#(it's just his mind's way of protecting himself) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

levanterhaze · 2 days ago

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── spring into summer, bangchan

♡ 󠀬󠀬dad!bangchan x actress!reader: angst (a lot of it) and heartbreak.

♡ synopsis ― You left him behind to chase your dreams, your best friend, your first love. Now you're back, and everything's changed. He's a father. You're a star. But some flames never die. Maybe it waits.

♡ [7,6k] & notes ― I would like to express my gratitude for all the love you have shown for this series. I write it with great affection, hoping that you will truly enjoy every word I write. In this chapter, we will learn a little about the protagonist's and Chan's past and what really happened between them. The part in italics refers to their past.

chapters: CHAPTER O1

CHAPTER O2

You never minded being seen in public, but you still took precautions, sunglasses, a cap, anything that made you feel a little less visible. With your disguise in place, you strolled through the downtown streets, picking up candles, party supplies, and a bouquet of flowers.

The florist, someone you remembered from your childhood, recognized you right away.

“My goodness, you’ve grown so much. I always saw you running around with that boy, Chan... Time really does fly.” She smiled warmly, the lines on her face like gentle reminders of passing years.

Chan used to bring you flowers all the time. Daisies. Roses. Lilies. He had always been that way, romantic, attentive, thoughtful. It was one of the many reasons you fell in love with him. He didn’t just love loudly, he loved kindly. The kind of love that wrapped around you like a blanket, that never asked for anything in return. It was steady, devoted, and brave. He would have thrown himself in front of anything to keep you safe.

Years could pass and no one would come close to what you felt in the brief years you were his.

You didn’t regret chasing your dream. You didn’t regret studying, working late into the night, building a name that could be recognized across screens and streets. What you did regret, deeply, was the lie. The way you chose to end it. The story you invented to make him let go. You told yourself it was to protect him. To give him the life he always wanted, one with stability, peace, a future you couldn’t give back then.

You found yourself stopping at a small coffee shop. The kind with soft jazz playing in the background and the smell of roasted beans hugging the air. You ordered an iced americano and settled into a bench by the window.

Outside, the city moved at its usual pace. Strangers passed by, faces you didn’t know, each caught up in their own little story. Couples holding hands. Children skipping along beside tired parents. Friends laughing over shared secrets. Life was happening everywhere, in quiet, ordinary ways.

You looked down at the bouquet beside you. The scent was sweet, but it tightened your stomach. It was the kind of ache that came from memory. The kind that stayed hidden until something soft and lovely pulled it to the surface.

And there it was again, his ghost, lingering in the colors of the petals and the shape of the past you tried to leave behind.

It was a cold winter night, the sky above painted in deep navy blue, scattered with silent stars. The breeze was gentle but sharp, weaving through your hair and brushing against your cheeks like icy fingertips. You stood frozen beneath it, unable to move, your breath the only thing visible as it curled into the night air. Your heart was already aching, even before a single word had been spoken.

Then he appeared in a gray sweatshirt, his messy light brown hair, the tip of his nose reddened by the chill. Chan sat down next to you on the swing in the empty park.

“Hi, baby.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your lips, so effortlessly gentle. You tried to smile but it came out broken, just a curve of sorrow he didn’t notice.

“Hi.” The word left your mouth like a breath too heavy to carry.

“You wanted to see me, huh?” He grinned, voice bright, carefree. “I was with Felix, but I came as soon as I saw your message.”

He didn’t know. Not yet. To him, this was just another night. To you, it was the end of everything you knew.

”Chan… we need to talk.”

You couldn’t look at him. Your gaze dropped to your lap, to the chipped light pink nail polish on your fingers, anything to avoid his eyes. He frowned, his smile faltering at the sound of your voice.

“It's okay. You can tell me. What happened?”

You swallowed, your breath hitching. Every second stretched longer than it should. You drew in the cold air and tried to find your voice. “I made a decision,” you said. “I… I want to pursue my dream.”

For a moment, his entire face lit up. That bright, proud smile bloomed instantly, the kind that always made your heart flutter. And it shattered you. Because he still believed you meant together. You could feel your chest squeezing tighter.

“That's amazing, baby. I'm proud of you."

You couldn’t speak. There was a lump in your throat so sharp it hurt. Your mouth felt dry, your hands trembling in your lap. Your heart was pounding so hard it almost drowned out the world. When you finally looked at him, tears were already clinging to your lashes. Chan’s smile faded. He reached out to cup your face, his palm warm and soft against your cold skin.

“Hey… what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

You blinked, and the tears began to fall. Slowly at first, then freely, painting your cheeks and dripping onto his hand. “Because… I’m leaving.”

His hand didn’t move. Neither did you. Time seemed to pause, every heartbeat echoing like a crack through your chest. You watched his expression change. Confusion. Pain. Realization.

And then silence. Nothing but the sound of winter and everything falling apart.

It hit Chan like a punch to the stomach, the kind that knocks the air out of your lungs before you can even speak. But he tried. He forced a smile, shaky and faint, before rising and kneeling in front of you. His eyes searched yours, already dimming. You saw it, the sadness tucked behind the corners of his mouth. He didn’t say it, but you knew. You had already disappointed him.

“I received an offer,” you said, voice trembling. “A scholarship. In South Korea.” Your next words barely made it past your lips. “And I accepted.”

He drew in a sharp breath, his chest rising with effort as his heart began to race. But he still nodded, still tried to be strong for you. His laugh was weak, more a breath than a sound.

“Hey, it’s okay. Don’t cry, okay?” He reached for your hand. “We’ll figure something out. I can visit. Or… I can go with you. Long-distance relationships work. People do it all the time.”

That was the problem. He meant it. Every word. He would leave everything behind if it meant staying by your side. He would give up his university plans, his future here, his family, his dreams of a quiet home and a life built together, just to chase after you. And that kind of love, though beautiful, was too big. Too costly. Too much to ask from someone you loved back.

“You can’t,” you whispered. Your voice broke as you wiped at your tears with the back of your hand.

Chan’s expression faltered. His brows pulled together in confusion. “What do you mean I can’t? Just tell me when, I’ll talk to my parents. They’ll understand. I’ll figure something out and—”

“Chan,” you interrupted, shaking your head slowly. “No.”

His lips parted slightly, disbelief setting in. “No?”

“I don’t… I don’t want you to come with me.” Your eyes met his, and you saw it happen in real time, the way the light faded. The way hope unraveled behind his gaze.

“I don’t understand,” he said, the words tight in his throat. “Why?”

“I’m doing this alone,” you said, your voice steady even as your heart crumbled. “I want things this place can’t give me.”

He stared at you like you’d just betrayed him with the cruelest lie. Like your words had dug into his chest and carved him open.

“What about me?” he whispered. “Does that mean you don’t want me anymore?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. “It’s not…” you tried, but he cut you off.

