#him x reader

He was already too old to be feeling things like that.

That’s what he told himself.

Bad reputation. Worse habits. The kind of man people warned you about without knowing his name. He’d done his time being trouble and figured that was all he’d ever be good at.

Then there was you.

Young in the way that wasn’t about age — just… light. Like the world hadn’t gotten its hands on you yet. You smiled easy. Looked at him like he was more than what everyone else saw.

They said he painted you pretty.

Said he turned you into something you weren’t because he needed it to be real.

Maybe he did.

He imagined you softer than the world would let you stay. Imagined he could keep you safe just by standing close. Imagined that if he raised hell, it’d be worth it — as long as it was for you.

He never pretended he was good.

Just hoped he was good enough.

You’d sit beside him, legs swinging, talking about nothing. He’d listen like it mattered. Like memorizing you might save him later.

Now he sits alone. Same bar. Same song.

The paint’s chipped. The picture’s faded.

But when he closes his eyes, you’re still there.

Still pretty.

Still worth it.

And if loving you was just another bad decision?

You didn’t notice the chair at first.

You were distracted, looking for a place to sit while you waited on your drink. The bar was crowded but calm, all neon beer signs and low country music.

You slid into the empty chair without thinking.

A moment later—

“Uh, excuse me.”

You turned. He was standing there already. Big. Solid. Arms crossed like that was where they belonged. He didn’t look mad. He just looked… sure.

“I think you got my chair.”

“Oh— I’m sorry,” you said immediately, starting to get up. “I didn’t know someone was—”

“No, it’s alright,” he interrupted, holding a hand up. “You’re already sittin’.”

You paused. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I was just standin’ here wonderin’ if you’d even notice.”

You laughed softly, embarrassed. “I didn’t. I promise.”

That cracked something in him. Not a smile—just a shift. He leaned against the bar instead, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him without him touching you.

“So,” he said, glancing down at you, “you waitin’ on someone?”

You shook your head. “Just killing time.”

“Good,” he said. “’Cause I was hopin’ you weren’t.”

He told you he didn’t usually talk to strangers. You believed him. Everything about him said he kept to himself. Quiet. Gruff. The kind of man people thought was mean until they learned better—or didn’t stick around long enough to.

Conversation came easy anyway. Slow. Comfortable. He asked where you were from. You asked what he drank. He teased you for apologizing so much. You teased him for pretending he wasn’t watching you before you ever sat down.

“You know,” he said after a while, nodding toward the chair, “I don’t think I ever told you why I came over here.”

“Oh yeah?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Truth is, I was wonderin’ if you’d like to sit and talk awhile.”

Your heart skipped. “I think we already are.”

He smiled then. Just barely.

“Guess that chair did me a favor.”

And when you finally stood to leave, he stood too. Automatically. Protective like breathing.

“Mind if I walk you out?” he asked.

You nodded. “I’d like that.”

You didn’t mean to run into him.

You never meant to run into him.

Not since the breakup.

Not since he slammed your heart in a door and walked away like it didn’t cost him anything.

Small towns don’t care about your healing, though.

They just spit you out where the universe wants you to face him.

And today, apparently, the universe had jokes.

You were stepping out of the gas station with an iced tea when his truck rolled up beside you — that familiar rumble you tried so hard to forget.

You froze.

He didn’t.

He got out like he’d been expecting this, like he’d been waiting on it — broad shoulders, worn jeans, t-shirt hugging him in all the ways you remembered. Too well.

He shut the door with his hip and looked at you.

Not a casual look.

A slow, burning sweep from your shoes to your mouth, stopping just long enough on your throat to make you heat up.

Then that smile — the one he only used when he was about to piss you off.

“Well hey, sweetheart.”

He tipped his head, voice soft, dangerous.

“Haven’t seen you around.”

You swallowed.

“Maybe because I’ve been avoiding you.”

His jaw flexed — just barely.

Then he smirked like it didn’t touch him.

“Yeah?” he drawled.

“How’s that been workin’ out?”

You wanted to throw your iced tea at him.

Instead, you squared your shoulders.

“I’m fine. I’m doing great, actually.”

He stepped closer — not touching, but close enough that the air thickened.

“That’s funny,” he murmured, eyes dropping to your lips,

“’cause you don’t look fine.”

You shot him a glare.

“You don’t get to say things like that anymore.”

His tongue pressed into his cheek — a tell.

“You’re right,” he said quietly.

“Shouldn’t say it.”

Another step.

Now you had to tilt your chin up to look at him.

“But I still notice.”

You hated the way your heartbeat jumped.

He saw it.

Of course he saw it.

His gaze softened for half a second — half — then the cocky mask snapped right back on.

“Relax,” he said, voice dripping sarcasm, “I’m just bein’ friendly. Tryna be polite. Tryna—” his eyes dipped lower— “have a nice day.”

You scoffed.

“You don’t even know what polite means.”

He leaned in so close your breath hitched.

“You didn’t complain about my manners before.”

Your fingers tightened around your drink.

“People change.”

“Do they?”

