steve’s cock hardened upon seeing you on your hands and knees again. He had to control his thoughts, or he would cream his pants.

“Alright,” you sighed and went back to straddling him. “Where were we?”

But instead of devouring your lips, Steve stroked your cheeks and marveled at your face. He whispered, “You’re beautiful. Prettiest girl I’ve seen.”

You blushed and covered your nerves with a light chuckle. “T-thanks.” And before you could say something stupid like, ‘I’ve dreamed of this since we were fifteen,’ you held onto his shoulders and started grinding your hips against his.

“Fuck,” Steve moaned and threw his head back, giving you the perfect access to attack his neck with kisses. 

You were making the perfect friction on his hard-on as you sucked his sensitive spot, right below his ear. Steve could swear he was levitating. He placed his hands over your ass and squeezed it nervously. What had he done to deserve all that? 

He couldn’t care less if you were leaving a hickey; he’d love to watch it later in the mirror and remember the shape of your body on top of him. Your hands traveled down his body until they reached his belt.

Oh, this was actually happening.

Steve pulled away reluctantly and gulped. “Are you s-sure?” He looked back to the van’s windshield, specifically at the radio van right in front.

You shrugged. “It’s tinted, don’t worry.” But you stopped working on his belt when an insecure thought attacked your mind. 

Were you being too desperate? Was this too quick?

Reading your mind, Steve held the back of your neck to draw you into a deep kiss. His other hand went to your hip and moved you back and forth, encouraging you to keep going.

Okay, he desired you just as much. There was no need to hold back.

You unbuckled his belt hurriedly and tried to shove down his jeans. He raised his hips to help you. 

“Oh!” you gasped at the sight of his huge, hard cock beneath his briefs. The tip was poking out of the waistband, already leaking. You smirked and admitted, “Biggest I’ve seen.” 

Steve’s cheeks turned red, but he had no time to crack a joke as you rose from his lap, knelt between his sprawled legs, and licked his tip’s slit. 

“Oh, fuck!” he groaned.

You smiled and pulled down his briefs, freeing him completely. His eyes were on yours as you spit on the tip, using your hand to spread the wetness around his cock. Steve bit his lip, watching with uncontrollable desire as you stroked him slowly.

“You’re beautiful too, Harrington,” you whispered before taking him in your mouth, as deep as you could and no longer wasting time on teasing.

“Holy shit!” Steve grunted.

He gathered your hair into a makeshift ponytail to keep it from getting messy, but made sure not to push your head down. Your jaw ached from not being used to such a size, but you kept your mouth wide open and bobbed your head up and down. Steve's trembling legs gave you the impression that you were performing flawlessly.

Steve had stopped biting his lips and was now openly whimpering. “Just like that. Feels great.”

Encouraged, you concentrated on not choking as you tried to take him completely. Steve’s eyes went wide at the feeling. No girl had ever gone that far, yet you didn’t stop until your nose brushed against his base. And now that you knew you could reach it without dying, you drew back to the tip before sinking down again.

“Fucking hell!” Steve whimpered as you started giving him the best blowjob of his life.

The messy, wet sight of you would soon be too much to handle, but he was making a great effort to not fuck your mouth and accidentally hurt you. 

When your hand grazed his balls, he knew he had to stop. “W-wait, wait.” Steve used his hold on your hair to haul you up. 

You looked up at him with a string of saliva connecting your mouth to his tip. “Everything okay?”

He snorted breathlessly. “More than okay. Perfect. Amazing. Too amazing. I didn’t want to come yet,” he admitted.

Your relieved sigh got through to him, and he realized he could no longer be gentle. Steve pulled you up to a sloppy open-mouth kiss. It turned you on knowing he could taste himself on your tongue. You unbuttoned your jeans, the heat between your legs becoming unbearable.

Steve noticed and quickly replaced your hands. He shoved the jeans down and grasped your ass hard. “Fuck,” he groaned and turned both of you around, caging you down. He took your shoes and jeans completely off, throwing them away carelessly.

“Gorgeous, so beautiful,” he mumbled as he kissed around your face and down your neck. “Can I taste you?” 

You grabbed his face, squishing his cheeks, and whispered, “Steve, I’m so fucking horny that I’d let you do anything to me right now.”

He smirked and pecked your lips. “Anything?”

After a brief nod, Steve spun you around and raised your hips with a hand between your shoulder blades, pressing you down. You arched your back desperately. The amount of need within you was indescribable. You were certain you had never been so wet in your entire life.

Steve gave you a soft spank before kissing and biting your ass cheeks. His fingers hooked around your waistband to pull your underwear off, too fucking slowly.

“Steve, please,” you whined, trying to look back at him.

He caressed your back before pushing you down again. “Shh, baby, just enjoy.”

But your mind was impatient, and it was already imagining his cock buried deep inside you. You moaned and wiggled your ass involuntarily. “Please.”

Steve chuckled and kissed your clit, making you squirm. “Such a pretty cunt,” he murmured against it. It looked so inviting and wet for him. Just him. And he would take his time to show you how grateful he was for that.

He licked a stripe up your pussy, provoking a shudder across your entire body, before his tongue went down to press and trace patterns on your clit. 

You clutched a nearby pillow, trying not to press against his face as his tongue devoured you. The quiet van was filled with the wet, filthy sounds of Steve eating you out. Never before had someone done it with such commitment and close attention to your reactions. 

Steve was eager to please you and make you finish on his mouth. He hadn’t eaten anyone out in a long time, but he could still tell when a woman was enjoying it.

“Oh god, Steve!” You moaned shamelessly loud when he rubbed your clit with his thumb. “F-fuck. Yes, like that, please!”

He doubled his efforts and teased in a murmur, “You taste even sweeter than strawberries.”

You snorted, surprised he could make a joke in the middle of this, but you lost your words as two fingers stroked your folds before penetrating you with ease. “Ah, fuck!”

Steve almost died at the clenching feeling around his middle and index fingers. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

He curled them inside you, and your legs almost gave out from the pleasure. He quickly held you in place and smirked. “Close, baby?”

The nickname made you arch your back eagerly—too needy to be embarrassed. “Y-yes! Stop!”

Steve slowed down his movements, unsure if he had heard you correctly. “What—?”

“I need y-you inside me now!” you whimpered as you weakly pushed his hand off. Turning around, you grabbed his shirt and pulled him in for a kiss. 

Steve couldn’t agree more with you. He had never wished to fuck anyone as much as he needed you now. Was this the desire that people described in a million songs and books? He wouldn’t care if a million people walked around the van and heard you; he wouldn’t even react if there was an alien invasion starting outside. 

Right now, all Steve could think about was the tightness of your pussy around his fingers and how good it would feel to replace them with his cock.

He got hold of the hem of your shirt and removed it swiftly, along with your bra. Fuck. He couldn’t resist and eagerly cupped your breasts, squeezing them gently before leaning down to explore them with his mouth.

You whined and tugged on his jacket, still too weak to speak clearly. He understood and quickly removed all his remaining clothes and shoes. If someone had told him an hour ago that he would be completely naked on top of you, ready for him to fuck you, Steve wouldn’t have believed it.

He spread your legs to place himself between them, but you whined again, “I wanna ride you, Steve.”

That was a sentence Steve was certain he would think about the next time he touched himself. 

He nodded excitedly and shifted the two of you so that his back was against the side of the van and you were straddling him. Your wet core grazed his hard-on, making you moan.

You pushed your hair back as you looked down at his cock, stroking it as you aligned it against your cunt.

Steve’s eyes were glued on your face, though. “I know I’ve said it a hundred times tonight, but, fuck, you really are so beautiful.”

You looked back to his bright, adoring eyes and chuckled. Who knew that ‘King’ Steve could be the sweetest man alive? You took your time kissing him as you sank into his cock. 

He gripped a pillow next to him, afraid of hurting you, when his tip entered. You noticed his hesitation and searched for his hands, redirecting them back to your body. Steve placed an arm around you, holding you in place, while his free hand caressed your cheek.

You were holding onto his shoulders as you kept sliding down into him. It was obviously a better feeling than his fingers, with only half of his cock already making you see stars. But you were determined to fit it in.

Steve was still admiring your face as his fingers stroked your cheek gently. He caught your frown and soft hiss. “Hey, we can go slow if it’s hurting you.”

You shook your head and smiled weakly. “It feels too good.”

And it did indeed. Steve was using all of his energy and mind to not come just from the tightness of your cunt. 

He had died and was now in heaven.

Once you bottomed out, you released a shaky moan. “Holy fuck…”

Steve’s hands lowered to grasp your ass. He pulled you closer to kiss your neck intimately, getting you crazier to ride him. You gripped his shoulders and started moving. Steve expected a slow starting pace, but you were lifting your hips until only the tip was in before sinking down again. And again, and again, and again.

He wouldn’t last long. God, he wanted to, he needed to.

Steve’s hands remained firmly on your ass while you stretched your pussy with his cock in a merciless rhythm. His eyes flickered from your parted lips to your bouncing breasts. 

“Steve, fuck. Feels so good. So full,” you kept moaning.

When you threw your head back in pleasure, he devoured your neck to desperately distract himself from coming too soon.

His hands traveled across your body, worshipping your back, your hips, your thighs… You were becoming his new drug and he wasn’t planning on letting you go.

In a couple of minutes you had gotten used to his size and were riding him like a champ. Your movements were causing the van to tremble, but neither of you cared enough to slow down. 

You leaned back, held onto his thighs and rode him faster. The angle was hitting perfectly on your g-spot. 

Steve pulled away from your neck to stare at you with complete and utter lust. As your face scrunched in pleasure, his mind wandered… You were undeniably amazing at this. He doubted any other girl could beat you. Fuck, he was probably ruined for life.

But… perfection came with experience. The thought of you doing all that with other men, your ex, a guy friend, or even a random dude at a party darkened his mind. 

He knew he had no right to feel like this; he hadn’t even remembered you two hours ago. But having you on top of him, his arms around you, his cock buried inside you… Steve wanted you to be his. 

His touch became possessive as he wrapped a hand around your neck. It was a risky move; maybe you weren’t into that type of stuff, but he placed all his cards on the table.

Steve leaned close to your face, his grip on your neck not wavering, and whispered, “You’re mine now.” 

Your cunt clenching around him showed Steve that you had enjoyed his words. You gave a nod and whimpered.

His hand tightened. “Not enough. Say it, baby. Say you’re mine.”

You returned your hands to his shoulders and kissed him deeply, your hips slowing for a moment. In a soft whisper, you confessed, “I’m yours, Steve.”

His hand rounded to grab the nape of your neck, bringing you in for another kiss. Steve planted his feet firmly on the floor and wrapped his arms around you before thrusting up into you. 

“Fuck!” you screamed.

Steve held you close as he fucked you roughly. His cock was hitting a place you were sure not even your sex toys had reached. 

Grasping his hair, you pushed his face to your breasts, begging him for attention. His lips took turns sucking your nipples. He bit one slightly, making you whine, then hungrily kissed around and between your breasts. 

“Mine. Only mine,” Steve grunted. 

He spanked your ass before gripping it and thrusting harder into you. You were a goner as the slap of his hips against your clit was bringing you close to the edge. 

A quick rub was enough. “Steve, I’m coming!”

He bit his lip and concentrated on going deeper, wanting you to enjoy your orgasm as long as possible. You weren’t sure what nonsense you were whimpering, but your throat was getting sore. 

Your nails pressed sharply on his shoulders. “Ah, Steve!”

“That’s it, baby,” he whimpered and kissed your cheek. “So tight around me. I’m close too.”

“Come inside me,” you moaned without hesitation. “I’m on the pill.”

An almost-animalistic side awoke inside Steve. Could you be more perfect? 

Once he made sure your orgasm was reaching its end, he maneuvered you around, laying you on the carpeted floor. He positioned your legs with your feet resting right over his shoulders, then grabbed a pillow and placed it under your hips—even in his sex haze, he prioritized your comfort.

Steve dropped a quick kiss to your ankle, grabbed your thighs for support and pounded unrelentingly into you. His deep grunts were the sexiest sounds you had heard, and you craved to see him come undone. 

“I’m yours,” you repeated as you touched your nipples. 

Those words, combined with the sight of you pleasuring yourself, made his cock twitch inside you. 

Feeling his response, you kept going. “Fill me with your cum, Steve. Make me yours!”

And your begging words broke the last string of his self-control. Steve let out a wild whimper as he stilled and painted your insides with his cum. You kept grinding your hips to milk his entire orgasm. 

Once it was over, Steve lay down at your side while both of you tried to recover your breaths. His hands remained on your legs, caressing them. “Are you alright?”

You turned your head in his direction and nodded, too weak to speak. The cold air against your bareness made you hiss when he pulled out. Steve sat up and licked his lips at the sight of his cum dripping from your pussy to the carpet. 

“Shit, I’ll have to clean that,” you complained, looking at the mess with less lust and more concern. “I have to drive my sister to school tomorrw.”o

Steve chuckled lightly and looked around for napkins. He found some crumpled ones in his jean pockets, and after making sure they were unused, he cleaned you delicately. 

You stroked his shoulder and observed him tenderly. “I can do that.”

“No, no. I got it,” he assured you. 

It was an odd sight: a guy you barely knew from high school, naked in your van, wiping the cum off your pussy. Except he wasn’t just some guy anymore. 

You sat up and kissed his cheek without thinking twice. “I really enjoyed that,” you mumbled nervously.

But he made all the anxiety fly away with his delighted grin. “Me too.” Steve grabbed your hand and kissed your knuckles. “But I hope I can take you out before repeating it.”

Oh, God. If you had told your fifteen-year-old self about this, she wouldn’t believe you. Sex was one thing, but a date? With Steve Harrington? A one-in-a-million opportunity.

You patted around the carpet until you found an old notebook beneath your pillows. You wrote down your house phone number and address, tore the page out and folded it. “There you go.” 

He accepted it with a barely suppressed joyful smile. Your house wasn’t that far from his, so maybe he could pick you up one day and take you to the movies, or—

HONK HONK

Both of you gasped, startled by the loud car horn. Since he used it several times a day against annoyingly slow cars, Steve recognized it came from the van. 

“It’s Byers,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. 

HONK HONK

Jonathan was probably bored of waiting almost an hour in the quiet van. Steve could’ve told him there was a Walkman with some tapes at the glove compartment… but he hated being kind to the guy.

You blushed, having long forgotten Jonathan's presence, and began to dress. “Umm, the battery should be ready anyway.”

Steve would’ve paused the world to stay right there with you, but you were right. He couldn’t ignore his crawl’s responsibilities anymore.

Once both were looking as presentable as possible, you jumped out of the van and made your way to the damaged one. Jonathan was standing next to it, his eyes glued to the floor.

“Alright, let’s hope it worked,” Steve said.

Jonathan looked at him awkwardly, then cleared his throat. “We have, umm, another issue.”

On the opposite side of the van, a battered Dustin Henderson was standing beside his bike. He forced a smile to Steve and you. “Had fun?”

Your jaw dropped at the state of the teen. It seemed as if a truck had driven over his face, tearing his shirt in the way. Beside you, Steve was pale as he stared at the boy in disbelief.

And even though you had no idea who the kid was, you rushed to him to inspect him. “Are you okay? Well, of course not.” You raised his chin delicately and cursed. “Your nose is broken. Let me get my first-aid kit.”

“I’m fine. Just… fell from my bike,” he mumbled.

The moment you were out of sight, Steve started to reprimand Dustin. Maybe they were cousins, you wondered. The teen was yelling back at him, and soon they were arguing.

You came back with your kit, uncomfortable and feeling like you weren’t supposed to be there. Jonathan had taken off the cables, closed the hoods, and turned the van back to life. He was the first to notice you, standing hesitantly behind Steve. 

“Thanks for everything, Y/N,” he muttered loudly so the boys could hear.

Steve ceased his yelling and looked back at you, embarrassed. His eyes softened when he noticed the first-aid kit. Your concern for Dustin made his heart jump.

“Thanks, but it’s alright. We’ll handle this.” He assured you.

You fidgeted with the kit. “B-but he needs help,” you whispered.

He glared at Dustin, who rolled his eyes and followed Jonathan into the van. When he turned to face you, his eyes softened once more. “Don’t worry. We got it.”

You hated being left out… even if it definitely wasn’t your business and it’d be inappropriate to force yourself into their issues. “Well… I guess I’ll go home.”

Steve felt a hollow feeling in his chest at the idea of letting you go, but he nodded. “Drive safely, please.”

“You too.” And after a forced smile, you turned back to your van.

However, before you had even taken two steps, a hand suddenly grabbed your wrist and spun you around. Steve gave you a passionate kiss against your van before you even realized what was happening. 

He smirked and whispered against your lips, “Mhm, still tastes like strawberry.”

Once he made sure you were safely in your vehicle, and after another short kiss, Steve watched you drive away… far away from the reality he had to face soon. 

He entered the driver’s seat and ignored the two pairs of eyes glued on him. He cleared his throat. “Okay, so… what’s next?”

At the passenger seat, Dustin chuckled and shook his head. “Damn… Isn’t it insane that the crawl’s problems are less surprising than you getting laid?”

---

a/n: i wrote half of this at a beauty salon, uhm-

more steve here

[coopiesandcream]

The Big One || König COD

Summary: The university is too far away from your house, so your parents decided to rent a boarding house. You're about to meet König, your big soldier roommate.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, NSFW, AGE-GAP, AU, HEAVY SMUT, suggestive tone, explicit content, mature language, sexual innuendo, erotic, possessive, obsession, jealousy, stealing panties, mention of jerking off, cum eating, mutual pining, erotic, heavy tension, ownership, lots of teasing, manhandling, petname, dirty talk, degradation, oral activities, unprotected, PiV, squirting, spanking, fingering, blowjob, overstimulation, breeding, markings, rough sex, older man x younger woman

The place is small like two narrow beds pushed against opposite walls, a shared desk cluttered with textbooks and protein shakes, and a single window overlooking the campus quad.

You drag the last suitcase over the threshold of the dormitory room, the door clicking shut behind you with a finality that makes your stomach twist.

Your parents’ warnings echo in your head: Lock the door. Text us when you’re settled. Be careful. Always, always be careful.

You’re an only child. They’ve spent twenty-three years treating you like glass. When the landlord mentioned the only available room came with a roommate, they’d balked.

But the second he added, “He’s one of the task force boys. Big Austrian fellow and keeps to himself,” their tune changed instantly.

A soldier. Disciplined. Safe.

They’d practically shoved the deposit at him, convinced no man in uniform would ever lay a finger on their precious daughter.

You drop your bags with a thud and roll your shoulders, scanning the space. One side is bare which is yours, apparently.

The other is military-neat: bed made with hospital corners, boots lined up like soldiers on parade.

No sign of life.

You were hoping he’d be here so you could get the awkward introduction over with instead of accidentally terrifying him later when he came home to a stranger.

A door on the far side of the room, his bedroom and you guess then creaks open.

You freeze.

He has to duck to clear the frame. Six-foot-something, maybe more, built like someone carved him out of granite and then added extra for fun.

Broad shoulders stretch a black compression shirt until the seams look personally offended. Tactical pants, heavy boots. And a mask that a faded sniper hood that covers everything but his eyes.

Those eyes are pale blue, sharp as winter glass, and they rake over you from head to toe in one slow, assessing sweep. Not leering. Just…cataloguing. Like he’s deciding if you’re a threat or furniture.

You clear your throat, suddenly aware of how small the room feels. “ Hi. I’m, uh…the new roommate.”

His head tilts. When he speaks, the voice that comes out is low enough to vibrate in your ribs. Deep, clipped, unmistakably German-accented.

“ Glad to meet you.”

You offer a tentative smile. “ Same. I’m guessing you’re König?"

He nods once. “ Ja. Been alone for a few months. My last roommate moved out.”

A pause.

“ Said I frightened him.”

You arch a brow, folding your arms. “ Depends how creepy you plan to be, I guess.”

The corner of his eye crinkles like he’s smiling under the mask. “ Not creepy at all. As long as you don’t piss me off.”

The dry delivery catches you off guard. You snort before you can stop yourself. “ Noted. I’ll try to keep my pissing-off levels to a minimum.”

He huffs something that might be a laugh. Then he lifts one massive arm and points with a gloved finger toward the empty side of the room.

“ That’s yours. Bathroom’s through there.”

He nods toward a connecting door. “ Kitchenette down the hall. Quiet hours after twenty-two hundred if I’m on early shift.”

You drag your suitcase toward the empty bed. “ I’m usually buried in textbooks until midnight anyway. Med school doesn’t sleep.”

“ Med school.” He repeats, like he’s filing it away.

“ Good. You’ll be busy. I like quiet.”

You unzip the bag and start unpacking, hyper-aware of him still standing there, watching. Not in a creepy way the more like he’s waiting to see which way you’ll jump.

You pull out a stack of anatomy flashcards and set them on the desk. He shifts his weight, arms crossing over that ridiculous chest.

“ I keep things clean.” He says eventually.

“ Expect the same.”

“ Yes, sir.” You mutter under your breath, sarcastic.

His eyes narrow. “ Sir works.”

Heat flashes up your neck. You busy yourself arranging your laptop, refusing to look at him. The silence stretches, thick enough to chew. You can feel him still watching, and it’s doing annoying things to your pulse.

You risk a glance. He hasn’t moved. “ Something else?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “ Just deciding if you’ll last longer than the last one.”

“ I’m not scared of you.” You say, maybe too quickly.

One brow lifts above the mask. “ You should be a little scared. Healthy respect.”

You roll your eyes. “ I’ve dissected cadavers. You’re tall, not dead.”

That gets you another soft huff, definitely amusement this time. “ We’ll see.”

He turns to go back into his room, pausing at the door. “ If you need anything…quiet, space, someone to reach the top shelf just ask.”

The door closes softly behind him.

You exhale, only then realizing you’d been holding your breath. Your heart is beating too fast for no good reason.

He’s intimidating, sure.

Abrasive in that blunt, foreign way. But there’s something under it is the dry humor, maybe even consideration. And those eyes…

You shake your head. Focus. You’re here for school, not to develop a stupid crush on your giant masked roommate who could probably bench-press you without breaking a sweat.

Still, when you lie in bed that night staring at the ceiling, you hear him moving around in his room in quiet, deliberate footsteps, the occasional low mutter in German.

The wall between you feels paper-thin. You pull the blanket higher. This year is going to be interesting.

And long.

Very, very long.

…

You finally click the last drawer shut and survey your side of the room with exhausted satisfaction. Everything’s in its place. Textbooks stacked by size, notes color-coded, laptop charger coiled like a sleeping snake.

Your phone screen lights up: 00:47. Shit. No wonder your stomach is staging a full rebellion. You haven’t eaten since that sad airport sandwich at lunch.

The common area is dark and silent when you tiptoe out. Most of the task force guys are probably already rack-out, dreaming of push-ups and gunfire.

You’re halfway to the fridge when a low, rumbling voice slices through the quiet.

“ Still awake, Maus?"

You yelp and spin around, clutching your chest. König is sprawled across the couch like a panther on a branch that’s far too small for him.

One long leg draped over the armrest, the other planted on the floor. He’s reading a comic book that looks comically tiny in his huge hands, the pages almost delicate between gloved fingers.

The only light comes from a small lamp behind him, throwing his masked face into shadow and making those pale eyes glow.

“ Dammit, warn a girl.” You hiss, trying to slow your racing heart.

He tilts his head, amused. “ Didn’t want to interrupt your…midnight raiding.”

You narrow your eyes and march to the fridge, yanking it open. Leftover containers, protein shakes, something labeled in German that you’re not brave enough to touch.

Your stomach growls again and loud enough to echo.

From the couch comes a soft, deep chuckle that does unfair things to your spine.

“ I left food on the table.” He says.

“ Knew you’d be hungry. Students always forget to eat.”

You glance over. There’s a foil-wrapped bundle with a sticky note: For the new one.

Your cheeks heat. “ You didn’t have to—”

“ Eat.” He orders mildly, turning a page.

You shuffle to the table and unwrap it. A burger is thick, juicy-looking with sesame bun. Smells incredible. You take a cautious bite.

König’s watching now, the comic forgotten in his lap. He’s still sitting, but even seated he’s enormous. The couch groans every time he shifts.

“ It’s plant-based.” He says before you can ask.

You pause mid-chew. “ I’m not vegetarian.”

“ Part of my diet.” He shrugs. Those massive shoulders roll like tectonic plates.

“ The taste is the same. Better, even. Try it before you complain.”

You roll your eyes but take another bite. And…damn it. He’s right. It’s rich, smoky, and perfectly seasoned. You can’t tell the difference. You make an involuntary little hum of approval and nod.

He gives a satisfied nod. “ Good. You’ll get addicted.”

“ Don’t get cocky.” You mutter around a mouthful.

He stands.

The room seems to shrink. He unfolds himself slowly, first the legs, then the torso until he’s towering again.

You’re eye-level with his stomach, the black fabric of his shirt stretched tight over abs you’re trying very hard not to notice. He steps forward, and you instinctively back up until your hips hit the counter.

“ Thirsty.” He says simply, voice low.

“ I need water.”

You’re blocking the sink. You scramble sideways, muttering, “ Sorry, sorry—”

He brushes past you, barely. His arm grazes yours, solid and warm even through fabric. You catch a faint scent of clean soap and something sharper, like gun oil. He fills a glass, drinks half in one go, throat working under the edge of the mask.

You focus very hard on your burger.

Sauce dribbles onto your chin. You reach for a napkin, too late.

A big thumb swipes across your lower lip, slow and deliberate, wiping the smear away.

Your breath stops.

“ You eat like a child.” He murmurs, voice rougher than before.

His thumb lingers half a second longer than necessary before he pulls away, sucking the sauce off casually like it’s nothing.

Your face is on fire. Your heart is trying to escape your ribcage. You can’t even form words just a strangled squeak.

“ I…uh…early lecture tomorrow…gotta—” You gesture vaguely toward your room, burger clutched like a shield.

He watches you, eyes crinkling at the corners. “ Gute Nacht, messy eater.”

You bolt.

The door to your room slams harder than intended. You lean against it, panting, burger still in hand, sauce probably smeared somewhere else now.

Your lip tingles where he touched it. You press your fingers there like you can trap the feeling.

Less than twenty-four hours.

You’ve been here less than a full day, and your scary-hot giant roommate has already fed you, laughed at you, and wiped your mouth like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You slide down the door until you’re sitting on the floor, and the burger is forgotten.

This slow torture is going to kill you. And the worst part? Some traitorous part of you is already looking forward to tomorrow’s breakfast.

…

You sit in the lecture hall trying to look like a functioning human being, pen poised over your notebook, nodding along as the professor drones about cranial nerves.

Your friends flank you, whispering snide remarks about how Dr. Kessler gave a 62 to the kid who literally wrote the textbook’s twin.

You laugh in all the right places, toss in a sarcastic “He probably grades on font choice,” and hope it sounds normal.

But your brain is a traitor.

Every time you blink, you see that massive thumb brushing sauce off your lip. Feel the faint pressure, the warmth. Hear that low, amused “You eat like a child.”

You’ve tried everything: reciting the brachial plexus, counting ceiling tiles, mentally conjugating Latin roots.

Nothing works.

Those stupid piercing blue eyes keep sliding into frame like an uninvited guest star.

“ Hey, you okay?” Maya nudges you.

“ You zoned out hard.”

You force a smile. “ Totally fine. Just remembered that the histology paper’s due Friday.”

They buy it, thank God, and launch back into roasting professors. You nod mechanically, pretending to listen while your pulse does an annoying little flutter at the memory of König’s chuckle.

By the time class ends, you’re exhausted from the mental gymnastics. You shove your earbuds in, crank your playlist, something loud and distracting and join the river of students pouring down the main sidewalk toward the dorms.

The late-afternoon sun is low, campus buzzing with the usual post-class chaos.

Then you spot the patrol.

Black SUVs, uniformed officers, a loose perimeter of soldiers in full kit. Rifles slung, vests bulky, moving with practiced efficiency.

A bright orange poster on a lamppost reads SURPRISE SECURITY INSPECTION in bold letters. Students slow to gawk while their phones come out.

You slow too, craning your neck as you walk, trying to figure out what’s happening.

It’s rare to see this kind of presence on campus.

You don’t see the obstacle until you slam into it.

Your face meets something solid and unyielding. Not a wall, walls don’t radiate heat or smell faintly of pine soap and gun oil.

You stumble back, earbuds tugging, and look up…way up.

König.

In full tactical gear, helmet tucked under one arm, mask in place, he looms like a damn eclipse. The uniform makes him look even bigger, if that’s possible, plates and pouches adding bulk to an already ridiculous frame.

Those pale eyes pin you in place.

“ Watch the road, not my colleagues.” He says, voice low but firm.

“ You put yourself in danger.”

You blink, music still blasting in one ear. “ What?”

He sighs and reaches down. Gloved fingers gently pluck both earbuds free. The sudden quiet is jarring. You hear your own heartbeat instead.

His face is closer now, head ducked to bring him level with you. You can see faint stubble shadowing the edge of the mask, the way his lashes catch the light. Dangerously close.

“ I said…” He repeats, slower.

“ Stop staring at distractions. Be attentive on the road.”

Heat floods your cheeks. “ I—I was just curious. It’s not every day the campus looks like a war zone.”

His gaze flicks over your shoulder to the perimeter. You follow it and notice several soldiers watching, smirking, whispering to each other.

One makes an exaggerated heart shape with his hands. Another elbows his buddy, grinning.

König groans, a deep, suffering sound. “ Idioten.”

He turns back to you, expression unreadable behind the mask but eyes softer. “ Surprise inspection. Report came in…possibly the suspect with explosives on campus.”

A cold shiver races down your spine. “ Seriously?”

“ Ja.” His voice drops even lower.

“ Do not spread it. No panic.”

You nod quickly, throat tight.

His massive hand settles on your shoulder in careful, but the weight of it still makes you feel tiny. Warmth seeps through your jacket.

“ Go back to the dorm. Rest. I’ll follow when the shift ends.”

The touch lingers a second longer than strictly necessary before he lifts it away. You swallow hard.

“ Okay.” You manage.

“ Be careful.”

One corner of his eye crinkles, almost a smile. “ Always am.”

You turn to go, shoving your earbuds in your pocket this time.

Every step feels hyper-aware.

You can feel his stare on your back like a physical thing, intense and unwavering. You don’t dare look behind you, but you know he’s still watching until you round the corner.

By the time you reach the dorm, your heart is racing again for entirely different reasons than fear of bombs.

You flop face-first onto your bed and groan into the pillow.

This man is going to be the death of you. And the slowest, most infuriatingly delicious death it’s ever been.

…

You’ve been here six weeks now, and somehow you’ve survived living with a human mountain who wears a mask to bed and could probably deadlift the entire dorm building.

Six weeks of slow, maddening adjustment.

You and König have settled into a rhythm that feels almost…domestic. He grunts a greeting when he gets back from whatever classified hell his task force drags him through.

You tease him about leaving his giant boots in the walkway like landmines. He deadpans back that if you trip then he’ll catch you then watches with thinly veiled amusement as you turn red and mutter something about not needing rescuing.

He feeds you. Constantly.

Every few days there’s a foil-wrapped parcel on the table with a sticky note in sharp block letters: Eat. You skipped lunch again.

Sometimes it’s grilled chicken and vegetables portioned like he’s prepping for deployment.

Sometimes it’s those ridiculous plant-based burgers you’re secretly addicted to now.

Once it was a whole box of those fancy chocolate truffles you mentioned liking in passing.

You still don’t know how he remembered.

Your parents call every Sunday like clockwork.

“ Is everything okay, sweetheart? Is your roommate treating you well?”

You roll your eyes and assure them, again, that König isn’t some creep. He’s quiet, tidy, terrifying to everyone else but oddly respectful to you.

They sound relieved every time, as if the word “soldier” is a magical shield against all bad things.

If only they knew how often you lie awake wondering why your stomach flips whenever he brushes past you in the narrow kitchenette.

The tension is unbearable and delicious. You’re twenty-three. He’s…older. Noticeably. You try not to think about the exact math, because it feels forbidden in a way that makes your skin too tight.

He’s your roommate. Your friend, maybe. Nothing more.

Except for that one evening last week.

You’re sprawled on the couch in oversized sweats, picking at the takeout Thai he brought home “because women always want to eat.”

His words. Delivered with that dry, accented certainty that makes you want to both laugh and climb him like a tree.

“ Thanks for dinner again.” You say, mouth full of pad thai.

“ Seriously, I’m gonna start thinking I’m your girlfriend or something with all this spoiling.”

The words tumble out before your brain catches up.

You freeze.

He freezes in mid-reach for his water bottle and his massive frame suddenly statue-still. Even behind the mask you can feel the shift in the air, thick and electric.

Silence stretches like a rubber band pulled too tight.

Your laugh comes out high and panicked. “ Kidding! Obviously. I mean, you’d have to actually take me on a date first, old man. Buy me flowers or whatever ancient ritual you Austrians do.”

His eyes narrow, but the crinkle at the corners gives him away. “ Old man?”

“ Yeah. You probably listened to vinyl records in your crib.”

He huffs in half laugh, half warning. “ Careful, Maus. Keep teasing and I will stop bringing food.”

“ You wouldn’t dare.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees, voice dropping dangerously low. “ Try me.”

You swallow hard, heat pooling low in your belly. The moment hangs, heavy and sweet, until you both look away at the exact same second like cowards.

There are other moments you pretend don’t happen.

Like the nights you jolt awake to low, ragged sounds from his room. The panting and muffled groans that make your imagination run filthy laps.

You press a pillow over your head and curse him for not using headphones, whatever porn he’s watching. You refuse to acknowledge the ache between your thighs or the way you have to change your own sheets the next morning.

Worse: your favorite black lace panties have vanished.

Then the red ones. You’ve torn apart your laundry basket twice. You’re convinced they’ve fallen behind the dryer or something equally mortifying.

The idea that König might have found them or seen them, touched them makes you want to die on the spot. You’ve rehearsed asking him a dozen times “Hey, random question, have you seen any…women’s underwear lying around?” and every version ends with you spontaneously combusting.

So you say nothing. You buy new ones and pray.

Tonight you’re at the kitchen counter, stress-eating cereal straight from the box because exams are trying to murder you.

The door clicks open at 23:40, later than usual. König ducks inside, gear bag slung over one shoulder, moving quiet despite his size.

He pauses when he sees you. “ Still up?”

“ The brain won’t shut off.” You mumble around a mouthful of frosted flakes.

He drops the bag, pulls two protein bars from his pocket, and slides one across the counter to you without a word. You stare at it, then at him.

“ I’m already eating cereal at midnight. This is not a protein emergency.”

“ Eat anyway.” He says.

“ You’re cranky when you’re hungry.”

“ I am not cranky.”

He arches a brow.

You tear open the bar and take an aggressive bite. “ Happy, dad?”

The eye crinkle again. “ Very.”

He moves to the fridge, back to you, and you allow yourself one quick glance at the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders.

Six weeks in and the tension hasn’t eased, it’s worse. Thicker. Like the air before a storm.

You wonder if he feels it too.

You wonder if he hears you some nights, the same way you hear him.

You wonder how long you can both keep pretending this is just friendly roommate banter.

Because it’s not.

And you’re running out of excuses to ignore it.

…

You’re crammed into your favorite cheap eatery just off campus, the one with the greasy tables and the best bulgogi bowls in a ten-mile radius.

It’s lunch break, and your friends are in full post-quiz autopsy mode, arguing over whether the professor wanted “afferent” or “efferent” for question twelve.

You’re half-listening, half-daydreaming about a nap, chopsticks hovering over your rice.

The sliding door whooshes open.

Conversation dies instantly.

Four pairs of eyes swing to you like you’re the main character in a K-drama.

You feel it before you see him: Brent Kim, club president, 4.0 GPA, literal walking Pinterest board, strolling up to the counter in a cream sweater that probably costs more than your tuition. Dark hair perfectly tousled, and a smile bright enough to power the city grid.

Your mouth drops open. A fly could homestead in there.

“ Close it.” Maya hisses, kicking you under the table.

“Before something nests.”

You snap your jaw shut, but your stare stays glued. Brent orders in a smooth, polite voice and then turns. His gaze sweeps the room, lands on you, and that smile widens.

Oh God.

He walks straight to your table.

Your friends turn into vibrating chihuahuas trying not to squeal. Someone’s foot is rapidly tapping Morse code into your shin: SAY YES TO WHATEVER HE ASKS.

“ Hey…” Brent says, stopping beside your chair. Up close he smells like cedar and winter air.

“ Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You manage a brilliant “Hi” that comes out more like a squeak.

He chuckles in low and warm.

“ Quick question…are you free this Sunday? It’s the club’s founding anniversary. All members are supposed to show, but I figured I’d personally remind my favorite bio major.”

Your brain short-circuits. Favorite?

Your friends are making frantic hand gestures: nodding heads, thumbs up, one of them literally mouthing GO.

You clear your throat. “ I…yeah. I’ll be there.”

“ Perfect.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, embossed card, a thick cream stock with gold lettering.

A ticket.

“ You’ll need this at the door. Security’s tight this year.”

He holds it out. You reach and your fingers brush his.

Electricity shoots straight up your arm, down your spine, pools hot in your stomach. It’s barely a second of contact, but your entire nervous system files a dramatic incident report.

Your friends lose the battle. A chorus of stifled squeaks erupts.

Brent’s smile turns knowing. “ Looking forward to seeing you there.”

He nods to your friends, grabs his takeout from the counter, and leaves while the door sliding shut behind him like the end of a movie scene.

The second he’s gone, chaos.

“ OH MY GOD YOU TOUCHED HIM.”

“ HE SAID FAVORITE.”

“ YOU’RE GOING ON A DATE.”

“ It’s not a date!” You protest, face nuclear.

“ It’s a club thing!”

“ With a personal invitation and actual finger contact.” Maya counters.

“ That’s a date, babe.”

You hide behind your bulgogi, grinning like an idiot despite yourself.

Forty feet away, at a corner booth half-hidden by a fake ficus, four very large men in civilian clothes sit in tense silence.

König’s metal spoon is bent at a forty-five-degree angle in his fist.

Soap is biting his lip so hard to keep from laughing that it’s turning white. Ghost watches the scene like he’s observing wildlife. Price just looks tired.

“ Aw, look at that…” Soap whispers, voice syrupy.

“ Proper college romance. Finger brushin’, blushin’, the works. Makes ye miss uni, doesn’t it?”

Ghost grunts. “ Nobody would’ve dated your weird ass in uni.”

Soap gasps, hand to chest. “ Excuse me, Lt. Spooky is calling me weird? You wear a skull mask to Tesco.”

“ Both of you shut it.” Price mutters, rubbing his temple.

Then, quieter. “ Didn’t think König’s type was…college girl.”

Ghost snorts. “ Don’t know what the fuck he ate to start fancying a student. They’re all headaches and drama.”

Soap leans in, eyes dancing. “ Maybe she makes his soldier stand at ease, if you catch my—”

Ghost kicks him under the table. Soap wheezes.

König’s voice is low, dangerously even. “ I don’t like her. She can flirt with whoever. I don’t give a fuck.”

Soap finally loses it then a choked giggle escapes.

“ Right. That’s why you’ve been nicking her knickers like a bloody magpie. Wanking into them every morning, sniffing them like they’re laced with coke—”

“ Shut. Up.” König’s growl could peel paint.

Soap raises both hands, still grinning. “ Just sayin’. And remember that time you made her a protein shake with your own special—”

Ghost mutters. “ It gave me nightmares for weeks.”

“ Milk mixture for breakfast?” Soap finishes cheerfully.

“ Real romantic, big guy.”

König’s jaw flexes under the mask. The spoon is now a pretzel.

Price sighs heavily. “ Let the man sort his own mess. She’s an adult. He wants to court her properly, fine.”

He fixes König with a hard stare. “ But if you do something stupid like more bodily fluid cuisine…I’ll smash your skull myself.”

Soap leans back, folding his arms. “ My professional advice? Make a move before the pretty boy snatches her. College lads move fast.”

Ghost kicks him again. “ Don’t listen to this idiot. Whatever you do next will already be creepy as fuck after the panty theft and the…milk incident.”

König stares at the bent spoon like it personally betrayed him. His food is untouched.

Across the restaurant, you’re still being grilled by your friends, laughing and blushing and replaying that finger brush in your head on loop.

You have no idea that six weeks of stolen glances, late-night groceries, and carefully portioned meals have built something far more complicated than friendship on the other side of the room.