“Wait. Are you breaking up with me?” There was a humorless laugh in his voice, one that cracked the moment like glass shattering. He leaned back slightly, recoiling from you, as if your touch might burn him.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you said, your voice raw, your hands shaking. “But I need to be honest.”

“Honest about what?”

Your lips trembled. “Us. It’s over.”

He laughed again. This time it was quieter, broken in a way that hurt more than anger ever could.

“No, it’s not,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re not doing this. You’re not.”

“Chan.”

“No. Screw that. Why are you breaking up with me? If it’s because of the trip, I already said I’ll go. I’ll go to freaking Korea, I’ll find work, I’ll study there if I have to. I’ll stay with you. I’ll do anything.”

“It’s not the trip.” You lied. He didn’t see through it.

He took a deep breath, feeling weary, defeated.

“Then what is it? Do you like someone else?”

“What? No,” you said quickly. “It’s not that. It’s just…” You couldn’t finish. You couldn’t say the words that would destroy both of you.

He leaned in, both hands cradling your face, holding you as if you were already slipping away. His eyes searched yours, glassy with tears he refused to let fall.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I would go anywhere with you. For you. I need you to know that.”

You broke. The tears came fast and heavy, streaming down your face as your hands gently wrapped around his, pulling them away from your cheeks. Your heart screamed at you to stop. To stay. To tell him the truth. But instead, you looked him in the eye. And you said it.

”I don't love you anymore.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. And in that moment, you didn’t just break his heart. You shattered the part of yourself that would always belong to him. And then you twisted the dagger in his chest, stabbing him in a place only you had the keys to.

Time stopped. Seconds froze in place, just like your words. Chan looked at you like he was in actual pain. His lips parted again and again, but nothing came out. He let go of your hands like they burned him, stepping back as if trying to find any sign that this was a bluff.

"You don't mean that.” His voice was broken. You were to blame.

“I do,” you whispered. “Please… just don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“Tell me it's a lie.” A single tear slid down his cheek. You sniffled, doing everything in your power to keep your own tears from falling. “Tell me this is a joke. Right now.”

“I can’t…” you said, your voice barely there. “Because it’s not.”

His breathing became frantic, struggling to inhale and exhale. He ran a hand through his brown hair, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.. He couldn't believe this was happening. He had made so many plans, and they all included you. He couldn't see a future without you in it. And now the person he loves most simply doesn't love him anymore? What are the possibilities?

“I'm sorry.” You rubbed your hands over your face to wipe away the tears and stood up, the creaking sound of the swing echoing between your broken hearts.

He would never know how much it broke you to do this. Never guess that you were lying straight through your teeth to protect him. That this was love, and it was killing you.

“Hey!” His voice cracked as he rushed after you. He grabbed your wrist and turned you to face him again, forcing your eyes to meet his. Tears clung to his lashes. His breathing was heavy. His nose is red. His voice is nothing more than a desperate whisper. He sniffed, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “If you walk away from me right now, if you do this, I’ll never forgive you.”

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

In that moment, you swore you could hear the sound of glass shattering, your heart and his breaking at once, splintering into pieces too sharp to ever put back together. It echoed in your chest, your head, your ears. Final. Irreversible.

And still… you turned your back and walked away. Leaving him standing there. Alone. In the dark. With tears in his eyes and a heart split in two.

You broke yourself to protect him and dragged him down with you. And that was something you would never forgive yourself for.

He was inside the car, his head leaning against the seat while listening to soft music on the radio. In half an hour, Yuna would be leaving her ballet class, and he would take her home, cook dinner, and spend another night with his daughter, reading stories and watching cartoon shows on TV.

That’s when the sound of rain pulled him from his thoughts. At first, it was just a few fine droplets tapping against the car window. Then, within seconds, they turned into heavy, thick drops that blurred everything outside. Chan sat up and quickly reached to close the window, but something caught his attention. It was you, running for shelter from the rain, two bags clutched in your hands. You looked flustered and out of breath, your clothes already soaked through, clinging to your body. He cursed under his breath. He knew he shouldn’t, but his heart moved before reason could catch up.

He cursed under his breath, knowing he shouldn't, but his heart spoke louder.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered to himself.

You stopped beneath a tree, trying to use one of the bags to shield your head. The effort was useless. With a frustrated sigh, you gave up and started walking again, slowly now, careful on the slick sidewalk.

Chan rolled the window down fully and raised his voice over the sound of the rain. “Hey, get in the car.”

You froze. Your eyes squinted against the downpour as you tried to make out who had spoken. For a moment, you hesitated. But the rain didn’t. It kept falling harder, soaking you further. He reached over and unlocked the door. You climbed in quickly, tossed the bags to the floor, and shut the door with a sharp exhale. Your teeth clenched as you pushed damp strands of hair away from your face.

Water trickled down your cheeks, your neck, and clung to your skin. Chan stared for a beat too long, his brows furrowed in concern and something else he wasn’t ready to name. Without thinking, he shrugged off the jacket he was wearing and draped it over your shoulders. You opened your mouth to protest, but he didn’t give you the chance. He kept his eyes forward, like he hadn’t just crossed a line he swore he wouldn’t.

“Thanks,” you murmured, wiping your face with your palm.

You pushed your hair over one shoulder, exposing your neck and collarbone. Chan glanced, and then looked again. He couldn’t help it. The way your skin glistened from the rain, the way the warmth of the car painted your cheeks in that soft flush, it tugged at a memory he hadn’t let himself revisit. He remembered exactly what your skin felt like under his fingertips. He remembered the curve of your jaw, the way your breath hitched when he leaned in just a little too close.

He clenched his jaw and stared out the windshield instead, breathing slowly. He wanted to reach out, to trace that same line down your neck, to brush your hair back again just so he could see more. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t.

Then your eyes caught his, just before he could look away. You frowned.

“What were you looking at?”

He almost let a smirk slip, but buried it beneath a stony expression. “Nothing.”

“You were staring.”

“You’re not that interesting,” he shot back flatly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Your lips parted in disbelief, a flush of anger rising through your chest and neck, burning hot under your skin.

“Look, I get it. You hate me. I probably would too, if I were you. But could you just… not be like this? Just for a moment?” Your voice cracked slightly, but you kept going. “Since I got here, you've been treating me like some intruder. Like I’m this awful reminder you wish you could erase.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just kept his eyes fixed on the window, watching the city blur past.

“You’re not making it easy for anyone,” he muttered.

That was it. Cold, final, like a closed door. He wasn’t going to budge. He would never soften, never let you in. He’d just keep shutting you out, making you question everything. Without another word, you reached down and unbuckled your seat belt, fingers trembling with frustration. Maybe walking in the rain would hurt less than sitting there, being torn apart in silence.

“You’re not serious.” He moved before you could open the door, slamming it shut with one hand. Rain drummed hard against the roof above you, wild and relentless.

“Let me out,” you snapped, gripping the handle over his hand. Your skin brushed his, and your whole body tensed. A jolt ran up your arm, and you hated the way it made your breath catch. He felt it too. You saw it in the slight pause of his movement, in the twitch of his jaw.