His hand came up — slow — brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear, knuckle grazing your jaw.

You didn’t pull away.

You should have.

His breath ghosted your cheek.

“’Cause I’m standin’ here lookin’ at you,” he murmured, voice thickening, “and you’re actin’ real different, but you’re still… you.”

Your inhale was sharp.

“And me?” he asked, eyes dropping to your mouth.

“I’m still wantin’ you.”

Your throat tightened.

“Don’t.”

He smiled — not mocking this time.

Something rawer.

Almost painful.

“You think I don’t hear that song and think about you?”

His thumb brushed your jaw again, softer.

“You think it don’t kill me that I did everything wrong?”

You tried to speak.

You couldn’t.

He leaned in — foreheads almost touching.

“You think I came here for gas?”

His voice dipped.

“I came here for you.”

Your breath caught.

He stepped back suddenly — giving you space you didn’t ask for and didn’t want.

He ran a hand over his face, then gestured vaguely at the door.

“Anyway,” he said, voice husky but trying to play it cool,

“don’t let me ruin your mornin’. Have a nice day.”

He turned.

You should’ve let him walk.

But your voice came out before your brain caught up.

“Wait.”

He stopped instantly.

Didn’t turn.

Just froze — like those four letters hit every place you still lived inside him.

When he finally looked back at you, his eyes were darker, hungrier, hopeful in the way that terrified you.

“What?” he asked.

You swallowed, stepping closer.

“You… didn’t ruin it.”

And there it was — the shift.

The spark.

The thing you tried to bury for months.

Returning like it never left.

He didn’t smile this time.

He just whispered,

You were restocking shelves, humming to yourself, totally unprepared for the storm that walked through that door.

Boots thudding, shoulders broad, eyes locked on you like you were the thing he came here for.

Not the store.

Not the soda.

You.

He didn’t bother pretending otherwise.

“That top’s gonna kill me,” he drawled, stopping right in front of you.

You didn’t even look at him.

“Go away.”

He stepped closer.

“Yeah, no. That’s not happenin’.”

You went to push past him — big mistake.

His hand slid around your waist, pulling you just enough off balance that your breath caught.

“What are you doing?” you snapped.

“Tryin’ real damn hard not to pick you up and put you on this counter.”

His voice was low, warm, dangerous.

“People can see—”

“Then stop starin’ at me like that.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

His thumb brushed the hem of your shirt, slow, testing.

You didn’t step away.

He noticed.

His smirk sharpened as he leaned in, lips almost brushing your ear.

“Y’know… when you let me get close like this? Makes it real hard to behave.”

Your knees went embarrassingly weak.

You shoved his chest again — and he finally moved.

But only to corner you between the shelf and his body, hands braced on either side of you.

Every inch of him pressed close.

Too close.

“You wanna keep pretendin’?” he murmured, nose trailing your jaw.

“You wanna act like you don’t melt every time I touch you?”

“I don’t—”

He cut you off by grabbing your chin gently, tilting your face up.

“Princess,” he said softly, like a warning and a promise, “I can feel you shaking.”

You hated him.

You hated how right he was.

When you didn’t answer, he slid one hand down your waist, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt — warm, rough, slow.

He dragged his palm up your spine, pulling you flush against him.

Your breath stuttered.

“That’s it,” he whispered.

“Don’t run from me.”

His head dipped, lips brushing the corner of your mouth — not kissing you, just torturing you with the idea of it.

You grabbed his shirt, pulling him closer without even thinking.

He froze.

Then let out a low laugh that vibrated against your throat.

“There she is,” he murmured. “Knew you missed me.”

You were seconds — inches — from snapping and kissing him first when—

The door jingled.

Two old ladies walked in.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t pull his hands away.

Didn’t even pretend he wasn’t pressed against you.

They whispered loudly:

“Oh my…”

“She’s got her hands full with that one…”

He smirked against your cheek, voice barely a breath:

“Let ’em talk.”

You elbowed him hard.

He laughed harder.

As you tried to slip past him, he caught your wrist, turning you right back into his chest.

His lips brushed your temple.

“Meet me out back,” he murmured.

“Five minutes. Door locked. No interruptions.”

Your pulse jumped.

He leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes — really look — and his voice dropped to that slow, cocky drawl that ruined you every time:

He was trouble the minute he walked into that bar.

You knew it.

Everyone knew it.

Hell, he knew you knew it, and that was half the fun for him.

You were pretending not to watch him — leaning on the counter, nursing a cherry Coke like you weren’t waiting for him to do something stupid — and of course, the bastard did.

He caught your eye across the room.

Smirked.

Slow.

Lazy.

Like he already had you figured out.

You rolled your eyes, but something low in your stomach tightened anyway.

You hated that he could do that with just a look.

He didn’t even hesitate — just walked right toward you, boots heavy on the wood floor, hands shoved in his pockets like he owned the place and knew you’d let him get away with it.

“Thought you weren’t comin’ around here anymore,” you said as he stopped in front of you.

“Thought you didn’t care,” he shot back, eyes flicking down your mouth in a way that made your pulse jump.