Or that the man currently mutilating cutlery has memorized the way you blush, the sound of your laugh, the exact shade of every missing pair of underwear now hidden in his locker.

Sunday is four days away, and König’s grip on the ruined spoon finally snaps it clean in half.

…

You float back to the dorm on a cloud of giddy stupidity, the gold-embossed ticket clutched between your fingers like it’s made of glass.

Brent’s cologne still clings faintly to the card in clean, expensive and perfect. You press it to your nose once in the elevator, then feel like an idiot and shove it into your pocket before anyone sees.

The dorm is quiet when you push the door open. No towering shadow, no low Austrian greeting. König must still be on shift.

You kick off your shoes, drop your bag on the couch, and collapse backward with a happy sigh, replaying the finger-brush moment for the hundredth time.

Your gaze lands on the coffee table.

His comic book. The one he’s been nursing for weeks that sits there and spine cracked open like he just set it down.

Curiosity wins. You reach for it.

The cover looks innocent enough: stylized art, bold colors. You flip to the dog-eared page.

Your brain blue-screens.

A woman bent over a desk, skirt flipped up.

A man behind her, a massive, hooded, unmistakably dominant, is thrusting so hard the speech bubbles are just a string of filthy German curses and broken English pleas.

Explicit doesn’t cover it.

You see everything: thick cock stretching her open, her mouth wide in a scream, sweat flying off both of them.

You yelp, hurl the book across the room like it’s radioactive, then frantically cross yourself even though you haven’t been to church since high school.

“ Sorry, sorry, sorry—”

The bedroom door creaks open.

König fills the frame, arms crossed, mask in place, those icy eyes locked on you. He’s in a black t-shirt and tactical pants, sleeves stretched around biceps that look illegally large.

Day off, apparently and he’s barefoot, silent as a ghost.

You swallow. “ When…when did you get back?”

“ Day off.” He says simply, voice gravel-rough.

You stand too fast, nearly tripping. “ Cool, cool. I’m just…gonna head to my room—”

You don’t make it two steps.

“ Enjoy your little lunch date with the college boy?” He asks, tone dripping sarcasm.

You freeze. Turn slowly. “ How did you—”

“ I saw you.” He cuts in, starting toward you with deliberate steps.

“ At the restaurant. You and your giggling friends. Him handing you that pretty ticket like a good little prince.”

You back up instinctively. “ I didn’t see you.”

He chuckles, dark and humorless. “ No. You were too busy blushing at that pathetic boy.”

Your spine hits the sink counter. Trapped. He keeps coming until he’s looming, one hand planting on the cabinet beside your head, caging you in. He has to bend to bring his face close then the heat radiates off him.

“ What’s your problem?” You demand, voice shakier than you want.

“ Why are you insulting Brent?”

König mutters something harsh in German like Scheiße, probably then switches back.

“ Don’t like what I saw. Wanted to walk over, grab him by the neck, throw him across the room.”

His mask brushes your temple as he leans closer. You feel his breath through the fabric, warm and unsteady.

“ I’m jealous.” He growls.

“ I'm possessive. Don’t like sharing what’s mine.”

“ I’m not yours.” You shoot back, but it sounds weak even to you.

He laughs, low and dangerous. “ The moment you walked into this dorm, Maus? You were mine.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut in a hot, coiling need twisting low in your belly. You shove at his chest, but it’s like pushing a brick wall.

He doesn’t budge. Instead he presses forward, pinning you harder against the sink.

You gasp.

Something huge and impossibly hard grinds against your stomach, long, thick and throbbing through his pants.

Your thighs clench involuntarily.

“ I've been trying to control it.” He whispers, voice ragged now.

“ Every night I hear you through the wall. Every time you bend over in those little shorts. Every time you laugh at my notes. I stroke myself raw thinking about you…how tight you’d be, how you’d cry my name while I split you open.”

Your breath hitches. A soft, embarrassing sound escapes your throat.

He hears it. His gloved hand catches your chin, thumb pressing into your lower lip.

“ I want to fuck you so deep you forget that boy’s name exists.” He murmurs against your ear.

“ I want to bend you over this counter right now, shove your panties aside, and bury every inch inside you until you’re dripping down my balls.”

“ I want to feel you clench around me while you beg…louder than you do in your sleep when you touch yourself thinking no one hears.”

You’re soaking through your underwear. Your hips twitch forward without permission, seeking friction against that massive bulge.

“ I want to ruin you for anyone else.” He continues, filthy and relentless.

“ Fill you up again and again until the only thing you remember is how good my cock stretches you. Until you’re addicted to the way I wreck this pretty little pussy.”

His thumb slips into your mouth, just the tip, and you suck on it helplessly while your eyes flutter.

He groans, the sound tortured.

“ Say you’re mine…” He demands, voice cracking with restraint.

“ Say it, and I’ll give you everything you’ve been dreaming about.”

You’re trembling, heart hammering, body on fire. The comic book lies forgotten on the floor, and you’ve never wanted anything more in your life.

…

You stare up into those piercing blue eyes, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. The air between you crackles, thick with everything you’ve both been pretending wasn’t there for weeks.

His thumb is still pressed against your lower lip, waiting.

You make the mistake.

A tiny, breathless “Yes” slips out.

The second it leaves your mouth, his eyes darken, pupils blown wide. A low, animal growl rumbles from his chest.

Then you’re airborne.

One massive arm hooks under your thighs, the other across your back, and he hoists you onto his shoulder like you weigh nothing.

You squeak in half protest and half thrill as blood rushes to your head. His stride eats the distance to his bedroom in three steps.

The door bangs open as he tosses you onto the mattress. You bounce once, twice, hair fanning across his dark sheets.

The room smells like him, gun oil, pine soap, and something darker. Your eyes dart around. The tactical gear neatly stacked, protein powder on the dresser, and—

You gasp.

One of your missing black lace panties is draped over the back of his desk chair like a trophy, the crotch darkened with dried stains.

König follows your gaze.

“ I haven’t washed that one.” He says, voice rough with satisfaction.

He plucks the fabric from the chair, holding it up between two thick fingers. The evidence is unmistakable, crusted and almost dry cum streaking the center.

“ It still smells like you. And me.”

“ You…you stole my panties?” Your voice cracks, equal parts horror and filthy arousal.

He chuckles, deep and unapologetic, tossing the ruined lace aside.

“ Not sorry, Maus. I need your scent. It gets hard just walking past the laundry room.”

He crawls onto the bed, a massive frame caging you in. “ Addicted.”

Your brain flashes to the comic book on the living room floor. “ That…that comic—”

“ I needed something to look at while I pictured you.” He admits without shame, lowering himself until his weight pins you deliciously.

“ Better visuals when I fuck my fist thinking of this tight little body.”

Before you can form a reply, his hands fist the front of your uniform blouse. Fabric rips like paper. Buttons ping across the room. Cool air hits your skin and you gasp as your bra is exposed.

“ Scheiße.” He groans, eyes devouring you.

“ Perfect.”

His huge palms cover your breasts completely and your chest looks tiny in his grip. He squeezes, thumbs circling your nipples until they peak hard and aching.

Then his mouth descends. Hot, wet suction on one nipple, teeth grazing just enough to sting. You arch with a sharp moan, fingers tangling in the fabric of his mask.

He switches sides, biting down harder, marking you. By the time he pulls away, both nipples are swollen, shining with his saliva, throbbing in time with your pulse.

He doesn’t stop there.

König moves down your body like a predator, shoving your skirt up to your waist. Your panties are soaked as he rips those too, the sound obscene.

You’re bare to him now, trembling.

He spreads your thighs wide, settling between them like he belongs there. A deep, guttural groan vibrates against your skin as he buries his face against your slick folds.

“ Fuck, you smell better than the panties.” He rasps.

He inhales deeply, nose dragging through your slit. The vibration of his groan shoots straight to your clit. You jerk, hips bucking, but his hands pin you flat.

“ Stay still.” He orders, voice muffled against you.

One thick finger traces your entrance, gathering wetness. You whimper when he pushes inside slowly at first, letting you feel the stretch.

He pulls out, stares at the faint red streak on his finger.

“ Blood?” His tone is reverent, almost awed.

“ You’re a virgin?”

You nod, biting your lip.

A dark, possessive sound tears from his throat. “ Mine. Only mine.”

He thrusts the finger back in but this time hard. No gentleness. His digit is huge, stretching you open with brutal rhythm.

You cry out, back bowing. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles that make stars burst behind your eyes.

“ Taking my finger so well.” He growls.

“ I can’t wait to feel this cunt choke my cock.”

The heat coils tighter, unbearable. “ König…I’m—”

“ Cum.” He commands.

“ Explode on my hand. Show me how you fall apart.”

You do.

The orgasm slams through you, thighs shaking violently as you clench around his finger. He keeps thrusting through it, drawing it out until you’re sobbing his name.

When you finally sag, boneless, he withdraws slowly. His finger glistens with your release and that trace of blood. He brings it to his mask, slipping it underneath.

You hear the wet sound of him sucking it clean, eyes rolling back in pleasure. Then he pulls it out, shiny with his saliva, and presses it to your lips.

“ Suck.”

You obey without thinking, tongue swirling around the thick digit, tasting yourself in tangy, musky, mixed with him. His gaze is molten, fixed on your mouth as you hollow your cheeks and suck obediently.

“ Good girl.” He praises, voice hoarse.

“ Clean every drop.”

You do, until his finger is spotless. He withdraws it with a wet pop, eyes never leaving yours.

“ This is just the start, Maus.” He murmurs, settling his hips between your thighs so you feel exactly how hard he is massive, burning against your sensitive skin.

“ By the time I’m done, you’ll never think of that boy again.”

…

König drops his massive body beside you on the mattress, the frame groaning under his weight. He’s still fully clothed except for the gloves tossed aside, mask in place, chest heaving from the restraint he’s barely holding onto.

Those piercing blue eyes lock onto yours, dark with hunger.

“ Straddle me.” He orders, voice low and rough.

“ Take me out.”

You huff, half-hearted protest bubbling up. “ You’re so bossy—”

His glare sharpens, one brow arching above the mask. The look says try me.

You swallow the rest of your complaint and climb over him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. He spreads his thick thighs wider, giving you room, watching like a predator as your trembling fingers fumble with his zipper.

The second you reach inside, your hand closes around heat and steel. You pull him free and nearly whimper.

He’s enormous. It's angry red, veiny, easily ten inches and thicker than your wrist.

Your fingers don’t even meet around the shaft. Pre-cum beads at the slit, slick and glistening.

König groans, hips twitching. “ Lube it, Maus. Use that pretty mouth.”

You stare at the monster in your hand. “ I can’t…it’s too big. I’ll choke.”

He chuckles, dark and filthy. “ Don’t deepthroat, Liebling. Just the tip. Suck like you mean it. Use your hands for the rest.”

You gulp, leaning down. Even the head stretches your lips wide, salty and hot against your tongue. You swirl around the crown, slurping messily, cheeks hollowing. Both hands pump what you can’t fit in which is most of him.

König’s head falls back, throat working on a growl. “ Fuck…genau so. Good girl.”

You lose yourself in the rhythm. The sucking, stroking and spit dripping down his length until huge hands suddenly grip your ass, lifting you like you’re weightless.

You squeak around his cock as he positions you higher, tip nudging insistently at your soaked entrance.

“ W-wait—” You gasp, pulling off with a wet pop.

“ It won’t fit!”

“ It will.” He rasps, holding the base steady.

“ Your greedy little cunt will take every inch. Sink down. Now.”

You bite your lip hard enough to sting, hands braced on his chest. Slowly and agonizingly, you lower yourself.

The stretch burns. Your walls flutter and resist, then yield in tiny increments. You hiss, eyes watering as the broad head breaches you. König curses in German, fingers digging into your hips.

“ Scheiße, so tight…mein Gott.”

He slaps your ass sharply. The sting makes you clench, and another inch slides in. You moan despite the ache.

Deeper and deeper. Until your ass meets his thighs and you’re impossibly full, his cock seated so deep you feel it in your throat.

Both of you moan in raw, broken sounds.

“ Look…” He laughs breathlessly, pressing a palm to your lower belly. A visible bulge distends your skin where he’s buried.

“ Taking me like a perfect little slut. My cock’s rearranging your insides.”

The degradation sends heat spiraling through you. You lift experimentally, whimpering at the drag on how your walls cling to every vein. Then sink again. Pain melts into dizzying pleasure.

Soon you’re riding him in earnest, slow rolls turning to desperate bounces. His hands guide your hips, but he lets you set the pace, eyes glued to where you’re joined.

“ Faster…” He growls.

“ Fuck yourself on my cock. Show me how much you need it.”

You do. You are chasing the friction, breasts bouncing, and moans spilling freely. The bulge appears and disappears with every thrust.

Suddenly he surges up, flipping you beneath him in one fluid move. Your legs are hooked over his broad shoulders, folding you nearly in half.

He looms above, massive and overwhelming.

“ Zu klein für mich.” He murmurs, voice thick with awe and possession. (Too small for me)

“ Seht nur, wie ich diese winzige Muschi dehne.” (Just look how I'm stretching this tiny pussy)

He starts moving in deep, punishing strokes that punch the air from your lungs. The bulge drives deeper; you feel him everywhere.

König buries his masked face in your neck, lips brushing your skin as he switches to German, words hot and filthy against your ear.

“ Du gehörst mir…so nass für mich…werde dich füllen bis es überläuft…kleine Schlampe nimmt jeden Zentimeter…” (You belong to me...so wet for me...I'll fill you until it overflows...little slut takes every inch.)

You don’t understand most of it, but the tone, it's possessive, degrading, adoring and pushes you higher. Your nails rake down his back through the shirt.

Another orgasm builds fast and brutal. “ König…please—”

“ Cum.” He snarls.

" Spritz in meinen ganze Schwanz, du verzweifeltes Mädchen!" (Cum all over my cock, you desperate girl)

You shatter.

Pleasure crashes through you in waves. You squirt hard, soaking his hips, the sheets. Your walls milk him relentlessly.

He roars your name muffled behind the mask and slams deep one last time. Heat floods you in thick, endless pulses.

There’s so much it overflows immediately, creamy white leaking around his buried length, dripping down your ass.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Instead he collapses carefully, rolling so you’re tucked against his hard chest, still impaled and full.

His hand strokes your hair, voice softening to a rumble.

“ Gut gemacht, Liebling…so perfect for me…took everything I gave you.”

Only then does he ease out in slow and gentle until both of you moaning at the lewd, wet sound. Cum gushes out after him.

His cock that is still half-hard, shiny with your mixed release rests heavy and twitching against your stomach.

He strokes your hair, blue eyes searching yours.

“ No event on Sunday.” He says quietly.

“ It's useless. You stay here.”

“ But I—”

He cuts you off with a low growl. “ I’ll fuck you until you can’t walk. Until that boy’s name is erased from your pretty head. Then I’ll spend all day making you come again and again. That’s your Sunday.”

You open your mouth to argue, out of habit, mostly but his stare pins you.

Intense. Possessive. Promising.

You swallow. Nod.

A slow, satisfied smile crinkles his eyes.

“ Braves Mädchen.” He presses a masked kiss to your forehead. (Good girl.)

“ I’ll make it memorable. Better than any pathetic invitation.”

You melt against him, sore and spent and secretly thrilled.

Sunday was never going to that club anyway.

…

Everything has flipped upside down in the best, most filthy way possible. Since that first night, the dorm has become a non-stop haze of sex.

You barely make it out the door for class without König pinning you against the wall, fingers or tongue or cock inside you until you’re late and wobbly-kneed.

You try to study at the desk when he crawls under it then spreads your thighs, and eats you out until your notes are smeared with desperate handprints.

He comes back from shift smelling like sweat and gunpowder, and you’re on him before he can drop his gear bag while riding him on the couch, the floor or in the shower wall.

Sunday arrives exactly as he promised: unforgettable.

You wake up naked where clothes are pointless when König is in the same postcode. He’s sprawled beside you, equally bare, that huge scarred body on full display.

The first time you really see all of him in daylight, you nearly drop the orange juice. His body is a map of violence and power while broad chest dusted with dark hair, abs carved deep, a thick happy trail leading straight to that monstrous cock that never seems to go fully soft around you.

Scars crisscross his skin: jagged ones across his ribs, a burn on his shoulder, a long surgical line down his thigh.

He catches you staring and shifts, suddenly awkward for a man who just fucked you senseless.

“ Not pretty.” He mutters, reaching for a shirt.

You stop him, fingers tracing a raised scar on his chest. “ Are you kidding? You look fucking hot. Like a war god or something.”

You press a kiss to one mark, then another. “ Never cover up around me again.”

Breakfast prep starts innocently enough. You’re on the kitchen counter in one of his oversized shirts where the only thing you’re allowed to wear while your legs spread while he stands between them slicing strawberries.

Then two thick fingers slide into your bare pussy without warning.

“ Guten Morgen, Liebling.” He murmurs against your neck, pumping lazily.

“ Already soaked for me.”

You whimper, gripping his shoulders as he works you open, thumb circling your clit until you’re shaking. By the time you come, clutching his wrist, breakfast is forgotten.

He lifts you effortlessly, sets you on his cock, and goes back to chopping vegetables while you ride him slow and greedy. You roll your hips, chasing friction, while he calmly slices bell peppers one-handed.

The sizzle of eggs, bacon, and hotdogs fills the air. When the scent of frying fat hits, you both lose patience then you slam down hard as he thrusts up brutally, and you come together with muffled groans against each other’s skin.

His release painting your insides as the bacon pops in the pan.

The rest of the day is pure debauchery.

Clothes never make a reappearance. You drift around the dorm naked, his cum drying on your thighs, breasts marked with fresh bites.

Every time you pass him. When he's reading reports on the couch or cleaning his gear at the table while his cock is hard and swinging heavy between his legs like a permanent invitation.

You take it often.

You drop to your knees while he’s reviewing mission briefs, deepthroating as much of that monster as you can in which is still only half.

He threads fingers through your hair, abs flexing, voice calm as he turns pages and praises you in German.

“ So ein braves kleines Ding…nimmst meinen Schwanz so tief…” (Such a good little thing...you take my cock so deep...)

Sunday afternoon, your phone rings.

You’re bouncing on his lap again, facing him, his mouth latched to one nipple.

The screen flashes MOM.

You freeze.

König reaches around you, grabs the phone, and holds it out. “ Answer.”

“ Are you insane?” You hiss.

“ They’ll hear—”

He thrusts up hard once, making you gasp. “ You’re too good at ignoring calls. Answer or I stop moving.”

You glare, but your hips are already rolling again.

You swipe accept.

“ Hi, Mom! Dad!”

Your mother’s voice is warm. “ Sweetheart! How’s school? Is everything okay with your roommate?”

You try to sound normal.

König chooses that moment to slam up particularly deep, the fat head of his cock knocking your cervix.

Your voice cracks on a moan. “ Everything’s g-great…oh!”

“ Baby? Are you okay?”

“ Y-yeah!” You squeak, clawing at König’s chest.

“ Just…stubbed my toe!”

König’s eyes glint with evil amusement. He flips you suddenly, pinning you face-down on the couch, one leg hooked over his forearm. He slides back in with one brutal thrust.

You whine involuntarily.

“ What was that?” Dad’s voice sharpens.

“ N-Nothing! Dropped my pen…keep going, Dad. It's the monthly allowance, right?”

Your parents keep talking about grades, allowance and reminders to eat vegetables. König leans over you, chest to your back, and starts a slow, grinding rhythm.

His masked mouth finds your ear.

“ Quiet, Schlampe.” He whispers in German.

“ Don’t want them knowing their precious daughter is getting fucked raw by her big bad roommate, hm?”

You bite the cushion to stifle another moan.

Your father launches into a lecture about budgeting your monthly allowance. König speeds up, pounding deeper, the wet slap of skin barely muffled.

He degrades you softly the whole time. König leans down, mouth at your ear, whispering pure filth in German while your parents talk about finances.

“ Du kleine Schlampe…nimmst meinen Schwanz so gut während du mit Daddy redest…so verdorben…” (You little slut...taking my cock so good while you talk to Daddy...so depraved...)

The coil snaps. You come hard, silent except for a choked whimper, walls fluttering around him. König pulls out just in time, hot stripes paint your lower back and ass then shoves back in to finish deep and flooding you again.

His huge hand clamps over your mouth, catching your muffled cry.

“ Braves Mädchen.” He breathes against your neck.

“ So gehorsam.” (So obedient.)

Your father is still mid-sentence about direct deposits when the aftershocks fade.

“ I…I have to go,” you manage, voice shaky.

“ Assignment due—”

“ Of course, honey.” Your mom says.

“ Just remember…stay safe. Keep your distance from that male roommate, okay? You’re too trusting sometimes.”

König outright laughs in a low, wicked rumble against your spine.

You end the call with trembling fingers. He plucks the phone away, tosses it onto the coffee table, and gives a lazy thrust that makes you gasp.

“ They have no idea…” He says, voice low and rough.

“ That their precious girl is getting fucked raw by her big bad roommate every day. Stuffed full of my cum while she lies to them.”

You swat his chest weakly. “ You’re evil.”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling through both of you as he starts a slow, lazy rhythm again.

“ Evil?” He leans down, mask brushing your lips.

“ No, Maus. Just keep what’s mine.”

You roll your eyes, but your legs wrap tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper.

Sunday isn’t even over yet, and you wouldn’t trade it for any club invitation in the world.

[cinnxmxngxrl]

Dark!Alfie Solomons x f!Reader

“The Loan” part 2

Alfie Masterlist Updates account

Summary: Alfie Solomons has taken care of some of your debts, but not enough for you to escape him entirely. Still too unsteady to stand on your own, you’re left offering the only currency you have left: yourself.

Read first part here

warnings/tags: dark themes, smut, minors DNI, dubcon, angst, coercion, forced consent, explotation, blowjob, throat fucking prostitution, unprotected piv, creampie, humiliation, physical violence, long chapter, reader is described to be looking “pale”, by this I didn’t allude to any particular skin color, since people of different complexion can look pale for reasons such as anemia

This story contains dark themes that may be distressing to some readers. Please read the warnings listed above before continuing. By choosing to proceed, you acknowledge and accept these warnings and take full responsibility for your reading experience. I trust that those engaging with this work are mature adults who can clearly differentiate between fiction and reality. The behaviors depicted in this story are not meant to be normalized or romanticized in real life. For further information and resources regarding violence and sexual violence against women, you can read more here and here.

The shop smelled alive again. That much, at least, you couldn’t deny. Every morning since the crates had come, you’d woken to the perfume of roses and lilies clinging to your clothes, to your hair, even to your skin. The windows, once barren, now bloomed with color. Passersby slowed to look, some even stepped inside. You wrapped flowers again, you smiled and thanked again, you took the coins and counted every single pound at the end of the day. The bell over the door chimed and chimed, and for a moment, it was almost easy to pretend you were just a florist again.

It felt like resurrection. A ghost of what the shop had been when your aunt was alive. Customers had loved her, saying there was something special in her arrangements, something warm, as if she had tucked a bit of her heart into every bouquet. You tried to copy it now, to set the stems just so, to make the ribbons neat. But you knew the warmth was gone, what you gave them was an imitation. And though the coins came, they didn’t come fast enough. Each night you counted them in the back, the little stack of silver never quite high enough to meet the numbers scribbled in red ink on the ledger. Rent, creditors, food.

The flowers were beautiful, but they were borrowed beauty. Paid for in a way you could never speak aloud, with your body. Every petal felt heavy. Every customer’s smile a reminder of what you were trading  to keep the door open. You told yourself you could manage. Perhaps if you worked harder and longer hours, the till would fill. But the truth whispered back in the dark: you were still drowning.

And then he called. It was late in the afternoon when Ollie pushed the door open, bringing a gust of cool air with him. He didn’t meet your eyes at first, just cleared his throat.

“Mr. Solomons wants you tonight. Address is the same. Eight o’clock.”

You hated how familiar the dread was now, how quickly it wrapped itself around your chest, like an old friend you’d never invited in.

You forced a nod. “Thank you, Ollie.”

He glanced at you then, something like sympathy flickered across his young face, but he said nothing. Just tipped his cap again and left.

You told yourself you were only doing it a few more times, just until you could stay afloat on your own, just until the money the flower shop was making would be enough again to pay all the debts you had and to cover all your expenses. So when the evening came, you shut the shop, washed the dirt and green stains from your hands until the skin was raw, and dressed yourself in your plainest clothes. It didn’t matter what you wore. You knew Alfie would tear it from you anyway. You brushed your hair back, pinned it in a bun that already felt like it was unraveling. You didn’t bother with perfume. You’d leave smelling of him regardless.

His house loomed when you reached it, like a beast waiting to swallow you whole. Alfie was waiting in the sitting room, his coat shrugged off, waistcoat stretched across his chest, a glass of rum in his hand. He looked you over slowly, from head to toe, a smile tugging at his mouth that wasn’t kind.

“Well, look who it is,” he said. “My little florist. Thought maybe you’d gone and forgotten me.”

You swallowed hard, clutching your hands together in front of you. “You sent for me.”

“Ah, that I did.” He set his glass down with a sharp clink and leaned forward on his knees. “Shop’s lookin’ better, innit? Full of flowers. Customers comin’ back through the door. That’s me, that is. My generosity. An’ what do I get in return, eh?”

You knew the answer. He wanted to hear you say it. Your voice cracked as you whispered, “me.”

“Fuckin’ right.” His grin widened, wolfish. He stood, towering over you, and motioned you forward with a crook of his finger. “C’mere, girl. Let’s not waste the evening.”

Your legs worked despite yourself, following him to the bedroom. You remembered the last time, his weight crushing you into the mattress, the burn in your throat, the sickness that forced itself out of you after. You remembered the laughter. You remembered the stink of his sweat clinging to your hair hours later when you lay awake staring at the ceiling, wishing you could scrub yourself out of existence.

But still you went, because what else was there?

He caught you by the wrist as soon as you set foot inside the master bedroom, circling his fingers tight around it. He pulled you close, close enough that he brushed your temple with his beard. His voice was hot in your ear.

“Now,” he murmured, his tone edged with mockery, “let’s see if you’re any more enthusiastic this time round, yeah? ‘Cause I’ll tell you, love. I don’t much fancy a corpse.”

He chuckled, and before you could answer, he had his mouth on yours, already pulling at your clothes, snapping buttons with his fingers like brittle stems. His palms roamed, squeezing, bruising, dragging you toward the inevitable. Your dress gave way under the rough tug as he yanked and ripped the fabric, the seams groaning before splitting, the fabric sliding down your arms like shed skin.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, look at you,” he shoved the bodice down to bare your chest, the cold air rushing over your skin a second before he moved his palms to cup your breasts, squeezing as though testing their weight, pressing his thumbs deep into the soft flesh until it hurt. “Didn’t get you outta my head, y’know,” he went on. “Been busy, business an’ all that, but kept thinkin’ about the way you cried on me, the way your little body took it. Christ almighty.”

You whimpered, the heat was flooding your skin, and the shame was rising just as fast. You wanted to cover yourself, to push his hands away, but he pinned you easily with the weight of his grip. He brushed his thumbs over your nipples, the rough pads catching until they hardened beneath his touch. 

He laughed softly when you flinched. “There it is. Sensitive little things, ain’t they? Told myself I’d get my mouth round ’em next time. Can’t be lettin’ a pair like this go to waste, love.”

He bent, fastening his lips around one nipple, sucking hard enough to make you gasp. He moved from one to the other, sucking, biting, still kneading them with his hand like dough, dragging at you until you arched your back against your will. Every suck was a wet, obscene sound in the quiet of the room.

You tipped your head back, squeezing your eyes shut as you tried to disappear into yourself, to retreat to that place in your mind where none of this was happening. But Alfie was relentless, and his voice dragged you back.

“Thought about this while I was workin’, yeah? Sat at me desk, goin’ over numbers, thinkin’ how your tits looked when I bent you over. How you squeezed me so tight I nearly lost me fuckin’ mind. Fuck, I can still feel it.”

He groaned into your flesh, sucking harder until you squirmed and a strangled noise escaped your throat. He roved his hands down your sides, dragging his calloused palms over your ribs, your waist, your hips, hooking his fingers in your underthings. With one brutal yank, he had them halfway down your thighs, the elastic biting before snapping loose.

“Stand still, girl,” he barked when you tried to shift away. “Don’t fuckin’ move unless I say so.”

He straightened, moving his eyes over your body as if you were something laid out on display for him. The glistening of his lips was still there after sucking your nipples, and he had that big grin spreading across his face, like he was admiring his handiwork.

“Yeah. This is what I’ve been thinkin’ about. Couldn’t forget it if I tried. You bent over me bed, whimperin’, cryin’, and me stuffin’ you full of cock till you spewed on the floor. Proper image, that. Burnt in me head.”

His laugh was cruel, as if he found the memory amusing. He reached out to pinch one of your nipples without any gentleness, twisting it until you cried in pain, and then he soothed it with a suck. Alfie moved his mouth off your chest with a wet pop, leaving a strand of his spit caught from his lips to the tip of your nipple before breaking. They were swollen and sore from his relentless sucking and biting, but he didn't care about how sensitive they were. Alfie only smirked down at you, giving them one last mean pinch that made you jolt.

“Fuckin’ perfect, ain’t they?” he said, dragging the back of his knuckles across his lips, like he was tasting the memory. “Can’t get enough of these. Proper pair. Think about ’em when I should be thinkin’ about money, businesses, rum. What’s that say about me, eh?”

He leaned in again, swiping his tongue over one raw bud in a lazy circle just to hear you whimper, then gave it a sharp suck and released it. He chuckled, pleased with the way you shuddered. “Yeah. That sound. Been wantin’ it again since the second you walked out last time. Couldn’t bloody wait.”

When he’d had his fill of your tits, he shoved at your shoulder so you toppled back onto the mattress, landing on your back with a soft gasp. Alfie stripped himself with that roughness only he had, first his waistcoat, then braces, tugging off his shirt in jerks, shoving his trousers down and kicking them away, until he stood bare above you. His cock jutted, thick and heavy from a nest of coarse hair, the veins were bulging, and he was already weeping at the tip. He gave it a lazy squeeze, and without ceremony, he crawled onto the bed, stretching out against the pillows with a satisfied groan like a king returning to his throne.

He stroked his cock once, twice, squeezing near the base and twisting closer to the head, never moving his eyes from you sprawled at the foot of the bed.

“Get on,” he ordered, lying back. “On me cock. Want you ridin’ it. All slow at first, yeah, so I can feel every bit of you openin’ up around me. Then harder. Faster. Till you’re bouncin’ like a good little mare.”

You hesitated, trembling. He lifted his brows.“What’s the matter, eh? You too good for it now? Didn’t seem too good for it last time when you were drippin’ all down your thighs. Come on. Earn your keep.”

Heat crawled up your neck as you crawled toward him on your knees. He caught your hips the moment you were within reach, hauling you forward until you were straddling him, sinking your knees into the mattress at his sides. He insistently pressed the blunt head of his cock against your entrance, smearing slick against your folds as he rocked it just enough to make you feel the drag.

“Look at that,” he fixed his eyes on where you joined. “Already spreadin’ for me, ain’t ya? Body remembers even if your head don’t want to.”

He didn’t guide you down, he waited, stroking lazy circles on your hipbones as if daring you to refuse. The shame of his gaze burned hotter than any touch. Slowly, almost reluctantly, you sank onto him. The stretch was brutal, he was thick, and he made sure you felt every inch, forcing your closed and dry cunt open inch by inch until you were seated fully on him, stuffed to the hilt. Alfie groaned deeply, closing his eyes shut for a moment.

“Christ Jesus. Nothin’ like it. Bit dry, it is. But you just get tighter that way. Could live a hundred years, flower girl, and I’d still remember how this feels. Tight little thing, squeezin’ me like you don’t want me to leave.”

You shifted, trying to ease the ache, but he snapped his hips up sharply, burying himself deeper, making you yelp. “Don’t just sit there. Move. Ride me like I told you.”

You began to lift yourself, ignoring your straining thighs as you rose, then sank back down. The friction tore a whimper from your throat, making you clutch your walls involuntarily around him. Alfie watched where your body swallowed him whole, and it made him curl his lips in satisfaction.

“That’s it. Look at you, takin’ it. Beautiful sight, that is. Thought about this every bloody night. You up on me cock, tits bouncin’, little cries spillin’ out. Proper fuckin’ picture.”

He cupped your breasts again, rolling his thumbs over your abused nipples as you moved. He pinched, tugged, slapped lightly just to make you squeak, spreading his grin each time he made your body jolt.

“Bounce harder,” he thrusted up his hips to meet your descent with a wet slap. The sound of your bodies colliding filled the room, and the bed creaked under the rhythm, knocking the headboard against the wall.

You obeyed, quickening the pace, feeling the burning sensation on your thighs as you rode him. Every time you sank, his cock drove deep, stretching you, stealing your breath. Alfie groaned and laughed at once. “Yeah, that’s the way. Knew you’d be good for this. Fuckin’ knew it. You’re ridin’ me like you were born to.”

He tightened his grip on your hips, digging his big thumbs into the hollows to guide you faster, harder, until the rhythm was punishing. Under his hands, your breasts were bouncing, your body trembling with effort. Every sound of pain you made, he took as pleasure, and it only fed his pride.

“Don’t stop now,” he rasped. “Ride me till I’m fuckin’ done with ya. Show me how bad you want to stay in my good graces, eh? Earn your bloody flowers.”

His laughter was cruel, echoing in your ears as you kept moving, the betraying of your body was obvious, even as tears stung your eyes you couldn't help but enjoy the way he was hitting some pleasure point inside you with the tip of his cock. Alfie looked utterly at home beneath you, sprawled and smug, letting you do the work while he took his pleasure. You felt the throbbing of his cock inside you as he bucked his hips to meet you, making the mattress bounce.

At first, you tried to obey him. Tried to keep your eyes shut and your head turned away, so you wouldn’t have to look at his face while you worked yourself up and down on his cock. But it was impossible, he was right there. Getting fucked from behind felt worse, his cock drove deeper, and it felt like he was punching your organs from the inside, but at least you didn’t have to look at his face, at the way he squeezed his eyes closed in pleasure, at how he bared his teeth when he groaned out loud. Now, his eyes were on you, you could see how he twisted his lips into that mocking smirk when you took him inch by inch.

Every time you flickered your gaze, you caught the hunger in him, mixed with the smugness, and the enjoyment he pulled from every sound you made. The way he flared his nostrils, the way he wetted his lips with his tongue like he wanted to taste every noise you made. It made bile rise in your throat. At least on your hands and knees, you could pretend, bury your face in the sheets, and forget his face. Here, straddling him, there was no escaping it. You had to see. You had to know. Your humiliation was part of the show.

“Harder,” he dig his fingers, grounding his thumbs into the soft spots above your thighs, pinning you there. “C’mon, girl, put your back into it. You think I’m lettin’ you just sit there lookin’ pretty? Nah, nah, you fuckin’ earn it.”

You were trying, you truly were. You felt the burning on your thighs as you forced yourself to lift, drop, lift again, stretching your cunt around him with each brutal descent. His cock filled you, so big, the drag of every vein making your eyes water. But with every push, your tired muscles felt heavier, until it was like moving through water. You hadn’t eaten properly in days. You skipped meals to keep the shop open, to stretch every coin, and you were feeling it now… the hollowness in your stomach, the weakness in your limbs, the way black dots began to dance at the edge of your vision. Even your hands, pressed against his hairy chest for balance, trembled violently.

Alfie smacked your thigh, a thud that made the little flesh you had there jiggle. “Oi. Don’t slack. I said ‘arder, didn’t I? Ride me like you fuckin’ mean it. Come on, I know you can.” He punctuated it with a hard thrust up from below that made a wet sound where your bodies met.

Your lungs were fighting for air, but you tried again, pushing up, slamming down. No matter how much you tried, your body was betraying your efforts, your rhythm was faltering. You could feel your muscles starting to seize, the tremor in your thighs turning into a wild shake.

“God above,” he sighed finally, knitting his brows as he studied your face. He shoved up on his elbows, wrapping his big hand around the back of your neck to force you to meet his eyes. “You’re pale as a bloody ghost.” He brushed his thumb against the damp hair at your temple, not gentle but not cruel either.

You tried to shake your head, tried to keep moving to just get it over with, but the dizziness swept in, a wave that made your stomach lurch. The room tilted for a second, and you dug your nails into his chest to steady yourself. Alfie growled, half in irritation, half in something else… something like concern he didn’t want you to notice. He pushed his hips up once, spearing you deep enough with his cock to make your vision go fully white, but then he caught you by the waist and held you still.

“Stop. Fuckin’ stop before you pass out on me cock, eh? Jesus, girl.” You sagged forward, grateful and humiliated all at once, pressing your forehead against his shoulder as you trembled with exhaustion. The fluttering of your inner walls was weak around him, even though you’d stopped moving.

“Fragile little thing, ain’t ya?” he said, not gently, but not without that strange edge of concern. He cupped your hips to keep you from sliding off him as he sat back a little. “Should’ve known you’d come in here half-starved, tryin’ to ride me like some whore. What, think you’re gonna make it through on skin and bones? Look at you, swayin’ like you’re drunk. You’ll snap your bloody legs if you keep that up.”

You opened your mouth to apologize, to explain that it wasn't your intention to lack enthusiasm, but he cut you off with a scoff.

“Pathetic,” he said, the insult quieter now. “Could’ve snapped you in half if I kept goin’. You want the money so bad, yeah? Then you’d better learn how to keep yerself in one piece, ‘cause I don’t fancy fuckin’ a corpse. God Almighty.”

Still, though his words cut, he never loosened his grip on you. He eased you off his cock with care, guiding you down to the mattress. You curled your body instinctively on your side. You hated the warmth of his hand on your hip, hated the way he looked at you like he owned every part of you, even your weakness.

“Get your breath back,” he ordered, settling back onto the pillows with a grunt. You looked down, the glistening of his cock was unmistakable, heavy and unspent against his stomach. “We’ll carry on when you’re not about to pass out on me. You understand?”

You nodded faintly, feeling too weak to argue. He smirked again, almost amused at the sight of you trembling and flushed. Alfie reached for a discarded glass of water on the nightstand, holding it just out of reach before finally pressing it into your hands. “That’s it. Drink. Can’t have you fallin’ apart before I’m finished with ya.”

After taking a sip and placing it back on the nightstand, Alfie caught your elbow and pulled you upright, making you stumble against him, disoriented, expecting him to bark at you to get back on his cock and finish what you’d started. Instead, he hauled you to your feet with a grunt, “Come on, girl. You’ll fuckin’ keel over if I leave you there.”

You blinked, confused, as he put on his discarded pants, and half-guided, half-dragged you down the corridor. The smell hit you before you saw it, something rich and warm. Something like roasted meat and baked bread. You turned a corner and saw it: the kitchen, with a big oak table in the middle.

“Sit,” Alfie ordered, nudging you toward a chair with a shove to your shoulder that was more of a push than a hit. “Don’t argue, don’t start cryin’, just sit your arse down.”

You lowered yourself into the chair cautiously, clutching the edge of the table with your hands like you needed something solid to hold you up. Alfie turned his back to you, moving with surprising ease for a man his size, pulling open cupboards, clattering plates down, spooning food onto a dish. He rolled his shoulders with the movement, the domesticity of it all was obscene. Your brain couldn’t reconcile it with the way he’d had you only minutes ago.

When he set the plate before you, the steam rising was so tempting. Roasted lamb, golden potatoes, carrots glossed in butter, soft bread still steaming. It was richer than anything you’d seen in months, meals for you had been scraps of bread, thin broth, whatever was cheapest at the market. The smell alone made your stomach cramp, flooding your mouth with saliva.

“Eat,” Alfie said simply, already filling a mug with water and sliding it toward you with a nudge that made the liquid slosh. You felt the way your throat was closing for a moment, your pride warring with your hunger. You wanted to spit at him, to throw the plate back in his face. But the smell, the sight, the way your stomach growled painfully… it broke you.

You picked up the fork with your still trembling fingers, as if you almost didn’t trust it, like the food might vanish if you reached for it. But then you began to eat, the first mouthful nearly undid you, the meat was so tender it nearly fell apart on your tongue, the juices soaking into the potatoes until they burst with flavour, the carrots were sweet and slick with butter, nothing like the earthy scraps you were used to. You hadn’t realized how badly you’d needed this, how long it had been since your body had known real nourishment, protein, fat, salt.