“You’ll freeze out there.” His voice came low and tight, rough around the edges.

“So what?” you snapped, your voice cracking under the pressure building inside you. “Do you even care? It doesn’t matter to you anyway.”

Chan didn’t answer. He just stood there, holding the door… and your hand. You tried pulling away, tried opening the door again, but your body betrayed you. You were shaking, your breaths turning uneven. This whole thing felt stupid, desperate and humiliating. Your hand slowly moved up to your face as the burn in your throat rose to meet the sting behind your eyes. Chan flinched, his chest tightening at the sight.

You were crying. His heart sank as he watched your shoulders tremble. You turned away, both hands hiding your face as your sobs filled the small space between you. It was like something inside you had cracked open.

He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t run from it.

“I’m sorry.” His voice came out rough, lower than usual, but there was no doubt it was sincere. “That’s not what I meant.”

You shook your head, voice broken between sobs. “Yes, it is. Of course it is. You hate me—and I get it. I deserve it. I’m awful, I left, I said things I can’t take back… and you’re right to hate me, but…”

Chan reached across the space and gently touched your wrist, grounding you with his presence. “I don’t hate you.”

You were a mess, flushed, soaked in tears, but still the most heartbreakingly beautiful woman he had ever seen. It was ridiculous how that had never changed.

“Be serious,” you whispered.

“I am.”

You both stared at each other, suspended in the moment. Neither of you knew what to say next or what that admission really meant. You sniffled, wiping your tears with trembling fingers, questions swelling in your chest. Had he really asked about you all this time? Did he know your address in Seoul? Did any of it still matter to him?

Before either of you could speak, a wave of laughter and excited voices floated through the cracked car window. Your attention shifted as you spotted a group of children across the street under colorful umbrellas. The rain had started to fade into a light drizzle.

And there she was, Yuna, safe and smiling beneath the cover of a teacher’s umbrella.

Chan blinked hard and exhaled as he unbuckled his seat belt. You watched him step into the rain, holding the umbrella low under his arm. He crossed the street, crouched down, and scooped his daughter into his arms. Reality hit like a punch to the chest. He had a life. A routine. A daughter who adored him. A home to go back to. And you? You were just a reminder of something that used to be.

By the time he returned, Yuna’s face lit up when she saw you in the car. She clapped her hands and giggled, calling your name like she’d been waiting for you all day. You barely managed a smile as you turned, watching Chan quietly buckle her into the car seat.

Yuna beamed back at you, her little legs swinging in excitement beneath her ballet outfit. "Daddy, did you bring the princess to see me?"

Chan glanced at you for a split second, then looked away without answering.

You kept your voice soft. "Hi, sweetie. It's good to see you."

Yuna bounced in her seat, still glowing. "Daddy, can the princess come over for dinner? I want to show her my dolls!"

You couldn't help but smile at her innocence, at how effortlessly she shared her joy. Her little voice, so full of hope, made something squeeze in your chest. Chan swallowed hard beside you, clearly caught off guard. You could tell he was scrambling for a way to gently decline without breaking his daughter’s heart.

But he said nothing. Just silence. Waiting, maybe, for you to do it instead. He didn't want you in his house. That much was obvious. Not with his daughter. Not with his wife. This moment, even if innocent, wasn’t supposed to happen.

So you smiled and leaned forward slightly. "Hey, cutie. I’d love to, but I can’t make it today. I can’t wait to meet them though."

Yuna’s shoulders dropped a little. She made a soft noise of protest and waved her arms in disappointment. "Promise?"

"I promise," you said, offering her a pinky through the seats. She took it seriously and grinned again.

Chan got into the driver’s seat, checking the rearview mirror where his daughter giggled and squirmed in her seat. Then his eyes met yours again. But the smile you'd worn had already faded as you looked ahead. He didn’t say a word. Just started the car. The ride to your parents’ house was filled with Yuna’s cheerful chatter. She told him all about her ballet class, the music, the snacks, her friend who wore a sparkly tutu. Chan listened intently, asking questions, nodding at her excitement. And something in you twisted.

It wasn’t regret. It wasn’t guilt. It was envy. Because that could’ve been your life. And no matter how close you were right now, it felt miles away.

When he parked the car, you turned to Yuna and blew her a kiss. She caught it in her hands and pressed it to her cheek with a shy giggle. You glanced at Chan, hoping for a trace of softness, but his focus stayed on the windshield like you weren’t even there. You gathered your bags and opened the door. The rain had stopped and everything was damp but quiet.

“Thanks for the ride.” You mumbled before closing the door.

You were already halfway up the steps when you heard your name. You paused, not sure if you imagined it. Then again, louder this time. You turned. Chan had rolled down the passenger window. His expression was unreadable, his tone flat.

"Are you free tomorrow afternoon?"

You blinked, surprised. "Um… yes. Why?"

“'Two pm. In the park.”

That was all he said before driving off. No explanation. No smile. Just a cloud of confusion left in his wake.

At two in the afternoon, you arrived at the park. The day was beautiful, cool and sunny, as if the rain from the night before had never happened. Children filled the playground with laughter, running up the slide, tumbling down, their voices echoing in the open space.

From a distance, the first thing you noticed was a head of long blond hair, neck-length and shining in the sunlight. You narrowed your eyes to be sure, your heart picking up speed. It had to be Felix. And just as you suspected, Chan was standing beside him, arms crossed as they talked about something quietly.

“Felix?” You called out to him.

Both of them turned toward you. As soon as Felix recognized you, his face lit up and he opened his arms wide with that same radiant smile you remembered so well. Without hesitation, you walked into his embrace, laughing softly.

“Look who escaped from the big screen to see us!” he said, holding you tightly and longer than expected.

“It’s so good to see you. My God, it’s been forever.”

He looked just the same, maybe even better. Handsome, almost angelic, his warmth just as infectious as it had always been.

“It’s good to see you too. I almost didn’t believe it when Chan told me you were in town.”

You caught a glimpse of Chan watching silently from the side. He didn’t smile, but his eyes didn’t leave you.

“Well, here I am.”

Felix’s expression turned hopeful. “And how long are you staying? We’ve got to go out for a drink or something.” He nodded toward Chan, who barely acknowledged it, simply offering the smallest nod of agreement.

”Just two weeks.“ You smiled, feeling the weight of time passing in your words.

“We’ve still got time. I gotta run now, duty calls. But hey, I’ve got the bar now. You’ve got to stop by. I’d love that.”

“Of course, Lix. Let’s make it happen.”

He pulled you into one last hug, squeezing you affectionately before heading off with his usual bright energy, waving as he walked away. Once he disappeared down the street, the quiet between you and Chan wrapped around you like a heavy coat. You slipped your hands into your pockets and drew in a slow breath.

“So… any particular reason you asked me to come here?”