You shoved his shoulder lightly.

“Don’t start.”

He leaned in, breath brushing your ear, voice low enough that only you could hear:

“Sweetheart… we always start.”

You swallowed hard.

This was the problem — it never mattered how long you stayed away, how many times you said this is the last time.

He’d show up, look at you like that, and your resolve would crumble like wet paper.

He pulled back just enough to study you, something almost soft flickering through the cocky exterior.

“You gonna tell me whose heart I’m messin’ with tonight?” he asked.

You raised your chin. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you plan on breakin’ it.”

His smirk faltered for just a second — barely there, but you caught it.

He looked away, jaw flexing, then back at you.

“Baby, between the two of us?”

His hand brushed your waist, slow, testing, familiar.

“It’s mine that gets busted up every time.”

Your breath hitched.

He stepped closer — too close — the kind of close that made your brain stop working entirely.

“You wanna pretend this don’t mean anything?” he murmured.

“Fine. We can pretend.”

His fingers slid around your hip, pulling you just a little closer.

“But you and me both know the second we lock eyes… it’s over.”

Your chest tightened, because he was right.

He was always right about this.

“Shouldn’t do this,” you whispered.

He nodded, forehead nearly touching yours.

“We shouldn’t.”

Neither of you moved.

“You gonna walk away?” he asked, voice rough.

You didn’t.

He smiled — the small, dangerous one that only ever came out for you — and tilted your chin up with one knuckle.

“That’s what I thought.”

The bar got louder.

The music picked up.

Someone laughed across the room.

But it all went fuzzy around the edges — because he leaned in, breath ghosting your lips, and you felt yourself slipping back into the same gravitational pull that had ruined you both a dozen times.

“You want my heart?” he whispered.

“It’s yours.”

He paused.

“Or…” he swallowed, thumb stroking your jaw,

“…you want yours back?”

Your voice barely came out: “I don’t know.”

His smile was heartbreak and hunger all tangled together.

“Then we’re both screwed,” he murmured,

Ville Valo Words: 575 *Trigger Warning* Alcohol use, smoking, romantic intimacy (suggestive undertones)

The late afternoon sun spilled like liquid gold through the tall villa windows, casting a warm shimmer across the terracotta floor. The Italian countryside outside hummed with cicadas, olive trees heavy with fruit, and the faint scent of rosemary drifting in through the open shutters.

The thought of you and him being parked out in the middle of nowhere while making out at night.

The truck rolls to a stop, the gravel crunching under the tires like the world itself is sighing in anticipation. He doesn’t hesitate. His hands find your thighs, warm and firm, and in one fluid motion, he pulls you over the clutch, settling you onto his lap. The engine hum dies into silence, replaced by the faint rustle of leaves and the steady rhythm of your racing heart.

His lips descend on yours, slow at first, teasing, tasting, claiming. Tongue meets tongue with a practiced hunger, and you feel the deliberate weight of his hands on your body—your waist, your hips, the small dip above your thigh—like he’s memorizing every curve. The night presses in around you: crickets chatter in the shadows, frogs croak from the nearby creek, and the moon hangs heavy and full, casting silver light that outlines the sharp angles of his jaw, the glint of desire in his eyes.

Every touch is an unspoken claim. A fleeting glance down your chest mid-conversation, the ghost of a smack on your ass that leaves warmth lingering on your skin, subtle marks of ownership that only you two understand.

He lifts your shirt slowly, his hands lingering over the soft swell of your stomach, and you arch back, breath hitching, a soft, ragged sound escaping your lips. The air tastes electric—metallic and sweet—the scent of him heavy around you, mingling with the faint earthiness of the night. The moonlight paints him in silver and shadow, highlighting the heat in his eyes, the raw hunger that’s as much about possession as it is desire.

The early morning brings fourth the early morning love affair. It's enounced in their beautiful eyes, the budding of a sweet charity ripe with the soft radiance of his touch, her scent and the melody of their whispers, hushed and passionate. It's the perfect love affair.

pairing: Cameron Cade x Black!Reader context/warnings: Fluff. A tad bit raunchy. Teasing. Kissing. author’s notes: This a quick little imagine I had whipped up a while ago, I just didn't have the perfect character to go alongside it. It's a been since I posted anything and since I've tried to write something a bit more mature and raunchy. I really want to get into smut, but there's still miles for me to go before I can commit to explore this theme. There's always room for me to grow. So enjoy!

There’s a stillness, a peaceful ease that settled over (name). She stood, exhausted, her shoulders slouched, at the foot of the kitchen fridge. Its door hung wide open as a soft, white light filtered over her with a crisp, chilly breeze. 

Her face wore a pallor worn down by her grogginess. Her eyelids would droop to a close, slow and drowsy, and tug open lazily as if her lids were being weighed down by lead. Her jaw hung slack, a yawn escaping past her lips before she could stifle it. 

It was the early morning, around five or so, and (name) couldn't defeat the hunger engorging her insides. So here she was, staring into her boyfriend’s fridge, her sight a muddied blur of white.