You began to eat quickly, almost desperately, clinking the fork against the plate. You were shaking so badly you jabbed yourself once in the lip with the fork, but you barely cared, chewing and swallowing like an animal. 

Alfie’s voice cut in. “Slow down, yeah? No one’s takin’ it off ya. Chew, for fuck’s sake.”

You froze, looking up at him. He wasn’t mocking, not entirely. He stood there, leaning against the counter, folding his arms across his broad chest, watching you eat with that sharp gaze. You swallowed hard and forced yourself to slow down, to take smaller bites. Each mouthful seemed to wake something in you, your body was warming from the inside out, the ache in your limbs easing just a little. For a fleeting moment, as you sat there, you felt almost safe. Almost cared for. The way he’d brought you here, the way he’d fed you, like he gave a damn whether you collapsed or not. It made something small and treacherous inside you ache.

When you finally put the fork down, too full to continue, Alfie moved to take the plate away. He brushed the back of your neck with his hand, dragging his thumb lightly over your nape as though grounding you.

“Better,” he muttered. “See? Not that fuckin’ ‘ard, is it? Keep eatin’ like that, you’ll have some colour in your cheeks again.”

The painful twist in your heart made your chest ache, caught between gratitude and loathing. For a dangerous, fragile second, you thought... Maybe he cares. Maybe there’s a man under the monster. But then he chuckled, that low and cruel laugh, shaking his head as he set the plate aside. “I want you strong enough to take me when I fuck ya. You’re no use to me otherwise.”

The illusion shattered. The warmth drained from your chest as quickly as it had come, replaced with a cold that no food could touch. You stared down at your hands, clasped tightly in your lap. The taste of the lamb and butter was still on your tongue, heavy in your stomach. The food had revived your body, but your spirit sank lower than before.

“You’re good now,” he leaned back against the table with a grunt. “Good, girl. Means I didn’t waste me time feedin’ ya.”

The words stung more than you expected. Feeding you. The way he said it made it sound like tossing scraps to a stray. A flicker of pride rose in your chest, then withered under the weight of his stare. He didn’t seem to notice, or care. He pushed himself off the table a little,  shifting his bulk body with that familiar lazy menace.

“’Course,” he drawled, scratching at his beard with one thick finger, “that’s somethin’ else you owe me for now, innit? First the flowers I sent to your little shop. Then the rent. Now me supper. Generous, that I am, but I don’t give nothin’ away for free.”

Your stomach twisted, not from the food this time, but from the weight of his words. You’d known it was coming. Nothing with Alfie went without a string attached. He smirked at the look on your face and straightened to his full height.

“And you know how I like to be paid.”

Your breath caught. Your throat tightened as he reached for his trousers, fingers deft on the buttons. He shoved the waistband down just enough to free himself, his cock already thickening again from the sight of you sitting there at his table like a guest who’d overstayed their welcome.

He gave it a slow, rough stroke, sliding his thumb over the head, smearing the moisture already beading there from before. He chuckled low when you darted your eyes away.

“What’s the matter, eh?” His voice was mock-sympathetic. “Full belly got you shy all of a sudden?”

You swallowed hard, the taste of lamb and butter suddenly tasted bitter and greasy on your tongue, the smell of roasted meat turning nauseating. Alfie stepped closer, his shadow swallowing you whole. His cock was an ugly, glistening weight in his hand as he stroked it lazily. He twisted the corners into that cruel knowing smile.

“Here it is,” he murmured. “Dessert.”

The word hung between you, humiliating. He gave a small thrust of his hips, just enough to make the head of his cock glisten inches from your face.

“Go on then, love,” he urged, his tone was like a parody of kindness. “Had your meat and potatoes, now you finish the meal properly. Sweet course. Treat for a good girl.”

Heat burned your cheeks, your pulse hammering in your throat. For a heartbeat, you almost convinced yourself he was joking, some crude taunt to make you squirm. But the weight of his hand on your shoulder, pressing lightly yet insistently, told you otherwise.

“On your knees,” Alfie murmured. “You want me keepin’ your shop alive? You want to eat like that again? Then you pay your fuckin’ dues. With interest.”

You felt the tightening in your chest. The food you’d just eaten churned in your stomach, threatening to rise. Still, you pushed the chair back slowly, scraping the legs against the stone floor. Your knees felt weak as you slid from the chair onto the floor, the cold stone seeping up through your skin.

Alfie chuckled above you, full of satisfaction as you sank lower, his cock now level with your face. He tilted his head to the side like a man admiring his handiwork and gave himself one last stroke before letting go, letting his hand fall to his side, ready for you.

“That’s it,” he said softly, almost coaxing, almost tender. “Go on, love. Have a taste. Sweetest thing you’ll get all week. Open up. Don’t keep me waitin’ after I went through the trouble of feedin’ you.”

You parted your lips reluctantly, the bitter tang of his sweat and musk filled your mouth as he pressed his length forward. He didn’t ease himself in gently, instead, he shoved down your throat with a groan, the stretch of your lips was almost painful, forcing an involuntary gag from you.

“That’s it,” he sighed, pressing his palm to the back of your head, threading his fingers through your hair, and pressing you down, holding you hostage. “Fuck me, I swear, this mouth of yours… made for it. Best fuckin’ course of the meal.”

You tried to steady your breath, to find some rhythm, but Alfie had no interest in patience. He pulled your hair to guide you, thrusting into your mouth with measured cruelty. The roll of his hips was shallow at first, slowly getting deeper, faster, until the crown of him hit the back of your throat, forcing you to gag violently, spilling tears that ran down your cheeks, mingling with the slick of saliva pooling at your lips.

“Yeah,” he grunted, watching your face contort with each harsh and punishing push. “That noise. Starvin’, ain’t ya? Fuckin’ starvin’, and ‘ere I am givin’ you somethin’ proper to swallow.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as your throat convulsed around him. The taste of him was bitter and sharp in your mouth, and the shame and humiliation were twisting your stomach. He slammed his hips, making his balls slap against your chin with relentless rhythm. Every gag and cough only seemed to amuse him more, each shudder of your body was feeding the fire in his eyes.

“Messy little thing,” he chuckled between grunts. “Look at ya. Stuffin’ yourself like you ain’t eaten in weeks. Oh, wait... you fuckin’ hadn’t, had ya? That why you’re takin’ it so greedy now? Hm?”

You choked again, shaking as he forced his cock deeper, punishing you, marking you with every thrust. Alfie yanked your head down to meet each savage drive.

“Don’t you dare close your eyes,” he barked, smacking one hand sharply against your cheek, snapping you upright. “Look at me. Pay attention when I’m talkin’ to ya. This is how you keep your debts clean, remember that.”

Your vision blurred as you opened your eyes, leaving only him looming above. Each push forward became more aggressive. Alfie was ramming into your throat without mercy, forcing you to choke, gag, and swallow, to take it all whether you wanted to or not.

“Take it,” Alfie snarled, holding you steady. “Take it like you’re bloody hungry for it. Like this cock’s the only meal you’re ever gettin’. That’s what you are now, eh? Mouth for feedin’ me, cunt for fuckin’ me. Nothin’ else.”

The words set your stomach in knots, the humiliation was burning hotter than the ache in your throat. You couldn’t pull back even if you wanted to, he was keeping you in place, dragging you down again and again until you were out of air.

His breathing quickened. “Fuckin’ ‘ell... yeah, that’s it, love, that’s it—gonna give you somethin’ real sweet now, eh? Better swallow every drop, or I’ll make you wear it next time.”

With a final, hard shove, he buried himself deep, pressing your nose firmly between his fingers to stop you from gagging, leaving no room for hesitation. The warmth of him pulsed in your throat, slick, as he groaned and emptied himself in long and hot bursts.

“Drink it down,” he rasped, pressing one thumb against your jaw to keep you obedient. “Swallow it. Swallow it like it’s the only fuckin’ thing keepin’ you alive.”

You forced his cum down, gulp after humiliating gulp, every swallow left a burning taste, every pulse of his cock reminding you of your place. Only when he was finished did he release your head, shoving you back slightly, the warmth of him slipping wetly from your mouth. You collapsed against the side of the table, coughing, gasping, drool and cum coating your lips, chin, and chest. You pressed your trembling hands to your face to wipe some of it away. Alfie chuckled above you, tucking himself back into his trousers.

“Dessert,” he said again. “Told ya it’d be sweet.”

You stayed there for a long moment, feeling the soreness in your knees, the rawness in your throat, the aching of your stomach not only from fullness after the meal, but from the utter humiliation, from the taste of his seed clinging to your tongue, coating the back of your mouth no matter how hard you swallowed, an acrid reminder that refused to fade.

Alfie took in the slump of your shoulders, the way your hand shook as you wiped your mouth, the sheen of tears still on your cheeks. He let out a long sigh, somewhere between irritation and amusement.

“Jesus,” he said, scratching through his beard with a slow drag of his nails. “Look at the fuckin’ state of ya. Eyes all red, sittin’ there like I dragged you through the trenches.”

You pressed your lips together, ashamed and silent, and just stared at the tile, trying not to breathe too deeply, trying not to exist.

Alfie stepped closer, crouching down. He tilted his head slightly, studying you. “Don’t get me wrong, yeah,” he said. “You did what you had to. Mouth on you’s worth its weight in gold when you remember to keep it open.” He gave you a grin, but the coldness of his eyes stayed there.“But you look like you’re about to keel over again, and I can’t be arsed carryin’ your half-dead body back to me bed.”

Rising behind your ribs was a dull ache, as you braced for him to order you up and take anything else he wanted from you, no matter what your body had left to give. But instead, he leaned back on his heels and drummed his fingers with a steady rhythm against his knee, as if weighing his options.

“Tell you what,” he said finally. “I’ll spare you tonight. Consider it a kindness, yeah? You earned yourself a reprieve with that little performance. Had me spillin’ in your throat quicker than I expected, truth be told.”

You stared at him, not quite believing his words.

“Don’t look so shocked,” Alfie chuckled, pushing himself upright. “I ain’t a monster all the time, love. Even I can see when a girl’s fucked six ways from Sunday already. That gaggin’ and gaspin’... Christ, nearly had me thinkin’ I’d broke you.” He shook his head, talking more to himself than to you. “Can’t collect debts from a corpse.”

Then, without warning, he hauled you up from the floor as easily as if you weighed nothing. You stumbled against his chest, disoriented, but he steadied you with a rough squeeze to your upper arm before pushing you down into the chair.

“There,” he said gruffly, straightening up. “Sit. Breathe. You’ll walk outta ‘ere in one piece tonight, and that’s more than most get from me.”

You sagged with relief, though you didn’t dare let it show on your face, you hated to give him the satisfaction of letting him believe he was doing something nice. Alfie watched you for a moment longer, cocking his head like a dog scenting something in the air. Then he smirked, that knowing expression returning to his face.

“Don’t go thinkin’ I’ve gone soft. This ain’t mercy, it’s strategy. You’re more use to me alive and steady.” He turned, striding toward the kitchen door. Before disappearing into the hall, he called back over his shoulder: “Get yourself home, have some rest. And eat somethin’ that ain’t stale bread for once, eh? Can’t be carryin’ you every time I want a proper fuck.”

His laugh echoed down the corridor long after he’d gone, leaving you alone in the kitchen. Alone with the rawness in your throat, the heaviness from a full meal in your belly, and the sickness in your heart after what you'd had to do to get it.

The next morning, before you’d even opened the shop door, you saw crates stacked on the steps. There were loaves of bread still warm to the touch, wrapped in rough paper, thick cuts of salted meat in their waxed wrappers. Jars of pickled vegetables, green beans, onions, carrots. Sacks of flour and sugar, and pats of butter. It was enough food to feed a family for weeks, more than you’d seen in your kitchen in months.

Tucked on top was a folded note, Alfie’s jagged handwriting slashed across the paper: Need you fed proper. Can’t have you faintin’ on me every time I bend you over. Keep strong for me, love.

Your throat tightened as you read it. Disgust and gratitude clawed at each other inside you. You hated his words, hated the implication of ownership threaded through every letter, but the smell of food was overwhelming, and you knew you couldn’t afford pride. One by one, you carried the crates inside, every step across the shop floor echoed the same thought: he owns me now.

That week, business picked up. The flowers Alfie had sent weeks before, lilies, peonies, roses, even exotics you’d never been able to afford, had filled the shop with color. You caught yourself one afternoon arranging a bouquet with something like hope flickering in your chest for the first time in months.

Every week, without fail, someone came for you. Sometimes it was Ollie, some other times it was other men you didn’t recognize. Alfe never said it outright, but the message was clear every time: you come, or everything I’ve given disappears. He kept his promises, your rent was paid on time, the worst of your debts had been settled, and another shipment of flowers was sent when the last batch began to wilt. Once, a delivery boy brought you a bouquet of roses so large it filled the front window. Tucked inside was another card, Alfie’s handwriting impossible to miss: Look at that, eh? Shop full of roses, like you’re some duchess instead of a starving little florist. Don’t say I don’t treat you.

But the price was always the same. In his bed, in his kitchen, bent over his desk with papers shoved aside, he took you every way he pleased. Sometimes he was rough, driving you down with his weight. Other times, he was slow, testing how far he could bend you before you broke. He always had something to say, a mocking joke at your expense, a reminder of how he’d “rescued” you from ruin, how you owed him for every crumb you swallowed. And still, every week, you went. Because he’d made sure there was no escaping. Every sack of flour, every bundle of lilies, every coin pressed into your landlord’s hand tied you tighter to him, like threads of a web you couldn’t see until you were already caught.

One night, after another long hour at his house, you lay spent on his bed, staring at the ceiling beams while Alfie lit a cigar. He sat with his legs wide, throwing one arm over the back of the chair. He blew smoke toward the rafters and chuckled low in his chest.

“Funny, innit?” he said, glancing at you through the haze. “I keep you fed, clothed, roof over your head. Keep your little shop afloat, eh? And all it costs you is a good fuck once a week.” He widened his grin, flashing his teeth like a wolf. “Bargain of the century.”

You turned your face away, but his words clung like his scent, inescapable.

He reached over and patted your thigh like you were a well-behaved pet. “That’s it, girl. Stay strong for me. Got no use for a weak thing. You keep eatin’ what I send, yeah? Keep those pretty tits full in my hands. You owe me that much, and more.”

Tonight, the bell above the shop door had barely finished jingling when you saw him. At first, you thought it was some drunk, some stranger who’d wandered in by mistake, until the dim, slanting light from the streetlamps caught his face and you saw the beard, the cane, the broad shoulders hunched as though they bore the weight of the entire city.

“Alfie?”

He stood there in the doorway, one side of his face smeared with drying blood, his shirt torn open across the chest. His left sleeve was ripped nearly to the elbow, and his knuckles glistened raw, the skin split across each ridge. He leaned on his cane harder than usual, as if the floor beneath him might give way.

“Christ,” you whispered, rushing toward him before you’d even thought better of it. “What happened to you?”

“Business,” he stumbled a step inside and let the door shut behind him, the bell clinking a second time before silence settled again. “Fuckin’ Italians. Doesn’t matter, it’s a long story.”

He tried for one of his grins, the smug, lopsided kind he always wore when mocking you. But his lip was split, and it pulled wrong, and for once, it didn’t look like triumph. It looked like defeat, or something near enough to it that you felt a strange flutter of panic in your chest.

You grabbed his arm before he toppled completely. “Sit down,” you said, steering him toward the old wooden chair behind the counter. “You’re bleeding so much.”

“Not my first time, love.” He chuckled, but it came out breathless and ragged. “Won’t be my last.”

You ignored him, moving on instinct, fetching a clean rag, a tin of salve, and the little bowl you kept for trimming stems. Your hands shook as you filled it with water from the kettle. When you turned back, he was watching you with that one sharp eye, tilting his head as if amused by your fussing. Still, he let you press the damp cloth to his cheek, even when he flinched at the sting.

“Hold still,” you murmured.

“Bossed around in my own fuckin’ city,” he grumbled, but his tone was softer than you’d ever heard it. His shoulders eased under your hands as you worked, and his breaths came slower.

You dabbed carefully at the cut above his brow, at the blood caked along his jaw. The intimacy of it unnerved you, the way he leaned into your touch, just slightly, like he was letting himself rest against your care, like for a brief moment he was a man and not the monster you were used to seeing.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, rinsing the rag and pressing it to his lip this time. “You should be at home, or with a doctor.”

“Doctor’ll just stitch me up and rob me blind,” Alfie muttered. “Got you, don’t I? Careful hands. Small hands.”

Your stomach tightened at his words, at the strange note in them. Careful hands. He said it like a compliment, and you hated that a part of you reacted to it.

“Why are you still at the shop this late?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice was quieter now, rough but almost… curious. It sounded as if he already knew the answer and hated it.

You stilled. “I’ve been staying here,” you admitted at last. “In the back.”

A frown furrowed deep into his bruised face. “What d’you mean, stayin’ here?”

“I couldn’t afford my flat’s rent anymore,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper. “So I’ve been sleeping in the storeroom. It’s fine. It’s warm enough.”

Alfie’s jaw worked, the muscles jumping beneath your fingers. “Warm enough,” he repeated, scoffing low, the sound full of disbelief. “Bloody ‘ell. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I know how it works with you,” you snapped, stepping back a fraction, though you kept your hand at his jaw. “If I told you, then you’d cover it. And that would be another thing I owe you for. And I’d have to pay you back the only way you ever want me to. With my body.”

The words cut through the quiet, echoing against the glass and wood like a thrown stone. For a moment, neither of you moved. The rag in your hand dripped pink water into the bowl, each drop loud as a gunshot. He let out a low, humorless laugh that sounded like a growl. “You think I’d leave you sleepin’ on a fuckin’ floor, like some beggar, just ‘cause you didn’t offer me your cunt for it?”

“That’s how it’s been so far.” Your voice cracked as you said it.

He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face, smearing blood he hadn’t yet wiped away. “Listen, yeah? Don’t get me wrong, I’ll take you whenever I want you. That don’t change. But you should’ve told me. I’d have sorted it. Got you somewhere proper. You’re mine, girl, can’t have you livin’ like that.”

“Don’t,” you said sharply, pulling your hand away at last. “Don’t call me your girl. Don’t pretend to care about me.”

He snapped his gaze back to yours, sharp as a blade, something dangerous flickering in the depths. For a long moment, he didn’t speak, just breathed hard through his nose. Then he leaned forward slightly, enough that you caught the heat of him.

“You patch me up,” he said slowly. “You feed me your care, your time. You think I don’t notice that, eh? You think I don’t feel it? I don’t pretend, love. You’re mine ‘cause you chose it. Or maybe ‘cause you had no choice, but either way... you’re mine. And I look after what’s mine.”

Your heart pounded in your chest. You wanted to deny it, to spit the word back at him, but your hand was still stained red from his blood, and the intimacy of the moment pressed down on you. The air between you felt heavy, like a storm about to break.

For the first time since you’d met him, Alfie Solomons looked less like a monster and more like a man, beaten, tired, in need. And that, somehow, was worse. You rinsed the cloth again, squeezing out the pink-tinged water until it dripped slowly back into the bowl, each drop loud in the hush of the shop.

“You’re a stubborn little thing,” he murmured after a while. “You feed me sympathy with your eyes, but you talk like I’m the devil at your door.”

You didn’t look at him. “Because you are.”

That earned a low chuckle that sounded like it hurt him to make. He tilted his head slightly to follow your movements as you smoothed salve across the scrape at his jaw. The ointment shone wetly on his skin. “You’ve got it all worked out up ‘ere, haven’t you?” He tapped the side of his skull with a bloody knuckle, leaving a smear there. “I’m the monster. You’re the poor girl who’s been forced. Makes it easier for you to live that way.”

You swallowed hard but kept your hand steady. “Isn’t it the truth?”

“Is it?” he asked, almost gently. The question landed heavier than a blow. “See, I know a lie when I ‘ear one. And you’re tellin’ one every time you open your mouth about this, about me.”

He shifted forward then, placing his elbows on his knees. The chair creaked under his weight. “Your body tells me the truth, darlin’. Every time. You think I don’t feel it? The way you get soft around me. The way your cunt opens up. The way it grips me.”

You hated how his words made your cheeks flame. “That’s—” you started, but he cut you off with a broken laugh that still somehow filled the room.

“That’s what?” he asked. “Not real? A trick? Biology? Whatever it is, you still melt under my hands. That’s not somethin’ I can fake. And you can’t either.”

You stared down at the rag in your hand, the water dripping off it was more red than pink. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you whispered, but it sounded weak even to you.

Alfie leaned back in the chair again. “I know exactly what I’m talkin’ about. You’ve built yourself this story, yeah? Poor little flower girl. Big bad gangster. You tell yerself you hate it, hate me. And maybe you do up ‘ere.” He tapped his temple again, a little harder. “But down ‘ere…” He laid his hand flat over his chest, leaving another smear of blood over his shirt. “…it’s a different story.”

You felt your pulse hammer in your throat, shame and anger twisting together until you weren’t sure which was which. “You’re wrong,” you said, but it came out thin, almost like a plea.

He smiled, almost sad, as though he’d been expecting that answer. “Maybe. Maybe not. But ‘ere’s the thing, love: you keep fightin’ it, you’re only makin’ yerself miserable. You keep tryin’ to convince yerself you’re some martyr being dragged into my bed, and you’ll never get any peace.”

You moved your eyes up to meet his. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you,” he said simply, with no hesitation at all. “And I want you to stop pretendin’ you don’t want me. Stop playin’ at being a prisoner when you’ve already stepped into my cage of your own accord.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you said bitterly, ignoring the scraping that the words left on your throat.

“You had a choice,” he replied. “It was a shit one, I’ll grant you that. But you chose. And now ‘ere we are.”

He reached out then, curling his fingers around your wrist, this time gently, almost tentatively. He brushed the inside of it absently, tracing slow circles that made the pulse there flutter. “Would be easier, yeah? For you. If you just… accepted it. Stopped tellin’ yerself lies. Stopped hatin’ every second of it. Might even start enjoyin’ it proper. You’re halfway there already. I feel it.”

You stood frozen, the shop suddenly felt too small for both of you. He looked like a man who truly believed what he was saying, a man who thought this was care. And that, somehow, felt worse than the cruelty. The rag slipped from your hand and landed with a soft splash in the bow. You stared down at him, trembling, unable to tear your eyes from his face. He smiled up at you, small and almost tender but still edged with that wolfish certainty.

“Wouldn’t have to be so hard on yerself, girl,” he murmured. “Wouldn’t have to starve yerself, wouldn’t have to sleep on floors. Just… stop fightin’ me. Stop fightin’ what’s already yours.”

He shifted his thumb against your pulse again, as if feeling for your heartbeat. “Easier, ain’t it?” he said softly. “Easier if you stop thinkin’ I’m pretendin’. I don’t pretend. I take care of what’s mine. You’re mine now. Stop fightin’ it, love.”

The air between you had grown thick. You hated how your pulse leapt beneath his touch, how your breath seemed to shorten the longer you stood there, like you were breathing him in whether you wanted to or not.

“Stop fightin’ me,” Alfie murmured again, coaxing and insistent. Each word rolled out like a command disguised as a plea.

Something snapped inside you. Maybe it was exhaustion, the endless ache of days where no one touched you without wanting something. Maybe it was the weeks of loneliness, of having no one and nothing to lean on. Maybe it was the way he sat there in your chair, bloodied and bruised but still holding himself like a king, claiming you like a piece of territory even while you wiped his blood away. Maybe it was the fact that some small, shameful part of you wanted to believe him.

Before you could think better of it, you slid your hand up from his jaw to the back of his neck. His skin there was hot, the hair damp with sweat and blood, his pulse steady under your palm. You pulled his mouth to yours. The kiss was messy and desperate. You tasted the iron of his blood as his surprised growl vibrated through his chest and into yours. He moved his big hand up to the back of your head, tangling his fingers in your hair, holding you there, forcing the kiss deeper until your lungs burned. He caught your bottom lip with his teeth, pressing his tongue against yours until you weren’t sure if you were kissing him or being devoured.

You hated it. You wanted it. You hated that you wanted it.

When you finally tore away, panting, a slick string of blood and spit still clung between your mouths. His and your lips were smeared with blood from his split lip, but he only grinned. “There she is,” he muttered. “Knew you’d stop lyin’ to yerself.”

Something in you rebelled at his smugness. Before you could think, you shoved him back against the chair hard enough to make it creak, climbing onto his lap, straddling him, your skirt rucking up over your thighs before you even realized what you were doing. He instantly moved his hands to your hips, digging his fingers into your skin as he guided you down against him.

You gasped at the heat of him, at the thick, hard weight under you pressing up, at the jolt that shot through you as your body betrayed you yet again. You pressed your forehead to his shoulder, trying to shut your mind off, trying not to think. But Alfie wouldn’t let you hide. He gripped your chin in his rough hand and forced you to meet his gaze, dragging his thumb across your cheek, smearing the mixture of blood and spit along your skin like a mark.

“Look at me,” he said, commanding. “Look at me while you take me. Don’t pretend anymore.”

You bit your lip hard enough to taste copper again. Your body moved anyway, rocking against him, grinding down until you felt him solid even through the thin barrier between you. You hated yourself for the shiver that ran through you, for the low and helpless sound that escaped your throat, for the heat that pooled low in your belly until it ached.

He murmured filth against your mouth, his breath hot and damp against your skin as he pressed kisses and bites along your throat. He pulled at your hair until you arched for him, baring more of your throat to his mouth, and he laughed softly against your skin when you did it. Inside your head, everything tangled, disgust and want, loathing and need. You couldn’t tell if you wanted to shove him away or pull him closer. You couldn’t tell if the tears pricking your eyes came from shame or from the edge of something else entirely.

Alfie only smiled that wolfish smile, watching every flicker of emotion cross your face. “That’s it, love,” he breathed, his chest heaving under your palms, his erection straining hot against you with each roll of your hips. “That’s the truth right there. Don’t matter what your head says. Your body knows me. Wants me. Always has.”

With every movement, you felt yourself slipping further into the snare he’d spun around you, half-willing, half-trapped. The chair creaked beneath the two of you as you shifted on his lap, the old wood groaning like it might splinter apart under the weight of what you were doing. With a quick movement of your hands, you undid the fastening of his pants, pulling his hard cock out. 

You clawed at his shirt, at the blood‑stained waistcoat half hanging from his shoulders, at the hair at the back of his head. You were moving over him, grinding and rocking, and every shift sent sparks through your body you didn’t want to feel but couldn’t escape. The feeling of his cock sliding against the wet spot at the apex of your thighs, dragging along you as you rocked, was making you drip for him. Alfie Solomons was making you wet.

“Tha’s it, love,” Alfie dragged his mouth to your jaw, your neck, biting, sucking, marking. “Grind on me. Show me what you’ve been denyin’, eh? Show me.” 

You shuddered, burying your face against the crook of his neck, trying to block out his words, but your hips betrayed you, rocking harder, faster, chasing something you refused to name. He roamed his hands everywhere: one tangled in your hair, tugging your head back so his mouth could devour your throat, the other kneading your breast through your dress, squeezing until the fabric strained, brushing his thumb over your nipple until you cried out.

The sound made him groan, jerking his hips up to meet yours. “Knew it,” he growled, biting at your jaw before kissing you again, swallowing the noise you made. You kissed him back with equal desperation. “See? You need me. You fuckin’ need me.” His voice was low and filthy, a growl that vibrated against your chest.  And though you hated him for saying it, and hated yourself more for proving him right with every desperate movement, you kept grinding on him, faster now.

He slid right where you were wettest, inside your open cunt. You were rutting against him like an animal, until every sound from your throat was a broken, needy noise. Every move of your hips had you sliding down deeper onto him, the thick head of his cock was stretching you open so full it bordered on unbearable, every inch forcing a shudder out of you, but you kept going, bouncing harder, grinding, lost between fury and need. His rough grip on your waist kept you moving, lifting, and slamming you down onto him as if he’d die if you stopped.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he groaned against your skin. “Look at you, eh? Ridin’ me like you was made for it.”

You shook your head, breathless, whimpering something incoherent as you tangled a hand tighter in his hair, yanking hard enough to make him grunt. Then his hand moved. Not to your hip. Not to your breast. Lower. He slid his thick fingers between your bodies, finding your clit with the pad of his thumb in one sure, filthy motion. He pressed against it roughly, circling like he meant to tear a reaction out of you, whether you wanted to give it or not. 

You gasped, your whole body jolting at the touch. He’d never done this before. Never gave you something that wasn’t for his own pleasure. Never cared if you came or not... but now he was begging for it.

“Yeah, tha’s it,” Alfie used his free hand to drag you harder down onto his cock until you were bottoming out on him with every drop. “Fuckin’ tight little thing. Gonna cum on me now, yeah? Gonna let me feel it. Right on my cock, love. Now.”

You shook your head again, no, no, no... but your body betrayed you. Every rub of his thumb made you twitch, made you roll your hips harder against him. Your thighs trembled, you dug your nails into his shoulders until he groaned in pain and pleasure, his breath hissing through his teeth as he thrust up to meet you, and you couldn’t stop. Couldn’t slow down. Couldn’t even think.

He smirked, watching the fight on your face, the way your body arched, helpless under his hand. He moved his thumb faster, drawing ruthlessly against your clit, driving his cock into you at the same rhythm. “Thought you hated me, eh? Thought I disgusted you. But here you are, ridin’ me, clutchin’ me like you’ll fuckin’ drown without it.” His voice was a growl now, cruel but triumphant underneath, timing every word with a thrust.

“Cum for me,” he ordered, harsh, almost spitting it against your ear. “Now, on my cock. Let go.”

You clung to him by the neck, by the hair, desperate, as the pressure broke. Your body snapped under the force of it, and you muffled your cries against his shoulder as your release ripped through you. Your walls clenched around him, soaking him. He hissed through his teeth at the feel of it, his cock pulsing inside you as you fluttered and convulsed around him.

Alfie groaned loudly, grinding you down onto him as if he couldn’t get deep enough. “Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he kissed you hard, sloppy, claiming, clashing his teeth against yours. “Knew you would. Knew you fuckin’ would.”

And still, he kept moving his fingers, prolonging it, rubbing until your thighs shook uncontrollably, until your whole body was quivering against his, until the aftershocks left you sobbing against his neck. You collapsed forward against his chest, milking him even as you tried to stop, each involuntary squeeze dragging a rough sound from his throat.

He began to move again, just short and sharp thrusts up into you. Each one drove you down harder on him, each one knocking the last bit of strength out of your body.

“Fuckin’—Jesus, girl,” he growled against your lips. You felt his cock throb and swell inside you with every curse. “Squeezin’ the life outta me, you are... tight little cunt… fuckin’ mine.” 

You whimpered into his mouth, nails clawing at his shoulders, dragging down his back, barely holding yourself up. Sweat slicked his skin under your fingers. His free hand left your waist only to slide up your bodice and palm your breast, flicking his thumb over your nipple through the fabric until you arched. The movement forced you down harder onto him, his cock hitting that spot inside you over and over, making your whole body shake.

“Tha’s it… fuckin’ take me,” he hissed, driving up into you until you were bouncing helplessly on his lap, your thighs shaking so bad you thought they might give out. “Take it. All of it. Show me whose fuckin’ cock you’re ridin’.”

Your protest died in your throat, coming out as a choked moan instead. And then he stiffened beneath you, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he bucked up into you. A violent shudder ran through his body as he spilled deep inside, his cock pulsing hard, pumping his thick seed into you until it spilled back down your thighs. He ground up into you in slow, possessive jerks, as if to force it deeper, to make sure you took every drop.

You gasped when you felt the flood of it, a sick wave of shame rolling through you even as your body betrayed you again, clenching down on him, milking him, dragging every last pulse from him with trembling spasms. He dug his fingers into the small of your back to hold you there while he finished, rolling his hips up lazily to smear himself even further inside you.

When the heat of it passed, he dropped his head back against the chair, a wolfish glint painted on his face beneath the exhaustion. You collapsed against his chest, too weak to move. The slick heat between your legs made you twitch against him. For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your ragged breaths, mouths brushing, sharing the same air. His lips found yours again, not with the bruising force from before, but softer, lazier, like he couldn’t help himself.

He brushed your jaw. “Knew you’d fuckin’ come round to it.” He slid his hand down from your jaw to your throat, a light, possessive pressure there for a heartbeat, then lower, cupping your ass and grinding you down on the softening length still inside you.

You hadn’t meant for him to stay. Not here. But Alfie didn’t ask.

After, you’d begun to pull away from him, trying to fix your clothes with hands that wouldn’t stop trembling. You tried to find some order again, to put the walls back up brick by brick. But Alfie closed his rough hand around your wrist.

“Nah, nah” he whispered, his eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion but still sharp. “I’m not traipsin’ back across Camden tonight, right? You’ll make room.”

There’d been no request in his tone. Only a statement, the kind you either fought or accepted. Somehow, you didn’t argue. You couldn’t.

The mattress you had in the backroom of the flower shop dipped with his weight as he lowered himself onto it, he was far too big for the narrow thing. His boots thudded heavily against the floorboards as he tugged them off with a grunt, one then the other, scuffing the floor with dirt from the street. Then his coat. Then his shirt as he tossed it aside. You crawled in after him, curling at the very edge, facing the wall, your back stiff with the tension of having him so close in such a small space.

He wrapped an arm around your waist with casual strength, dragging you back until he pressed your spine against his chest, until you were caught between the wall and the harder weight of him behind you. He spread his big hand wide across your stomach, brushing your ribs once before stilling.

“Fuckin’ mattress,” he said into your hair. “Feels like sleepin’ on a bloody sack of coal.”

You almost smiled despite yourself.

You lay rigid at first, counting your own breaths, hating how steady and warm his chest felt against your back, how the heat of his skin seemed to seep into yours, how it soothed even as it unsettled. But the exhaustion was stronger than your disgust, stronger than your fear. His breathing slowed, deepened, as he fell asleep.

You stared into the dark, confusion twisting through you. How could you feel both sick with shame and strangely safe at the same time? How could you want him gone, and yet not move from his hold? How could you hate the smell of him and still breathe it in like something you’d need later?

Eventually, exhaustion claimed you, too. Your eyelids sank, and your body betrayed you again, this time into sleep. For the first time, you weren’t alone on that little mattress in the back of your shop. For the first time, there was someone else’s warmth in the cold room.

The morning sun crept in through the cracks in the shutters. You woke stiff, pressing your cheek into the rough blanket, every muscle ached from sleep and from him, the soreness was like bruises you could feel without touching your hips. The swelling of your lips was still there, and so was the faintest sting between your legs every time you shifted. For a moment, you didn’t even remember he was there, until you turned, and the empty mattress beside you reminded you he was already up.

The sounds came next. A shuffle, a grunt, the clink of something being shifted on the workbench. You pushed yourself up, still a little groggy, rubbing at your eyes, letting the blanket fall from one shoulder to pool in your lap.

And there he was, Alfie, looming  in the small space, poking about like he owned the place. He had his shirt hung open, the edges dark with sweat from the night and blood, his vest thrown over a chair. He was holding a little wooden frame. And you felt the tightening invading your chest instantly, a spike of cold running through your ribs.

“’Ere now,” he said, squinting down at the picture. The morning light caught his face, the cuts from last night’s fight were still red and raw, the skin just under his eye purpled. He tilted the frame toward the window, as if the sunlight would tell him something he didn’t already know. “Well, well. And who’s this ‘andsome sod then?”

You scrambled upright, clutching the blanket to your chest. “Give it back.” Your voice cracked, but you tried to make it hard.

Alfie turned, cocking his head at you, quirking his lips into that familiar half‑smirk. “Is he family?”

Your throat worked as you spoke. “His name was Samuel.”

Alfie raised his brows, and he let out a short, mocking whistle. He looked down at the picture again, then back at you, his grin widening as if he’d found a loose thread and couldn’t resist pulling it. “So that’s it then, innit? Explains why you look at me sometimes like you’re about to spit. You’re sittin’ there wishin’ it was good ol’ Samuel between your legs instead of me.”

The heat climbing up your neck was there instantly, shame and anger burning in your chest in a way you hadn’t expected to feel so quickly. You pulled the blanket tighter around you, digging into the fabric until your knuckles ached. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

But Alfie only stepped closer, he crouched a little so his face was level with yours, where you sat on the mattress. “What? You think I’m insultin’ ‘im? No, no, listen ‘ere. Boy looks decent. Brave. Went to the trenches, didn’t he? Died tryin’ to make the world safe. I respect that, right?”

He paused, wearing a smile on the corner of his mouth. “But let’s not kid ourselves, pet. He’s gone. And you’re not. You’re ‘ere. With me.”

Your stomach twisted. “Don’t—don’t put it like that.”

“Why not?” Alfie said, standing straight again, stretching his back with a slow roll of his shoulders, shrugging as if it was obvious. “You think ol’ Samuel would want you starvin’ to death on a mattress in a bloody flower shop back room? Or d’you reckon he’d want you looked after, hm? Fed, paid, taken care of, even if it means lettin’ some loudmouthed bastard like me boss you about in bed?”

You flinched, the grief in your chest wouldn't let you breathe. And Alfie laughed under his breath, shaking his head, muttering as he turned back to the workbench, “Fuckin’ Samuel, eh? Poor bastard never stood a chance.”

The room was still thick with his words when you finally whispered, “He wasn’t just a boy I knew. Samuel was my fiancé.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to choke you, even the flies seemed to stop moving. All you could hear was your own pulse thudding against the inside of your skull.

Alfie froze, one broad hand on his hip, his other braced on the edge of the bench. He turned his head slightly toward the frame again. The smirk on his lips faltered, not gone, but cracked. “Your fiancé, eh?” he rolled the word on his tongue as if it soured there. “Well, well. That’s new.”

You shifted where you sat, clutching the blanket tighter around your bare body. Your throat was dry. “Yes. We were to be married, after the war. But he never came back.” The words sounded small in the air, like a confession you hadn’t meant to speak aloud.

Something dark flickered behind Alfie’s eyes, something you couldn’t name but could feel. He turned back to the photograph, stared at it for a long moment without speaking. “Fiancé, yeah. Well, that explains a fuckin’ lot.”

“Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” Alfie cut in sharply, still staring at the photo. “Don’t say it? Don’t point out the bloody obvious?” He turned the frame toward you then, tapping Samuel’s face with a thick, scarred finger that left a smudge on the glass. “So this is who you’re keepin’ your heart for while you’re lettin’ me feed you, pay your rent, keep your shop afloat, eh? A ghost?”

“That’s not fair.” Your voice trembled but held. “It wasn’t my choice.”

“Fair?” He let out a harsh bark of a laugh, but there was no humor in it, just teeth. “No, it’s not fair. Bloke gets himself killed in a trench, leaves you behind to rot in a flower shop, and I’m the bastard pickin’ up the pieces. That’s what’s not fair.”

“Don’t say that.” Your voice cracked, it sounded weak, but the edge in it surprised you.

“Why not?” he shot back, flexing his hand on the frame, his knuckles whitening until you thought the wood might crack then and there. “What, you think it makes it prettier if I don’t?”

You rose from the mattress, the blanket slipping down your shoulders as you hurried to him, reaching instinctively with your hands. “Please, Alfie. Give it back. That’s all I have left of him.”

He flicked his gaze down to your desperate hands, then back up to your face. For a heartbeat, something flickered in his expression, not softness, but something restless. He tilted the frame, looking once more at Samuel’s clean, smiling face staring back from the sepia paper. He pressed his mouth into a hard line, his nostrils flared.

And then, without warning, the crack split the air. Wood splintered under his hands, the glass shattered. He broke it against the edge of the workbench as if it were nothing, as if your whole world wasn’t contained inside that picture frame.

“No!” Your scream tore out of you raw, you shot your hands forward to catch the pieces, but Alfie held the photograph now crumpled and torn in his fist.

“Alfie, please!” Tears spilled hot down your cheeks as you grabbed at his arm, digging in with your nails, begging. “That was the only photograph I had, the only one! Please, don’t—”

But he held it high, out of reach, his face hard, his voice like a low snarl that vibrated in your bones. “No fuckin’ reason to live in the past, love. ‘e’s dead. You hear me? Dead. And I’m right ‘ere, flesh and blood, keepin’ you fed, keepin’ your doors open. You don’t need him anymore.”

You sobbed, shaking your head, clawing at his arm. “That’s not your choice!”