Chan turned to face you, and it took a moment for you to steady your breathing. He looked effortlessly beautiful. His hair had grown longer, curling gently at the ends, especially where it brushed the back of his neck. You tried not to stare.

“There’s someone who wants to see you,” he said.

You blinked, confused. But before you could ask, a small figure came running toward you across the grass. Yuna wore a flowery dress and her face lit up with pure joy when she saw you. She ran straight into your arms and you instinctively knelt down, wrapping her in a warm hug. Her tiny arms went around your neck as she giggled, and you kissed her soft cheek.

Before you could say a word, she took your hand eagerly and began pulling you along. “Come on, princess, let’s build a castle!”

Chan sat on the bench with his arms crossed, watching the two of you for the next forty minutes. He told himself to keep a straight face, to resist the growing grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. But the truth was, he couldn’t.

You sat with your ankles buried in the warm sand, Yuna beside you, both of you covered in it from head to toe. Her toys were scattered around, half-buried and forgotten except for one mission: build the biggest sandcastle possible. She had declared it like it was royal law, handing you a tiny pink shovel with full authority.

“Let’s dig, princess,” she said solemnly, her brow furrowed like a little commander.

“Leave it to me, your highness.” You gave her a theatrical bow, gripping the small shovel and diving into the task with exaggerated commitment, carving a moat around the half-built structure.

Chan ran his hand through the back of his neck, definitely not smiling at the scene before him.

And as quick as the blink of an eye, you were getting up to brush the accumulated sand off your lap, and tragedy struck. You tripped over the sand bucket and fell. Face first into the sand. There was a beat of silence before Yuna let out a shriek of laughter. She kicked her feet and clapped, delighted by the sight of you flopped in the sand.

“I’m okay. I’m fine,” you muttered, mostly to yourself, spitting out a bit of grit.

“You fell!” Yuna gasped between fits of laughter. Then she tilted her head and added gleefully, “You fell like a pancake!”

You stood, brushing sand from your hair, your clothes, even your eyelashes.

“Well, good thing pancakes are awesome,” you said with a grin, joining her in laughter.

Glancing back toward the bench, you caught Chan failing miserably at holding in his amusement.

“Yah!” he called out, grinning now. “You alright over there, or should I call for backup?”

“I’m fine,” you replied, pouting as you rolled your eyes. That was it, he broke. Laughter spilled out of him as he leaned back against the bench, unable to keep it in.

You sat back down beside Yuna, both of you returning to your castle, determined to finish it. By the time it was done, the sun had begun to dip low in the sky, casting golden hues across the park. Yuna had started yawning, blinking slower, and rubbing her eyes with sandy hands no matter how many times you gently stopped her. When the sky turned soft and peach-colored, you scooped her up. Her tiny arms wrapped around your neck and her head rested against your shoulder without a word. You carried her across the sand, like a sleepy little koala, toward where Chan was waiting. And for a brief moment, the three of you felt like something whole. Something that almost could’ve been.

“I think her battery ran out,” you said with a soft laugh, gently brushing your fingers through Yuna’s dark hair, tied back with a fluffy yellow scrunchie.

Chan stood up, instinctively reaching to take her from you, but you looked at him, something hopeful flickering in your eyes.

“Is it okay if I carry her a little longer?”

He paused for a moment. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

And just like that, the two of you found yourselves walking side by side down the quiet, tree-lined streets of your old neighborhood. The air was cool and smelled faintly of grass and rain, and Yuna lay nestled in your arms, still barely awake. She clutched a small stuffed bunny to her chest, letting out a yawn every few steps, her eyelids drooping further each time. Chan didn’t say much, but he kept glancing at her with soft eyes, each look filled with affection. It was the kind of quiet tenderness that didn’t need to be spoken aloud. You noticed the way her tired smile would return whenever she felt his gaze on her.

He didn't say anything, just kept walking with you, his hands in his pockets. Then Yuna's sandal slipped off, and he ran to pick it up, with an incredible reflex that only parents have.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his eyes flicking to yours briefly.

“Yes,” you said with a small breath. “She’s heavier than she looks.”

“You sure?” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

You gave him a look and smiled. “Are you calling me weak?”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, but didn’t answer.

Before long, you reached his front gate. The garden outside was small but clearly well cared for, the kind of place that made a house feel like a home. You stopped there, hesitating for a moment. He looked at you cautiously, then turned his attention to Yuna. He reached out and gently lifted her from your arms, holding her against his chest with practiced ease, making sure not to wake her.

You watched as her cheek pressed against his shoulder, peaceful and safe.

“Well, I...” you began, unsure of what to say next.

He looked at you, eyes searching. “Do you wanna...”

You both spoke at once. Chan let out a quiet breath, like he had been holding it in for longer than he realized. You smiled, a soft, genuine curve of your lips that felt strangely natural, like muscle memory.

“Do you want to come in?” he asked. “You’re covered in sand.”

You hesitated, shaking your head quickly. “I don’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not,” he replied simply. “I’m inviting you.”

You raised an eyebrow, not entirely convinced. “Won’t her mom be upset if she sees me here?”

There was a short pause. He glanced at the door, then unlocked it.

“No.”

You frowned. His wife must be a saint, then. Because you couldn’t imagine many people welcoming an ex-girlfriend into their home. Still, this was Chan. If he said it was fine, you trusted him.

He entered the house and you followed him. The house was warm. Lived in. A few toys scattered about. A pair of pink socks near the stairs. Chan gently placed Yuna on the couch, tucking her bunny under her chin as she shifted sleepily, her tiny mouth falling open in the most peaceful way.

“She could sleep through a tornado,” he said with a small laugh, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead as he passed you. “Want some coffee?”

You nodded. ‘Sure.’

He pointed down the hall. “Bathroom’s that way, if you want to wash up.”

You thanked him and made your way down the hallway, your footsteps quiet against the floor. The bathroom was just as neat as the rest of the house, everything in its place. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and shook your head lightly, sending grains of sand tumbling from your hair. Then you brushed the rest off your clothes and splashed cold water on your face, watching it trickle down into the porcelain sink.

That was when you noticed it. Two toothbrushes. One small, bright, and clearly Yuna’s. The other, plain and adult-sized. Your brows furrowed slightly. Just two. No third.

You weren’t trying to pry, and you certainly didn’t want to overstep but something about that small detail tugged at the edge of your thoughts. You took a quiet breath and stepped back into the hallway. It wasn’t your place to ask. And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want to know the answer.

You hadn’t noticed it right away, but Chan’s house was surprisingly spacious. It made sense, though. A child like Yuna needed room, space to scatter her toys, space to grow, space to let her happiness echo through the walls. Under the stairs sat a piano, slightly dusty, but clearly used from time to time. You remembered him taking lessons back in high school. He had been so determined for a while, though he never followed through. Life had a way of changing people when you weren’t looking.

The sliding door to the backyard creaked as it opened, and you went outside. The sun was already golden, casting long shadows on the grass. A small plastic slide stood crooked in the yard, and the sound of the coffee machine hummed inside.