For a moment, just a moment, the mask slipped, and you saw it. The jealousy, raw and ugly, burning hot in his eyes. It was clear when you looked at how tight he was clenching his jaw, how he twitched his fingers, the way he stood as if bracing for a blow. He couldn’t name it, wouldn’t dare to admit it, but it was still there. Alfie Solomons was furious at the ghost of a boy who had your love. The torn picture fluttered from his fist, landing on the floor in a scatter of glass shards and splintered wood. You dropped instantly, gathering the pieces as the tears dripped down onto the broken image of Samuel’s face, smudging it further. The paper was damp and soft, threatening to tear again.

Above you, Alfie stood rigid, breathing heavy through his nose. He looked at his hands, as if he couldn’t decide whether to reach for you or walk away. And still, he said nothing more, he just watched you cradle the ruined fragments like a widow mourning a coffin.

Finally, his voice came, rough enough to scrape at the back of his throat. “Enough. He’s gone. And you’re mine now.”

You pressed the biggest piece of paper to your chest, sobbing so hard it hurt, curling your whole body around it as if you could protect it. For the first time, you didn’t hate him for being cruel. You hated him because you finally saw it: he wanted you. Alfie wanted you so badly he couldn’t stomach the thought of you belonging to anyone, even a dead man.

And that, somehow, was worse.

“You didn’t get to to that! You don’t get to erase him!”

You stayed kneeling there on the cold floorboards, digging your knees into the wood until it left bruises. You couldn’t stop the sobs tearing out of your chest, each one harsher than the last. You’d begged him, actually begged him, and Alfie had still destroyed the last piece of the man you loved.

“Oi,” Alfie said, almost defensive. It wasn’t his usual bark, it was smaller somehow, a little unsteady. “Alright, come on now, don’t do that.”

You felt his shadow fall over you as he crouched down, making the floorboards creak under his weight. He reached out with his hand, hovering it uncertainly over your shoulder, like he wanted to touch but didn’t dare. “You don’t need that picture, love. You’ve got me. You’ve got—”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracked, shaking with rage and grief. You jerked away from his touch like it burned. “Don’t you dare.”

Alfie froze. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed again. “Love, listen to me—”

“Don’t call me that!” you screamed, whipping your head up, glaring at him through the blur of tears. Your eyes felt raw, but you held his gaze anyway. “Don’t you dare call me that after what you just did.”

“I only did it ‘cause—”

“Because you’re a monster,” you spat. The words ripped from your throat before you could think to soften them. “You don’t care about me. You never have. You just want to own me, use me, trap me here like some bloody pet you’ve bought and paid for. You destroyed the only thing I had left of him! Do you understand that? The only thing!”

Your voice cracked into another sob as you pressed the ruined pieces of Samuel's face to your chest, as if somehow that would fix them, keep them safe, keep him safe.

The corners of his mouth twitched downward, for a moment, he almost looked lost. “I do care about you,” he said slowly, insistently, almost pleading. His voice was uneven, like a man confessing something against his will. “More than you think. That’s why I—”

“No!” you cut him off, slamming your fist against the floor. The sound cracked through the room. “Don’t twist it, Alfie. Don’t twist it into something noble. You didn’t do it for me, you did it for yourself, because you couldn’t stand that part of me doesn’t belong to you. You couldn’t stand that I love someone and that person is not you!”

He breathed hard through his nose. “And you think I don’t know that? You think I don’t feel it, every time you look at me like you’re not sure if you want me or if you hate me?”

Your lip trembled as you spoke. “I do hate you,” you whispered. “Right now, I hate you more than I’ve ever hated anyone.”

He shifted on his heels, then tried once more, moving his hand as if to touch your cheek, to steady you, to find some thread of connection.

But you flinched back violently, curling away from him, clutching the fragments of Samuel to your chest. “Don’t touch me. Don’t come near me.”

Alfie dropped his hand. He pressed his mouth into a tight line. For once, he didn’t have a clever retort, didn’t bark back, didn’t smirk through the pain. He just stared at you, breathing heavily.

Your throat was scorched from crying, but you weren’t finished. Not yet. You lifted your face to him. “You will never be half the man Samuel was.”

Alfie’s eyes flickered, just a flash of something, shock, rage, disbelief, like you’d struck him with a blade instead of words. “What?”

“You heard me.” You pushed yourself up off the floor, your knees wobbled, but you stayed upright. “He was kind. He loved me, Alfie. He didn’t buy me, he didn’t break me. You will never be him. You will never own me because even now, even with what you’ve done—”

You pressed your hand to your chest, holding the broken pieces of the photograph like a shield. “Even now I will always be his. I’ll always belong to my Samuel. Not you.”

The words hung there like a slap. You could almost hear them echo off the walls. Alfie blinked once. Twice. The lines in his face deepened, his jaw was clenching so tight the muscle trembled beneath his beard. He raised his big hand slowly, curling his fingers midair, almost like he was going to touch you again, but then it snapped across your face instead.

The sound cracked the air. Your head jerked to the side. The world tilted, your ears rang. The heat bloomed on your cheek where his palm had landed, an angry red mark under his thumbprint. You tasted blood, your lip had split against your teeth. A shocked, broken sound tore out of you before you could stop it.

“Don’t you dare,” Alfie hissed, like an animal cornered. “Don’t you dare throw some dead man in my face. Don’t you dare sit there and tell me I’ll never own you when I’m the one who’s been feeding you, paying your bloody rent, keeping your shop open, keeping you breathing in this city that would chew you up and spit you out without me.”

He was leaning over you now, so close you could see the pulse hammering in his throat. He clenched his fists at his sides, his knuckles white, veins standing out like cords.

“You think you’d still be standin’ without me? Eh? You think you’d even be alive? Every scrap you’ve had these last months... that was me. Me!”

Your hands were shaking so hard the scraps of Samuel's face rattled in your palms. Your cheek throbbed where he’d struck you, but your voice didn’t break. You forced the words out past the metallic taste of blood.

“Take the rent, the shop, the food. Take all of it. I’d rather starve than belong to you.”

You caught the flickering of something in his eyes then, a flash of something wounded, a crack in the fortress of fury he’d built around himself. For half a second, he almost looked lost. But it only hardened him.

“You’ll regret this,” he said finally. “Mark me, girl. You’ll regret it. Because no one out there is gonna do for you what I’ve done. No one.” He turned toward the door, grabbing his coat off the chair. His movements were jerky, toppling the chair slightly as he yanked the coat free, the legs screeching against the wood.

At the threshold, he paused, still with his back to you. “I fed you. I kept your lights on. I kept you from drowning.” His voice was quieter, but still edged like a knife. “And this is what you give me back. Fine.”

Then he was gone, slamming the door so hard the glass rattled in its frame. You stood there shaking, feeling the fire burning hot in your cheek, and still clutching the torn photograph in your trembling hands. Your heartbeat was a drum in your ears, drowning out everything else. You didn’t move until the sound of his boots on the cobblestones faded, until the shop was silent again except for your own breathing. Only then, you sank to your knees, pressing your forehead to the floorboards. More tears came fast, soaking the broken picture, making the ink bleed onto the wood. You clenched your fingers so tight around the scraps that the paper crumpled and tore again. For a moment, you could almost hear Samuel's voice, so calming, telling you to breathe, telling you to stand. But all you could smell was Alfie. All you could feel was the echo of his hand on your face. All you could taste was blood. And inside your chest, there was only the hollow and furious ache of something ending.

The days blurred together after Alfie left. The bruises on your cheek darkened, then faded, first they were purple, then turned into a greenish-yellow, then to nothing at all. But your skin still remembered the marks he’d left, it still felt tender beneath your fingertips.

But Alfie didn’t come back. And you didn’t go to him. All you did was open the shop every day, because that was what you knew: opening the door, setting out the buckets, trimming the stems, arranging beauty from what little the world offered you. At first, there were only a few customers. An old woman who bought white lilies for her daughter’s grave. A young man with violets for his sweetheart. You smiled at them, you wrapped the bouquets, you counted every coin like it was gold. You worked until the ache in your fingers numbed them, until your back hurt from bending over and trimming stems. You worked until your mind was too tired to wander back to that night.

Slowly, things began to shift. Someone must have talked about the little flower shop near the docks being alive again, how it had the freshest blooms and the kindest girl running it. Word-of-mouth trickled, and within a week, there were more orders: a wedding bouquet, a funeral wreath. Then more. You could hear the bell above the door chiming more often, and strangers began to greet you by name, like they did with your aunt. You were still poor, still frightened half the time, but now you were breathing on your own. Each day you locked the till and swept the floor you felt a faint flicker of something that might have been pride.

At night, when the shop was quiet, you’d sit in the back room with the scraps of Samuel’s photograph spread out on the table. You’d found them all, even the smallest pieces that had ended up tucked into corners and under shelves. You’d flattened them carefully, smoothing each crease as if it were skin, as if it could still hold warmth, and glued them together. The picture was ruined, Samuel's face torn through the middle, but you could still see him. That soft smile tilted slightly to one side, the light in his eyes like a secret meant only for you, the sharp collar of his uniform pressing against his throat. Sometimes, if you squinted, the cracks disappeared and you saw him whole again. You’d whisper to him sometimes, when the world was too quiet. “I’m sorry,” you’d say, tracing the edge of the torn paper. “I tried, Samuel. I really did. I didn’t know what else to do.” Sometimes you’d laugh softly to yourself, the kind of laugh that feels like breaking. “You’d probably tell me off for letting a man like him near me. You always said I was too soft. You were right.” You leaned your head back against the wall. “He’s gone now. I don’t know if that’s mercy or punishment.” “Things are getting better. The shop’s busy. You’d like that. The peonies finally came in this week… remember how we used to argue about whether they smelled too sweet?” You smiled faintly, brushing his torn cheek with your thumb. “I miss you. I miss you every day. But I think…I think I’m learning to live again.” You placed the photograph n a little tin box, the one that used to hold sugar cubes, when you still had sugar to spare. You hid it beneath a loose floorboard, right where you kept the day’s earnings, as if the two things, your past and your future, belonged together.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But tonight, you were alone, and that was something you could finally stand to be.

It was a grey, wet morning when the ringing of the bell over the shop caught your attention, and then you heard the shuffle of familiar boots. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The rain had followed him in, you could smell the river on his coat.

“Ollie.” Your voice was steady as you kept trimming the stems of the roses in your hand.

“Miss…” He hovered by the counter, dripping water from his hat onto the wooden floor. He was young, polite, always a little awkward around you, a boy too loyal for his own good. This morning, he looked like he’d been sent to deliver bad news. “Alfie wants you at the house tonight,” he said finally, tugging at his hat like it might give him courage. “He said he’s willing to put things behind and—”

“I don’t care what he said,” you cut in, still focused on the roses. The words came out flat, sharper than the scissors in your hand. You tied the bunch, wrapped it in paper with practiced fingers, laid it aside for a waiting customer. Then you looked at Ollie. “You can tell Mr. Solomons I’m done.”

Ollie blinked. “Done?”

“I don’t need him anymore.” You straightened your back, wiping your hands on your apron. “Tell him the shop’s doing fine. I’m paying my bills. I don’t need his flowers, his rent, his food, or his… visits. Not anymore.”

The man shifted, clearly uncomfortable, twitching his fingers. “He won’t like that.”

“I’m sure he won’t.” You picked up another bunch of stems, pretending the trembling of your hands wasn’t there, pretending you couldn’t feel your pulse hammering in your throat. “But that’s not my problem.”

Ollie hesitated, glancing around at the busy shop, the vases brimming with blooms, the small line of customers at the door. It was a different place than the one Alfie had sent him into months ago.

“You sure about this?” he asked quietly, almost like he was hoping you’d change your mind for his sake.

“Yes.” Your answer came quicker than you expected. “I should’ve been sure a long time ago.”

He scratched at the back of his neck. “All right. I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you.” Your voice softened for him, because you knew he was just the messenger, another person orbiting the man who had once controlled your life. You turned back to your work, dismissing him gently but firmly.

The bell over the door chimed again when he left, and you let out the breath you’d been holding. Your knees felt weak, and you pressed your palms flat on the counter until the shaking passed. Picking up a single rose, running your fingers over the petals, you whispered under your breath, “It’s over.” The words trembled out of you like a secret. For the first time, they felt real. Somewhere out there, you knew Alfie Solomons was going to hear your refusal, and you didn’t know what he’d do with it. You could picture it: the twitch of his jaw, the slow drag of his hand over his beard, the flare of something dangerous in his eyes. But for now, for this brief, fragile moment, you were yours.

The days had been brighter lately, almost too bright for autumn. The scent of roses clung to your apron, layered over the faint smokiness of the small beeswax candles you’d lined along the counter. They were the ones you always said made the shop feel warm and inviting. You left them burning when you went to the market. Just a quick trip, you told yourself, to buy what you needed.

The market was its usual chaos, a chorus of shouting merchants, the smell of salt and fish mixed with yeast and sugar from a nearby bakery. You bought potatoes, a bit of meat, a handful of carrots, counting every coin twice before you let it go, rubbing your thumb over the ridges as though to reassure yourself they were real. For the first time in months, you weren’t shopping with a pit of fear in your stomach about what you could afford. For the first time, the act didn’t feel like a gamble. The thought made you smile as you tucked the food into your basket and adjusted your shawl.

The light had shifted while you walked, the sun was lowering behind a thin veil of clouds, the air was cooling. It was then you noticed it: a faint smoke in the air. Ordinary at first, the kind that always hung over the city, but the closer you got to your street, the thicker it became. Not just a haze, but a smear of black across the sky, and beneath it… a light. Orange, almost gold, too bright, too wild for any hearth or oven. You felt the moment your heart stopped, slipping the basket from your hands without you even realizing. You ran, slipping your shawl from your shoulders as you bolted down the lane. By the time you turned the final corner, you already knew.

The smoke wasn’t from the chimneys. The shop, your shop, was burning. The flames leapt up the walls, swallowing the painted sign above the door, curling around the window frames. Inside, you could see the silhouettes of your flowers before they collapsed into ash. Someone was shouting. A pair of men were trying to throw buckets of water from the street, but the liquid hissed uselessly as it hit the walls. The wood was too old, too dry. The fire too far gone.

You stumbled forward, but someone grabbed you, a neighbor, maybe, holding you back as you fought to get closer.

“No—no, no, no!” you gasped, your voice breaking. “Please! My things are in there — please—”

“Too late, miss,” the man said, coughing into his sleeve. “Ain’t nothin’ left to save.”

The words didn’t feel real. Nothing did. You sagged against his grip, your knees buckling on the cobblestones. The heat was unbearable, the smoke choking, and yet you couldn’t look away. The little shop that had been your aunt’s pride, your inheritance, your only tether to her… it was gone in minutes. And all you could think, over and over, was: This is my fault. You’d left the candles burning. You’d told yourself it was safe. You’d been careless. Distracted. Proud enough to think you could handle things on your own. And now it was gone.

By the time the fire brigade arrived, there was nothing left but a blackened skeleton of walls and the ghost of flowers turned to ash. They hacked at what remained of the roof, sending up one last shower of sparks before the structure sagged inward with a groan. You stayed long after everyone else had drifted away. Long after the men with buckets had vanished. Sitting on the curb with soot streaking your face, staring at what was left. The basket you’d dropped earlier still lay nearby, a few carrots rolled into the gutter. You reached for one without thinking, turning it in your trembling hands. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. You weren’t sure who you were apologizing to, your aunt, Samuel, yourself. Maybe all of them. You stared at the ruin until your eyes burned, but you couldn’t cry. Not yet. Every petal, every stem, every memory that had lived inside those walls was gone.

When you finally rose the unsteadiness of your legs almost made you trip, as though the cobblestones themselves were shifting. You didn’t know where you’d go. The market was closed. The streets were nearly empty. You pulled your shawl tighter around your shoulders and took one last look at the wreckage before turning away. You kept walking, one slow step after another, into the cold, dark evening.

It was well past midnight by the time you reached Alfie’s house. You hesitated at the gate, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. You didn’t want to be there. You’d told yourself you wouldn’t be. But there was nowhere else to go. When you finally raised your hand and knocked, the sound echoed through the hall inside.

For a moment you thought no one would come, and then the door swung inward with a groan of hinges, and Ollie appeared, blinking. “Miss—” he started, but you cut him off before he could even finish.

“I need to see him.” The words came out flat, stripped of anything but need. Ollie darted his eyes over you: the soot on your dress, the trembling in your hands, your face so pale. Whatever he saw in that quick scan made his shoulders shift. He didn’t argue. He just stepped aside, rubbing at the back of his neck as you brushed past him into the house.

“He’s in his study,” and gestured weakly down the hall. Alfie was exactly where you expected him to be. Seated behind his big desk, with his sleeves rolled up, and a glass of rum in his hand. He looked up when you entered. For a heartbeat, his expression flickered, something like surprise, before it smoothed over into the familiar mask.

“Well, look who’s come crawlin’ back,” he said. His voice was rough, but it carried a thread of amusement. “Didn’t take long, did it?” You stood there, ash-streaked, but you didn’t answer. “Eh?” He gestured vaguely with his glass, sloshing the liquid against the sides. “What’s the matter, flower girl? You run out of that fine independence of yours?”

“Don’t,” you said quietly. Your voice cracked halfway through the single word. “Don’t do this. Not right now, Alfie.”

Alfie tilted his head. “Do what?”

“Make jokes. Pretend this is funny. Please.” Something in the way you said please made him lean back in his chair.

He studied you for a long moment. “What happened?”

“My shop burned down.” The words stuck to your tongue, you could taste smoke as you said them. “Everything’s gone. I have nowhere to go.”

For once, Alfie didn’t have an immediate quip. He set the glass down slowly, drumming his fingers against the wood once, twice. “How?”

“I… I think I left the candles burning. I don’t know.” You wrapped your arms around yourself. “I just… I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“You think you left the candles, eh?” His tone was strange, not mocking exactly, but edged with something you couldn’t name. “Right. Candles.”

You swallowed hard. “I’m not here for your comments, Alfie. I’m just—” Your voice broke again, and you shook your head, clutching your arms tighter. “I’m here because I have nothing else.”

He rose from the chair. The movement was slow as he came to stand in front of you, for a moment you thought you saw a shadow of concern there, but then it was gone, shuttered behind that half-smile. “Could’ve knocked on a lot of doors,” he said softly. “Could’ve gone to a shelter. The synagogue. But you came here. To me.”

You blinked at him, tears welling despite yourself. “Because I don’t have anyone else. You know it.”

Alfie studied your face, his expression was unreadable. Then he chuckled. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that? All that ‘I’m done with you, Alfie, I don’t need you anymore’ and here you are. Back at my door. Like a stray cat.”

“Stop.” Your voice was barely a whisper. “Just stop.”

The smile faded a little. He let out a breath through his nose, scratching at his beard. “Alright. Alright.” He stepped aside, gesturing toward the hall. “Get yourself washed. You’re filthy. I’ll have Ollie bring you somethin’ warm to eat.”

You stood there for a moment longer, then you walked past him, keeping your head down, the warmth of the house felt strange against your cold skin. As you moved toward the stairs, Alfie’s voice came from behind you, softer this time, less of a jab and more like a warning. “You’re in my house now, love. And I don’t like bein’ anyone’s last bloody option. You understand?”

For the first time since the fire, you felt the weight of everything pressing down on you. The ruin of the shop. The long walk. The decision to come here. But at least you weren’t in the street. At least you were warm. And at least, for now, you had somewhere to sleep.

…

The third and final part will be uploaded in a week (30/12/25). Follow me on @cinnxmxngxrlupdates and turn on the notifications so you won’t miss it

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who read the first part of this fic! I hope you decided to stick around for the second one, and that you enjoy it just as much, if not more. I truly appreciate all your comments and support, they motivate me to keep going even when I’m not feeling so great. Please know that every word you’ve sent me is never taken for granted, and I’m incredibly thankful for all of it🩷

This part gets a little darker than the first, and it’s not even the darkest it’ll get. I hope I was able to convey the reader’s internal conflicts, since I feel like they’re a central part of the story. Anyway, don’t hesitate to share your thoughts with me.

dividers by: @/dollywons

[love-quinn]

— FOUND OUT.

summary — as his favourite waitress at the only diner in town that’ll still serve him, you’re pope’s girl. doesn’t matter if you have a boyfriend, everybody in town knows you belong to andrew cody. especially your poor neighbours on the other side of your apartment’s paper thin wall. you’d usually try and be more considerate of the noise, but with your boyfriend in the trunk of his car, pope needs everybody to hear exactly what he was doing on the night of the third. for alibi purposes.

warnings — implied age gap (you're late 20s, i believe pope is at least late 30s but that's not even really mentioned at all), mentions of armed robbery, aggravated assault, etc all the stuff they do in the show, i switch between calling him pope and andrew, reader exclusively refers to him as andrew, this isn't a slow burn but the first half is build up, reader’s boyfriend is verbally, financially and physically abusive (physical isn’t shown graphically), smurf cody, slut shaming, pope gets stabbed (also not graphic), kidnapping, murder (and like lowkey torture? he’s trying to make him feel the most pain while he dies),

18+ mdni mild exhibitionism (they want the neighbours to hear), dry humping, pope almost cums in his pants lol, mentions of m!masturbation, fingering, spitting, unprotected piv (bad), sliiiight sub!pope i think? breeding kink if u squint

word count — 11.2k

note — okay listen. i've never written for pope, i've also never written smut before. i had this stupid idea and i texted two of my friends about it and they hyped me up and now i'm here. if this sucks, that's on them, alright. i sat down to write this and figured it would be like 2/3k at most, and suddenly it had been a week and this is by far the longest single chapter fic i've ever written. i have never written smut and it is honestly much harder than it looks, the things i do for shawn hatosy </3

Pope had been waiting almost forty-five minutes.

A long wait wasn’t rare at Doc’s—the service wasn’t why he came after leaving Smurf’s. The diner, wedged by the overpass, sat forty minutes from his house without traffic. Pope didn’t care for the service, the sticky tables, the flickering lights, or even the food. The eggs were too wet, the bacon too dry, the coffee bitter. The sandwiches were both soggy and stale.

Sometimes they had pie, and that was something. Not forty-minutes-out-of-your-way something. But something.

No, there was one reason that Pope found himself in the corner booth at least twice a week, and she was currently being yelled at in the kitchen.

You looked radiant, a picture-perfect idea of a pretty girl. You moved fluidly between the coffee pot, the cabinet, and the sink, like you could perform the motions with your eyes closed. You twinkled while you walked, delicate gold rings on your fingers, earrings catching the light as your head turned towards the window. Like you were made of something that came from space. You looked more tired than usual, the dark circles under your eyes more prominent than usual.

The kitchen at Doc’s was always loud, so Andrew didn’t look up from his drink when shouting began. He had come in early, while the sun was still rising, after a sleepless night spent in his mom’s kitchen listening to his brothers plan a heist. Andrew hadn’t really paid attention to them, too focused on re-running the route from Smurf’s to the diner in his mind—a drive he could make in his sleep.

The line cook at Doc’s was an asshole. That was the first thing he’d noticed after pulling off the main road into the nearly empty parking lot. Andrew had stumbled in, bloody under his jacket. A deep gash, halfheartedly bandaged days before, ached beneath his clothes. He almost collapsed into the corner booth.

Johnny had been yelling then, too. But that time, he was behind the bar countertop, following you around as you tried to tidy up. “I don’t need to be babysitting you,” he scowled, getting in your way constantly. “First it’s the fuckin’ tickets, then it’s the drinks, for fuck’s sake. I know you don’t have much in that pretty head of yours, doll, but I didn’t realise you were honest-to-god fucking stupid.” He grabbed you at the scalp, not squeezing hard enough to hurt, and gave your head a shake. “Or were you too busy whoring yourself out tonight to remember you got a fuckin’ job to do?” His hand lingered, like he was unsure of what to do with it.

“Baby-” That word had snapped Andrew right out of it. He’d been dazed for days, since he’d got nicked right near his ribs and had lost so much blood he’d been tanner in prison. The harsh words hadn’t fazed him, he was ashamed to admit, but hearing you turn and address the man so sweetly, like he hadn’t just called you a slut in front of the empty dining room.

“No, no,” He snatched a white coffee cup out of your hands. “I get it. My big girl’s gotta do her big girl job. Right, honey? You think you’re something special ‘cause old Ron said you got a nice smile?” He slammed the mug down so hard that Andrew heard it break. You jumped about half a foot in the air and seemingly went into fight or flight. You’d scampered away, pulling the bar top up where it turned into a gate to come move around the dining room. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going? I’m talking to you.” He’d called out your name, and Andrew had committed it to memory right then and there.

“I’m working, Johnny,” you’d turned around then, in a huff. Chest rising and falling, Andrew tried not to focus on the movement of your breathing. “Doing my job, like you told me.”

Johnny watched you wipe down a table and shove the chairs in haphazardly. “Yeah,” he scoffed. “Now you wanna fucking work. Remember that flashing your tits’ll only get you out of paying rent so many times, did you?”

“Hey!”

Pope hadn’t meant to shout. Hadn’t planned on drawing attention. He hated watching you be diminished by your boss and wanted to intervene. But he felt dizzy, and you looked like the kind of girl who’d rather no one witness her shame, as twisted as that was.

Both of your heads snapped to him. Johnny’s angry, yours petrified, and Andrew felt like maybe he had made things worse for you.

Pope knew he couldn’t go in too aggressively; you were already shaking your head at him, hoping desperately he wouldn’t make a scene.

“Can I order or what?” he said gruffly, pressing his hand to his side as he slumped into the booth.

He watched Johnny grip you by the arm, hiss something in your ear, and then push you toward him. You looked more shaken than hurt, embarrassed that he had seen it than sad it had happened.

With how sweet you had been to Johnny, he’d expected you to be kind of meek. Andrew had seen your type before. Small-town girl moves to her closest approximation of a big city. Too poor for San Diego, but dreams big enough to get as close as possible. Got saddled at a dead-end food service job with an ass for a boss. Didn’t need Pope white knighting for you when he just knew your boss was going to yell at you the second he left.

Instead, you came right up to him, locking your gaze with his. Like it had never even happened. “You know what you want?” You flashed him a smile, pen already poised to write down his order.

“Uh,” Pope hadn’t even glanced at the laminated menu on the table.

You snorted, covering your mouth with your notepad. “All that tough guy stuff, you didn’t even know what you wanted?” Andrew had been suffering blood loss for at least two full days by that point, but your laugh made him feel like he was floating. “How about some coffee, huh?”

He heard the kitchen door slam behind Johnny. You didn’t even look behind to where he’d stormed out. Didn’t even flinch.

“Ignore him,” you said softly, unbothered. “He’s a little bitch. Smiled at a customer too long, made him jealous.” You grinned like it was a joke—like his words were just a harmless flaw.

Andrew looked up at you. There was a red mark on your arm where Johnny had grabbed you. “So what’re you doing now then?”

You laughed again, brushing your fingertips against the arm he had resting on the table. “If you pick coffee, then I can make it right here for you, no kitchen required.”

That had sounded pretty good to him, so Andrew nodded. You beamed down at him, shoving the notepad in the front pocket of your apron. “Now, I don’t know what you heard from him.” You had jabbed your chin towards the pass to the kitchen, heat lamps basking the wall in warm golden glow. It didn’t hold a candle to you. “But I promise not to flash my tits at you.” You nabbed the menu off the table and turned back to step behind the bar countertop. “I won’t stop you from looking up my skirt, though.”

Andrew had laughed so hard he felt like he popped one of his shitty stitches.

It became routine after that. Whenever he had to pull an all-nighter, he’d stop by Doc’s and come get a cup of shitty coffee and a dose of lovely girl.

Johnny hated Pope, but you said that was normal with customers, telling him not to get a big head. Yet Johnny kept taking Pope’s money and letting him sit in the corner booth for hours. Pope always tipped big; the money was bloody, but better in your pocket than his.

He told himself that’s why he kept coming back. He wanted to help you out. You were a sweet girl. That was it.

The dining room was no longer deserted like it had been that morning. There were a few other waitresses and a few other chefs bustling around. You and Johnny seemed to always be there, though. Pope had already waved off two teenage girls who tried to take his order.

"You think you’re better than this place?”

He couldn’t hear your muffled reply, but he heard the way Johnny laughed.

“Nah,” Johnny got louder, voice deeper. “Some fucking clown tells you you’re too pretty to be holed up here and suddenly you’re too good for me?” There was the sound of metal on metal, ringing out through the diner. The other patrons all looked up, some nervously, some annoyed. “You think he likes you? Sweet little girl, always so pretty for him, huh? Letting him ogle you like that? What do you think is gonna happen, sugar? He’ll take you somewhere nice, pull you out of this shithole?”

He still couldn’t hear you, ears straining to make out words over the noise. Baby - being nice - love you.

“You know exactly how this is gonna shake down, don’t you?” Johnny lowered his voice just slightly. “He’ll fuck you, then he’ll run, and you’ll be left here asking me for a ride to work. You know that, right? I know you got nothing but rocks up there, but you can see that, surely?”

Pope couldn’t even make out your voice that time, but he figured you’d replied when Johnny laughed, roaring and cocky. “Oh, no, baby. Don’t you roll your fuckin’ eyes at me. You know exactly why I’m mad. You like me mad. You drop your fucking panties for any guy who walks in the door, and I’m meant to act like I don’t see it? No, baby, I’m not the bad guy. You do this shit on purpose. You push, and you push, and one of these days you’re gonna forget just how good you have it.”

Andrew already fucking hated Johnny, but the afternoon you’d sheepishly admitted Johnny wasn’t just your boss—he was your longtime boyfriend—made Pope’s blood boil so much that he’d almost crushed that fucking coffee cup in his hand.

“Yeah, my girl doesn’t need reminding who’s good to her, does she? Where’s your fucking attitude now, huh?” More murmurs, you sounded upset now, not soothing. “Yeah, not so fucking tough anymore. You think that fucking loser’s gonna save you-?”

Andrew heard your voice - don’t - and then dead silence. He thought for a sickening moment that Johnny had kissed you to shut you up, and that he was going to have to think about that on the drive home instead of how you’d traced the knuckle of one of his hands.

Then, you emerged. Head ducked, straight for his booth. He sat up straighter. Your chest was shaking, and this time, he didn’t have to stop himself from looking; his eyes were glued to your face.

He said your name softly, reaching a hand for you. You stopped short. “Can I get a ride?”

Your eyes were red, tears streaking thick black tracks down your cheeks. There was a mark on your collarbone. Pope was up in an instant. “I’ll fucking kill him-”

“He just grabbed me, I want to go home-”

“Just grabbed you?” He scoffed. You were both talking quietly, voices low to avoid the breakfast rush from feeding on your insides. “I’m going to fucking kill-”

“Andrew,” you snapped, “I want to go. Can I get a ride or not?”

Pope had driven you home a few times in the six months he’d been frequenting the diner. Sometimes you and Johnny would fight, and Johnny would take off without you, leaving you stranded and sheepish as you stood by the corner booth, looking like you wished the earth would swallow you.

But he’d never seen you leave without Johnny. This was new.

He handed you the fifty in his hands - the piece of pie he’d been waiting on plus tip (he wasn’t gonna let that asshole take it), and you didn’t argue, just shoving it in the pocket of your apron. You never accepted his money without a fight, usually, but that time you took it, stalking off towards where Andrew had parked his car.

“You wanna go to your place?” Andrew would never have asked, have given you any inkling you were welcome at his house, if you hadn’t looked so upset. He didn’t want you anywhere the fuck near his family - especially Smurf. She had no idea he’d been coming there three times a week for almost six months. It wasn’t any of her fucking business. Still, he wasn’t going to let his mom sink her claws into you the way she had with Julia. To maim. Not to cage, like with him.

But Andrew also knew that Johnny owned your apartment building. That was how you’d met him, apparently. At first, it had been kind of fun, you’d admitted to him one night the slight Johnny had hurled at you hadn’t been without merit. “Sometimes I couldn’t make rent that month, so I’d just have to… You know.” Pope felt like he was going to be sick. “It made me feel special, like I was in on something the other people weren’t. Then one time we had a fight and he wouldn’t get someone to fix my AC.”

Pope was going to fucking kill him, and there wasn’t anything he could think of that would stop him. He’d fantasise about the ways on the drive home some mornings, imagining the life draining out of Johnny’s eyes the way Pope had watched the life drain out of yours. Maybe he’d take a knife to him, watch his blood soak the concrete. He had a gun; he could use that. Or maybe Pope could just drag him out to the half-alley where Doc’s dumpsters were and beat the shit out of him until he was unrecognisable.

Those were second only to the other fantasies he’d have. The ones where you would find out, devastated by your boyfriend’s death, and turn to him for comfort. The ones where you’d kiss him and tell him he saved you. The ones so vivid he’d have to pull off the road and deal with it, lest he go and meet up for a job with a boner.

All of them involved your fucking boyfriend six feet under, and Pope getting the chance to show you how much better he could treat you.

Sometimes you chatted, airily telling him stories about funny customer interactions you’d had, or about something silly you’d seen on your phone. Sometimes you stayed silent. Most of the time, if Pope was driving you somewhere, it was because you and Johnny had gotten into a fight and he’d left you stranded.

“I’m gonna need to ask for your number,” you’d joked one night, standing in front of the open passenger door, bent at the waist to shove your head back in the car. “That way I can come and bug you whenever.”

Andrew would’ve handed it over without hesitation, but you’d giggled and shut the door, flouncing back up to the staircase leading to your apartment on the second floor. That afternoon, Johnny had taken your elevator pass, so Andrew dropped you off around the back. Your apartment building felt more like a motel: your front door was external, the apartment hallway served as an entryway, and a patio. He watched you bound up the stairs with the energy of someone who hadn’t worked the night shift, hauling yourself up on the railing and flashing him a beaming smile as you reached your door.

Now, you sat in silence. When Andrew pulled into the back lot of your place, you sat there, seatbelt buckled behind your back—which made Andrew nervous, but he was in no position to ask you to obey the laws of the road. “Do you want to come in?”

The closest Andrew had come to being inside your house was when he’d walked you to your door one night when it was raining. “Johnny…?”

You shook your head, still not looking at him. Your gaze was locked on your lap. That summer had been unbearable, so you’d opted for skirts rather than pants. You wore really pretty outfits a lot of the time, even if they were hidden under your apron. Floral sleeveless tops that showed off your collarbones and made him feel like a fucking teenager, practically salivating at the sight. Skirts that ended at mid-thigh, oftentimes shorter than the apron you wore tied around your waist. Your thighs were on display, and Pope had been very tastefully looking at them - you couldn’t ask him not to look, that wasn’t fair.

“He’s pulling a double,” you said, “Can’t flake out on it either, Doc’s is going under.”

That wasn’t necessarily surprising to Pope. Doc’s had a few die-hard patrons, people that he’d see multiple times a week or month. Other than that, it was usually empty. Which is why the line cook seemingly felt no shame in bullying his girlfriend in the middle of the dining room on a weekly basis.

Part of Pope felt bitter. Good. That asshole deserved it. Maybe they’d knock the building down and turn it into a Whole Foods or some shit. But most of him was thinking about you. Doc’s was your only source of income, and most of your money you got from his tips. Would you still see him if the diner closed?

He followed you up the stairs, standing guard beside you as you rifled through your bag for your keys. That was how Andrew felt about himself a lot of the time when it came to you. A guard dog. Someone to protect you, whether it was from Johnny or Smurf or guys who called you ‘darlin’ and got too close to your face at work. Not necessarily someone to keep around, but someone useful.

Your apartment looked exactly like Pope thought it would from the glimpses he caught through the windows (and the listing he’d found online) (your boyfriend had your apartment listed at all times, ready to strike if you pissed him off too bad) (Pope hadn’t mentioned it to you, but he kept it in the back of his mind always).

There were little touches that weren’t included in the estate photos he’d found online. The tack-on wallpaper you had up in the kitchen, the soft blankets you’d tossed over the couch.

“Sorry for the mess,” you sounded upset, but you had been since the diner. Pope didn’t want to think about it being his fault. What really worried him was the palpable sense of tension, as if there were too many words left unsaid hanging in the air. Pope looked back over at you, mouth open to tell you not to worry about it, but was interrupted by the look on your face. Eyebrow raised, eyes still red-rimmed from the incident in the diner, mouth curled downward. “No, stop. You’re gonna say it’s cute, or whatever, but it’s not. It’s gross, sorry. I didn’t think I’d have company today.” You seem to be in waitress mode even at home, straightening things and moving to put dishes in the sink. Pope caught sight of a dirty laundry basket and almost got lightheaded.

“Do you want something to eat or drink?” You asked, kicking the laundry basket into another room and shutting the door with your elbow. Pope couldn't shake off a sense of impending crisis; each of your movements was more hurried than usual, like a tightly wound spring ready to snap.

Pope hovered awkwardly in the living room, scraping his eyes over as much of your stuff as he could. Your chipped mugs, the 90s girl-group poster covering water-damaged walls. Your things were clearly well-loved and well-worn, but seldom maintained. You took good care of your things out of love, but not enough to stop them from breaking. Enough to keep them useful. Pope wondered if his usefulness would run out. “Is the coffee better here?”

You snorted, untying your apron and dumping it on the sofa. “I won’t spit in it?” You offer like it’s some sort of consolation prize.

Pope couldn’t stop the words stumbling out of his mouth, “Why not?”

He wanted to ask him what exactly had gone down in the kitchen, talk to you about it, tell you to dump him, do a billion things to you. There was the small problem of you finding out how much of a fucking loser he felt about you.

“Sit,” you said softly. He sat. He watched you mill around, both cleaning the kitchen and making him a cup of coffee in the same motions. When you handed him the cup, he looked up at you. It was well and truly mid-morning by that point, and the sun was filtering through the kitchen windows and hitting your face.

“You okay?” He finally asked. He didn’t want to overstep; he also felt like it wouldn’t be appreciated. Pope wanted to be something, not just another asshole who took control of your life. You’d been in a rough spot when you’d met Johnny. Pope didn’t want to be another Johnny. So, he kept his mind firmly on the task at hand and not on the fact that your bedroom was on the other side of that wall.

You looked at him, and Pope felt his stomach fall. He’d never seen you look like this before. “I want you to kill him.”

It was a burst of anger, uncharacteristic of his sweet girl. Pope couldn’t take his eyes off you, but he still felt like he’d blinked and missed you already.

“Wha-”

You rolled your eyes, kicking off your sneakers and curling up on the sofa near him. He could smell your perfume. He was going insane —you were too close—far too close for how well-behaved he was trying to be. Too far away to do the things he was trying not to think about doing.

“I’m not stupid, Andrew,” you said, rubbing your eyes. “I know who you are. I know what you do. I know your whole schtick.”

Hearing someone call his family’s incredibly lucrative and prolific crime empire a ‘schtick’ kind of snapped him out of it. “You…?”

“Like, two weeks after the first time you came in, I went to a party and someone asked if I was Pope’s girl.”

Fuck. Fuck. He’d wanted to keep you all from it. From Smurf, from the rest of his family. From Pope.

When he was with you, he didn’t have to be Pope. He didn’t have to be whatever the fuck he was, whatever people called him. Didn’t have to worry about the fucking drugs, or the heists, or all the people he’d murdered at the behest of his mom.

Being asked to take care of someone wasn’t an uncommon thing for him.

You seemed to register the worry on his face, scooching closer on your small sofa. Pope felt dizzy. “I said yes,” you admitted, cheeks warm. “I don’t know why. I just wanted him to leave me alone, and when you were brought up, he seemed to think twice about fucking with me. It was nice.”

Your earlier words played back in his head, about how it had been with Johnny at the beginning. Like being in on something that no one else was.

Andrew said your name, low and mournful, like it might be the last time.

“I’ve heard stuff,” you rushed, needing to get your point across before he cut you off and walked out of your life forever. “Stuff about the Codys- you guys. About you, Andrew. Pope. I had a little trouble picturing you as him. You’re always so nice to me, I couldn’t imagine you doing something like that.”

Good. Andrew hoped to god it stayed that way. You were the one good thing he had ever let himself have, and he barely even fucking had you. Still, it had all managed to catch up to him.

“But then I thought about it.” Your voice was quiet. If Pope strained, he could hear voices behind him, on the other side of the wall. “And I thought about it. And I kept thinking about it every time I saw you. I can’t get it out of my head.”

Pope felt his eyes sting. He was not going to cry in front of you. He’d sooner run out the door and ghost you.

“Please say something.” It was clear you had expected him to be much further on board faster than he had been.

He just sat there for a moment. Every second that went by, every tick of the clock on the mantle, every drip of the kitchen sink Johnny refused to look at, every blink of Pope’s eyes, felt like they got longer and longer between them.