A few minutes later, he joined you, two mugs in hand. He handed you one and sat down next to you on the wooden bench. For a while, neither of you said anything. You just sipped in silence, breathing in the scent of the afternoon air and roasted beans.

“I didn't expect you to be good with her,” he said finally, his eyes still fixed on the backyard fence.

You looked at him, surprised. “Why not?”

He shrugged. “You used to trip over your own feet trying to put on your backpack.”

You laughed, nudging him with your elbow. “I've evolved.”

“Evolved,” he murmured.

Silence again. But it's not awkward. Just... kind.

The quiet returned, but it felt easy now, like an old rhythm neither of you had forgotten. You looked at him more closely. His jaw wasn’t so tight anymore. His shoulders, always tense when you first saw him again, had relaxed. There was something lighter in his expression. Not happiness exactly, but something close. Something like peace.

“I like being around her,” you said softly, playing with the handle of your mug. “She reminds me of you.”

He turned his head slightly. “How so?”

You smiled at the thought. “She's stubborn. Bossy. Ridiculously charming.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Sounds dangerous.”

“But,” you continued, “she’s also sweet. Protective. Brave.”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on his coffee, lost in thought, the silence stretching comfortably between you.

The sliding door creaked behind you as a breeze blew through, and for a split second, he leaned a little closer to you. Just a little. But enough for you to feel the change in the air.

“She likes you,” he said at last, his voice low. “Thanks for spending time with her.”

You offered a small shrug, brushing your fingers along the ceramic mug. “You don’t need to thank me. The feeling’s mutual. She’s... impossible not to fall for.”

Chan didn’t reply. But when you glanced at him, you caught the way his eyes had settled on you, not guarded, not distant, just quietly focused. Like he was seeing you for the first time in a long while. Like some memory he’d tried to bury had surfaced despite him.

There was something rare about this moment, something soft and unspoken. Just the two of you, sitting side by side with no weight of the past pressing down, no demands or expectations. You knew it wouldn't last. Moments like this never did. But that only made it more precious.

When the breeze turned cooler, Chan stood to make more coffee, and you followed him into the kitchen. The mugs were refilled, the scent of roasted beans wrapping around the quiet space. Outside, the backyard lights glowed faintly through the glass, casting gentle reflections across the counter. Yuna was still curled on the sofa, her small frame tucked tight, clutching her bunny like a lifeline. A lock of hair clung to her cheek, and she shifted slightly, making a soft sound in her sleep.

You leaned against the counter, ankles crossed, eyes fixed on her with a quiet smile. “I still can’t believe she knocked out like that.”

“She always does,” Chan said, sitting on the edge of the kitchen table, one foot touching the floor. “She goes full chaos mode, then crashes like someone flipped a switch.”

You laughed softly. “She’s amazing, Chan.”

He looked down, smiling in that modest way of his. “She’s... everything.”

The words hung in the air between you, warm and honest.

You turned to face him, lifting your mug slightly. “So... how’s life treating you? Besides the whole dad stuff.”

He blinked, as if the question had surprised him. Then he smiled faintly. “Dad stuff takes up a lot.”

“I bet,” you said with a quiet smile, then added more seriously, “But really. What have you been up to?”

Chan ran a hand through his hair, his voice a little rough now, worn down by the long day.

“I teach music,” he said. “At a private school. Guitar and piano, mostly. A bit of theory, some practice. Nothing glamorous.”

Your eyebrows lifted, genuinely surprised. “That actually suits you.”

He chuckled, tilting his head. ‘You think so?’

You nodded. “You always looked the most at ease with a guitar in your hands.”

A faint smile touched his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“It’s... peaceful,” he said. “Predictable. Safe.” He paused, then added, “That’s where I met Hana. Yuna’s mom. She used to work there.”

“Oh.” It slipped out before you could stop it. You cleared your throat, adjusting your grip on the mug. “That's nice.”

You never thought you'd be having a casual conversation about the mother of Chan’s child. And yet, here you were. Hana. The name sat oddly in your mind. You wondered what kind of woman she was. Judging by Yuna’s smile, she was probably beautiful, the kind of beauty that stole breath and turned heads. Maybe she was the type of woman people gravitated toward without even realizing. You also wondered if he had loved her the way he once loved you or if it was something steadier. Something built more on trust than passion. Maybe building a life with someone required a different kind of love. Maybe he found happiness in that. The kind you could never have given him.

He said nothing more. He just took a sip of coffee and nodded slowly, the weight of something unsaid passing briefly between you. The way he spoke of her, neutral, factual, without affection, made you curious to know more.

He looked at you then. “And you?”

That simple question softened something in your chest. You let out a breath, a small smile blooming on your lips as you leaned back against the counter, mug still warm between your fingers.

“It’s... intense,” you began. “I work a lot. No fixed schedule. No time to breathe most days.” He was listening, really listening, his coffee forgotten in his hands. “But I love it,” you said, your voice glowing with quiet excitement. “Becoming a different person, even for a little while, and making people feel something real. It’s chaotic, exhausting, terrifying sometimes... but God, Chan. It’s everything I dreamed of. I feel alive.”

He didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on you, but not exactly, it was more like he was caught up in the glare of something.

“I finished filming a movie last month,” you said, your voice softer now. “Nothing flashy, but... it meant a lot to me.” Then you caught yourself, lips twitching in embarrassment. “Sorry. I’m rambling.”

“No,�� he said quickly, almost too quickly. He leaned forward just a little, as if your words pulled him in without permission. “Don’t stop.”

You looked at him then. Really looked at him. Then you smiled.

You looked at him then. Really looked. And for a second, the kitchen changed. Or maybe it was just the light above the sink, casting a warm, golden hue over the tiles and countertops, softening the world around you. Or the fact that he hadn’t blinked once while you were speaking like he was afraid the moment might disappear if he looked away. A current moved through the quiet, slow and heavy like honey. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and his fingers began tapping lightly against the side of his mug. And for one insane, fleeting moment, he thought about kissing you. Right there between the hum of the fridge and the quiet breath of his daughter.

He imagined it: your lips, familiar and unfamiliar all at once, tasting of coffee and memories. The way his hand might hover near your jaw before finding the courage to touch. How the ache between you might dissolve into something simpler, something whole. He blinked, and the thought evaporated with the steam curling up between your cups.

He blinked and the thought disappeared, dissipating in the steam between their mugs.

“You really did it,” he said finally, voice hushed, almost reverent. “You went and made it happen.”

You softened at the sound of his voice. “Yes.”

He’d spent so long resenting the version of you that lived behind a screen. The one who smiled in interviews. The one whose face popped up in trailers he refused to watch. That you were easy to turn off. Easy to hate. But this version standing barefoot in his kitchen, mug in hand, heart soft in your chest, this one, he didn’t know how to hate.

It was getting late.

Neither of you said it, but it hung between you like a thin thread pulling taut. You glanced over your shoulder at Yuna, still curled up on the couch like a question mark, bunny pressed to her cheek. Then you set your mug down, slowly.

“I should go.”

Chan slowly got up, placing his mug on the table. “Yeah... I'll walk you out.”

You tiptoed past the little girl, careful not to stir the peace of the room, and slipped your coat from the armchair. When he opened the door, the night greeted you, crisp and scented with pine and something sweet, like honeysuckle trailing from a neighbor’s fence. You passed him on your way out, your arm brushing his. Neither of you moved away.

You stepped out onto the porch together. Everything was quiet. The kind of silence that echoes in your ears.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said softly, turning to face him.

He looked at you like he was still back in the kitchen, still somewhere inside that memory that hadn’t even fully formed. Then he blinked, his expression softening like thawing ice.

“Thank you,” he said. “For being with her. For being... here.”

You smiled, your breath forming little clouds in the cold.

Your breath came out in small clouds now, floating like ghosts between you. You didn’t quite know what to do with your hands, or how to say goodbye, so you followed instinct instead. You stepped forward and hugged him. It was brief. Your hand ran lightly across his shoulder. But his body stiffened in surprise, and for a second, just one, his arm twitched toward you, as if fighting muscle memory, as if his chest remembered holding you before his brain could catch up.

When you pulled back, he was looking at you again. But this time, his gaze didn’t stop at your eyes. It fell slowly to your mouth. The distance between you was barely a breath. And in that breath lived every question neither of you had asked. Every kiss you didn’t get to steal. If he leaned in now, if he let the years and guilt and fear dissolve would it break something, or fix it?

He didn’t find out.

You walked toward the garden, the cold nipping at your skin, but you didn’t care. Not tonight. Your heart was warm enough. And it was still beating, hard and alive, full of something that almost but not quite, felt like hope.

♡ taglist: @strsforjsb @robinnotgood24 @kannaexe @idiotmaterial @iovecb97 @inejghafawifesblog @hash2013 @skzfangirl143 @gncbnahc @stay3096 @starjely @alisonyus @mangalovesanime-blog @hanniebunch @nikatsuuu @downingmorphine @woopdeedoopdeedoop @tsunderelino @lomllino @lisaskz @sadgvddess @skzswife @hissnoopy @lee-knows-cats @lixies-favorite-cookie @hash2013 @11thenightwemet11 @hanadulsetaad @alondra6011 @skinnyjeans-tanktops @ilovvesleepp @hyunetopia @maddy24207

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barnesonly · 9 hours ago

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bad idea . ݁₊ ⊹

bucky barnes x avenger!reader

summary: Bucky can’t keep his eyes off you all mission and when you catch him moaning your name back at the safe house, you make sure to give him exactly what he’s been craving.

word count: 3,1k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, dirty talk, jerking off, oral (m receiving), PiV, unprotected sex, rough sex, breeding.

A/N: based on this ask.

The mission had been straightforward enough—infiltration, data retrieval, minimal contact. Bucky had gone over the plan a hundred times with you, listened to you recite it right back like clockwork, but none of that was on his mind anymore. Not when you were right in front of him, wearing that tactical suit that clung to every curve like it was tailor-made for you.

God, he was trying to focus—really—but every time you crouched low to disable a lock or slipped into a narrow corridor ahead of him, his eyes betrayed him. The way the dark fabric hugged the softness of your thighs, the cut of your waist under the belt, the tempting slope of your hips.

And the way you moved… smooth and confident, like you didn’t even know you had this power over him.

“Bucky, cover me,” you whispered into comms as you slipped around a corner.

“Got you,” he replied, voice a shade deeper than usual.

And he did have you—he’d take a bullet for you without a second thought—but tonight it wasn’t just protective instinct roaring in his chest. Tonight it was something hotter, more dangerous. Every whispered word between you sent a shiver up his spine. Every glance you threw him, all determination and fire, went straight to his gut.

You weren’t just his partner tonight. You were a distraction. A beautiful, maddening one.

Bucky told himself he had better control than this. That it was wrong—you were a close friend, someone who trusted him to have her back—and yet every fleeting touch, every breathless moment tangled up together in tight spaces as you avoided guards, just drove him further into his own thoughts.

By the time you two made it back to the safe house, adrenaline still thrumming in your veins, all he could see was you. The perfect bow of your lips when you smiled at him, the glimmer in your eyes when you joked, completely oblivious to the filthy thoughts running through his mind.

And god help him, when you finally disappeared into your room for the night, Bucky thought maybe—just maybe—a cold shower would knock this need out of him.

But the image of your pretty face, the faint scent of your perfume lingering in the dark…

Yeah. That was the last straw.

Bucky kicked his door shut with his heel as soon as he was inside his room, hands already trembling as he tugged his gear off. The mission was over, but his head was still back there—in that darkened hallway, pressed up against you as you whispered his name, breath ghosting across his neck.

God, what was wrong with him?

He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, dragging his hands down his face. Except all that did was summon up images of you again—the way that suit hugged your ass, the flex of your legs when you moved, the glint in your eye when you’d catch him looking and pretend you didn’t notice.

And then, like some sick joke his brain was playing, the image shifted: you, naked and needy, lips parted like you did when you were focusing, hands reaching for him.

A rough groan broke from his chest before he could stop it.

He was already hard just thinking about you—aching, trapped under his tactical pants—and suddenly there was no ignoring it.

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, hands moving faster than his self-control as he shoved his pants and briefs down to his thighs, freeing his cock with a low hiss.

He wasn’t proud of this—jerking off to the thought of you like some horny teenager—but tonight? Tonight was different.

Tonight you’d looked at him. Moved around him like you belonged there. Whispered his name like it was some private language.

And now, as his flesh throbbed in his palm, it was your name spilling past his lips.

“God, baby…” he gritted out, leaning back into the mattress, eyes fluttering shut as he gave in to the fantasy—you kneeling between his legs, hands on his thighs, your mouth so close he could feel your breath.

He stroked himself slowly at first, thumb circling the slick bead of precum at his tip, imagining that was your tongue.

“Just like that,” he murmured into the empty room, hips flexing upward on their own accord.

The coil of pleasure wound tighter as he pumped his fist faster, harder, chasing that mental image of you—the softness of your lips wrapping around him, your hands gripping him like you’d never let go.

He could almost hear you moaning around him—or maybe that was his own harsh breathing as heat built up in his spine.

“God, your mouth, baby… f-fuck,” he rasped, name slipping between curses as his abs tensed. Every stroke was slicker, more desperate, so close to the edge he felt dizzy.

And he was so far gone that he never heard the door creak open. Never noticed your silhouette in the dim light, your gaze fixed on him, lips parted in surprise—then hunger.

He was still groaning your name when you moved into the room, your knees brushing the floor as you came to him like a prayer answered.

And when he finally opened his eyes, breath hitching in his throat, there you were.