Pope had an issue. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to kill Johnny - Pope would’ve done so already if he had known you wouldn’t grieve his death like he had believed you would. But he didn’t want to be the guy you leant too heavily on and grew to resent.

"You want me to kill him?"

He’d expected you to look surprised, to tell him you hadn’t really wanted to take him up on the offer or whatever. Instead, your eyes sparkled as you nodded.

"I want him to die, Andrew."  You said it so gravely, so seriously, he had no choice but to believe you. Unless you’d become an informant, which, knowing his luck, was not out of the question. “You’re a good man. You deserve to do it. I can forgive you for it.”

You wanted to do it yourself, had ever since you’d found out about the habits of the sweet, quiet man who came in and stared at you too long. But wanting to kill someone and actually killing them were two different stories. This was giving you an out. You didn’t need to rely on Johnny, on his hot and cold, on his temper.

You wanted to do it yourself, had ever since you’d found out about the habits of the sweet, quiet man who came in and stared at you too long. But wanting to kill someone and actually killing them were two different stories. This was giving you an out. You didn’t need to rely on Johnny, on his hot and cold, on his temper.

Doc’s was going under, and you’d been looking for another job. Looked at maybe going back to school. You’d been in your third year of college when you met Johnny. That was a lifetime ago.

If Johnny died, the building would be bought by Mr Carlton, the older man who owned all of the first floor and almost all of the second floor. Rent would be a little higher, but you wouldn’t have a boyfriend who could decide he wasn’t going to give you shifts while you were on your period, because if you couldn’t give him what he wanted, then why should you get what you want?

A steady source of income, maybe a future, control over your life again. Johnny had to fucking go.

And who deserved to do it more than Andrew? Sweet, sarcastic, charming, respectful, Andrew. He’d never overstepped, never once given you the ‘you deserve better’ spiel. Never once made you feel like he pitied you or judged you. Knew his place. His good behaviour deserved to be rewarded.

And so, you made a plan. He’d suggested planning it out to give you more time to chicken out, as he somewhat believed you would.

Johnny would be going out of town the month following, for a whole ten days. That meant there were ten days which nobody would notice his disappearance. Pope planned it all, how he would do it, where he would dump him, and the excuse he would give his brothers.

Baz had pulled him aside and asked if he’d gotten a girl, but Pope had stayed silent, stewing bitterly. It wasn’t out of any real interest in his life; it was out of selfishness. He’d noticed how long it had been since he’d caught Pope looking at Cath.

You quit Doc’s and started working at a coffee shop closer to your place. The hours were consistent, the pay was regular. You didn’t even care that your coworkers weren’t very nice, and you weren’t making as much in individual tips. You wanted something concrete.

You and Pope started “dating.” You suggested it as a reason you guys had been hanging out so much: if one of your neighbours squealed. All that involved was letting Andrew drive you home, letting him call you ‘baby’ in earshot of your coworkers, and letting him keep his hand on the back of your thigh for just a little too long.

Pope was paying your rent — something that annoyed you, but you couldn’t stop. Johnny had threatened to evict you when you and he split, done in a screaming match at Doc’s, surrounded by as many people as you could swing. It needed to be public and final. You’d almost been rendered homeless, but Pope had offered to reach up and spend more than the heightened rent Johnny had started enforcing. Andrew knew Johnny knew he wasn’t going to get more rent out of anybody than some sucker who wanted to fuck Johnny’s ex-girlfriend.

He spent the entire month leading up to it with his family. Made himself as available to them as he could. Told you not to call him while he was at Smurf’s, told you so softly and so sweetly they’d rip your fucking throat out that you had no choice but to listen. He forced himself into so many situations that, when the day came, they were honestly grateful for a reprieve. Nobody would be calling him that week.

Johnny was smoking a cigarette when Pope got him. Sharp and fast, a quick slash to the side under the ribs, grabbed by the hair. Kicked on the back of the knees and shoved to the ground. Some of it had been overkill. The grip Andrew had kept on Johnny’s greasy hair, almost ripping it out from how forceful he was. Zip ties to the wrists, enough shoved in the mouth that even when Johnny realised it was Pope and started yelling, only muffled groans could be heard. Nobody had been in the parking lot of Johnny’s - Pope had planned as much, but seeing it work out felt vindicating.

Not as vindicating as watching Johnny bleed out all over the tarp Pope had lined his trunk with for the occasion. His hands, the hands that had touched you in all the wrong places, were almost completely severed at the wrists. Johnny’s fingerprints would be burned off, and his teeth would be knocked out, but he wanted to wait until the bastard was dead for that part. Not to spare him the pain, but because he wanted to take his time on it without having to listen to that miserable fuck whine the entire time.

He was still alive when Pope pulled into your apartment. You’d been at work all morning and had just gotten home (Pope still felt guilty about making you take the bus, even though his car had been in use at your request). That way, when the coroners eventually examined him, if they found him too quickly, they’d get a time of death you were both well and truly accounted for.

He’d hoped he’d catch sight of one of your neighbours on the way in, had spent the past month stopping to chat to each and every one of them, so they wouldn’t think it out of the ordinary if he did it on his way up to you. The staircase, the patio, and even the parking lot were all dead.

So, he pulled out his keys and made a big show of dropping his keyring and clattering about with it before unlocking the door. “Baby?”

You were in the kitchen, still in your work clothes, looking radiantly at him. More dream than girl, Pope could’ve sworn you glowed. “Andrew,” you beamed at him, speaking a little louder than necessary. Not unnatural. “How’s Lena?”

He’d offered to take his niece out for the morning, which kept her away from Baz and gave Pope some time with her. Made for a really good alibi if someone asked him where he’d been that morning. He’d felt kind of gross for dragging the poor girl into it, but his desire to see her had won over.

“She was good,” Pope shut the front door, dropping his stuff in. “We went to the beach, got ice cream, had some lunch. She says hi.”

Lena absolutely did not say hi. Pope hadn’t let a single thing about you slip, even to her. But he liked to think that if she did know who you were, she would’ve said hi.

Pope discarded his jacket on the hook by the door. You didn’t keep your space particularly tidy, but since he’d started coming over, you had made more of an effort. Clearing room for him to keep his things, jacket on the hook, shoes on the rack, keys in the bowl. It felt so painfully domestic that Pope could almost pretend this whole thing was real.

After that first time in your place, Pope had been struck by just how much of the apartment felt like you. It wasn’t overly decorated, you didn’t make enough money to have one of those Pinterest board apartments Andrew knew you were secretly obsessed with.

But there was nothing in this apartment, even the first time he’d been inside, that indicated you had a boyfriend. At least... There hadn’t been before.

Now, Pope’s stuff was everywhere. His dishes in your sink, post-its on your fridge reminding you of when he was working or telling him when you were. One of his jackets over the back of your sofa. He was one step away from keeping a damn toothbrush in the cup with yours.

You came close to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and stretching yourself up so your mouth was right beside his ear. “Did you do it?”

Pope’s hands were pressed to your back, one of them lingering where the hem of your shirt sat, inches away from slipping his palm to lay against your bare skin. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. You squeezed him. “He’s in the car. I’ll hang out here for a while, then I’ll go dump him.”

He hadn’t told you where he’d been planning on taking Johnny. You hadn’t asked. You didn’t need to know where he was lying, just that he was rotting. That you’d never have to feel his hands on you again.

“No one saw me,” he said. He felt you frown against his neck. The two of you had been hoping at least one of your neighbours would catch sight of him organically. The building's walls were thin; you could hear people on both sides of you.

“Shit,” he felt you exhale. “We need someone to be able to validate that you’re here.”

He let his hands shift, rubbing the skin of your back gently through your top. His thumb brushed the sliver of bare skin with a featherlight touch. You didn’t move away.

The two of you stood there for a moment under the guise of thinking. There was the faint clatter of a dish being bumped into through the wall, followed by a muttered curse word.

“Maybe they could hear us doing something?” He suggested. “Like, we could talk really loud?”

You pulled back enough to see his face, but not so much that he had to let go. “What would they hear?” you asked quietly, a smile tugging the corner of your lips up.

The silence hung low in the air, filling the space and shoving the two of you closer together. You were wearing a pretty blouse and a denim skirt, straight from a morning at the coffee shop. Pope didn’t want to be the one to suggest it.

“Andy…” Your voice was soft in tone but loud enough in volume that he was pretty sure that your neighbours could hear. You’d never called him that before. Your hands moved from resting behind his neck to caressing his jaw with your thumbs.

“Hi, baby,” the words ghosted your face, barely audible. Your face split out in a grin.

“Wanna see my bedroom?”

Andrew had seen your bedroom before, but he had never been inside. He’d only ever caught glimpses when you came in or out, or through the cracked door, or on the online listing.

Your bedsheets had little daisies on them. They felt soft under his fingertips. Your duvet was bunched up towards the head of your bed. You’d shoved him inside, giggling at the absurdity as his knees hit the back of your bed.

“Okay, wait.” You bent over, desperately trying to at least half-make your bed while he was sitting on it. You weren’t actually going to fuck him, you just needed to make the neighbours think he was giving you a good time. Well, it didn’t have to be good, but it would hurt his ego a little if he couldn’t fake fuck you well.

Then, you sat down on the rumpled duvet beside him, unable to keep the grin off your face. “Okay, wait,” you said again. “Alright…”

The two of you sat there in silence for a moment before finally you let out a noise. A soft, barely-there, contented sigh.

Pope laughed.

You reached over and hit him. “Sorry, asshole, I’ve never tried to make my neighbours think I’m having sex before,” you hissed. He held his hands up in surrender, trying to take you seriously despite the situation. Andrew shifted so his legs weren’t hanging off the side of your bed, shuffling towards the head. “You do it.”

“I…” he tried. This was ridiculous. “I can’t, I’m sorry,” he was laughing so hard his shoulders were shaking, his back pressed to the headboard.

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, Andy,” you let out an exaggerated groan, snickering at him. Your voice stayed monotone, “Please, for me?”

You crawled closer to him, coming to sit right beside him.

Pope thought maybe he had died and gone to hell. He had you right there, so close to him he could smell the rosemary oil you insisted helped your hair grow. So close he could count your eyelashes if he could keep his eyes off your hands, dragging through the duvet to extend towards him.

He let out a groan, and you smiled self-satisfiedly. “Yeah?” you goaded. “You like that, Andy?”

Your voice was thick with wanting. Pope let out another noise, heat rushing to his neck. You were putting on a show, and not even for his benefit. A whine ripped itself from his chest, and the humiliation filled the cavity it left. Here he was, acting like a fucking virgin sitting with a pretty girl on her bed.

You still had that goddamn smile on your face, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. You were still moving closer, and Andrew felt frozen. He was trying so so hard, trying to behave, to not move you closer and grab any part of the expanse of skin you were seemingly haunting him by. He was trying to behave, and there you were, so close to him.

You were still giggling, even as you hauled yourself up and locked your legs on either side of his thighs. Pope’s hands were raised, hovering above your waist, not sure about the whole touching thing now that you were literally situated in his lap.

You opened your mouth, pushing a palm flat against the wall and letting out a slightly louder moan, looking him right in the eye.

Yep, definitely hell. You were settled in his lap, whining his name, gaze boring into his. He had to start thinking about geometry or baseball or something to distract himself from the fact that you were positioned right over his cock while wearing a skirt.

He was able to start on autopilot, matching your volume, throwing in a “baby” or a whine of your name every so often. He just had to keep a clear head for however long you decided sex with him would take and then wait so he could go jerk off and dump your boyfriend’s corpse. In that order.

You had one hand on his shoulder, one hand on the wall, still completely giddy from the venture. You seemed to be having a nice time, not burdened by the same hellish circumstance that he had found himself trapped in. Even more so when you shifted your hips slightly and had his cock twitch at the contact.

He felt you tense up and prepared for the anger. A slap, a spit, insults hurled. Something at least.

He couldn’t look up at your face, but unfortunately, your tits were the other closest things to his eyes. Instead, his head was turned to stare at the floral wallpaper, looking as far from your face as his head would physically turn.

“Andrew?” You whispered. He was shaking under your hands. He felt your hand move from his shoulder up his jaw, fingernails raking up his skin. You grabbed at his chin, pulling his face back up so he had to look at you. “Hey.”

This would be the last time he ever touched you, so he let his hands finally find purchase on your waist. “I’m so, fuck- I’m sorry. You can just ignore it; it’ll go away. I’m so fucking sorry, it’s not because of you.”

You pouted. “It’s not?” You rolled your hips, and Andrew felt his chest constrict. “That’s a shame.” You were moving consistently by that point, and he couldn’t figure out when you’d gotten such a mean streak.

“Fuck-” his head fell forward, forehead resting on your shoulder. “Baby, I-” he was interrupted by a whine yanked from his throat by the feeling of you grinding down on his crotch. “You… you gotta stop.”

“You want me to?” You asked innocently, pausing your movements.

Andrew lifted his head off your shoulder to look up at your face. You had never seen anyone look at you with such reverence.

Pope knew the good, moral thing to do was yes, to get you off his lap and then throw your boyfriend’s body in the ocean. What he chose to do was to lift his hips up to provide some of the friction you’d stopped giving him. “No,” he admitted. “Fuck- no. Please don’t.”

His face was still in your hand, and you gripped his chin, tipping his head back slightly. You ducked your head slowly, moving to press your mouth to his. Pope’s hands were roaming on your back, one of them finally slipping under the soft cotton of your blouse. Pope kissed like he talked, waiting for you to make the first move, but once you had, he cut himself loose. It wasn’t necessarily a good kiss; it was sloppy, mostly open-mouthed, and involved a lot of your mouth swallowing his moans.

But your brain seemed to reset, whether it was the feeling of his tongue slipping between your lips or the feeling of his erection pressing between your legs. The noises he was making, directly from his mouth to yours, were sending a buzzing feeling between your thighs.

You rolled your hips, he thrust up to meet you, and the friction set loose a high whimper that seemed to spur him on.

“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling off where he’d taken your bottom lip between his teeth. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.”

He was embarrassingly close from the feeling of you grinding on him through his clothes. His hand squeezed your side, his entire body tense from the effort he was putting in to keep him from embarrassing himself. You let out a whine at the sudden move, and that had been his final straw.

Without warning, Pope wrapped a strong arm over your back and flipped you over so he was above you. You squealed at the impact, landing on your back, and the sound travelled straight to his cock. “Andrew-”

He kissed you again, his hand coming up to cup your jaw and rub soothing circles into your scalp. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned. Your legs fell apart for him to come move between them and press his chest to yours. Andrew took his free hand and stroked the back of your thigh, holding it up against his hip. “Oh, look at you.” He pulled up to take a good look at your face. Face flushed, pupils blown, and that stupid fucking smirk on your face.

The hand on your thigh loosened its grip and travelled upwards until it found its way underneath your skirt. As his palm made the connection with your damp underwear, you let out an embarrassingly high-pitched whine. “Andrew,” you shuddered against his touch.

“You want me to touch you?” he asked, voice low. You nodded, tilting your head up to try to capture his lips against yours again. “Yeah? Come on then, baby. Use your words.”

Your cheeks burned, more from annoyance than embarrassment. “Please, Andy…” That wasn’t enough for him; the most he did was press the heel of his palm firmer against your panties. “Want you to touch me,” you grumbled. Andrew knew you were miffed at not getting what you wanted without having to do what he wanted you to. You liked that he was so desperate for you, liked how he’d been hard under your touch without him even really touching you.

He pushed your panties to the side to run a finger through your folds. You whined, pushing your hips up at the brush of your clit against the pad of his finger. “Andrew,” you whimpered. He stayed by the nerve, pressing two of his fingers flat and rubbing small circles. He spent a few minutes switching up pace and pressure until he found one that you seemed to really enjoy.

Your moans went straight to his cock, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care about that when you were so warm, so wet; all other rational thought went straight out the window. “Fuck, pretty girl. Hear how fuckin’ wet you are?” He kissed the side of your mouth and moved his hand off your jaw to press it against your hand. The back of your palm pushed up against your pillow, clutched tightly in his, anchoring him there to you. He moved away from your clit and ignored the pained whimper you pressed into his cheek, instead moving his fingers to slip them inside.

You gasped at the intrusion, your free hand clawing at his back. “Fuck, Andy,” your moans were high-pitched and breathy, unlike the deep and fake noises you’d been forcing out for the benefit of the neighbours.

“Oh, pretty girl,” he groaned into your neck. You were so tight, even just around his fingers. He wanted to pay more attention to your clit, but the feeling of your hand in his was too tempting to give up. Instead, he pressed his index and middle fingers inside while brushing the nerve with his thumb. It was uncoordinated, fast, and desperate, but you were whining into his ear, clenching the back of his shirt in your free fist, and squeezing his fingers so tight he could feel precome pooling in his boxers.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned. “How am I meant to fit in here, baby?” He cooed, crooking his fingers up to press against your spongy center with the tips of his fingers and causing you to throw your head back, open-mouthed.

Pope felt you clench around him. “Wanted this so bad,” you admitted, pulling him closer to kiss him. It was so sloppy, half your words were said directly into his open mouth. “For- fuck- months, Andrew. I k-keep thinking about you,” you bucked up into him. “Johnny would always get angry because he said you wanted to fuck me-”

“Did,” Andrew grunted, fucking you with his fingers as far in as they could go, stretching you out. He hadn’t been joking before; there was no way he’d fit. “Do.”

You ignored him, still babbling on. “And I never believed him, but I really, really hoped he was right.”

Andrew pulled his fingers out of you again, but this time you didn’t whimper. He’d been talking a big game while he was on top of you. You wanted your sweetheart back. Stopping only to shove your panties down your legs and kick them off onto the floor, you wrestled yourself back on his lap. At the feeling of your bare core against his erection, Pope groaned again. “Fuck, baby, you felt so good, so wet for me. Was that all for me?” You nodded. “Fucking bastard, has no idea what he’s giving up, does he?”

Pope did not want you back on his lap because he was pretty sure that if you started riding him again, he’d come in his pants.

You seemed pretty gleeful at the concept of that happening, though, leaning down to attach your lips to his neck. There was a wet patch on the front of his pants where your bare core met the swell of his cock. “Andrew,” you rasped, “feels so good.”

His hips stuttered, hands on the backs of your bare thighs, debating whether to move up to your ass or down to your pussy. “Baby,” he groaned. “Say you want me.”

Andrew wasn’t a virgin. He’d had girlfriends, the occasional hookup. He had never been so achingly hard in his life, and you hadn’t even really touched his cock yet.

“You want me to want you?” You cooed. “Yeah, baby? I want you,” you husked, directly into his fear. “Want you so bad, Andrew.”

He tossed his head back, hitting the wall behind your headboard. “Fuck, you feel so good.” his hands squeezed the flesh of your ass, trying to find something to keep him from busting already.

“Yeah?” you encouraged.

Andrew nodded against your mouth, eyes rolled back in his head. “Yeah, fuck, baby. You look so pretty,” he said, looking up at you through his eyelashes. You could feel yourself soaking his pants, his erection catching on your clit, and sending your head fuzzy. “So, so pretty. My pretty girl.”

You reached for his belt buckle at that, desperate to satiate the pulsing between your legs. He made no move to help you, watching through blown pupils as you undid his pants and shoved them down as far as you could with him sitting down. You’d been able to see the wet patch on his dark jeans, and you’d assumed it had been made up of entirely your arousal, evidence of how much you needed him. But seeing the dark stain of precome pooled by his erection, you realised he needed you just as much.

“Andrew,” you breathed, lusting and listless. “Can I touch you, please?”

Andrew groaned like he was in pain, nodding and nudging his face up to kiss your cheeks. “Please, baby. I’d take anything, anything you wanna do.”

You liked how he wasn’t trying to pretend he didn't want this as much as you did. You waned him so badly you ached, you could feel yourself clenching around nothing, desperate for the friction his fingers had provided. “Yeah?” He nodded. “Can you open up for me?”

Andrew opened his mouth, eyeing you as you leaned over his face and let a droplet of your spit land on his tongue. Eyes rolling back, he closed his mouth and savoured it, and that was when you decided to take the opportunity to reach into his underwear.

He was bigger than you’d expected from how unassuming he was. Andrew was a big guy, with arms so huge you wanted him to wrap them around your neck until you saw stars. But he wasn’t super tall, so you’d figured he’d gotten so jacked in prison. He hung heavily over the waistband of his boxers, and his breath hitched when he felt you wrap your impossibly soft hand around him. Now that you had him where you wanted him, everything else seemed to be in the way. His shirt was ripped from his head, the buttons of your blouse undone by shaking fingers. Andrew let his head drop forward to mouth at your covered chest, hand palming the cup of your bra on the other side.

You’d intended to tease him a little, maybe pay back the favour of his fingers, but after less than a full stroke, he was whining at you. “Please,” he gasped out, stopping his task of soaking through your bra with his spit. “I need to be inside you.” Your name slipped from his lips so desperately that you felt your walls flutter.

You reached up to cup his jaw again, keeping the pad of your thumb pressed to his chin and pushing two of your fingers against his lips. He let you in immediately, moaning around your digits and maintaining sweltering eye contact as your other hand brushed his slit with your thumb. An especially loud groan brought you back to where you were, what the goal had been.

“That’s it, baby,” you cooed. “Let the whole building hear how much you want me.”

Once your fingers were well and truly lubricated, you reached back down to touch his cock. “Fuck,” he let out. “You fucking tease-” he was being louder as you’d requested, but only just. He wanted people to hear, sure, but this wasn’t some type of performance.

Pope was desperately running through topics in his head - counting sheep, trying to do basic addition - anything to distract himself from the feeling of your hand running along the vein he had on the underside of his cock.

“Are you gonna fit?” You asked him, lifting yourself up to discard your skirt. Pope took the opportunity of you being out of his lap to shove his jeans down his legs, leaving himself completely bare in front of you. All you had left was your bra, and he’d be perfectly content to keep mouthing at the fabric, but you discarded that, too.

“Oh, yeah, baby,” he sighed, moving to lay you down once again against your pillows. “I’ll fit.” He brought his thumb down to brush your clit again. Your wetness was pooling between your folds, about to start leaking down onto your bed. He actually wasn’t sure, despite how turned on you were, if he would fit. He was above average, but not by much. But the way you’d clamped down around his fingers made Pope feel like maybe Johnny hadn’t been giving you very much to work with. The two of you had been together for like six years, he was pretty sure. “You were fuckin’ made for me, weren’t you?”

You nodded.

He ran his fingers down your glistening folds, collecting your juices in his hand. Andrew had half a mind to bring them to his mouth, but he wanted the first time to be straight from the source. Instead, he let you take them in your mouth, mirroring what he’d done to you. You circled one of his thick fingers with your tongue, and he knew immediately he’d made a mistake, cock jumping at the feeling. He wanted to see you with your pretty lips wrapped around him.

Despite the slick mess between your thighs, his wet fingers were able to find purchase on your clit. “See how much I want you, Andy?” you moaned, and he knew the fucking neighbours heard the groan that pushed from his chest.

The head of his cock brushed your clit, and both of you whined into the open air. You pulsed under his touch, wanting and sensitive.

He took his hand away from your clit just long enough to take hold of his cock and guide it to catch on your entrance.

You look up at him, writhing and needy, and he ducks down to kiss you. “Fucking dreamt of this,” he admits. “Every time I’d watch you leave with him, I’d imagine pulling you away, making you feel so fucking good you forget every name that isn’t mine.”

His mind drifted back ever so slightly to the almost-corpse shoved in his trunk. The two of you had been plenty loud; the whole building had probably heard. Andrew wondered if Johnny could.

“Need you so bad,” you whispered. One leg wrapped around his waist, one bent at the knee on your side, looking up at him. “So fucking bad, Andrew,” you arched your back to bring your face closer to his, and he complied, kissing you roughly as he nudged his hips forward.

He felt you tense up, reaching down to rub distractedly at your clit with one hand and your jaw with the other. “Shit,” he hissed. “You okay?”

You nodded emphatically.

Once the tip was in, he stopped, letting himself stretch you out enough that every movement doesn’t catch a vein or ridge against your walls. You were squeezing him like he owed you money, and he had to put a lot of effort into holding himself up to watch your face.

Your bottom lip was caught between your teeth, eyes half closed. Half whimpers were coming out through your mouth, one after the other, cutting off the one before. “Baby,” he cajoled. “You gotta talk to me.”

It took you a second, too overwhelmed with the stretch and the fact that Andrew Cody was in your bed, and the man you thought would be ruining your life forever was probably dead. And maybe you were dead and this was heaven, not that you’d ever be sent there after what you made him do. “So good, Andrew,” you reassured him, bringing a hand up to clench his auburn curls. “You can go more in.”

He took the opportunity to slide in further, revelling in each gasp you let out as part of his head caught on a ridge inside your pussy. “Oh my fucking god,” he grunted against your neck, certain he’d never been sucked in as completely as your cunt was doing, and he was only halfway in.

You were breathing so heavily, and Andrew kept pulling away to check on you, that by the time he bottomed out, the thick tip of his cock brushing your warm center, both of you were almost embarrassingly close.

“Fuck, pretty girl, can I move?”

You nodded. He tried to kiss you but got taken over by a full-body shudder at the feeling of pulling out, missing, and instead burying his forehead in your shoulder. The sound was downright filthy, filling your bedroom with a wet slap of his thighs kissing yours.

“Feels so good, Andrew,” you moaned, breath stuttering as he pushed  back in. The thrusts were slow at first, trying to give you both something to stay grounded in. But you were so tight, and you were talking to him so sweetly, and when he pushed forward, you’d clench, and his chest would brush against your nipples, and he felt so pent up he was going to explode.

“Baby…” your name tumbled from his lips, begging and rough, out of breath. “‘M all yours. All yours, my pretty girl. Could do anything you wanted to me. Let you spit on me again.”

You could tell he was borderline asking for it at that point, so you shoved his head back down to connect to your lips, trying to collect as much spit as you could get in there. He swallowed it dutifully, along with a moan of your name.

He was on the brink, as he had been since he’d heard that first sigh from your mouth. He was grabbing at the flesh of your thighs, trying to claw desperately at something that wasn’t your fucking wall. With how hard he was squeezing, he’d probably put a hole in it and come face to face with your neighbours in their kitchen.

“Andrew,” you mewled.  “Need… fuck… need you-”

“Right here?” He flicked your clit. “‘M sorry, baby, you feel so fuckin’ good.”

He could feel himself getting there, and with the amount he’d been staving it off, he knew his climax wasn’t going to be soft.

Pope started playing with your clit, trying his best to replicate the rhythm that had gotten you so worked up at the beginning. You groaned, reaching blindly for him. “That’s it, right there.”

Andrew could feel you clenching around him, the walls of your cunt fluttering in time with his thrusts. “Fuck, you feel too good.” He kissed you. “Too fucking good, baby. So fuckin’ pretty for me, hey?” He was slurring his words, completely drunk on the feeling of you taking all of him inside.

“Andy-” the gasp was stilted, your fingernails gripping into his biceps. He was pretty sure you could cut him open with your nails, and he wouldn’t feel it, all of his senses completely attached to how fucking good you felt all spread out for him.

“You close?” He asked, more smug than he had any right to be, given how near he was to finishing. You nodded, and he kissed you. Kissed you. Kissed you. Each time, he got a little more lightheaded, and each time, you let out one of those soft sighs that made his arms shake.

“What do you need?”

You directed him, moving so you were half on your side, your leg anchored at his hip, whining as he hit a new spot inside of you. It was hard to find any part to lock on to with the mess between your legs, but he was still rubbing your clit. “Come on, baby. Show me how much you want me. Need to see it.”

You took his hand back in yours, mouth missing his lips as your orgasm hit you. Pope knew the second you came around him that he didn’t have long, but he tried to draw it out of you as long as possible, fucking you through it. “That’s my girl.” The feeling was white hot and dizzying, and for a second - though you’d never tell him this, smug bastard - all you could think of was Andrew.

You lay there, letting him fuck you, squeezing his hand and his dick. He couldn’t remember ever feeling that good, still rubbing your poor sensitive clit until you brought a hand up to swat him away. “Please, Andy,” you murmured, spare hand threading through his hair. “Please.”

“Where-” his thrusts were sloppy, barely able to string a single sentence together. “Where do you want me?”

He felt an aftershock rip through you as he hit your sweet spot, your voice sounding woozy and hot. “Inside.”

He stuttered. “In-”

“Want you inside,” you assured him. “Please? Want you so bad, Andrew- baby.” You whimpered, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “Want to be yours.”

He leaned heavily into you, putting his body weight on the thigh you had clamped around his hips. He groaned your name, “Want me inside? Fuck, want to be all full of me?” The idea of that alone was enough to have him spilling inside of you, breathing you in from his spot on your neck. The sheer force of his orgasm causing him to spill down your thighs as he pushed forward one last time.

He stayed there for a while before leaving with a soft kiss to go to your bathroom. He ran a washcloth under some warm water and returned to find you right where he’d left you. You and Andrew had never discussed whether you were on the pill or not - he had to assume you were, but as he wiped your sticky thighs down gently, he couldn’t help the way his chest constricted at the sight of him leaking out of you.

You, for all your charms while he’d been fucking you silly, had fallen into a blissed-out state of rest, watching him. “You going?”

His stomach did a flip. “Yeah, baby,” he finished with the washcloth, making a note to dump it in the laundry on his way out. Once he found his clothes. You sat up on your elbows, curling your legs inward so you were less spread out, and Andrew knew without you saying it that you wanted him to kiss you. “I gotta go to work.”

You nodded, beaming at him. “Hurry back.”

He discarded the washcloth and redressed himself, you going to pee and shrugging on a t-shirt and a clean pair of panties, meeting him back by the front door. You reached up to hug him again like you had when he’d arrived, this time placing a firm kiss on the side of his mouth. “You’ll come back?”

Andrew kissed the inside of your elbow, your arm resting on his shoulder, from where it was wrapped around your neck. He kissed a trail right up to your mouth, eyes blazing into yours. “I’ll be a few hours.”

Andrew wasn’t sure if you really wanted him back that quickly. He would usually spend an afternoon here and there sitting on your sofa or at your kitchen table, the two of you talking softly. He had only been coming over to establish a pattern of behaviour.

Though he reasoned it would be odd to break the pattern right along with your ex-boyfriend’s untimely demise.

When he pulled back into the parking space in your lot reserved for your apartment several hours later and smelling like bleach, he still hadn’t been sure if you wanted him there. He’d bought a bouquet of flowers from a roadside stall on a whim, and he felt stupid unlocking your door with them.

Your beaming smile at the sight of him had helped calm his nerves somewhat, though. The soft kiss you planted on him calmed the rest.

[mcpayne]

Guillermo Del Toro's Frankenstein is about forgiving the person who brought you into this world without your permission when you do not want to be alive, and about forgiving yourself for being alive and accepting your life free of guilt and that is genuinely the most beautiful, validating thing I have ever seen in a film.

[filtheopathic]

“he talks you through it” cool cool but what about “he teases you through it”

[theorist-fox]

fire burns, fire welds

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

18+

CW: angst, break-up, hurt/comfort, smut (the definition of missionary so we can keep arguing), dubcon, little fluff, lots of fire imagery I fucking apologize

wc: 10k

Masterlist 🦊

When you first met Simon, the first thing you felt was anger. 

It wasn’t entirely new. Long before that day, anger had been a constant companion, shadowing the sadness that gnawed at your stomach. Together, they thrived, stripping your bones bare beneath the skin, leaving raw, sizzling flesh exposed to the world.

Even though, rationally, his only crime had been to approach you, the moment he spoke and shattered your quiet, the fire inside you grew. It flared, ready to consume him where he stood.

What you hadn’t anticipated, however, was to find a fire even fiercer than your own. One that seemed to blaze within him, reckless and consuming, almost engulfing him whole. You saw it reflected in his eyes, traced in the tension of his ragged features.

Anger leaves its mark, always: the wrinkles stemming from his nose, the scythe between his brows. Unmistakable even as he forced his face into neutrality.

They matched yours.

Fire burns. Fire destroys. Fire, also, welds. Strengthens. Builds. Warms.

And ever since he touched your hand, that same fire has become something else entirely—a saving grace. A light in the darkness, a hearth in the frost. The heat for a meal, the alcove of a home.

Until—

“You leavin’?”

Breath lodges in your throat. A hand still hovering in the air, on its way to grab your last belongings. Honestly, Simon’s question does not need an answer, if the two suitcases standing by the door are anything to go by. 

It hadn’t been a last-minute thing. It hadn’t been an idea you’d concocted overnight. No, God no. You wish it were that simple. Breakups are never a walk in the park, but sometimes they just happen—people fall out of love, and it’s no one’s fault, really. It’s just life rolling by.

You wish this were the case. You wish you didn’t love him anymore.

It wouldn’t hurt like a stab wound, wouldn’t force you to clench your fist around a heart that’s breaking apart, as if the bruises he left on it weren’t already enough.

But there are so many things you can’t digest. So many pieces of this puzzle don’t fit into place anymore, and the picture’s left incomplete.

You look over your shoulder and meet him at the doorway. He’s turned himself into impenetrable stone, arms straight down his sides. Shoulders of steel, ice-cold eyes. There it is. That look—no, that wall. A towering fortress of pure titanium that secludes him so that he can’t be touched, not even a scratch.

In turn, it isolates you, too. 

Cautiously, you turn on your heels to face his way.

“Wasn’t just gonna leave,” you reply. “Just getting my things. I would’ve waited for you to come home first. So, uh—so we could talk.”

Your shoulders tighten; a hug you wish you could give yourself, but you’re not ready to show that much vulnerability yet. Especially when he doesn’t say anything back, when he doesn’t add his thoughts to your statement—just stares at you, lips pursed in a tight line. Disappointment perhaps, or heartache—you know he feels it too, though unable to show it.

Does it make you a bad person to wish to see him cry? To wish for him to show his anger, his fear, his pain? 

Does it make you evil, or does it make you human?

His arms curl in front of his chest, legs in a wide stance. He’s blocking the doorway, but you know he’ll move the moment you snap your fingers to say so. Always obedient, your Simon. Always loyal to a fault. 

Would he cry if you ordered him so? Would he scream, yell, beg? Is that the only way to know he’s hurting, the only way to know he’s afraid? Should you have ordered him to love you more plainly, to show it to you daily instead of droplets scattered throughout a lifetime?

Should you have been his handler instead of his partner?

“M’home now.” He nods at you with his jaw. “Go on then. Talk.”

You have to assert yourself. You have to look bigger, find the strength in your hands to scoop out the feelings in your chest and offer them to him. Make him see the rot he caused, sucking the life out of you like a parasite would.

You dry your palms on your shirt.

“Do you think this works? Do you—” You clear your throat. “Do you still love me?”

His face changes. Something twitching on his brow, a curl of his lip downward. Realization, maybe. Surprise, more likely. You might have hallucinated it, or perhaps it’s a trick of light created by the shafts of sunset slicing through the curtains, some shadows at play. 

“Where does that come from, now.”

You shrug one shoulder. “Just answer will you?”

“’Course I do.” He flats out. “Show ya every day, don’t I?”

No. No, that’s a lie. A cleverly veiled one, but a lie, nonetheless. He says it. Murmurs it right before closing his eyes in bed, an afterthought to one of his many long days. And then it stays like that, hangs in the air like it’s a chore and not a feeling. Snores away his fatigue without even listening to whether you’re saying it back.

He cooks dinner and holds you at night with the same heaviness in his limbs. Answers his phone calls and tells you he loves you with the same weary tongue. Part of his to-do list, part of his routine.

You sigh. Your muscles uncoil, but not in relief: you’re so tired already, and the talk hasn’t even begun yet. You can only imagine how dreadful it’ll be by the end of it, how unbelievably drained it’ll leave you.

“I don’t know, do you?”

“I tell you.” He corrects himself.

You thumb the space between your brows to soothe the tension building there. 

“Yeah, you do,” you sigh.

“Then what.”

Cold. Sharp. Lieutenant Riley at his finest, not your Simon anymore. You wonder when you’ll see him again, if you ever saw him at all, or if it all was just a ruse: a mask to hide behind, not so different from the hard skull he wears at work. Something to separate him from the violence he sows, and something to separate him from the love you give—both sharp to the touch from his perspective.

“I don’t feel it,” you reply plainly.

Simon rolls his jaw. You can see him fighting to let you in, forcing his tongue to shape the words trapped inside. That’s how Simon works, how he’s built: there’s a strength within him that’s always at war. You have to give him that, although rarely, he does try to fight it, like he is now. 

But it’s a battle he never wins. The words never make it past the threshold of his heart. It’s the same struggle that brought him here, on the verge of losing you, too.

“I—” he hesitates. “I ain’t good at this, whatever this is we have—”

You recoil.

“Whatever this is?” You blink. “Well, what do you think this is, then?”

His eyes flicker. He took a wrong step, and he knows it. “That ain’t what I mea—”

“Are we in a relationship?” You interject, anger bubbling fiercely in your stomach. “No, please answer me—I’d like to know if I’ve been fucking delusional for the past few years.”

“Yes we are in a relationship,” he growls. The finality in his voice is so thick it pours down your ears like cement, settling the statement there.

His chest stutters with the same fire ravaging your guts, the only thing you two ever matched. He’s the dark side of your moon, yet you share a comparable rage born from different lives. Just as furious, just as hungry to devour, to flatten the earth and turn it to ashes in a fair trade for what it’s done to you. 

It’s what united you that first night, finding an akin spirit. What brought you together, and together you snuffed each other’s flame, bringing peace. 

Tonight, you can feel it burn alight again. Thrilling. Terrifying.

“An' I didn’t mean that,” he adds curtly. “You know I didn’t.”

His voice is thunder. It crackles in the room and leaves it quiet, tense, like a storm about to rage.

“I told you I was a lot to deal with,” he breaks the silence first. “I warned you.”

“And I tried. For years, I tried.” You grit your teeth. “Have you?”

Has he?

You know he’s repeating your question in his head. You know he has the truth on the tip of his tongue, easy to spill and to give you your reluctant triumph—that no, he hasn’t tried. That no, he hasn’t even considered it. That he thought you’d take him as is without an ounce of effort on his part.

And you did, for a while.

You took his swinging moods and his absence; you took his distance and his frigidity. You took it all like a good girl and gave tenfold of the opposite. You gave warmth and understanding, you gave such an abundance of love that in the end you were left with none of it for yourself.

He spares you a lie. An act of kindness. 

Simon moves to the side, leaning his back against the doorframe. He doesn’t look as imposing as before: his shoulders have hunched over, arms now loosely folded in front of his chest. His eyes are still cold, but he’s not looking at you anymore. He fixes on a spot in the hallway, one you can’t see from where you are.

He nods his head to the side.

“Go.”

You blink. Swallow.

That’s it, then. He gave you the green light to just… leave. You should be grateful that he’s not putting up a fight; instead, you’re even more heartbroken. How many years have you wasted on this? How much of yourself have you lost on something so precious, only to be discarded like you meant nothing?

You own a house with him. It’s littered with life and turned into a home. You have shared plans. You have the groceries to do, the dishwasher to start, the laundry to fix. You have that collection of DVDs under the telly, a movie still paused on the streaming service. Short-term and long-term plans. 

You have, have, have nothing. And you had all of it. Had. 

He’s letting it go—letting you go. He isn’t fighting for it; he isn’t fighting for anything. He’ll face the consequences in the same unhealthy ways he always does, surrendering control and letting life happen to him, not because of him.

It makes you rage.

“No.” You breathe. 

Simon stiffens.

“No, you don’t get to do that.” Your voice wavers, crackles with anger. “To-to get away with it so easily. You answer me now—have you ever tried?”

His head lolls back and rests against the doorframe, eyes to the ceiling. Perhaps you’ll see it today, something other than indifference. A frown instead of impassive eyes, a tear instead of a cold gaze. Perhaps.

“Never had to try to love ya,” he says. “Came easy as anything.”

That’s not what you meant, and he knows it. 

You don’t push him. He knows your words as much as he knows your silences, so you give him those. 

You let his words linger in the air, you let them sit on the bed you made a last time, touch the floors you’ll never walk again with the same purpose. You let him listen to the heaviness this stillness brings—a house without you in it, what it would mean, what it would feel like to come home and find the lights off, coldness seeping through the walls.

The clock ticks on his nightstand. A car rushes past the windows of your flat. Your breath echoes softly, yet it’s the loudest sound in the room.

“You want me to apologise?” He asks, finally.

“No.”

“Then what is it.”

“I want you to answer me.”

“I did. Told ya I never had to try—”

You take a step forward. Your fingers bite into your palms. “Don’t act like I’m stupid and answer me.”

His neck tenses. Muscles coil tight, kinks and knots that build from his shoulder down to his spine. Stiffly his head turns your way.

“M’not a good partner.”

“Answer me for fuck’s sake!”

His eyes flash red. 

“No.” He barks. 

He pushes himself off the doorframe and marches your way. The floor is carpeted, but his boots still thud loudly against it, as if breaking the sound barrier. A drop of water could wreck it as of now, tension so thick yet so brittle—built over the years and now finally ready to collapse. 

Everything sounds louder tonight, everything sounds breakable. 

“No I haven’t tried.” His face is tilted down to look straight at yours. A fire in his eyes you only saw once, when the two of you still weren’t tied. “That what you want to hear?”

“The fucking truth for once! Was it that bloody hard?!”

“Think yer easy? You think you’re a fucking walk in the park?”

The gall of him makes your hackles rise.

“Now it’s on me? Are you fucking serious?”

“No matter what I do s’never enough—”

“And what have you done, uh?!”

“—‘S always more, an’ more, an’ more. ‘M never enough—”

“Are you serious, Si—”

“—Yer never fuckin’ happy.”

“You’re never fucking home!”

He goes still. 

Fucking bullseye.

His absence, his distance—when he can’t manage to draw the line emotionally, he draws it physically. Takes off for deployments longer than needed, cuts off communications, disappears—the Ghost. 

One call a week if you’re lucky, one text a month at worst times. You know about his well-being because John gives you a heads up, and when you ask to talk to Simon, he says he’s gotta go dark, sweetheart. He’ll be back soon, cross my heart.

But you know he’s just covering for his subordinate’s mishaps, wouldn’t dare lose the grip on the leash he has on his dog. Treats him right, respects his wishes in exchange for unclouded loyalty.

Simon's jaw jumps, teeth tight. You see the corner of his lips sink under a bite—go on, Si. Don’t chew on it. Say it.

But he deflates. A sigh escapes his nostrils, a tug on his lips in the semblance of a frown. But instead of turning just as mellow, you harden. Your rage grows and flowers bright red. And so, as he bottles it in, you spill it all out.

“You are never fucking home.” 

“Job keeps me out, y’know—”

“Nah, don’t even. Johnny’s got kids, Kyle’s partner’s on fucking cloud nine, even John manages to handle a bloody marriage—but you’ve got the job in the way?” You scoff. “Spare me. I know you take on more than fucking necessary.”

Simon’s eyes harbour a murkiness, thickly bubbling at the surface like lava underwater: miry and coagulated. Heartache, sadness, regret, surrender.

He’s ready to lose you like he lost everything else, and how you desperately wish he'd fight for it this time, tear the world asunder, instead of hiding in his fortress.

“You know what the truth is,” you coax him, but he doesn’t give you the satisfaction of saying what you want him to say.

“And wha' would that be,” he answers instead, voice steady and just above a breath.

If this has to end, let it end with the truth clinging to his bones.

“That you live with the constant fear of me stabbing your back. Fucking—fucking walking on eggshells for some bloody reason.”

He doesn’t react. Barely blinks. It’s just you and your words, and the cologne he wore that morning mixed with the sweat of a sweltering day spent in HQ. His smell is overpowering and familiar and yet so distant, like something you can only enjoy when it lingers on the bedsheets and ever so rarely when it clings to him. 

“And that it’s so much easier to be out there, wherever the fuck you’re deployed, because you don’t need to trust those that end up on the other side of your rifle.”

It’ll hurt. It’ll hurt him more than it’s hurting you, probably. Simon’s not a man who gives himself easily, and you’re almost sure you were the last chance he gave life. 

“But here—” You gesture around the bedroom. “Here you gotta trust me—and you’ve never done that fully. S’why you leave. You always leave.”

His throat bobs. 

You exhale, cheeks hot and eyes red. “Guess it’s my turn now.”

If only to hide tears, you turn on your heels and march to the dresser where you snatch your phone and pocket it.

Suddenly, the room is only his. There is nothing of you in it anymore: no pictures or clothes. No makeup by the mirror, no jewellery on the dresser. Maybe a hair tie or two lost under the bed, your hair furled around the bristles of a brush in the bathroom cabinet. Nothing else, nothing more.

It’s Simon’s house now, and you’re a host who’s overstayed her welcome.

You march to your suitcase and grab it by the handle, your duffel from the floor now thrown over one shoulder. Simon doesn’t help.

Eyes ahead, you walk past him into the hallway. Your eyes fall on the same spot he was staring at before and— 

You forgot to grab that.

A picture of you holding flowers. Simon’s not in it; he’s on the other side of the camera, holding his phone your way. There’s a neon sign behind you, red and blue with small white dots blinking in the middle.

That place is a dive: the beer is subpar, and the patrons are sleazy. Beady eyes and grabby hands. Surrounded by alleys that smell of piss and might as well be a health hazard. It’s disgusting, and you have no clue how it is still standing. 

And yet, it’s so cherished.

Where you met him, at your lowest, burning with the darkest of sadness and the brightest of fury. He challenged your wit with his own, bought you a drink, and you took him home. He fucked you that night, fucked you so good you forgot your sorrows, and only knew his name.

He left his number scribbled on a napkin in your kitchen under a cup of (by the time you woke up) lukewarm coffee. Kissed you feverishly when you met again, and you remembered that life could taste of surprise and excitement and of someone else’s toothpaste. 

Until that toothpaste found place on your bathroom sink. His mug in the same cupboard as yours. Two forks and two knives, two glasses and two pillows, and two, two, two, until loneliness felt like a distant memory, anger like a fire sizzling out under the splash of clear water.

And then it came back, full force, like a punch to the gut given with spite.

You were unsure when it happened, when he started pulling away and hiding from you; you have ideas about it, perhaps when you moved in, or maybe when the years started to roll on by and people around you were having children and putting rings on their spouse’s finger. 

Likely, it started when love turned constant, safe and healthy. That’s when Simon pulled away because he felt like wearing a tight fit.

But still, in that picture, you were happy.

You remember it like it happened yesterday: the drizzle of rain in your hair, glossy drops on each petal clutched in your hands. Smile of a thousand suns as the flash from the camera made you squint. Simon grinning behind the phone, his kiss on your forehead right afterwards. 

You stand frozen stock still in front of it, as a younger version of you stares back. Your eyes intensely regard her, too. They burn and spill over, tears tracking down your cheeks unbidden.

Polar opposites, true, and yet she’s still you.

“I saw it, y’know.”

His voice travels in a rumble from one end of the hallway to you. Raucously soft, just like the wind that night. 

Gingerly, you turn your head, looking right above your shoulder. Simon is standing in front of the doorway of the bedroom, seemingly unfazed. Same strict posture, same straight back, and those thick arms folded neatly in front of him. 

A soldier, not your Simon. Or maybe just apparently, because there’s a whisper to his voice, a quiet breeze that’s gone unused for a long time and has been suddenly awakened.

“Saw how you changed. How I changed ya.” He gulps. “An’ when I noticed, you were already drifting away—didn’t have a clue how to keep ya.”

He rubs his nose. Sniffs. “Knew you’d leave. Just thought I’d hang on while I could.”

Of course.

Palm to your cheek, you rub away the dampness collected there and turn to face him. 

“We could’ve talked.” You tell him. "Dealt with it. It's what people do, you know?"

“We could’ve.”

“We didn’t.”

“No,” he breathes. “We didn’t.”

You swallow thickly. It hurts like barbed wire is clawing at your throat.

“We can do it now,” he says, taking a step forward. “We are doin’ it now.”

“It’s late.” You step backwards, hitting the wall. You flatten against it, dropping the duffel bag on the floor. 

“S'not.” He moves closer, boots softened. A soldier’s stance—measured, silent, like approaching something skittish. “No' if we say so.”

Instinctively, your head tilts to meet his eye.

A clink. Glass and wood knocking together against harder cement. It’s that photo, sliding against the wall as you pull back.

“It’s late.” You reiterate quietly.

Simon grabs your jaw to hold you still. It’s not a forceful grasp; you could easily shake your head away. You don’t. 

He’s captivating like that, fiercely pinning you in place with his eyes. He looks tired, doesn’t he? You look tired too, you reckon. At least you feel it, deep inside your bones, dripping liquor thick in your stomach. 

“Or maybe we’re right on time,” he murmurs.

Slowly, Simon leans in to kiss your lips, and it’s mere muscle memory guiding you to meet him halfway.

His hand trembles faintly when it lands on your hip, but the squeeze he gives there is as covetous as his eyes—lids fallen heavy, his pupils blown wide already, and there’s that tinge of pink on his cheeks that makes him more endearing even in his subtle desperation. 

It’s the most you’ve seen from him, probably the greatest show of emotion he’s displayed in a while. Feelings that should’ve bubbled at the surface in an even spread of time, but Simon works oppositely to what’s convenient, and he’s vomiting it all out in one instance only.

His fingers dimple your cheek, keeping your face in place as his kiss turns hungry and open, still slow. His tongue breaches the threshold of your lips, but thankfully there’s still some common sense left in your head, which prompts you to pull away just enough to break apart from him.

Simon’s breath is heavy, close. You can feel it catch in your lungs, his pulse climbing inside your own ribcage.

Though still panting, you nod with your chin his way. “You think we’re just in time? Talk, then.”

His throat bobs, but he never breaks his focus. His gaze dances between your eyes, lashes fluttering in a veiled show of nervousness. The hand around your jaw relents softly, palm dampened by your tears and his anxiety, and slides down your throat to settle on your chest.

“Talk, Simon, since you think we’re fucking alright.”

His jaw jumps when your voice hardens. 

You feel anger bubble again, rising up your throat like bile: if he won’t fight for you, then you’ll fight for yourself. For the person in the photo right behind your head.

“You thought you could fuck it out of me? That it?” You yell. “Thought you could soften me up like that and my bags would magically unpack?”

You push against his chest, and he barely flinches. A small concession on his part, to show you that he’s willing to take the brunt of your violence if you feel like punching the nose off his face. He’s telling you with his eyes, an invitation to release your anger on his body instead of his heart. 

He can patch flesh wounds easily, doesn’t know how to mend deeper ones. 

“Talk.”

But still, he keeps quiet. His shoulders unroll and straighten: he’s taller, broader, bigger than you, and yet ever so fragile. You use that, use it to your advantage, and push him again.

“Fucking say something!”

Palms flat to his chest, you shove him back. He stumbles but ultimately returns to his spot, eyes unreadable as he regards you down the crooked slope of his nose. 

“Fucking speak!”

Hauntingly, his silence stretches and reaches inside you, cracking the shell made of patient kindness and strenuous understanding. A dome viciously protecting months of heartbreak and pure, unadulterated rage—one that you’d been harbouring for longer than humanly bearable.

You break, finally, because he doesn’t. And to build up something again, you must start from rubbles.

“I hate this!” Your bellows rattle the quiet hallway. “I hate what you did to me!”

And as your hands land flat against him, wrapped in gauzes of guilt and rage unleashed, you barely notice the mist in your eyes growing thicker, the croak in your voice turning fierce.

“You—” Hit. “Made me—” Hit. “Hate you!”

Simon takes each shove like he was meant to, brickhouse that he is, and if you weren’t so lost in your own breakdown, you would’ve seen his own too. So unrestrained, etched in the wrinkles of his face, how they deepen for each blow he takes. 

And he takes them all, the tears and the yells and the I hate yous and the merciless hands. Until he can’t anymore, until your relentless shoves become too weak to shroud the searing pain festering inside him.

He lunges forward and grabs your wrists. One hand is all he needs to secure them both in place, pinning your arms to your chest.

“You said we’re just in time, and still you’re not fucking talking,” you seethe. “Proving once again that I’m alone in this! Proving that you’ll never fucking fight, that you’ll let life happen to you instead of doing something about it—about us!” 

Words rush out of your mouth unbidden, a force that he can’t stop by simply pinning your hands. You’re a wildfire, and water, if he wants to be it, is powerless against its magnitude. 

“You said you noticed, and still you did nothing to change it! Nothing!”

Unexpectedly, his voice crackles in the darkness—a flame coming to life. 

“Wan’ me to fight?”

Fire against fire can only sow destruction. Perhaps that’s what you two were meant to bring from the very beginning, when that same twisted rage united you at first.

“I’ll fight.”

You glower, red-eyed and furious. In turn, Simon crashes his lips to yours.

The kiss from before was a way to quell your fears; it was gentle and slow, a kiss meant to placate the torment written in your eyes—a kiss made to give.

Now, there is no build-up to hunger: he’s already there, devouring you whole, biting your mouth to open it for him, sliding his tongue inside to taste you and your tears.

A kiss made to take. 

And you, this time, won’t relent: you won’t give back. You twist and pull, push him away, and knock back your head. The photo hanging on the wall behind you rattles and unlatches from its nail, falling down. 

Abruptly, Simon reaches forward with his free hand, catching it on his palm—incredible reflexes, ones you almost forgot he had.

He breaks the kiss only to carefully hang the picture back in place. His cheeks are a furious red, and his mouth is glossy of spit, parted as he heaves. Still, he caresses the glass mounted on the frame gently, tracing your smile printed on paper.

It’s tender for a second, air tense and unmoving, but you’re feeling jittery and restless, so you try to free your wrist from the shackle of his hand.

Swiftly, his eyes return to you, and still there’s nothing you can clearly read in them—there’s sadness in his crow’s feet, frustration in the wrinkle of his mouth, wistfulness in his eyes. 

Like he misses you, but you’re right there, unchanged: he’s the one who’s turned himself inside out, a man you don’t recognize.

Before you can speak, however, he returns on you.

Simon’s kiss is ravenous, this time using his hand to grab the back of your neck and lock you in place. His thigh lodges between your legs, and you’re powerless against the strength of such a man. However, he must’ve underestimated your stubbornness, so you drown every moan threatening to escape behind a tight set of teeth.

“Never brought it up either, have ya?” He growls. 

You can feel the warmth of his palm envelop your breast before tightening in a grip that drips with lust and fury—a passion you rarely saw from him, if ever. He doesn’t bother teasing your nipple or circling it with his thumb; he just squeezes the fat in his hand, making a statement—you’re not leaving, not now.

You’re mine.

“It’s not about me,” you bark back.

He dips down your neck, alternating bites and a soothing tongue.

“It is,” he rumbles. “It’s the two of us, yeah?”

You close your eyes shut, because perhaps if you deprive yourself of one of your senses, the goosebumps will abate. Though the opposite happens, because your body decides that it needs to be aware, and so it focuses on his smell, on his touch, on his stupid tongue, taking away the sting from each bite.

Hands to his chest, you curl your fists around the fabric of his shirt and try to push him away, but it’s fruitless. His fingers tangle in the hair at the base of your neck and pull back, until your head once again knocks against the frame behind you.

“Why don’t you start, swee’heart?” He growls. You’re ashamed and frustrated to admit that it goes straight to your cunt. “Talk.”

“Fuck off, Simon.”

His mouth parts in a grin against your neck. His teeth are smooth to your skin, gliding up and down your pulse. He must feel it rise against his tongue, against the enamel of his canines: you’re sure that he could draw blood if he wanted to, if he could.

To your dismay, the thought only excites you.

“Nah,” he tuts. “That ain’t constructive.”

There, he unrolls his shoulders until he’s standing straight again. Briefly, his eyes land on the markings left on the side of your neck, slick with spit and dented by his teeth. Glorious pride flashes in his eyes, twinkles like a promise—a promise to do so much more.

You’ve seen so much of him tonight—raw, burning passion. The thrill of fighting for something. Fighting to win.

How much more could you have witnessed through the years, if only he’d allowed it? You'd have worn the burns of his fire proudly.

It makes you angrier. And apparently, that’s what fuels him.

He unlatches his hand from your breast and goes downward, steadily unbuttoning your jeans like it’s second nature. You don’t stop him, instead focusing on holding his eyes out of spite. 

“Talk,” he orders.

Your mouth curls. “You’re never home.”

“Uh uh,” he hums. 

His fingers don’t bother with pleasantries and find their way inside your knickers, as the band snaps against his knuckles.

He finds you dry and seems upset by it. Still, he traces the pad of his middle finger around your clit, dragging the skin of your folds to make it sting a little—subtle ways to deliver his idea of a punishment. However, it’s not there that he lingers. He journeys downwards, lining your slit until he reaches your hole. 

He tilts his head. “I got a job.”

And you tighten your brows angrily. “I told you already—it’s not that." 

Mercilessly, he plunges. Almost in second nature, your mouth parts. It burns, for you weren’t necessarily prepared for it—but those sparks are sometimes pleasurable, and with the trust you’ve always placed in him, you’ve only ever associated it with good times. 

Thus it’s hard to school your body to respond any differently, after years of having taught it that Simon equals good, that Simon equals orgasm.

He mimics you, opening his mouth like you do with yours—perhaps a bit mocking in nature, or maybe he’s enamoured and is experiencing his own sense of bliss.

Still, you’re undeterred, even as you feel wetness collect at your entrance and coating his finger. 

“You’re never home because you don’t want to be. The job doesn’t cut it.”

“Know it doesn’t,” he rumbles.

His finger prods around, looking for a patch of flesh that feels coarser and thicker. Easily, he finds it—years of practice. When your breath hitches just right, Simon starts moving. 

Your jaw jumps, teeth ground to dust. 

“Why, then?” You seethe.

But he clicks his tongue. “You talk now. I’ll talk after.”

“It’s not how it wo—fuck.”

Knowing you’d talk back, contest his rules, he leaves your hole empty and returns upward, where your clit’s engorged and welcomes his touch more pliantly than before.

His movements are slow and steady, wet with your arousal and drawing perfect circles that steal your breath and your reason.

“Talk,” he thunders. “What else.”

As if to ground yourself, your hand flies to his forearm and your nails dig deep, finding corded muscles flexing each time he moves his finger. 

“I’m an afterthought to your day,” you say through gritted teeth. “You take me for granted. Even when you’re here it’s like you aren’t.”

Simon tongues his cheek. Narrows his eyes, though that malice you saw before it’s shrouded by a certain gravity, like he’s truly taking in your words and not just coaxing an orgasm out of you. An orgasm that feels impending, just about to breach—but you stave it off, focus on that furious fire that’s slowly moulding with the lit-up flame of lust. You try to keep them separate, but it’s obvious, even to you, that they’ll eventually merge.

“I fell in love with a man who used to run back to me after deployments, and now—” your voice cracks, “—now you’d rather be fucking anywhere but home.”

Simon’s fingers slide over your clit with purpose, causing the knot of your stomach to tighten uncomfortably. Your chest burns with the lack of air, breaths sharp and shallow. Instinctively, your neck gives out in abandon, but Simon’s not there for it.

His hand fastens around a fistful of hair, and he tugs your head back. The sting is begrudgingly delicious, and you naturally revel in the control he has on you now.

Control he never exerted, always passive and waiting for you to take the lead. This is new and exciting, and how you wish you could’ve basked in it earlier instead of now that everything’s crumbling.

“Why the fuck did you ask me to move in, uh?” You yell. Your fist lands on his chest. “You don’t want me here! You don’t want to share—”

His eye twitches.

“Fuck, c’mere.” 

Simon’s hand slips out of your pants way too easily, leaving you with a feeling of unfulfillment and an annoying throb between your legs—one that’s suddenly forgotten when your feet are lifted off the floor, and your stomach is bent over his shoulder.

“What the f—put me down!” 

The first instinct is to punch his back, though you’re sure it’s all just a scratch to him. 

You’ve seen the skin there, thickened by scars whose story he only ever hinted at. They look like they were unimaginably painful once, when they still bled and stung. Whippings, perhaps, or knives—what happened in Mexico never left his lips, but specks of that story sometimes spill out of him when he’s drunk, or asleep.

Now he's determined, walking a straight line back to the bedroom, where you’re unceremoniously tossed on the bed.

Your back bounces on the mattress, and the world turning around before your eyes leaves you disoriented. Before you can prop yourself on your elbows, he’s on you again. Mouth to mouth, and you respond.

Perhaps because it feels good and you want to be selfish after years of selflessness. Perhaps because this rage has to go somewhere, and since thrashing the house or screaming your throat raw aren’t viable options, a good fuck might be it. 

Whatever the reason, your hands fly to the back of his head, pulling him in. Fingers grab his hair and tug, hoping it’d pass as a punishment. Simon’s groan says otherwise.

Your pants come off, his shirt soon after, until you’re both naked and warm, skin moulding into one.

Simon’s hand reaches between your bodies to grab his cock. Gives it a few quick pumps to coat it with precum and make it more bearable for the two of you. Then, you feel it prod at your entrance, as he angles his hips to find a comfortable position.

“Said you hate me.” He pants in your mouth.

You’re holding onto him like a lifeline—from your arms curling around his shoulders, to your legs spread open at his waist. 

“You made me.” You grunt through your teeth. “You fucking did this, I tried my best every ti—”

He starts entering you, and while you’re wet, it’s not enough to accommodate the size of him. No, not the size—the girth. Simon isn’t long as much as he’s thick, which has led to a lot of money being splurged on lubes and a lot of time spent riding his fingers.

He’s a few inches in, and all you can feel is your hamstrings collapsing under his weight and a burning stretch that ripples up your spine. Uncomfortable pleasure, ripping you open at his whim.

His head drops to your clavicle, lips to your chest, leaving slow kisses wherever they manage to land.

“Don’t stop on my account.”

“Fuck you,” you croak. “You didn’t prep me.”

“Well,” he huffs into your neck. “You didn’t look thrilled about me eating ya out.”

“Yeah, ‘cause we didn’t have to fuck, Simon.”

He pushes in deeper, and your teeth clamp down on his shoulder, tightening with every slide. His groans meet your bite—taut, pained, and edged with lust.

It’s with heavy guilt that you realize how cathartic it is to know you’re hurting him. 

When he finally bottoms out, you can barely breathe because of how stuffed you feel. Pressure grows in your stomach as he fills it, and on your chest as he collapses onto it. The coarse hairs on his pelvis are flush to your clit, and he knows all it takes is the roll of his hips and you’ll unravel under him.

It’s why he doesn’t do it. Keeps you dithering, toeing the line between pleasure and pain, and makes the scale tip towards the latter.

You feel like you’re going insane.

“No, we had ta,” he replies, breath uneven. “’Cause you don’t hold back when we do. Go on, then. Ou' with it.”

It’s different from the previous times you’ve had sex, in which you were lax and wet and open. In which love overflowed and drowned you both. Simon now seems to have as his personal goal to punch the words out of you.

Every thrust is deliberately harsh. Your nails drag down his back, red lines threading the contours of his spine, until they find purchase where his muscles fold and harden.

“Fucking—” Thrust. “Selfish—” Thrust. “Bastard.”

His mouth draws the line of your jaw. Sucks your skin between his teeth on the slope of your neck. Tingles follow the burn, rippling in waves of goosebumps down your arms.

“I’ve—” Thrust. “Given you—” Thrust. “Everything.”

Simon sucks in a breath. His hips falter, trembling in the cradle of your thighs. Swiftly, he pistons into you, knocking the air out of your lungs. It’s so jarring and sudden that, for a moment, you don’t know how to breathe.

He falls still, panting right into your mouth.

“Go on,” he croaks. 

“You took, and took, and took it all,” you groan. “And gave fucking nothing!”

He pushes himself flush to you. Words die on your tongue; only a raucous moan remains strangled in your throat. His hips roll, finally stimulating your clit again. Stars are all you see as your eyes fall shut. 

It feels like you’re breathing in a plastic bag: air short and unbearably hot, condensation building inside your lungs.

“You—You made me feel so—” A breath, ragged and closing down your windpipe. “—so fucking lonely.”

When you open your eyes, his brows are pinched, focused. You don’t know what he finds on your face that has him so rattled—must be heartbreaking though, because his forehead wrinkles, the corners of his eyes soften.

“Lonely?” He echoes, tasting the word like one he knows best already. 

Your mouth wobbles, pulled by anger and sadness alike.

“So fucking lonely,” you pant. 

Simon kisses your cheek in a private, quiet reverence. Regret drawn in the lines of his face.

“I’m sorry,” he mouths to your skin.

You clench your jaw. Your nose stings, eyes full, and you sniffle. “It doesn’t cut it.”

“I know,” he croaks, looking back at your face. “Think y’ deserve to hear it anyway.”

His mouth wrinkles, the scar that crosses it tightens with bitterness. You almost want to touch it, and your hand regrettably acts before your mind can even conceive the thought itself. The pads of your fingers trace his lips, journeying to the stretch of thicker flesh that runs pale across them.

“Say it,” he breathes.

You blink your focus back to his eyes, hand frozen to his mouth.

He starts again with a slow pace. Tears trickle down your temples into your hair.

You bite your cheek, iron floods your tongue.

“I hate you.”

He bottoms out. 

“I hate you.”

Pulls back. Your pussy clenches around his tip, wants him back, so you hook your heels at his tailbone and force him to plunge inside you again.

“I hate you.”

“I love you,” he whispers. 

He holds your eyes. They’re blurry, glossy with bottomless sadness, with remorse, with dark, glutinous shame. 

“I hate you,” you croak instead.

“I love you.”

Simon’s hand travels down the valley of your breasts, brushing fingertips clinging to the sweat beading your skin.

Your chest heaves, your lungs tighten. You cry, wail so loud it breaks you like fine porcelain. His arm snakes beneath the curve of your spine, holding you close to himself, as he props his weight on his elbow by your head.

“I love you,” he murmurs. “Fuck—I love you so much—”

Every single thrust is deep, as if he’s trying to fill you completely to remind you of easier times, when this wasn’t a way to say goodbye.

You don’t think it’s a habit anymore when you wrap your arms around his neck and sob into his shoulder. You think it’s survival, your raft in this restless tide.

Simon kisses your shoulder fervently, each touch long and wet. “My perfect girl—my girl—”

You protest, but your hatred dies down your throat and translates into another cry.

The creases in his tone hint at his distress, how hard he’s trying to tell you what’s inside his head, even though it’s against this code he’s got for himself. How hard he’s trying to keep a clear mind, even though he’s got you wrapped around him tight and soft, like you’re made of silk.

He slams his hips flush to yours. His lungs fill with shallow breaths.

You feel your fire dim. You feel it reach out. Touch his, mingle. Bloom.

“Easiest thing,” he rumbles, rolling his hips until your sobs turn moans. “To fuckin’ love ya.”

Two angry fires can only sow destruction once they merge. Perhaps that’s what you two were meant to bring from the very beginning.

Alas, ashes fertilize the earth, and maybe life can grow back if one takes care of it. Quietly, two hearts instead of one can deal with the consequences of the devastation they brought. Patiently, four hands instead of two can carefully work the soil to see it prosper.

Simon fucks you softly, now. Collects your tears on his fingers, never leaves your mouth unattended, kissing each sob you yield, drinking it in. Then, his arm reaches between your bodies, and he finds the knot of your clit. 

You feel your orgasm rear its head again. Still unwanted, still out of place. You try to stave it off as it wraps around you like vines, constricting your throat.

“You can—fuck—you can go if tha’s what you want—” 

The knot in your stomach coils, stiffens. 

“But fuck—oh, fuck swee’heart—"

Your legs tremble around his waist, locked knees digging into his hips, and cramps stinging your calves.

“Stay. Please.”

You come around him, squeezing him with everything you have. You hold him to you, grit your teeth through an orgasm that doesn’t have the catharsis you hoped it would bring. 

You feel full and empty, unfathomably sad and drenched in ecstasy. It feels wrong and right, impossible and real, happening to you against your will, and still, you welcome it wholly. 

“That’s it,” he rumbles to your mouth, licking the tears that stream on your tongue. “Fuckin’ hell—take it, pet—“

He fills you up, slams his hips, and spills inside. You feel it hot and wet, running in your belly and around his shaft. Flooding you entirely, clogging your throat with moans that blend with your sobs. 

Simon holds you there. You don’t move, dropping your legs wide open in pure exhaustion. The silence breaks with your breaths, cracks with haunting cries and the clicks of his kisses down your throat—helpless attempts to soothe your heart.

His chest stutters, perhaps in a goodbye, perhaps in a plea. Whatever it is, it stains you wet down your neck. 

Did you have to scream to make him cry? Did you have to break his heart, be cruel, turn into the person you’ve been trying to suppress?

All that rage, you’d managed to chain it in your chest. You’d found a balance, both of you. You’d found a way to turn it into your prisoner, so it would let you live peacefully. Did you have to unleash that beast for him to show you the heart he so viciously protects?

When your breathing evens out, Simon lifts himself off of you enough to look into your eyes. His cheeks are ferociously red, his pupils glossy.

You’ve never seen him cry. You wish you had.

Does it make you a bad person, or does it make you human?

“Were you happy?” He asks.

You sniffle. “I was.”

“Are you happy?”

A beat.

“No.”

Something inside him crumbles. It flashes rapid and bright, a meteorite wrecking the earth, and then vanishes. But he doesn’t restore himself. He makes no move to carve his face back into the cold mask you knew—the one he wore when he came home before.

He stays broken like that, before you, and doesn’t plead. 

“I want to be,” you add. “But I’m so tired.”

His mouth curls. His forehead to yours, diving down. He holds you there, cups your jaw firmly so you couldn’t stray away even if you wanted to. 

“S’alright,” he murmurs. “S’alright.”

A deep breath. He sucks it from you, taking it with a kiss.

“Jus’ stay for tonight?”

Too exhausted to fight it, you fall asleep swaddled in his arms. Naked, skin to skin, wrapped in a comfortable duvet and in the smell of him—one you haven’t had touch you in so long. 

Briefly, you think how nice it is to bury your nose in his chest instead of cold bedsheets.

When you wake up, the sun is not even in the sky. The light peeking through the curtains is pale, that of a moon just shy of falling asleep herself.

Your eyes are puffy, but you manage to focus on his shape as he sleeps peacefully on his back.

He looks vulnerably soft, mouth parted to breathe because his nose was broken more than a couple of times and was set back all wrong. Only scars on his face: a thick curve on his cheekbone, one crossing his brow, a jagged line down his lips. No wrinkles, skin blessed with rest. 

Anger leaves its mark, always. But for now, it seems absent. You catch yourself wondering if you look the same, too.

But he’s still Simon Riley, and he must feel the weight of your eyes on him. Without even opening his own, he sighs blissfully and shifts in bed, using the arm he had underneath your neck to pull you in closer. 

You find yourselves face to face, sharing the same pillow. Usually, he’d kiss you and turn the other way, pretending to sleep until he’d hear your breathing even out. Now his knuckles brush the raw skin of your cheek. The flesh is still tender from tears and slumber, wrinkled in places by the folds of the pillowcase.

You close your eyes.

“Alrigh’?” He asks

Quietly you hum, because you’re much too tired to string a sentence that would explain the turmoil inside.

You just want this piece of normality to last a second longer—even a minute or two, because you deserve to be greedy. And Simon seems to agree, because his chest rumbles, pleased, and your skin becomes his playground.

Nails draw gently down your back, cheeky fingers pinch the fat of your hips, stealing a sleepy smile from your mouth.

You sink into that bubble, a gentle space that carries the faint taste of those early days together—when everything was clumsy, uncertain, and yet inexplicably comfortable.

Time stretches with your head in his arms. All that rage withers, dissipates, and it’s replaced by a silence that holds its breath. You both know it’s time. Simon keeps his promise, and breaks it first.

“Y’know me,” he starts. “Wasn’t made for this. Didn’t know what love was till you. Still didn’t get it, not really. Was a bit lost, eh?” 

The bubble around you pops. He sighs. “Knew deep down I’d be bad at this. Us. Never trusted myself to commit properly. Not like you deserve. But fuck, I wanted to try.”

You open your eyes. Blink your focus back to him.

“An' I did. Tried everythin’ till I found my footin’. I learned from ya,” he breathes. “Said what you said. Did what you did. You smiled, so I thought—yeah. That’ll do.” 

His breath is staggered for a moment; that fight against his tongue that wants to stay tied. Gulping, he uncoils the knot, softens its tightness, and goes on.

“Didn’t think for myself. You looked happy an’ tha’ was enough, eh? Woulda done anything not to lose ya. But it was never ‘bout trust—trusted you from day one. Still do.”

He sighs. “Don’t ever think I don’t.”

“Were you happy?” You ask him back.

Simon’s brows tighten questioningly, as if you just asked something completely irrelevant to the argument he’s making.

“You were,” he replies simply, like it’s obvious. “So I was.”

The question rolls off your tongue easily, prompted by his words. 

“Are you happy?” 

His answer is smooth and delivered rapidly, as if ready to be uttered finally. 

“Not if you go.”

Tears track down your cheeks. You feel disoriented, nauseous like you’re being tossed around at sea.

“Do you love me, Si?” You croak. “Or do you love me just because I love you?”

Smart man, him. Brilliant, you correct yourself. Still this concept seems foreign to him, and your question leaves him stumped. And as he frowns in thought, he takes note of the deeper wrinkles creasing your brow, the crow’s feet clawing out of your eyes, the saddened curve of your mouth.

His hand comes to cup your jaw again, failing in the intent to mitigate the soft hiccups you’re drowning behind tight lips. 

“Not a poet, love,” he breathes a self-deprecating laugh. “I dunno how to make it better, not with all these doubts you’ve got. I’ve been rubbish at this—really have.”

He takes in a deep breath. Steadies himself.

His eyes fall to your mouth, tracing the line of your nose—he’s not studying you, not trying to pluck thoughts and feelings from your tells. He’s finding comfort in what he knows, what he cherishes. You give him strength, always have: from the picture he keeps in his wallet, to the ring hanging from the chain around his neck, beating against his heart for each step he takes. 

Whether he’s stroking his thumb over it or burning your image behind his eyelids, Simon feels his resolve harden into steel—unbreakable, polished, resilient.

He does that now: finds strength in the shape of you. Strength to speak his mind, his heart—shed the lieutenant’s robe and leave the man beneath it naked and vulnerable.

“Ran off when I saw I wasn’t enough,” he says low. “Didn’t have it in me to make it better—didn’t know how. Took jobs instead.”

His voice steadies. Quiets. It’s like a breeze, brushing on your mouth for every word he speaks.

“Thought if I made myself scarce, you’d miss me and that’d do it.”

“Not how it works,” you croak.

“I know,” he offers. “Saw my plan fuckin’ crumble each time I saw ya cry. But I was helpless, love. Didn’t know where to start.”

Gently, he inches closer. He’s cautious, like he’s lost the right to kiss you. His nose tips to yours, and he sways his head, skin kissing skin. 

“But s’you,” he whispers, thumb tracing the line of your lip. “Them little things you do when you think I ain’t lookin’. Tha’s when I feel it most.”

He swallows thick, lips soft. “I’d love ya even if you hated me. Know I do now. Wasn’t takin’ the piss when I said I never had to try.”

He’s so close he could kiss you, and you wouldn’t even bat an eye if he did. You’d kiss him back, most likely. Truthfully, you’d probably end up fucking again. But Simon doesn’t; he just touches your cheek, breathes your air, skims his nose to yours. 

“Don’t got the right to ask,” he whispers. “But gimme ‘nother chance to make it right.”

“Sim—”

“Jus’ another chance to see ya like tha’ night.”

The argument dies on your tongue. Questioningly, you frown.

“Tha’ picture,” he replies quietly. “S’my favourite. Glad you forgot to grab it.”

Your brows flutter to your forehead, mouth softened in muted smile.

“Fancy goin’ to tha’ pub tonight?”

You shake your head softly, sighing from your nose. “It’s in fucking Leeds.”

“I’ll drive.”

The corner of his mouth hooks up. His eyes find yours, soft but failing to hide the anticipation—a look you’ve rarely seen, if ever.

It’s hard to tell at this point whether this is him or if it’s just another mask. It’s hard to say if you’re falling into another trap, or if he’s trying. Finally, finally fighting for the life he wants, not the one he has.

You bite the corner of your lip. It’s a crossroads, really. There’s no middle ground: you either leave or you give him another chance. Not one of those roads seems easy; none of them seems to come without pain.

Reasonably, you should leave. Leave, and start anew. Maybe far away from him, where his influence cannot be felt. Cut off communications and mend your heart intimately, your hands alone. Reasonably, that is the right thing to do. 

But you know reason has no claim here—not a single, bleeding say.

Your stomach uncoils. Your eyes soften, lips curling and wrinkling your cheeks.

You snort, trying to hide the sniffle your tears bring. “I’d never get in a car if you’re at the wheel—Christ—”

And at that, Simon blooms.

His smile is wide, lovely, and unprecedented, cracking his face in two asymmetrical halves.

One cheek wears a dimple, the other only scars; his eyes wrinkle, but only one folds more tightly. His teeth are uneven, the angle of his left incisor chipped. He’s imperfect and ragged. Imprecise and beautiful.

He laughs openly and boisterous, bit too loud considering the criminally early hours of the morning.

You shush him, as your lips surrender to his infectious laughter, and crack a chuckle too.

You palm his face, covering his mouth. There you feel it, each vibration of his happiness, each breath he takes, tinged with hope and subtle relief, as it tiptoes on your fingers—treading lightly, like he’s still cautious about it but God, oh God, is it hard not to hope big. 

You understand. It’s hard for you, too.

So, you give in when he kisses your palm. You soften, against better judgment, and slide your hand off his face.

“I’ll drive,” you say.

He huffs, smirking. “Mh. You drive. Alrigh’.”

His hand lands on your cheek, and then Simon kisses you.

Intimate and quiet, like it’s the first time he’s ever done it, but with unmatched confidence. Inhales, breathes you in, and lets go.

His forehead rests on yours. You sigh.

It’s useless to build this on hope exclusively. On dreams of a rose-tinted future, on mutual, unbreakable trust.

Truth is, trust has been broken already, dreams are evanescent things, and feelings are overwhelmingly complicated. The best thing you both can do is be truthful, transparent. 

“I’m not sure how much will change,” you whisper. “I can’t promise it’ll go smoothly, okay?”

You see him swallow. Tongue his cheek. But his nod is confident, precise.

“I know,” he says. “Wouldn’t expect it t’be easy, eh?”

You hear the sizzling embers of a fire that’s scorched you both. The rising sun twinkles on the cinders littering the floors, ashes falling like snow. It’s warm, it’s burnt.

It’ll take strength, patience, and the willingness to build everything from scratch side by side, to repair what’s been lost.

Brick by brick, layered one on top of the other. 

“C’mere,” he says.

You shuffle around until your back hits his chest. Simon drapes his arm over you, and your fingers intertwine loosely, natural instinct to bind once more.

A muted thud. The red and golden crackle of sparks flying off the burnt soil. Smoke billows from underneath.

The first brick hits the ground. Four hands hold it firmly and push it down, dig it in, stabilize it. Fingers brush in thankfulness, smear each other’s skin with soot and ashes.

Then, they turn, picking up the pieces.

[saintquincy]

Part Two: spiritus vindictae

Part One | Series | AO3 | Tips

Ghost has waited long enough for his freedom, he's hungry and horny and knows exactly what will satiate him.

CW: mdni, dd:dne, dubcon/noncon, smut/monsterfucking, descriptions of violence/gore, mentions of satanic rituals, THERE WILL BE BLOOD- complete warnings and tags

He didn’t know his name, not anymore, but the humans often called him Ghost and he had decided it was as good as any other name. Ghost didn’t know how long he had been here haunting these halls, but it had been years since those three idiots had clumsily said the words that summoned him. It hadn’t even been a proper incantation, but it was close enough to scratch at the periphery of his senses, something like the scrambling of a mouse behind a wall, muffled by layers of insulation and drywall, but persistent nonetheless.

If nothing else it had been a tasty treat, three deliciously wayward souls and their sacrifice who had been clinging to life despite the way she had been left by her friends.

That had been his last meal, but what was years to him when he had existed for eons. And yet, the hunger crept up on him, drawing away at the form he didn’t bother to take most of the time. He existed as a ghost more than he ever existed as himself, incorporeal, ghastly, formlessly floating through the dilapidated halls.

No longer a creature of brimstone, blood and bone.

It had been years since Ghost had been bothered by the comings and goings of humans. When the mood struck him he would torment his visitors, their fear was tasty but often left him wanting more. He hadn’t been surprised when the man he had long come to think of as the groundskeeper appeared at the front door with a group of men, boys really, all jittery and eager to enter his domain.

Ghost had watched the tour, he had been here long enough that the very walls of the factory were part of him. He could be everywhere and no where, it took very little energy to monitor the tour, to learn the plans these boys had for his domain.