Kneeling between his legs. Eyes dark and glassy. Mouth open, inches away from his aching, leaking cock—like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

His fingers flexed against the sheets, breath stuttering out as the tension that had been coiled inside him all night snapped.

“Oh wow, Barnes…” you murmured, voice low and tinged with amusement as a slow, wicked smirk tugged at your lips.

His heart thudded so hard it echoed in his ears. “F–fuck,” Bucky breathed, his voice hoarse with surprise and need. “That’s not—”

But you weren’t going to let him finish whatever excuse he thought he could come up with.

“Shhh,” you hushed him, one hand trailing up his trembling thigh before your fingers wrapped around him—slow and sure, your palm warm and perfect.

He hissed through his teeth at the contact, cock twitching against your grip as you gave him one leisurely, deliberate stroke.

“You need my help, huh?” you teased, lips curving as you watched him fight to keep his eyes open.

Your voice was silk and fire, and the way you held him—gentle but possessive—made his spine arch off the bed.

“God,” he groaned, hands flexing into the sheets tightly. “Baby, please…”

And you liked that—liked him raw and desperate for you.

“You do, don’t you?” you murmured again, pumping him slowly, dragging every inch of his aching length through your fist as you leaned in, eyes locked on his face. “Need me to take care of you?”

He was trembling now, teeth gritted against a moan as slick precome dribbled over your fingers, making each stroke wetter, more deliciously obscene.

When you finally bent lower, breath ghosting against him, Bucky thought he might come on the spot.

And then your mouth was on him—hot, wet, perfect—lips sealing around the crown as you eased him in deeper.

A strangled sound tore out of him, hips flexing upward as your tongue swirled slow circles around him, like you were savoring him inch by inch.

“Oh, f—fuck,” he gasped, hands flying to your hair instinctively, needing to touch you, to feel that this was real.

And you moaned low around him in response, eyes fluttering up to meet his, never breaking that gaze as you hollowed your cheeks and started to move.

God, the sight of you—lips stretched around him, eyes burning up at him through your lashes—was enough to undo him.

Your hands steadied him as you took him deeper, bobbing your head in a rhythm that sent shivering heat up his spine and white noise crashing in his ears.

He was already leaking into your mouth, salty and needy, and the way you moaned around him—like you liked this, like you’d been waiting all night for this too—nearly shattered him.

“Holy shit, that’s it,” he panted, thumb brushing your cheekbone as you sucked him just a little harder.

And all he could do was arch into you, let himself go, eyes on you as you took him like you had all the time in the world—wet, filthy, and perfect.

He couldn’t look away—wouldn’t dare.

Your mouth was so fucking warm, lips stretched perfectly around him, tongue working him like you knew every secret to making him fall apart.

And god, you weren’t holding back—hands gripping his hips to keep him steady as you took him deeper, inch by inch. Every slick, sinful pass of your lips and the needy hum vibrating up your throat had him trembling all over.

“Jesus—yes,” Bucky choked, the sound raw as his hands fisted in your hair.

Your eyes stayed on him, hooded and dark with desire, and that was the last straw.

“Baby, I’m gonna—” he started, voice breaking, but you didn’t pull back.

You moaned, like you wanted him to come, your hands tightening, your pace quickening—up and down his length, wet and obscene.

That moan sent him over the edge.

“Holy fuck,” Bucky gasped, spine bowing as heat exploded up his back, his hands tugging gently at your hair without even realizing.

And then he was coming, spilling down your throat in hot, helpless spurts as you stayed right where you were—lips sealed tight around him, eyes fluttering closed as you swallowed every last drop, humming like it was the sweetest thing you’d ever tasted.

“F-fuck,” he groaned again, breath shuddering, muscles trembling as he rode the last waves of his orgasm into your mouth.

And you?

You just kept going—milking him with slow, greedy sucks until his hands loosened their hold in your hair and his cock gave one last exhausted twitch between your lips.

When you finally eased off him, lips glistening, you licked them slowly—dragging your thumb across the corner of your mouth like you were savoring him.

Bucky was wrecked—utterly speechless—eyes fixed on you like you’d just shattered him and put him back together all at once.

And all you did was lean up, breath ghosting across his lips as you whispered, voice wicked and soft:

“See, Barnes? That wasn’t so hard.”

Your lips were still damp and glistening as you kissed him once, slow and teasing, before pulling back with a wicked glint in your eye.

“You really thought I didn’t notice, Bucky?” you purred, hands braced on his chest as you straddled him for a heartbeat. “You looking at me all day like you just wanted to take me right there against the wall?”

His breath caught—a harsh inhale as his hands flexed over your hips.

And you weren’t done.

“The way you kept staring at me,” you went on, voice husky, leaning closer until your lips brushed his ear. “You wanted to touch me so fucking bad, didn’t you?”

That was it.

A growl rumbled deep in his chest—pure need and possessive hunger—and in a blink, his hands were on you.

Your world spun as Bucky flipped you onto your back like you weighed nothing, caging you in with his broad shoulders and solid arms.

“Goddamn right I did,” he ground out, blue eyes dark as they raked over you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Your breath hitched at the raw power of him—this was the Bucky you’d teased all day without knowing it, and now you had nowhere to hide.

“Bucky—” you started, lips trembling with anticipation.

But he was already on you, hands tugging at your clothes like they were the last thing on Earth between him and you.

Your top was first—pulled up and off with a rough urgency that left your hair tousled and your skin bared to his heated gaze.

“God, look at you,” he breathed, palms sweeping up your sides to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples in a way that made you arch into him with a gasp.

Your hands fisted in the sheets as he leaned down, pressing his lips to the valley of your chest, kissing and nipping his way along your skin like he was starving.

“Been dying for this all day,” he muttered against you, voice so low and raw it sent a shiver straight to your core.

And you could feel him—already hard again—pressed heavy and insistent against your thigh as he dragged your pants down your legs, peeling them off with the same greedy need as before.

By the time you were bare beneath him—nothing left to hide—Bucky paused, breath shuddering as his hands skimmed up your legs like he couldn’t wait another second to touch you properly.

“You have any idea,” he growled, leaning down until his lips hovered just above yours, “what you do to me?”

And all you could do was look up at him—eyes dazed, lips parted, pulse racing—and whisper, “Show me.”

Your heart was a drum in your chest as Bucky hovered above you, gaze raking over every inch of your bare body like he was trying to burn you into his memory. His jaw clenched, his breathing ragged, like he was holding on by a thread.

“Show you?” he rasped, voice so low and dark it sent a shiver straight through your core. His eyes were wild—desperate, hungry—like he’d been starved for you and finally, finally had you where he wanted.

And then his mouth was on yours—no soft, sweet kiss, just pure need, lips crashing into yours, tongue claiming your mouth as his hands grabbed your wrists and pinned them hard above your head.

“Gonna fucking ruin you,” he rasped into your mouth, teeth dragging against your bottom lip as he pinned you.