Another group of wannabe ghost hunters, little boys with their video cameras and voice recorders, and beating hearts that raced when they tried to act tough.

Gonna be a killer backdrop for the new episode.

The fans are gonna eat this the fuck up.

Get your girl all dolled up and then we can scare the shit out of her.

At first it had all been meaningless to Ghost, the tour, the plans, the boys entering the incinerator room and standing in the shadow of the beastly relic. This is where Ghost did the most work because this was the place his control, his connection to this realm was strongest.

It was the place he had been birthed into this world.

Then they were gone, slipping out like they had never been here at all.

But they returned, with more gear, more cameras, more people. It was tiresome. The talking, the lights, the smells. Sweaty men hunched over, setting up equipment, already dressed for the much cooler night with their cargo pants, black sweatshirts, and beanies pulled down to cover thinning hair.

Ghost could smell their desires, their dreams, even the ones they pushed down and would never admit. It came with the territory, you couldn't make a deal with the devil if the devil didn't know what they were working with.

These people wanted fame, fortune and fucking. It was tediously boring.

Ghost typically didn't bother to plan how he would mess with his visitors, he simply was there and when the fancy struck him he would act. But there was something about this bunch that irked him. The leader of the group, with his preening in any reflective surface he could find, would be Ghost's target, get him alone and give him something to be properly scared about.

Any other night he would have lazed around as the men worked, faceless crew after faceless crew preparing for the investigation. He would have waited until late into the night to make his move, let them work themselves up and wait until their guard was down, their eyes heavy with sleep, when their own imaginations would do most of the work for him.

It would have been just another night for him had you not arrived.

Ghost felt you before he saw you. His target had left at some point in the evening, his words meaningless to Ghost, all that mattered was the promise to return.

What Ghost had missed in his apathy towards the men was that the promise was to return with you.

Ghost starts to piece it together, the bits and pieces of words and phrases that he's picked up on. You are the one the other men plan to scare, you are the one they plan to tie up all nice and pretty for him. He saw the ropes, the carefully moved furniture, the cleared area on the floor because this idiot may be dumb enough to bring you here into Ghost's lair but he cared enough about you to make sure you weren't lying on rocks and twigs and all the other trash that had been dragged in over the years.

Ghost studies the leader with a renewed interest. Ghost's target is more than just some friend to you, he's your boyfriend, your lover. Ghost pays attentions to his desires, the way he looks at you when you climb out of the back of the van, changed into an outfit that felt out of place among the rest of the crew.

You call the man Jake, your voice is soft and placating when you speak to him. You could be a goddess, but you make yourself small for this boy.

Ghost may primarily know a human's desires, but he can know other things, he can feel your unease as you pull at the bottom hem of the skirt and your frown is strong enough to cut through everything else. Its twisted around in your desire to be anywhere but here.

Beneath that unease, beneath that desire to leave? A simmering, burning rage that grows stronger as you walk around the factory, as you stand to the side while the other little boys play with their toys.

You are a gift from the universe to Ghost, and he will gladly accept.

The hunger is back.

The gnawing hunger. The same one he felt the night he was summoned here. Its hard to ignore as the men go about their work, so many tasty treats for him to sink his teeth into. They can't see him, not now, even if he tried he would be no more than a shadowy figure. He needed to focus, to pull himself back together.

Pull himself back together so that he can have you all to himself.

He's patient, he doesn't crowd you, doesn't want you to feel his presence looming over your shoulder. He takes his time knitting back together the tendrils that had snuck further away from him. Ghost is the thing that exists just out of sight, just over your shoulder, just in the periphery. The parts of him that he pulls back are the things that give life to dark shadowy corners of the plant, they are that feeling of being watched, of being touched, phantom fingers that touch the backs of necks.

Ghost stays the the far edge of the room, an office that was long abandoned before he had been summoned here. He watches with little interest as your boyfriend directs the crew. Its obvious that he enjoys the attention, enjoys being the center of attention. His desire to be a star leaves an arid taste in Ghost's mouth. But he isn't the only one, there is another one whose desire for stardom is strong.

Ghost can make him a star.

His name is Liam. Ghost can taste Liam from where he stands, stitching himself together. He's talking to someone else on the crew, whispering something that has the other crew member smiling viciously, looking across the room at you.

can't wait to see the fatty all tied up.

bet you twenty she cries.

You are too far away to hear what they are saying, but Ghost can see that you shift from foot to foot, eyes darting around the room. These men do not deserve you, that idiot boyfriend of yours doesn't deserve you.

the fans are going to fucking love the ritual, she's a waste of space otherwise.

Ghost can't take it anymore, he wishes he had his body already, he would risk your fear if it meant he could rip this man's throat out. He doesn't have the energy for that yet, but he lashes out regardless, his hand passing through the equipment closest to him, until something sticks, his fingers catch on the stand of a light, pushing at it until the top heavy fixture falls to the floor with a crash.

You scream, the sound cuts through everything Ghost is, halting all thoughts until there is only you. He licks his lips, he can taste your fear on the air, a delicious bouquet compared to the stench of the men around you.

If you fear tastes this good he cannot wait to taste your desire right from the source.

By the time you are being led to him he feels the more solid than he has since he was summoned here. He can do far more damage now than making things go bump in the night, can do more than ghostly ghastly touches on the back of necks. Knocking over the lamp was just the beginning.

Ghost has plans now, his own desires that he needs a body for. He might not have had a need for fame or fortune but fucking, the need to fuck you might have been a stronger than the hunger.

The air was thick with the scent of your fear as your boyfriend guided you to the floor. That and the rage. The rage sat heavy on Ghost's tongue as he let it hang from his mouth, the firm feeling of it undulating was foreign after so long incorporeal.

With you tied up all nice and pretty for him, the boyfriend started to talk. Ghost was used to this, they were all the same, the tragedy, the terror, the spirits, the rumors of something more, something before. Ghost had never seen anything in his time here to suggest there was more than him, no ghosts, no lingering presences.

Miserére nobis; súscipe deprecatiónem nostram.

It wasn't the right words, not really, but Ghost felt the intent behind them, the desire, the trickle of power.

You were a perfect little lamb for him, a suitable sacrifice to pacify his hunger, one of his hungers. The rest of them, the bleating sheep who saw this as their moment in the spotlight? He would devour them as well.

Ghost would eat well.

First, he needed to take care of his lamb.

Then he could finished the ritual.

He waited patiently as the crew did their final checks. And then they were gone and you were left with your thoughts.

Ghost crept forward, his movements silent, his shadowy form flickering in and out of existence. It was tedious to be so present.

Your thoughts were loud as you fought against your restraints. Ghost tasted your frustration on the air, tongue whipping around in search of more.

Ghost found no love, no warmth, no longing in your feelings, your only desired was for your boyfriend to return and free you. Yet you stubbornly said nothing, laying there like the good lamb you were.

You deserved more.

Ghost would give you more.

In this form Ghost couldn't see the whole factory the way he typically could, but he could still sense that the crew had started their investigations, could tell they were spread out across the sprawling property, their cameras turned on, the lights turned off.

The perfect hunting grounds.

You were still quiet, silent as you gritted your teeth and pulled against the rope. Silent as you raged internally against the world. Silent until he took the first corporeal step against the gritty concrete floor. Followed by a second and a third.

"I'm actually really mad at you right now, Jake. You're such a fucking asshole, you know that?"

Jake.

Jake's fear would taste delicious as Ghost carved out his heart and completed the ritual.

You wouldn't have to worry about ending things with him, Ghost would take care of that for you.

He let you curse the man you thought he was, let you fight against the restraints, your anger curling in around him, his form strengthened by the hate and the rage and the want.

He could help you in so many ways.

You drew him in in a way no other ever had. You were a flame and he was a moth searching for the sun.

Ghost reached out a hand, the form stuttering as he focused on keeping himself together, keeping himself solid. His knuckles pressed against the soft skin of your cheek, it was tender. Your skin was cool, chilled by the frigid air.

He didn't want to stop, you begged for him to let you go, you didn't recognize the difference between his touch and the touch of others, but you would. He would brand himself into you, into your skin, into your soul. There wouldn't be a part of you that didn't recognize him.

Your anger, even misdirected at him, aroused him. Desire moving him forward as he tossed away the dagger, guiding his hands to slip beneath your sweatshirt. He peeled back your one piece of warmth to reveal your lush curves, the peaks of your breasts, hard nipples pressed again the thin material of your shirt, the bra you wore doing little to contain you.

Ghost ran a finger over one of those peaks, relishing in the way your shivered, the way you pressed up for more, the way your moaned, low in your throat. You were fighting your desire, fighting your arousal, but you couldn't hide it from him.

He needs more, he needs everything you have to offer.

You want him to fuck you, he feels your arousal, smells it sticky in the air. You words, dripping like honey on his tongue, begging for it, for more, for everything.

"The camera, babe, please let me go."

Babe. The word gives him pause, because you might want this, but you don't yet know that you want him.

And the cameras. He's not sure what they would even pick up of him in the form, not once since he had been trapped here has he been photographed or filmed in this form, corporeal and whole. He's always been the dark, shadowy figure in the corner of the frame.

He could disrupt it, it would be annoying if one of those other crew members were to notice something off with their offering. Ghost would hate to be interrupted before he was done with you. And yet, he wanted the footage for himself, he wanted to be able to relive this moment over and over. The moment he was offered salvation.

But he sensed your unease, the shift in your emotions. He wanted you present, he wanted you to enjoy this as much as he was.

Reluctantly he untangled himself from you, standing and stretching his unused muscles before walking to each camera and clicking it off the way he had watched crew after crew do.

When he returned he knelt at your side, reaching out and pressing a warm hand to your cheek. The surprise you felt at the touch, the aching loss of something Ghost couldn't understand because he couldn't comprehend why you were with a man so clearly undeserving of you.

Ghost would devourhis soul, and then he would eat the flesh from his bones and maybe that would be enough. And if not, there was plenty of other members of the crew who had wronged you, who were deserving sacrifices to complete the ritual.

It doesn't take much to push his way between your thighs, making a space for himself, the weight of your legs on his thighs further grounding him.

Ghost doesn't waste time, his fingers exploring every inch of your skin, the peaks and valleys of your curves, maneuvering you until your in a position that leaves you perfectly exposed to him.

Your newfound arousal was dizzying, and Ghost could forgive you for mistaking him for your lover, for wishing it was him that was touching you. There would be plenty of time for you to make it up to Ghost.

"Please," your voice was breathy, desperate, you arched up looking for more, something to finally touch you.

Ghost flipped up your skirt, claws careful of your skin as he rips through the tights to separate you from him. Claws sheathed, he rubs a finger along the sticky wetness that clung to the thin material of your panties, gathering as much as he could before taking his first taste of you.

He swallowed down the growl he was certain would give him away, a possessive heat building in his chest as he tried to ignore the fact that you thought this attention, this arousal was all for another man.

Ghost was more than a man, more than any human, he could give you more than any mere mortal ever could.

He couldn't wait, he slipped his fingers beneath the drenched panties, his thumb finding your clit, slick with need and throbbing for attention. Your muted whimpers had him aching for more, aching to to fill you. It wouldn't take, but Ghost could certainly try.

You clenched your teeth, jaw clicking, neck straining as you tried to be quiet. Ghost wanted your sounds, wanted to know that his fingers were just as skilled after years trapped here.

"I'm gonna cum," your words were hurried, repeating over and over. Ghost knew what was coming before you did, he could feel your pleasure building in a way no other lover of yours had understood before him. A sense of understanding that was innate, a part of him, his pace and pressure adjusting in just the right way, until your back arched and something in you let go.

It was enough to snap his control, his hands gripping at the flimsy fabric of your panties, the material tearing with the most minimal of effort before he was plunging two fingers into the wet, hot heat of your cunt, your walls fluttering around him, the tension of your previous orgasm still coursing over you.

The afterglow was not enough to distract you from the difference between Ghost's fingers and those of your former lover. Ghost could sense your confusion, could see the way your brow furrowed beneath the blindfold.

He couldn't have you ruining their fun.

Ghost curled his fingers, feeling for that spongy spot that he knew would have you seeing stars, fingers pressing firmly against it once he found it. An unrelenting pressure that had you losing focus of your thoughts.

Ghost couldn't help but rock his hips forward, hard cock pressed against your ass, teasing himself knowing it wouldn't take much for him to slip his fingers free of you and replace them with his cock.

If you thought his fingers were unrecognizable, you had never taken a cock like his before.

"Fuck me, please fuck me."

His fingers stopped without thought, pulling out from your cunt to give space for his cock. He shifted, his cock resting against you, the touch of your skin against him, unbidden, exposed.

It wouldn't take much for him to cum at this rate.

He rolled his hips forward, his cock resting at the apex of your thighs, his shaft slipping through your slickness, the smooth glide against your clit had your hands clenching again, the pleasure an almost tangible thing.

You wanted him now, he might not have been able to know your exact thoughts, but your desire, despite the confusion, despite the fact that his cock was nothing like what your boyfriend had, despite the fact that some part of you knew something was wrong…your desire was strong.

Ghost had never contemplated his death, never contemplated what came next for a being like him, born of sin, already tethered to a hellish existence, but as he slipped into the sweet heat of your cunt he thought he might just understand heaven.

He wanted nothing more than to stay with you, to burrow beneath your skin, to make you his, body and soul. But the cracking of the walkie, the grating voice of your lover and his companions broke the spell. Ghost would have to deal with them before he could deal with you.

He felt the fear creeping in, your desire shifting from that primal desire that clung to his tongue to something bitter and burnt.

That wouldn't do.

"Thought I would have more time with you, lamb."

"What are you?"

Was there an answer to that question? A demon or devil? Recently the thing that went bump in the night, the ghost that haunted these halls. He was no longer the trickster waiting at the crossroads to prey on the desperate, the destitute, the ones who had no other choice but to make a deal.

He would be whatever you wanted of him.

"I am your redemption, your salvation," he murmured the words into your neck, the tinny voices from the walkie distracting you, pulling your attention away from him, away from where it belong.

He pressed forward, the fit deliciously tight as his cock bullied its way further into you. You clenched around him despite the hesitancy, despite the fear.

You wanted him.

You needed him.

He needed you to want him, to wait for him to avenge you, wait for him to free himself from this cage that those idiots had unwittingly locked him in, and then, then the world would be at your disposal.

You needed to see him. He did not wait to consider the impression seeing him in this form might have. His fingers moved mindlessly, slipping beneath the tear soaked blindfold and pulling it off your face.

You blinked, lashes clumped with tears, eyes wide as you struggled to look anywhere but at him. What would you see?

It doesn't matter, once he has taken care of his hunger he can be whatever you want him to be. He leans forward, whispering promises to return, promises he will keep.

Ghost indulges himself, tasting you one last time before leaving. He has work to do.

First, Ghost would find the man who was stupid enough to insult you.

Liam.

He wasn't hard to find. Liam had drawn the killing floor from the hat.

The ground here was soaked with the blood of slaughtered animals. The narrow walkways used to guide the beasts from the holding area to where they were killed, drained of blood, their carcasses then carted off for processing. The complex series of pulleys had long ago rotted from the ceilings, but the paths were still visible, some of the meat hooks still littered the dark corners.

Many visitors found this room unsettling.

Liam was already afraid before Ghost found him. He stood alone, his head darting from side to side while he talked to the camera. He had one of the handhelds, using the screen of it to see what the night vision saw. His steps were slow, careful. He looked where he stepped each time, occasionally stopping to take a reading.

Ghost had watched countless investigations, with varying degrees of interested. It was easy to manipulate the equipment, to create spikes on EMF detectors, create hot spots and cold spots. If he wanted he could interact through the Ovulus or the spirit box and maybe it had been fun at first, in the early years when the technology was new and Ghost had been trapped here long enough to crave the attention, the connection with the outside world.

But now, he was going to use it to his advantage.

There was an area of the factory where a leak had started years ago, the constant drip drip dripping of water each time it rained had eaten away at the wall there, over time corroding the cement flooring until it was near to crumbling. The groundskeeper had yet to notice it, in his youth he might have, might have seen the cracks growing across the floor in the corner of the cavernous room, but he was older now, Ghost knew about the cancer that was eating away at his bones and was not yet uncovered by his doctors.

The neglect meant that there was a place where the flooring was just as brittle as that old man's bones. A little bit of pressure, one wrong step and it would come crumbling down. It wouldn't take much.

It wouldn't be a kind death to whoever had the misfortune of stepping on that spot. If they were lucky they would fall just right to break their neck, crush their head, but if they were unlucky, if their name was Liam and they had a devil watching over them?

Ghost slipped through the dark with ease, letting the air cool around him as he went. Liam would feel the cold spot, he was steps away from the trail.

Like clockwork the man froze, eyes wide as he looked around the room.

"Woah, I just walked through a crazy cold spot. I'm talking frigid. Look at my arms."

He flashed the camera over his arm, the goosebumps visible on the screen.

"Let me get out the infrared thermo and get some readings."

Liam placed his handheld on the floor, fumbling with the gear in his backpack until he found what he was looking for. He thumbed over the buttons on the thermal camera until it blinked to life. Ghost watched the screen light up from over Liam's shoulder. It wasn't like the screens with the night vision, this one was lit with an array of reds and blues.

Standing back up, Liam held the thermal camera out in front of himself, pointing it off in the direction of the sagging floor. In the night vision you couldn't pick up on the dark ring, the discolored concrete, the hairline cracks that spread from the weak spot. You also couldn't see the colors of the thermal camera. Liam cursed, clicking through the settings until the handheld was capturing nothing but the lit up screen of the thermal camera, the reds and the blues that swirled around him.

"Woah, guys, this is crazy, I have never seen readings like this. Those blue areas of like super cold. I've got chills."

Ghost grinned, feeling the skin of his face shift with the movement, pulling against long healed scar tissue. A monster when he wanted to be, when he needed to be. He wondered what that silly little camera would pick up when he walked across the screen, would it show just the shadow of a figure? Or would it show the monster he was, the horned mask of bone he wore over his own monstrous features? The trailing claws, the prehensile tail that whipped out behind him as he walked towards Liam's doom?

"Holy shit," Liam said with a kind of reverent awe. Whatever he saw on the screen was enough to have him stopping in his tracks.

He repeated the words, hands shaking as he held the cameras up, sweeping them across the room to capture more data.

"Fuck, Jake, this is the real deal. You aren't going to fucking believe this man."

Ghost might not have understood all of the science behind the camera, but he took slow winding steps over the spot that he knew was weakest, his feet barely touching the floor, barely solid enough to put pressure, but solid enough to know that if he did push down, if he focused on that point of contact the concrete could crumble away like sand.

"Can you see that viewers? That area of super cold air? It looks like a man. I'm going to get a closer look and see if we can debunk this or not."

Liam walked towards Ghost, his eyes locked on the screen of the thermal cam, not looking at the video camera, not clicking back over to night vision.

The caretaker had warned them, they had signed contracts and more acknowledging the dangers of staying in the factory overnight, the dangers that had nothing to do with the demon lurking in the corners of rooms and everything to do with the fact that the building had long fallen to disrepair, and that it was on the edge of being condemned, demolished.

Ghost knew every weakness, every joist and support and beam that creaked and groaned at the lightest touch. He could almost taste the blood on his tongue as he thought about the mess of exposed rebar that was hidden just beneath the crumbling crust of concrete that Liam walked steadily towards.

He licked his lips.

"This is crazy, oh my god, guys wait till you—"

Ghost grinned, every sharp tooth on display even though Liam would have never seen them in the dark. But Ghost saw. Ghost saw Liam's eyes widen when his next step connected with the ground and kept going, the concrete crackling and crumbling around him, faster than he could react, faster than he could step back to safety.

The equipment fell from his hands as he twisted around, arms pinwheeling wildly as he searched for anything to grab onto, anything to help him. He cried out, the words unintelligible with fear. It didn't matter, the rest of the crew was too far away to hear him even if the words had been clear.

Ghost stalked around the hole, his own steps barely touching the ground, his shadowy figure feeling more and more solid as he soaked in the fear that filed the room, thick and syrupy sweet.

Liam probably thought himself very lucky, he had managed to grab onto something in the fall and now held on at the precipice of his demise. Each time he moved the ground around him crumbled more. His fingers scrambled against the rough concrete for something solid to latch onto, the the leverage to pull himself up. .

"Liam, Liam, Liam," Ghost tutted, giddy that this moment stretched out before him.

He might not have been able to see Ghost in the dark, but his eyes swung around searching for the source of Ghost's voice.

"Help, please, I'm slipping," he cried desperately.

Ghost had scooped up the handheld that was just out of reach of Liam's bloodied hands, nail ripping back in his desperation to claw at the ground for purchase. Ghost turned the feed towards the man who was quite literally holding on for his life, flipping through the settings until the screen lit up with the telltale glow of night vision. The colors muted, Liam's face pale in the absence of light, but the tears were there, streaks down his dusty cheeks, his nose was bleeding, perfectly style hair out of place.

Ghost had been known to have a flare for the dramatic, what demon didn't want to flaunt their abilities, their strengths, their power.

When he spoke again it wasn't his voice.

"Uh oh, did someone not watch where they were walking?"

"Jake, fuck, help me, what are you doing?"

"bet you twenty he cries," Ghost parroted back in Liam's own voice.

"What the fuck man, come on, fuck," he cries out, fingers scrapping against the concrete.

Ghost would love to stay and savor this, watch each micro-expression on Liam's face as he loses more and more ground, slipping closer and closer to the abyss below him. But the rebar is calling his name and there are more idiots for Ghost to play with.

He stood, camera angled down so that Liam's tear stained face remained in view when he stepped forward, focusing all the energy he had been gathering into that one foot. He felt Liam's fingers beneath the skin of his heel, brittle bones that took no pressure at all to crush, the only thing that kept him hanging on through the pain was misplaced self preservation.

Ghost picked up his foot and stomped down. Bones ground against bone, the pain too much, Liam's grasp loosened, his muscles weakened from strain. He gave one last scramble, searching for some last little bit of luck, but it was fruitless, his hands disappeared over the edge, his scream cut off as the rebar punctured his lung.

The dripping of his blood echoed in the space beneath the floor, drip, drip, drip. Ghost could taste it on the air, coppery tang sitting heavy on his tongue as he licked his lips. He had one last thing to do before leaving Liam to bleed out.

Ghost clicked at the settings on the handheld and then turned it to face him, only what the screen revealed was not his skull mask, or shadowy skin, but instead and facsimile of Jake, the voice Jake's as he spoke into the camera.

"Had to see it for myself fans, and boy was it worth it. Too bad this will be Liam's last episode with us. Boo hoo, so sad."

It might not have been a perfect match to how Jake spoke, but Ghost had watched enough of these bumbling idiots recording their little shows to be believable.

Time to find his other targets.

You pulled against the restraints with a new kind of desperation when you heard the screams. You had spent enough hours listening to footage of Liam being edited to know what his fear sounded like, but this was different. It was raw, it was real, it was the kind of thing that Jake looked for when they were filming but could never capture.

Something was wrong.

Jake said he was coming for you but what if that thing came back first?

You body felt warm just at the thought of it, all of the chill had left your skin, the only shivers were the aftershocks of pleasure. How could something so monstrous, so beastly be the first thing to turn you on in months? Even the nights you turned to the vibe and you own fingers it took time to coax your body into responding, often relying on lube and sheer determination to cum, leaving you with that hollow feeling afterwords.

So what if that thing came back first? What if it found you still tied up? Thighs sticky with cum, skirt still flipped up, pussy on full display.

Fuck, what is Jake found you like this? Someone else on the crew?

That fear of embarrassment, of shame has you moving with far more desperation than the fear of that thing lurking in the shadows.

When finally one of your wrists slipped through the bindings, the skin was rubbed raw and you were certain you were bleeding but it was too dark to see.

You needed some kind of plan, you couldn't wait here. You needed to find Jake and you needed to get the fuck out of this building.

You were feeling around in the dark for the discarded walkie, willing someone to say anything to point you in the right direction when you heard footsteps echoing down the hall, getting closer and closer.

You weren't sure you had ever been as happy as you were now, seeing Jake turned the corner, his flashlight blinding you momentarily, but the possibility of escape was higher now. You could get out of here and then never think about this place again.

"Aw, babe, you weren't supposed to be able to get out of the ropes. You stayed tied up long enough for us to get some good footage, right?"

You were reminded in that moment why you were even in this mess, why you had been finger fucked by a ghost? A monster? Some fucking shadow creature summoned by idiots and then sicced on you by your own fucking boyfriend.

"Fuck you, fuck you Jake and fuck this investigation."

"Woah, babe, whats got your knickers in a twist?" he asked, light from the flashlight scanning over the room, revealing the walkie that was just a few feet away from where you were looking.

"You tied me up and left me! You planned that didn't you?"

The realization that he was more worried about you ruining the shot than anything else had your blood boiling.

"Sorta, but listen, I've got a really good feeling about this one. The footage we have already is insane, and the ritual is going to be the cherry on top. You at least looked scared when you were trying to get out? I tied the ropes tight enough?"

You should have been afraid, you should have told him about the monster, the demon he had unleashed on you but you found that it was easier to lean into the anger, the rage. Jake was the reason that had happened to you, Jake was the reason you were even here.

"There's a man in here," you settle on telling him something, a courtesy, a warning.

"Like a random man? They promised that there were no squatters."

He doesn't even bother to check on you, you watch the light of his flashlight bob as he walks towards some of the static cameras.

"Shit, lost the feed on this one," he walks to the second, finding that one turned off as well, cursing before darting over to the last one. "Babe, did you turn these off? We lost all of the recordings on them!"

He's practically shouting, his voice a bit frantic but the accusation in his words hurts. You hadn't turned them off, but you had asked for them to be turned off and it seemed like your demon had been obliging to that request, more than obliging.

"There's a random stranger wandering around and you're more worried about the footage? We should be telling the others to look out, to be on guard?"

"They're big boys they can handle themselves."

You wanted to argue that that might not be the case. How did you tell him that it wasn't just some random guy, that something supernatural had happened to you. Because what other explanation was there for what had happened to you, what words could describe the way that your body had been used, the pleasure you had felt for the first time.

"I don't think," you were cut off by another scream.

The beam of the flashlight swung around to the door. The scream went on, shouting accompanying it until it was cut off abruptly, the silence stretching on after.

"What the fuck was that?"

The beam of light shakes, casting dancing shadows around the room.

You know its going to be the demon before you see him, before he materializes in the doorway. You body is attuned to him in a way that you do not understand, his touch seared into your skin. Even just the memory of it has you clenching, thighs pressed tightly together in an attempt to ease the ache.

"Babe, who the fuck is here?"

He turns the light on you, blinding as it flashes in your eyes.

"I told you there was someone," you hiss back, eyes trained on the empty black square that is the door.

You know the moment he crosses the threshold, you might not be able to see him but you can sense him moving through the shadows, the image of him is burned into your eyes, looming over you with that bone mask, the horns curling away from his face, the face that was made up of shadows.

Jake scrambles away from the cameras and towards you, grabbing your arm and pulling you back further into the room.

You don't need to turn around to know you are getting closer to the yawning maw of the incinerator, the silent sentinel that watches your boyfriend cowering behind you like you can protect him. You don't want to protect him from the menacing figure that is stalking ever closer. This is the consequence of his own actions. This is what he summoned when he tied you down and recited those cursed words.

"Tsk tsk tsk, Jakey, hiding away like you aren't the one who called me here?"

Can he hear your thoughts?

Jake whimpered, his hand darting out to latch onto your arm, fingers digging into the soft flesh, pinching even through the thick sweatshirt.

"What are you?" he managed to stammer out the question, his voice small.

"You tie her down, say the words, scare her and we get views. Get her to cry and we have gold."

Its the demon speaking, you can see the shadowy mouth moving beneath the bone mask, just enough of the flashlight illuminating his shape, but the voice is Liam's, perfectly Liam's down to the inflection and the sass.

You turn on Jake, you can hear Liam saying that, it feels like you have heard Liam saying that. It's hard to not picture it, the two conspiring against you.

"Really, Jake? For the views?" you ask incredulous.

"No, I wouldn't, I never, you're going to believe that?"

He gestures wildly at the demon, there's no question in your mind now that that is what he is. The demon tilts his head, watching almost curiously as Jake continues to stammer out excuses.

"We're done," the words are out before you can think it through. Its probably not the right time to end your relationship, breaking up right before a demon rips you to shreds seems pointless, but you refuse to be tethered to this excuse of a boyfriend any longer. If you are going to die you are going to die single.

"Babe," Jake starts but he is cut off by his own voice.

"Babe," the demon parrots back.

You can see the tension creeping over Jake, the anger outweighing the fear. What's he going to do, fight a demon?

The demon takes a lurching step forward, looking more solid than the last time you saw it. The fingers that had touched you so softly have been replaced by claws that drip with blood as the beast moves closer.

You take a step back, Jake's fingers still painfully tight around your arm as he's pulled back with you. You move until your back is pressed against the rusted carcass of the incinerator. Its hard to breath, its hard not to think that this demon is moment away from ripping you apart. You don't have to see why there is blood on his claws to know the fate of the rest of the team. Maybe some of them survived? Maybe not since last time there were no survivors.

"I can't believe you're breaking up with me and we're going to die."

"That's what you're fucking worried about," you hiss back, finally yanking your arm from his grasp.

"This was supposed to be our big break, we were going to get picked up by a network," he's crying now, near to hysterics as he pushes himself against the incinerator.

There is nowhere else to go.

The demon turns his attention on Jake, his form seeming to grow as he approached, shoulders broadening, claws lengthening, the horns twisting more and more. A slithering tongue drops from the black abyss that is his mouth and licks his lips before slithering back in. A tail whips behind him, a swish swish swish against the air that feels thick with tension, with fear.

"You're friends tasted lovely, Jakey, and you are going to taste even better. All of that fear, those insecurities."

Jake cursed under his breath, yanking your arm and pushing you toward the demon. You hadn't expected it, of course you hadn't because as much as your relationship had fallen apart you hadn't considered him a bad person, even now, with the proof of it right in front of you, it was hard to reconcile the Jake that you had first gotten tea with, the one that consoled you after the elevator, with the man who had tied you to the floor, the one who had conspired against you.

You fell, knees hitting the ground hard, tights ripping. You didn't need light to know that the skin had broke, that blood dripped down your legs as you scrambled away. From the ground the demon loomed even more.

"Lamb," the demon cooed.

You didn't have time to consider how despite being made of shadow you could still make out the demon even when the light was not trained on it, as if it was imbued with some kind of inner light, because Jake was darting across the open floor of the room, flashlight swinging wildly as he went.

"That little motherfucker," you cursed.

You felt that rage return. It was the culmination of so many lonely nights, so many passive aggressive comments, so many snide remarks from his friends. You let yourself be small for him, let yourself be the supporting actress in his success. Your love had been used as a weapon to keep you meek, to keep you in place.

Now he was running away like a coward and leaving you here to die.

But you weren't dying.

The demon stood there, turned away from you, head visibly tracking the way Jake ran for the door. He growled, deep, subsonic, you felt it in your fingertips where they pressed against the ground, you felt it in your back, pressed against the incinerator.

The sound went straight to your pussy. Idly you wondered if he would finish what he started, he had promised he would be back for you. Or would he simply end your life and be done with you, done with you the way Jake clearly was.

You wanted to tear Jake apart, limb for limb, because if he could leave you here for dead then you should be able to wish him harm. You felt a bit hysterical actually, this wasn't you, you didn't wish harm on people. But it felt so right.

Fuck the demon, tear Jake apart, and if you died in the process at least you had gotten your revenge. That's more than the other sacrifice had gotten.

"Lamb," the demon repeated, turning now to look at you.

You found the room not as dark, not as haunted as he knelt in front of you. He seemed not as large as before, as if he was making himself smaller for you, less frightening. Although there was no ignoring the blood on his claws, or the blood splattered on the bone mask when he was just a hair's breadth away from you.

"Are you scared, little lamb?"

Were you? Your heart was certainly pounding in your chest. Your breathing was shallow in that way that felt like you would never get a full breath again. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end and goosebumps had broken out across your skin.

But were you scared? Had the wires gotten crossed somewhere along the way because this felt very much like anticipation.

"No," you whispered, not trusting your voice to come out strong, to not stutter over the simple word, to not get stuck in your throat.

"Good," he purred, leaning forward and pushing his masked face against yours, the bone was surprisingly warm to the touch. "I hate to leave you again, but there is something I have to take care of."

You blinked as he leaned back, shocked when it was Jake's face string back at you. Same clothes, same haircut, same mouth, but there was something different in the eyes.

"Stay here," he commanded, still in the demon's voice but coming from Jake's mouth.

You nodded, instantly missing the warmth of him as he stood, the light leaving the room as he crossed the cavernous space, and when he turned to look you over one last time before turning the corner into the hall you wanted to cry because you knew that the moment he was gone, the moment he left it would be dark.

And it was. The dark felt worst this time, more alive, charged with some unholy awareness that blood had been spilled here.

You couldn't hear anything this time, no screams, no cutoff shouts, just silence. The kind of silence that was deafening, even worst now that you didn't have the blindfold. Perhaps that had been a mercy.

You didn't have to wait long though before you did hear something, a moan, the sound of fabric dragging against the concrete, a groan and then he was there, standing in the doorway, no longer hidden behind Jake's face.

"A present for you, lamb."

The demon dropped Jake onto the ground. He let out another groan, rolling onto his stomach and trying to crawl away. The demon didn't give him a chance, nudging him back into his back with a swift kick, then pinning him there with a solid foot on Jake's hip.

"Tell her," he instructed.

Jake tried to roll away.

"Tell her," he repeated.

"It was all my idea, the ritual, tying you up, pretending that it was random. There was a producer, he," Jake grunted as the demon ground his foot down. "Fuck, okay, there was a producer, he said he would make us an offer but that he said we didn't have enough shock value, there wasn't enough to make us stand out. Ghost hunters are a dime a dozen. But you, scaring you would help us. He said if we could prove we could set it up, get a good scare in we could just replace you when we signed. You wouldn't have to be on the show. Fuck!"

The demon ground down with more force, Jake face was slick with tears, eyes scrunched closed in pain.

"He said, he said we didn't need the fat bitch anyway, the fans wanted someone they could imagine fucking."

"And what did you say?"

You pulled yourself up to your feet. You were sure you looked a mess, blood dripping down your shines, dirt on your palms, but none of that mattered.

Jake didn't respond, he turned his face away from you.

"What did you say," you ground out.

"I-I told him it wouldn't be a problem," he cried out again, the demon's face split into a grin as he stepped harder. "I told him it wouldn't be a problem, we were going to break up soon."

"When? When did you tell him that," you took another shaky step forward as you asked, kicking something in the dark.

You looked down. It was the knife. The ceremonial knife he had brought to try and channel the energies of the people who had been murdered here. You found it hard to feel the same sympathy for them now, you knew what their fate was, it was the same fate Liam had met, same fate Jake was going to meet.

The demon's smile grew, face splitting in half as his glee grew.

You picked up the the knife, the weight heavy in your hand. It wasn't some prop that Jake had found, he hadn't lied about it being real, being sharp, your thumb running over the edge of the blade, blood welling up in its wake.

"In April," he choked out.

April. April when you celebrated your anniversary alone. April when he forgot about the date he had invited you to, sat alone at the restaurant with just your tears and a very uncomfortable waiter. For six months he had been planning this, planning this moment, planning to use you and then toss you aside.

He was openly crying now, snot mixing with his tears. You didn't feel bad for him. He chose this for himself, he chose to string you along for his own personal gain, chose to use you.

It would have been harder to not let the rage consume you. You wanted revenge. Retribution.

Possessed with that all consuming need to act you walked towards the demon and Jake, no longer scared of the looming figure, there was only one evil thing here, one person who had hurt you, and it was your chance to hurt him back.

"Fuck you, Jake."

He grunted the first time the knife plunged into his chest, but by the third time his breathing was wet, the only sound he could make a gurgle as blood bubbled from his mouth.

There was blood on your hands, on the sweatshirt that hung from your shoulders, on your face, you own blood on your knees that rubbed painfully into the ground.

A hand touched your face, guiding you to look up at the demon

"What are you?"

"Ghost," he answered.

"A ghost?"

"No, Ghost, just Ghost. And you, lamb, are my salvation."

You didn't know what he meant by that and you didn't care. You were distracted by how large his hand was, how warm, the claws gone now, his skin soft against yours. These were the fingers that had been inside you, the fingers that had given you more pleasure than you had ever known.

You wanted him to fuck you. You were already going to hell, why not add another sin to the list.

As if he knew where you thoughts had gone the demon was pulling you up to your feet, the knife slipping from your fingers to the ground. He took your hands in his, bringing them up to his mouth where his tongue darted out, licking away the blood, slipping between each digit, tickling the soft skin between each finger.

"Are you going to kill me?" you asked.

"Why would I kill you when I can keep you for eternity. My pet," as he said the words he seemed to expand again to his full size, monstrous and fanged, with claws the bit into the skin of your wrists. He deflated on exhale, his body folding in on itself, appearing more solid.

"Ghost," you whispered his name and as if that was enough invitational he pounced, pushing you away from Jake's cooling body.

"I want to worship you," Ghost growled, his tongue plunging into your mouth, exploring every crevice before pushing down your throat. You struggled to breath around it, the feeling like nothing you had ever experience and despite the way white spots appeared behind your closed eyes you were irrationally horny.

When he pulled away your knees were weak, but your fingers were strong as they explored his body, hard planes of muscle, no clothes to block your explorations.

"I want you to fuck me," you said, hand skating down, fingers wrapping his cock and tugging.

He growled again.

Your back was pushed into the wall. Ghost dropping down to his knees, horn mask disappearing beneath the skirt, hiking one leg over his shoulder. The stretch from his size had you arching your back but the discomfort was worth it the moment that tongue touched you.

Everything around you melted away as he lapped at your cunt, his tongue diving into you deeper than you had ever been touched, curling this way and that, hitting your g-spot over and over until you were shaking, until you were certain you would topple over unable to hold yourself up with the one foot you had planted on the ground.

You reached for the horns, for anything to ground yourself, for stability. Ghost groaned into your pussy as your fingers wrapped around the bone. He reached his own hand up, thumb circling your clit until you were screaming his name, your voice echoing around you.

Ghost didn't give you a moment to catch your breath before he was clamoring up your body, crowding you into the wall, hiking you up so that your legs were wrapped around his waist, his cock pinned between the two of you.

"I'm going to fuck this pretty pussy, and after you've come on my cock I'm going to fill you up, and then I will leave here for the first time in decades and I will take you with me and you will show me all of the devilish things this world has to offer."

You nodded, grinding against him, aching for his cock.

"Tell me what you want."

"I want you to fuck me. Please fuck me."

With his hands beneath your thighs he maneuvered you until the head of his unholy cock was at your entrance, the pressure of just the tip against your walls had your eyes rolling back. As he pushed in he licked at the tears streaming down your face. You were certain he was going to rip you in half, there was no way he would fit.

"Don't worry, lamb, you can take it," he cooed, still lapping at your skin, tongue covered in your tears, your cum and the blood from your fingers

You couldn't speak, you could barely breath, you weren't even certain he had bottomed out before you felt him pushing up against your cervix in a way that felt like he was impaling you. You whined when he pulled out, the drag intense despite how wet you had been, before pushing back in, bullying your organs to fit him.

"Later I'll take my time with you."

You weren't sure how there would be a later, if you survived this you were certainly going to be wanted for murder, but as his cock pummeled your cervix you found you couldn't care. Not about Jake, not about Liam, not about what would happen to you. This was your salvation, this was what rapture felt like, the pleasure shooting down your spine, your toes curling in your shoes, your fingers digging into Ghost's shoulders as your arched you back, his cock hitting something in you that transcended the human experience.

Nothing matter but the white hot heat of his cum filling you, blacking out as you came and coming to as Ghost lowered you to the ground, cum dripping down your legs, mixing with the blood. Or was it that you were bleeding?

You had no energy to care.

"Sleep, lamb," Ghost said as he lowered you to the ground, your limbs boneless, even if you wanted to you could not have stopped it. "Sleep and I will take care of everything."

Part One | Series | AO3 | Tips

[societyfolklore]

Sanctified in Seed

Title: Sanctified in Seed

Pairing: Jotun!Loki x Female Reader

Summary:  You were given to him, an offering laid bare to sate a side of him Asgard cant control only feed.

Word Count:  4.9k

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI, Smut, Unprotected Sex, CreamPie, Size Kink (Kinda Monster Fucking) Overstimulation & Multiple Climaxes, Ritualistic Sex/Chosen Offering

  A/N:  Day 19 of Kinktober - CreamPie

BUT Also my entry for @cream-filled-delights  for their writing event- Cream Filled Delights – Prompt "Take it."   

The air bit as you breathed in. Thin and cold. Still. It scraped down your throat like a warning.

No guards had escorted you here, just a summoned wind that whispered through the marble halls of the palace, tugging your silks in the right direction, guiding your bare feet across freezing stone. You had followed it because that was the only path offered to you, step by silent step, until you reached the chamber.

The sanctuary was nothing like the halls of Asgard above. No gilded light, no polished gold, no ornamental fanfare. Here, the stone was veined with frost, and the torches burned cold blue. Shadows pooled in the corners like watchful things, and even the fire offered no warmth. It wasn’t meant for you. Not for anyone but him.

He waited

Loki.

Not the prince. Not the trickster god. Not the charming, sharp-tongued diplomat of court.

This was the monster they whispered about when they thought he couldn’t hear.

Jotun.

Blue-skinned. Bare-chested beneath a cloak that was already falling from one of his shoulders, the fur-lined fabric slipping like snow off stone. The firelight danced over his skin like it was afraid to touch him. His body was carved in lines of ice and runes; taller, broader than he ever appeared in court. Inhumanly elegant. Power pressed into shape, barely restrained.

He didn’t speak.

He only watched. Red eyes aglow, tracking every breath you took. The longer he looked at you, the more your courage frayed, like silk caught on a blade. Every second stretched thin, reverent, dreadful.

You hadn’t expected to be chosen. Not really. They had said it was a duty. An offering. Something sacred. Something necessary.

Something to soothe the old blood in him. Something to keep him tethered to the court. To reason. To restraint. To keep the monster sated before he could become dangerous. Before the frost could creep down from the peaks of Jotunheim and into the heart of Asgard's Son. Before the whispers in the dark hallways grew into rumours, and those rumours became truth in the mouths of the fearful.

They needed something that would distract him, something warm and willing. A sacrificial balm to pour into the cracks of his fury, to soften the jagged edge of his cold. Someone to remind him of the flesh and breath and hunger of the living. Not duty. Not diplomacy. Not blood—stained oaths sworn by trembling courtiers. But desire.

And you had agreed. Willingly.

Because you had wanted to be more than a court petal trampled under polished boots. You had wanted to be seen. Desired. Revered, even.

But now, lying bare on the black furs at the centre of the chamber, your skin prickling from the cold, your chest rising and falling too quickly, you wondered if you’d been seen too well. The dress they had put you in; pale, delicate, ceremonial, now left pooled beside the furs, abandoned like the last scrap of modesty. Your fingers had worked the ties slowly, one by one, just as you’d been instructed.

You had followed every rule. Walk the path. Do not scream when you see him. Take off the dress. Lie down.

Those had been Frigga’s words, her voice soft and even, as if she were reading a bedtime tale rather than preparing you for this. She had kissed your forehead with a mother’s gentleness and tucked a curl behind your ear before stepping back.

You had obeyed. Ready to offer yourself to something far more than a man.

The silence stretched, heavy and glacial, until-

"You came willingly?"

You nodded, though your voice had fled.

He smirked, the expression slow and sharp, like frost forming on glass. "They always say yes so easily... so sure they can take it. So eager to be offered up like good little sacrifices," he added, the last part mumbled more to himself as he tapped two fingers against his temple, his face looking pained for a moment.

He didn’t move right away. Just stared again. Let you feel the weight of him. The way his presence swallowed the room, how the air seemed to freeze around him, heavy with intent.

A cold flicker of doubt slid beneath your skin. He hadn’t sent you away, but he hadn’t spoken either. For one long, agonising moment, you wondered if you weren’t wanted. If perhaps this offering,…you..wasn’t enough. If you had misunderstood everything, and he would rise and turn from you, leave you bare and dismissed.

But he didn’t. Content, at least for now, to devour you with his eyes first.

The shift was subtle. A stretch of his shoulders. A breath drawn deeper than the last. Then he rose from the low—backed chair he’d been sprawled in, the fur-lined cloak sliding from his remaining shoulder to gather at the crook of his elbow before sliding off complete.

All he wore now were dark leather pants that clung to the muscle of his thighs, low enough to reveal the ridged plane of his abdomen, the blue of his skin shifting as he moved, patterns like frost blooming beneath the surface. You could hear the quiet creak of his boots across the stone as he stepped forward, each stride deliberate, unhurried.

The fire behind him did not warm the room, only cast jagged shadows that moved across his body in flickers of ice-blue and black. It gave him the shape of something elemental.

He stopped just at the edge of the furs, gaze pinned to your body. You could feel the heat of your skin in contrast to the cold of the air. You’d laid yourself bare, and now you could only endure his gaze.

He knelt. Sinking down closer to your level.

Large, precise hands settled on your knees first. His touch was cold enough to draw a gasp from you, a sound you didn’t mean to make, but it slipped free anyway. The sharp chill of his skin contrasted so completely with the heat blooming beneath your own that it felt electric.

You flinched at the contact, your body tensing beneath his grip, but he only hummed, dragging those hands slowly up the length of your thighs. That reaction made him smile, slow, pleased, knowing crack that spread across his face.

 The pressure was firm, possessive, and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to explore you. His fingers spread wide, thumbs brushing the tender insides of your legs before his palms eased your knees further apart.

The movement left you open, vulnerable, and achingly aware of just how exposed you were beneath him. The cool air licked at your slick heat as he shifted closer, his hands sliding upward again in slow, reverent passes as if he was memorizing the shape of you. There was hunger in the way he touched. He wasn’t rushing. He didn’t need to. You were his for as long as he decided to keep you.

As he moved forward on his knees, the furs beneath you shifted under his weight, and the scent of him; snow, spice, and something wild. It wrapped around you as intimately as his hands.

His eyes didn’t lift from where your thighs parted. Not until his mouth was level with your chest. Then, finally, Loki looked at your face. Not with affection or restraint, but with the heavy, assessing interest of a predator sizing up something offered rather than taken. His gaze swept up your body again, slow and possessive, before locking onto your eyes proper, holding there.

You saw hunger burning in those red rubied eye.

He lent forward to run the edge of his nose along your cheek, then across your jaw. The cool drag of it raised goosebumps in its wake, making you shiver. He didn’t kiss you. Not yet. His breath was cold as it ghosted over your mouth, lingering for a moment like he was considering it, like he wanted to taste your hesitation first.

You could feel your own breath hitch, heat rising up your throat. Your lips parted, expecting the kiss that didn’t come. He only watched your reaction, letting the tension spool tighter between you.

Hi trailed lower. His mouth dipped to your throat, placing a single kiss right over your pulse. It was soft at first, but then his tongue pressed there, lapping against your skin until he found the rhythm of your heartbeat.

He opened his mouth fully, sucking at the spot with enough pressure to make your breath stutter, enough to leave a mark. His teeth grazed lightly, a scrape of danger beneath the devotion.

“Make it beat harder for me,” he murmured, his voice a low command cloaked in silk.

His fingers teased between your legs as he spoke. Gentle at first. Circling. Testing. He found your clit and dragged two knuckles down either side of it, then rubbed it slowly with the pad of his thumb. The motion wasn’t hurried, but it made your hips buck, your thighs jump in response to the touch.

A soft gasp escaped your lips followed by a stifled whimper when he didn’t stop. “P-Prince-” you breathed, voice catching on the title.

He chuckled, a sound that rumbled in his chest and vibrated through yours as he leaned in closer.

“Not a Prince here,” he murmured, voice rough at the edges, his breath cool against your chest. “Don’t pretend I’m some courtly thing while you lay yourself open like this.”

He drew his mouth across your chest slowly, deliberately, before his tongue flicked over a nipple and sucked it in deep, pulling a breathy moan from your throat. His teeth catching enough to make you twitch before he released you with a wet pop.

You moaned again, higher, more desperate. Your back arched, searching for his mouth, for friction, for something.

“You tremble for me already,” he said, pleased. “Good. Let your body speak honestly.”

Loki dragged a single finger down your slit. It was chilled, thick, and unrelenting, sending a jolt through your oversensitized skin. He paused for a moment, pressing it firmly against your entrance like he was testing your readiness, gauging just how much you could take. Then he pushed inside, slowly, deliberately so you’d gasp, the air catching in your throat. The stretch was unfamiliar, the sheer contrast of his icy skin against your molten heat making you twitch, your walls fluttering around him in confused, needy response.

He curled his finger inside you as he withdrew just slightly, then pushed back in, twisting gently to feel every ridge of your softness. You clenched around him with no conscious thought, your body pulsing around the intrusion, responding as if it knew something your mind was still struggling to grasp.

He exhaled hard through his nose, nostrils flaring as his jaw tensed.

"So hot," he growled, voice thick and reverent. "You burn around me."

His words sank into your skin as he began to move again, slow and unrelenting, coaxing you open with each stroke. The friction built into a rhythm that sent soft wet sounds echoing through the chamber. You whimpered as your thighs fell wider, helpless to the way your body welcomed him in.

He leaned closer, his breath brushing your chest as he added a second finger. The stretch widened, searing pleasure crackling through your core. He didn’t slow down, just adjusted the angle, his palm pressing down to grind against your clit while both fingers curled and dragged inside you with sinful precision.

You keened softly, the pressure, the fullness, the cool heat of him overwhelming everything else. His fingers didn’t stop, didn’t rush, not even when you bucked over the third that joined the others.

He kept going watching your face while his finger worked you open slowly, methodically. You felt the drag of them as he eased them apart, stretching you, testing the give of your body around as he pushed in all the way to his knuckles. The sensation was sharp, aching, filthy and it only deepened as those long digits reached higher up into you than you’d ever managed to reach on your own. Coaxing a strangled moan from your throat.

Loki dipped his head, his lips grazed the underside of your breast, then bit down just enough to make you jolt, the twin sensations leaving you suspended between pain and pleasure.

"So wet, so warm." he murmured, breath ragged. "All this for me?"

You nodded, swallowing the whimper that bubbled up, your own hands digging into the plush fur around you. Your breath caught again as he pulled his fingers slightly apart, easing the stretch wider, working you open bit by bit. The cool, slick pressure sent sparks dancing up your spine, the edges of his fingers reaching deeper.

The sensation made your hips jerked, your body caught between instinctive resistance and overwhelming need. You could feel it building, that tightening heat, the edge looming closer with every careful, purposeful drag of his fingers.

He growled again, a sound low in his throat, and pulled his fingers free with a slick, wet sound that made your walls clench in protest. You whimpered, a desperate sound of loss.

"Not yet," he said, as he brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean. "Just need you soft enough to take everything I intend to give."

You barely had time to brace yourself.

He sank back on his haunches, and the room shimmered with green light. Seidr curled over his hips, dissolving the last of his leathers in a quiet flicker of magic. He knelt above you now in full glory, entirely bare, his chest rising and falling with deliberate control, the muscles of his abdomen taut with restrained power.

Between his thighs, his cock stood thick and flushed a deeper, bruised blue, already leaking at the tip. The sight of him like this, unhidden, unrestrained, made your breath catch and your core clench in anticipation. He was beautiful and terrifying all at once, and the way his eyes drank you in from above only made your skin burn hotter against the furs beneath you.

You tried not to flinch as he knelt between your thighs, sucking air sharp into your lungs as he wrapped one large hand around himself and stroked once, twice, spreading the glistening slick of precum over the blunt tip of his cock. It was a threatening thing, thick, flushed dark, slightly curved, and long enough to make your thighs twitch.

He watched you watch him. Smirking.

"So sure of yourselves," he murmured, more to himself than to you. "Pretty little maidens to be fed to the beats hunger."

His fingers tapped once, twice against his own temple again, like he was chiding ghosts only he could hear.

You swallowed hard and nodded. You were here. This was what you were meant for.

“Fool.”

His hands came to your thighs again, colder now, rougher in their grip as he pushed your legs up and apart. You whimpered, the sound barely a breath, and dug your hands into the furs. He nudged closer, his cock dragging through the mess he’d already coaxed from you, wet and sticky as he slicked himself with your arousal.

When he pressed against your entrance, you gasped. His breath hitched too, sharp and sudden.

The pressure built slowly. Agonisingly.

Your body tensed, but he didn't stop. Didn't offer comfort or pause. He simply pushed, a slow, relentless glide that stretched you inch by inch. The thick crown breached you first, making you cry out, the burn of it forcing your hips up. He caught them with a growl, strong hands holding you steady.

"Shhh," he hissed behind clenched teeth, "You’re mine to shape. My offering."

The stretch was unbearable and exquisite. Every inch he gave you made you feel fuller than you'd ever known, like your body was being rebuilt from the inside out just to fit him. He growled something in Jotun under his breath, something guttural and low, as he bottomed out.

He groaned, transfixed by the way your body tried to take him. One of his large hands pressed down over your womb, feeling the fullness, the bulge of him deep inside. His hips ground forward, just enough to make you gasp and then whine, your fingers scrabbling at the furs. He stilled again, rejoicing the way your walls fluttered helplessly around him, stretched to your absolute limit.

You sobbed, a choked little sound, as a tear slipped from the corner of your eye, hot and unbidden. The fullness, the stretch, the overwhelming pressure.

It was too much, your body quivering with sensation.

Your vision blurred for a moment, breath catching in your throat as the tear rolled down to your temple.

"Take it, you must take it Little Flame." He shifted slightly, sitting tall above you in that L-shaped posture, his cock still buried to the hilt inside you. His hand, still resting on your lower abdomen, slowly dragged upward, fingers splayed, possessive, as if marking a path across your trembling skin, claiming every inch of you.

 He cupped your breast again, massaging with a slow, deliberate pressure, groaning as you clenched and writhed beneath him. The heat of your body welcomed him with every grind of his hips, slick and warm and yielding. It was like he wanted to carve a space for himself inside you, to etch himself into your being.

"That’s it," he murmured, voice deep, raw with veneration and greed, almost drunk on the feel of you.

You gasped as he rocked into you again, the movement slow and consuming. Each stroke dragged along nerves frayed raw, sparking pleasure that curled up your spine and spread fire through your limbs.

You cried out, eyes squeezing shut.

Loki shuddered, mouth parting in a breathless groan.

"That sound-yes, that sound-make it again."

When he moved, it was slow at first long, deep thrusts that stole the air from you each time his hips met yours. He shifted only slightly, adjusting the angle with a warriors precision until he found the one that made you cry out, back arching. The sound pulled a groan from his throat, low and rough, as though the noise of your pleasure spurred something darker in him.

Loki never looked away from you. Not once.

Your thighs trembled. Your fingers clawed at the furs beneath you. Each slow, deliberate stroke filled you past the point of reason, the stretch never easing, only evolving into something more intense. The dull ache became friction, became fullness, became a kind of overwhelming reverence. He was worshiping you with every snap of his hips, and still, it wasn’t gentle.

He was a creature of need and seidr, and now, unmasked in his hunger, the illusion of princely restraint had vanished. His long black hair had fallen loose, cascading around his shoulders in wild waves. Strands clung to his face, framing the sharp lines of his jaw, his cheekbones, the fierce heat burning in his eyes. The wildness in him showed now, unmistakable, written in every flex of his body, every ripple of muscle as he loomed over you.

His hand dragged down your side, large and cool against your overheated skin, until it gripped your hip with unyielding force. The next thrust rocked through you. You keened, eyes going wide, the pressure of it making your stomach rise.

"Meant for this," he growled. "Made to be filled."

Your cries were rhythmic now, rising with every thrust, every grinding roll of his hips. He adjusted again, dragging one of your legs high against his shoulder, the back of your leg pressed into his chest, the new angle devastating. You choked on stolen breath as he fucked deeper, harder and gods, you felt every inch of him. The stretch was obscene, the sheer size of him forcing you open, your body pulled tight around his cock as he pushed in and you. You could feel the ridge of his head drag along places inside you that had never known such reach. Your skin sang with sensation, every nerve lit, your core clenching desperately around his impossible girth.

“Nngh-guh..” a helpless noise coming from you. 

You felt it building. The burn at the base of your spine. The fluttering tension in your core. The way his cock dragged perfectly across the spot that made you unravel. You could tilt your head to see, to watch him take you back, you could do it. The idea of witnessing what you could feel made you dizzy, made your mind spin, before you felt heat sizzle in your blood despite the cool chill from his cock inside you. Yet your body had no choice but to accommodate him, to stretch and strain and swallow him whole. You were pulled open around him, every stroke pushing the limits of your flesh, every slide making your insides feel claimed. He'd make you come. You'd come for him. You'd sate his hunger.

"Aauh - Ah" 

Loki felt it, too. The way your body surrendered just that little bit more, opening wider, pliant and pliable, a trembling gift beneath him.

“Take it, feel it!” 

He pressed his palm against your belly again, groaning at the swell, the bulge he could feel under his touch, the exquisite pressure of his cock driving into you. The sight of your abdomen lifting with each deep stroke made his pupils dilate. His thumb traced slow circles around your navel before drifting higher, grazing the underside of your breast, then cupping it with a needy hand. He rolled your nipple between his fingers, coaxing another breathy pants from your lips.

"So greedy," he purred. "Chosen for this. Crafted for me. A perfect fit for my hunger, my claim."

Your moan cracked, your throat tight with sensation, drawn taut with the staggering fullness, the weight of being taken.

His pace shifted, quicker now, yet never rushed. It wasn’t frantic. Intentional. Like the fulfillment of something sacred. Every thrust carried purpose, a deeper assertion of ownership, of destiny. Designed to push you past the edge and make sure you never came back the same.

Your orgasm tore through you like a riptide, electric and blinding. Your body clamped down around him, fluttering, squeezing, your breath stolen, your mouth parting in a shattered, sobbing cry. You keened for him, the sound breaking into the air between you, sharp and wanting. Your limbs trembled, your hands grappling at the furs for purchase as the waves rolled through you, your walls milking him with desperate hunger, with need that felt etched into your bones.

Loki didn’t pull back. Didn’t let you catch your breath.

He snarled, the sound animal and ancient, and slammed home- hard.

You screamed.

The stretch was too much, your body trembling in the aftermath, but the heat of him, the twitch of his cock inside you, the raw presence of him, it was devastation.

Then you felt it.

The rush. The flood. The thick spill of him flooding your core in molten pulses, like you were being sealed, marked. Your cunt tried to flutter him out, to push him away, but Loki held fast. Stayed buried deep.

A long, broken groan tore from his throat as he ground his hips to the base, holding you open, driving his spend deeper inside until you felt him in every part of you.

You whimpered, body twitching in overstimulation, your nerves frayed, your walls still fluttering around the impossible fullness.

Loki kept going. Kept pressing you into that surrender, the kind that rewrote your body from the inside out.

Your body quaked, twitching with overstimulation. Your eyes glazed, not able to focus, mouth slack with the weight of everything he had wrung from you. Your limbs felt boneless, bonedust scattered in the aftershock of pleasure and ruin.

Slowly, Loki moved, the aching slide of him pulling out left your body shuddering. The emptiness bloomed inside you, your walls fluttering in protest, stretched and ruined, still clinging to the ghost of his shape. You could still feel the heft of him in your deepest places, the imprint of him left like scorched velvet.

It poured from you in thick, hot waves, so much that it ran down your thighs, soaking the furs beneath you. It clung to your folds, to the curve of your ass, your skin wet and sticky with it.

 He watched with pride, the sight of a prize he found worthy. His chest rose with each breath, the flicker of magic still crawling across his skin like the afterglow of lightning.

Loki sat back on his heels; eyes fixed between your thighs. Hunger warred on his face as he reached forward, spreading you wider. Two long fingers dipped into the mess, dragging through your folds, like he was worshipping at the altar he'd just desecrated.

"Look at that," he murmured, voice wrecked, darker. "So full you can't even hold it.."

You tilted your head down this time, eyes blurry but still managing to focus as he dipped his fingers into opaque cream dripping from your cunt. With curious car he brought it up to your abdomen and began to write. You watched, mesmerised, as he spelled out his name, each letter painted with his spend, glistening on your skin.

"Mine. Branded in seed," he whispered, voice thick with satisfaction, as though your trembling acceptance had awakened something even darker in him. 

He caught your gaze, saw the way your breath caught, your lips parting as you felt it settle, his claim, marked in your own submission. His cock twitched, swelling again.

"Again," he whispered. "You'll take it again. Until you wear me like war paint. Until you forget any life before me."

He kept your gaze as pushed back into you.

Your breath hitched, a mewl catching in your throat as the swollen head of his cock breached your entrance once more. Slick from the mess he’d already made of you, he slid in easier this time, so much easier. Your body welcomed him now, fucked open and trembling, stretched to its limits and aching to be filled again.

He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through his chest and into you, echoing in your bones. The ease of his re-entry, just that perfect hint of friction that made him groan.

Your broken keen, high and wrecked, your legs twitching around him. There was no resistance now, just the obscene slide of his cock as he sank into the hilt, claimed you anew. You could feel how big he still was, how you were split around him, the fullness turning to a pulsing ache that made your toes curl. And gods, he was already moving again.

This time, he didn’t hold back the mess. He wanted it. With every steady thrust, more of his spend from before spilled out around him, slicking your thighs, matting the fur beneath you in thick, glistening trails. The scent was overwhelming. Raw. Carnal. The wet, filthy sound of it echoed through the chamber, each movement lewd and deliberate, as if he were savouring the music of your ruin.

It let him move easier. Deeper.

His body curved over yours now, bending low until he caged you entirely beneath him. The chill of his skin contrasted with the heat of your own, steam rising where you touched. His breath was at your neck, sharp and cool between heated groans, while one arm braced just above your head, palm planted firm in the fur, pinning you beneath the full weight of him.

You whimpered, and he growled, a sound of dark satisfaction. “Good,” he rasped against your ear. “Give me those sounds. Let me hear how full you are.”

The sound was torn from your throat as your hands flew to his arms, anchoring yourself to the thick muscle of his biceps. He was relentless now. Slow, deep, each stroke angled to hit where you were weakest. He shifted slightly, one hand curling under your thigh again, folding you tighter beneath him, pressing you open like a bloom under frost.

Your body trembled. Your nerves were frayed to the edge. You were undone.

His voice came low and possessive against your ear.

“So wet. So full. And you keep taking it.”

You gasped, your voice thin and breaking: “Loki-”

He groaned, hips stuttering as your body clenched again, tight and fluttering around him. The sound of your voice, raw and breathless and his, sent him reeling.

Your climax hit you again, drowning you, tearing through your limbs. Slick and seed gushed around him, your back arching with a silent scream as you came undone again.

But still he didn’t stop.

Your body twitched with aftershocks, your limbs limp. He held you there, claimed you again and again, slow and unrelenting. The mess only worsened, his seed, your slick, all of it mixing and soaking anything it touched. It dripped from you in wet strings, his devastating cock pushing it back inside with each thrust. Your body singing for him, hot and heavy as everything else melted away.

You moaned wanton, your mind blurring under the pleasure of it all.

“You're mine now,” he growled into your throat. “Sacred and ruined.”

You were an offering.

Now, you were his.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Yours.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, slow and reverent, but his hips never stopped moving.

“So good for me,” he murmured. “Sent to be filled. Made for this.”

he only thing left now, was for him to use you. That was why you were chosen. That was what your body was meant for.

[2lotus]

KINKTOBER DAY 10: SOMNOPHILIA . . .

tags: joel miller x reader, sharing one bed trope, dubcon due to the nature of somno, cunnilingus, wet dreams, p in v, reader is described to be smaller in size compared to joel, keeping quiet, joels soft at the end. not proofread.

⚠︎ out much much later than i hoped sorryyyy. i was out of town and had too many different ideas for this prompt

kinktober directory!

joel’s shirt clings to his skin in all the wrong ways, sweat gluing the tee to his back and the collar of it digging into his skin. it’s much too warm in here, the air is thick and humid and much too palpable. you seem to be doing just fine though, or as well as someone who is asleep can be doing– eyes drawn shut, arm strewn across your midsection while small snores bubble in your throat. but you’re just as sweaty as joel is, if not more. stray hairs stick to your forehead with flushed cheeks, and sweat that formed along your hairline beading down your skin and down your nose.

he can feel the warmth buzzing off of your skin from your proximity, practically shoulder to shoulder and knees bumping against one another in a bed that is much too small for two full grown adults to be sharing this way. joel gives you more space though, even if you had argued earlier that he doesn’t have to give up his comfort for yours when you noticed how close he was teetering to the edge of the mattress– his arm becoming his pillow for the night as he pressed himself to the edge once more.

maybe it’s the sleep that creeping up on him, feeling it in the creaking of his joints and the drag of his eyelids every time he blinks— but he can’t help but notice you. the way your white tank top sticks to you, your sweat penetrating through the thin fabric and soaking it through. your skin faintly visible from underneath, creasing where your torso bends and clinging to your stomach. it caves in between the divot of your chest, soaked fabric cupping around the swell of your tits.

she ain’t wearing anything underneath, joel squinted. the slight pebbling of your nipples visible from the way they peak underneath the tank top. he adjusts his jaw by rolling it, suddenly much too aware of what he was doing. ogling you. he swallows back something he's fully aware of, feeling the slow drag of it down his throat as he looks up to the ceiling.

maybe the exposed wooden beams and the beginnings of rotting wood he spots in the corner would quell the thumping of his heart in his chest.

the mattress dips beside him, and suddenly you both are much closer than joel needs right now. his leg is sandwiched between yours, the change of positions to your side has your chest pressing together and your cheek, now smushed against his supposed corner of the pillow. joel feels himself freeze for a beat, heart lodged in his throat and much too aware of your skin on his. it’s the middle of summer, heat laying thick even in the odd hours of the night, so your choice of shorts makes sense. but the hem bunched into the crook of your thigh, more and more of your warm skin exposed to his salacious eyes.

“joel…” murmured into the fluff of the pillow. so quiet, joel almost convinced himself his brain had made it up before it happened again. a little slower, said with something he couldn’t quite place.

a languid roll of your hips had him very much aware, though. it was experimental in nature, curiousity deep in your sleeping bones that was trying to find friction in what was closest– which happened to be joel’s thigh. the cotton of his pants bunching with your weight as you continued. it was the small hiccups that caught in your throat that told him you weren’t entirely in your right mind, dirty thoughts coming to the surface and this was the result of them.

deft fingers lazily grip the hem of his shirt, pulling him that much closer to your flushed body. joel can’t help the itch in his fingers though, the slipping restraint of wanting to feel your skin under his. to feel the blooming warmth of your hips pinched under his fingers. the rough pads of his fingers carefully blanket over the expanse of your exposed thigh, warm and soft under them. your body seems to respond to it in the form of a shift of your shoulders and another roll of your hips.

the experimental hands of joel miller trail up your hips, down into the dip of your waist, and back up your ribcage to your chest. first, it’s a careful nudge of his thumb against your nipple, enjoying the way you twitch at the new stimulation. then, it’s a soft squeeze of the fat of your tits in his hand. joel realizes then how much smaller you are compared to him, his whole hand manages to fit you comfortably and then some, and it does something to him.

goosebumps wash over his spine and he can feel his cock chubbing up underneath the cotton of his boxers, tightening with every throb he feels in his pelvis. joel knows he should stop, take his hands off you and just let you continue on your own accord– but it seems physically impossible. he almost hates the way the idea of touching you when you’re so… unaware, has him leaking in his pants like a teenager.

but every little reaction joel seems to pull out of you with a feather light touch eggs him on further, so he can't help but continue.

joel shifts his body, propping himself up on one arm until he’s hovering above you. inches away from your skin. he drives his knee onto your slick cunt, the pressure has you whining in your sleep. drool leaking from the edge of your mouth onto his side of the pillow, wet spot blooming onto the white pillowcase. you grind, and grind, until he eventually replaces his knee with his thumb. the more focused, attentive pressure onto your clothed cunt of joel’s thumb against you has you stirring in bed, chin jutting upwards and a cry ripping from your chest.

his fingers dip underneath the elastic waistband of your shorts, slipping them down until bare. entirely bare. you hadn’t worn anything underneath, and while the rational part of joel’s brain says it’s due to the heat– the other part of his brain whispers that you did it on purpose. joel swallows thickly, “jesus christ, sweetheart. you’re killing me here…”

the sheen of your slick coating your folds catches the faint glow of the moonlight seeping through the blinds, and the patch of hair you sport dipped in it. at first, it’s a slow tentative stripe along the surface, testing the waters to see just how much your sleeping body can handle. you twitch at the warmth of his tongue, soft breaths rolling out from your nose at each flick of joel’s tongue against your hole.

your nails scrape against joel’s scalp when they find purchase in the bed of his salt and pepper curls, “mmm— joel…” you mumble sweetly, sleep still thick on your tongue and barely audible. he can feel the clench in your thighs against his ears when he suckles on your clit, beard scruff scraping against the soft supple fat of your thighs.

joel’s forearms wrap, and bring pull you flush against him, leaving little room for air– but more of you to fill up the space. joel doesn't complain, groaning into your cunt to lap up more of your juice. your ambrosia has him on cloud nine, the crook of his jaw aching with each roll of it into your heat but he pays it no mind, continuing through the sting.

even if joel did feel the force of your fingers clawing at his hair for more, or wanton cries that he pulls from your throat, he does nothing about it. you shift in his grasp, hips switching against the mattress as you blink the sleep out of your eyes. eyebrows furrowing and relaxing in rhythmed beats. “joel…? what— mmm, fuck— what are you,” the sudden prodding of slick muscle against the rim of yours choking the words in your throat.

drowsy complaints fall on deaf ears— joel’s much too good, and the feeling of locked knees refusing to give way. your gut feels heavy, knot impossibly tight. joel feels it, your body giving you up much before you even notice to say anything. “c’mon, baby. give it to me.” the desperate need to feel more of you laid on thick in his words.

you mumble pleas under your breath, jaw slowly opening and closing with gaped breaths that never quite make it out of your chest entirely. your hips stutter against the warmth of joel’s tongue, back arching up from the mattress and sweat slicking down the slope of it. jaw growing slack as you barely have time to breathe before the rope snaps and left heaving against the pillow. juices leaving droplets in their wake on the scruff of joel’s beard when he finally looks up at you through the valley of your thighs.

“wasn’ expecting that one.” you huff through soft laughs, you brace yourself on your elbows to meet his eyes, sweat slicking down your cheek. after a last lick carded through your slick folds, “shoulda’ seen what you were doing to me— humping on me like a dog.”

he huffs air through his nose as you squabble, head up, “didn't know i was doing that— s’different…”

his shoulders hunch upwards in a shrug as he hums, “coulda’ said the same f’me.” hands skimming the sides of your waist, coming up to meet you in a quick kiss. your movements delay from the sleepy groan in your joints as you peck him back.

joel’s hands cup over your hips, thumbing them open to push himself in between them— the stiff press of his groin on you, zipper cold against your skin. he spares you a glance, something of a silent search of approval in your face before tucking himself inside you.

it’s slow and languid, filling you out inch by inch entirely. he groans at the constricting warmth, gaping out curses in inaudible pops. every slick slap of his thighs meeting the backs of yours reverberated against the thin walls, enunciated with a whine from your lips each time. and with your knees touching your ears, bent over the thick muscle of joel's shoulders— it doesn't help to ease the shocks that roll up your spine. the blunt head of his cock crammed itself tight against that spot you like, the one that has your back lifting off the sheets and curling against his broad chest.

“gotta’ keep quiet, baby— don' forget it ain’t just us here.” groaned under his breath after a particular plunge inside your walls, jutting his chin weakly towards the door. even when joel's clearly too enthralled by the way your body seems to receive him, tight and warm in all the right ways— ellie’s still his priority. it’s sweet, even if the moment doesn't call for it.

you try to keep the noises at bay, an occasional squeak pushed out from between lips pressed into a line. but it's too hard to keep things down when joel’s fucking into you the way he is now, nibbling at the soft skin of your neck as his breath rolls in warm waves across your shoulder while his cock kisses the deepest parts of you— and joel seems to get the hint.

his hands are cradling your hips, commanding his own rhythm with your body on his and presses a kiss to your mouth to keep you quiet. the slick muscle of his tongue runs along your teeth and dances with yours, sleepy in the way joel moves in slow bouts with you to swallow the sounds. he parts with you for a beat, “feel that good, huh?” humming a warm laugh into your lips as he goes back in for more.

you gasp into his mouth, head pushing down into the pillow, “yes— yes! mmm, give me more, joel. feel t’fucking good—”

the rough scrape of his thumb against your swollen clit stings in the way your ankles lock behind joel’s neck, using the leverage to grind into his groin, feeling the feather light tickle of hairs as you press down. “fuck, joel— i’m gonna— please—”

“come f’me then— i know you can do it, c’mon.”

release is tight in your stomach, the muscles in your back tensing in split second intervals as you gush around the girth of joel's cock. obscene squelching noises as he continues his same stuttered pace into your convulsing heat, “the—ere you go, baby. go—od girl, y’took me so fuckin’ well.”

you tremble in joel's hold, thighs quivering against his sweat-slicked shirt as he smooths circles into the fat of your thigh in his hand, slowly easing his pace to something more manageable. joel eventually pulls himself out right when he’s about to finish, pumping the aching head of his cock in between your slick folds before spilling over them. cum streaming down with each tug of his hand, keening over into your warmth as his breath catches in his chest.

it dries on your skin with a particularly sticky tack against your thighs before lapping it up, the mix of the salted musky taste thick on his tongue causing him to groan into your soft slicked skin. joel places rather light kisses onto the skin of your stomach, staying a second longer on spots you have moles on, before trailing upwards again.

it’s bittersweet, every plush press of his lips feels like he truly believes you wouldn't remember this in the morning— or that he would forget, not that he could. like he’s savoring the heat of your body to commit it to memory, adding it to his mental scrapbook of all things shared between you that joel has yet to admit meant more than he’s already said.

and you don’t verbalize any of the thoughts you had, some things tend to be better left unsaid— this being one of the many such cases. you simply sit in the comforting warmth of joel's weight against your back with his nose dug into the crown of your head, and your hand laid atop his on your waist.

taglist: @artificialstardust @stayonmars @formula1li @222low @inlovewithpsychos @haerinsmable @pleurspetal

[beebymoonlight]

wanna be ghost's civilian secretary that has a lot of questions (18+, ghost x f!reader)

he's safe to you. big, scary brute that he is, but he's totally a feminist without even knowing it and uses his bulk and size to intimidate idiots all day, every day, and maybe that's why you have infinite heart eyes for this man (and you've never even seen this face).

it's really late, and you're typing out the report he messily scribbled onto a loose piece of paper. the only reason his reports are even partly legible now is because you're translating from his blunt, nondescript storytelling to more robust, detailed transcripts. the only sounds are the hard scrape of ghost's pen on paper and the little clickety-clacks of your fingers on the keyboard.

"can i ask you a question, lieutenant?" you ask, sighing through your nose. you look over at him, and he sits back in his chair, shrugging. you look over his masked face, trying to keep yourself from staring too long at his chest, and then you go back to typing.

"are you like...good?"

"good?"

"yeah."

"in wot regard?"

you keep typing, staring a little too hard at all the extra letters you've added to the last word you typed.

"y'know," you laugh nervously. "like when you go to the pub and take someone home...like...when two people like each other a lot, they—"

"fuckin' hell," ghost groans, hunching himself over the paper he's writing on. you stop typing, resting your head in your hand as you look over at him. there's a little pout in your lip.

"heyyy, i'm asking a question, that's all."

"if i'm good?"

"yeah," you mumble. "like..." you look down, using your finger to swirl makeshift shapes into the desk. "i mean, you'd know if people thought you were good right?" you purse your lips. "you know, they'd call you a lot. or tell you that you're the best they'd ever had. or they'd text you so much you'd think about blocking them cause there's no way you'd wanna talk to them anymore—"

"tha' wot happens ta you, love?"

"n-no—i'm—" you laugh, exasperated, shaking your head. "i mean, i-i don't know. i'm asking if...if that's what people do. c-cause..." you look away even more, to the opposite wall. ghost raises a brow under the mask. "y'know, cause i bet y-you're good, so i thought...i thought you'd know."

ghost hums. he smooths a big hand over his pecs, then down his stomach, chuckling low as he looks you up and down. you're so fucking cute.

"you thought i'd know?" ghost asks. "tha' right? think i'm picking up birds and swattin' 'em away after, tha' wot i'm hearin'?"

"no—no—i-i mean..." you groan a little. "forget it. i'm...i mean i'm not trying to say you don't get lucky—i'm not trying to insinuate that you're...sleeping around—not that that's bad—!"

ghost looks around the office. it's late. there's barely anyone kicking at this hour around base. he licks over his teeth under the mask, grunting as he feels all the blood from his head rush to his cock—it's probably why he feels like doing something stupid, something awful, because he's not thinking right.

"sorry," you say softly, rubbing your eyes gently before going back to the computer. "it was...just a stupid question."

yeah. stupid question. stupid girl. stupid, stupid, stupid—

he doesn't let you leave. when you get up from your seat, his leg moves, trapping you there behind the desk, and then you feel his gloved hand touch yours. you swallow hard, looking down, and the butterflies in your stomach erupt when his fingers loosely intertwine with yours.

it's more than butterflies when you sit on his cock. your fingers dig into the nape of his neck, mouth dropping open as your thighs squeeze around his hips and you grind down on him. he hums, low and gravelly, and you whine when you realize he's holding his composure so much better than you—like being inside of you isn't the most incredible feeling in the world the way having him this deep really feels. your entire body shakes; shoulders, down the spine, your toes curling and tears wetting the edges of your eyes as you throw your hips back and moan pathetically.

"tha's it, baby," ghost murmurs, paws squeezing both sides of your ass as he watches you take him. you're sucking him in, creamy slick around the thick of him, and he's mesmerized by how well you're doing considering you refused prep because you were so desperate for him. he tilts his head up to look up at you as he slides a hand down, using a gloved thumb to flick over your clit and listen to you cry. "sound so pretty f'me. singing just like a bird."

"c-cause...cause you know so many..."

"awww, don't pout, swee'eart." ghost lifts that same hand and grips you around the jaw, puckering your lips. you bounce a little faster, digging your nails into his neck, and even through your wet eyes, you admire the blonde lashes and the smudged eye-black and pupils that dilate as soon as you lock gazes. your heart thuds in your chest, and you lean down, pressing your forehead to his as you chase your orgasm that you can feel just at the edge of your vision. "would it make ya feel better if i said y'r my favorite?"

"y-your favorite?"

"mm. my good girl."

"y-your good girl."

"tha's right, my good girl."

it's so infuriating how composed he is. he still has all of his clothes on, you think the holster on his thigh still holds a loaded gun even as it digs into your leg, and you're a fucking mess. your blouse is somewhere across the room, your bra has been torn at the lacy edges, and your skirt is hanging off your ankle as he picks up the pace and fucks up into you a little harder. drooling, wet, soft cunt that you had, it was too good not to tear you apart, from the outside back in, and ghost needed to see every solid bit of you.

he doesn't need to get naked. what you see is what you get. not to mention this tight fucking compression shirt he's wearing lets you see and feel every pudgy, muscly bit of him—

"y'r so fuckin' cock-drunk, aren't you, baby?" ghost groans. "can't even talk, can't even think—y'r just stupid for me, tha's it, innit?"

"yes—"

you're practically drooling against the mask when you come. you cup his cheeks, nuzzling against his nose, mouthing at where his lips are as you squeeze tight around him and come with a trembling cry. you nearly cry again when he reaches for the edge of his mask, pushing it up just over his lips so you can kiss him in the afterglow of a head-spinning orgasm. you don't let him get too far when he tells you he's close—you tell him to be a soldier and come inside of you, and he does with a blush on his face.

he's got crooked teeth and a broken nose that was never put back together, but he kisses just as good as he fucks, and you can't help your curiosity. you drag a few fingers down his cheeks, then with your knuckles, licking over his bottom lip before giggling.

ghost smiles, and there's butterflies again.

"so y'feel like callin' me again?" ghost asks as you roll his mask back down. you adjust your bra, picking up the straps and putting them over your shoulders, and you smile as you rest your hands on his stomach, his cum warm as it drips down your thighs.

"y-yes."

"yeah? you wanna see me again?"

"p-please, lieutenant."

he uses two fingers to pinch your chin gently, forcing your eyes on his, and he winks up at you.

"was it good?" he rasps, tilting his head to the side. you nod.

"n-no swatting me away, though."

"olright then, baby."