You gasped, but he didn’t let up—grinding his hips into you, cock heavy and hard against your soaked heat, making sure you felt exactly what you’d done to him.

“Been wanting this all fucking day,” he growled against your lips, breath hot, teeth scraping your mouth as he spoke.

And god, the way he held you down—metal fingers cool and unyielding around your wrists, flesh hand roaming down your side, leaving a trail of heat in its wake—made you tremble beneath him.

Then he shifted his hips, lining himself up, and you barely had time to suck in a breath before he drove into you in one deep, devastating thrust.

Your cry echoed through the room, pleasure burning hot as your body stretched around him, filled so full you could barely think.

“Fuck, baby,” Bucky groaned, head dropping to your neck, his breath shuddering against your skin. “So tight—so fucking perfect for me.”

He didn’t give you a second to adjust—didn’t want to—pulling back just enough to slam into you again, harder, deeper. The force of it rocked you against the mattress, made your head spin, made your toes curl.

You could barely breathe, barely think, just feel — the wet, filthy slap of his hips against yours, the sharp drag of his cock hitting every sensitive spot inside you, the way he completely owned your body.

“B-Bucky—” you gasped, voice breaking on a moan.

“Yeah?” he growled, fucking into you with a brutal rhythm, his metal hand tightening just enough on your wrists to make you arch beneath him, helpless and open. “This what you wanted, huh? Wanted me to lose it? Wanted me to ruin you?”

And oh god, you did. You wanted this—wanted him like this, unrestrained, raw, needing you like his life depended on it.

You whimpered, eyes glossy, back arching as he pounded into you, the headboard thudding against the wall with every deep, savage thrust.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice wrecked, hips slamming into yours so hard the bed creaked beneath you. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sobbed, pleasure coiling tighter, burning hotter. “Bucky, I’m yours—please—”

“That’s it,” he groaned, mouth at your ear, pace relentless as he chased both your highs. “Gonna come for me, sweetheart? Gonna fall apart on my cock?”

Your body was trembling, so close it hurt, every thrust sending you spiraling higher until you shattered, crying out his name as your climax ripped through you—wave after wave of blinding heat, muscles clenching down around him so tight he nearly lost his mind.

“Fuck—doll—” Bucky gasped, hips stuttering as your orgasm dragged him under.

He spilled into you in thick, hot pulses, groaning low and broken as he fucked you through it, milking every last drop. His body shuddered over yours, sweat-slick and trembling, breath coming in ragged bursts against your skin.

And when it was done, when you were both boneless and spent, he finally loosened his grip on your wrists, fingers tracing over the marks he’d left there—gentle now, reverent.

His forehead dropped to yours, eyes soft even as his chest still heaved. “Jesus, doll,” he whispered, brushing his nose against yours. “I’ve wanted that for so long.”

A wicked little smile tugged at your lips as you tipped your chin up just enough to murmur against his mouth, “I know… you were so obvious, you know that?”

Bucky froze, breath hitching.

Your fingers tugged playfully at his hair as you went on, voice breathy and sweetly smug. “Following me around like a lost puppy all day. Practically undressing me with your eyes every time I bent over.”

That earned you a low groan and a warning growl that rumbled in his chest.

“Careful,” Bucky muttered, hips flexing instinctively—and you could feel him already stirring against you, still inside you, his hands tightening possessively on your waist.

You just grinned, eyes dark as you arched into him. “Careful?” you echoed, lips brushing his ear. “Or what? You gonna pin me down and do it all over again, Barnes?”

And before you could say another word, he was kissing you—deep and filthy—his hands roaming like he was starving for you all over again, every slick inch of your body his to taste, to take, to wreck one more time.

tag list: @iamthatonefangirl @buckytakethewheel @buckybarneswife125 @thatsbucknasty

#barnesonly #marvel #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #writing #mcu #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bad idea #bucky barnes smut #smut #bucky barnes oneshot #oneshot #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes one shot #one shot

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queen-of-diamonds-xo · 3 days ago

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Qatar Heat Pt.2 (OP81)

Oscar Piastri x female! Driver! Reader

🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂

Summary: part two of this fic!

Watching his teammate rolled away as he battles with unanswered questions. Oscar is rushed away and confronted by his manger Mark Webbar- where the pressure you endure come to light.

Warnings:

Mentions of a weight clause for reader, a bit of tension, both of you are still idiots just a little bit more aware of your feelings

A/N: okay here it is! I’m so sorry this took so long your girl has been in a massive funk lately but finally getting this out feels so good. I hope your enjoy, the themes in this may be a little strong but your girl can’t help writing about supportive men speaking up for woman’s advocacy!

Masterlist

🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🍂

Oscar felt helpless as he watched your body being strapped onto a gurney and rushed away. Cameras flashed around him in a dizzying swirl, sharp questions slurring together in a meaningless blur of noise.

“Oscar, what’s going on? What did she say?”

“Mr Piastri, any comment on what you just witnessed?”

“Mr Piastri, do you think women are cut out for formula one?”

That last one ran deep down Oscar’s spine, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tilted his head at the reporter. Almost daring them to repeat the question.

His movement towards the man was blocked by the weighted pressure of Charles' hands on his tensed shoulders, blocking his attempt at confronting the sexist reporter. His fists clenched by his sides as he scoffs one last time in the man direction, turning his attention to the swarm of McLaren personal surrounding you.

His steps towards you were held back, Charles’ voice ringing through his ears. Charles hands pressed into Oscar’s shoulders, effectively blocking the man’s advance. He felt hopeless, his feet sinking into the heated tar like mud- his strained voice fading into the chaotic swarm of noise.

He was quickly forced away, McLaren support surrounding him as they guided his staggering steps into a closed off room. Their words not registering as his neck strained, desperate to catch one last look at you as the door to the motor home is locked behind him. Oscar’s hands rested atop his helmet, thankful for the privacy it provided as a strangled, broken plea escapes his parted lips. His chest straining as his mind runs away from him, still focused on his teammate, the girl he would do anything for.

He is ushered into a still conference room, the silence a welcoming change as the door clicks.

In seconds Oscar was left alone, his blood thundering in his ears. He heaved with weighted breaths as he paced the room. A consistent back and forth as he replayed your words in his mind, battling with himself to not go running out the door after you.

His hand fighting with his helmet, rushed movements yanking the suffocating weight from his head. The pounding remained consistent as the protective gear hung heavily in his hands. His sick covered gloves a stomach churning reminded if the pain McLaren had caused.

He replayed the events in his mind, running through the memories- a desperate search for answers in every fleeting moment he had shared with you.

So.. she got her period- that he saw sure off.

They forgot to fill her water at the hottest race of the year and-

They forgot?

Engineers don’t just, forget these things.

His cheast tightens with a whole new kind of anger. The one ran deep, an icy flow in his veins that squared his shoulders and tightened his jaw. He narrowed his eyes as he tried to remain control of his breathing.

But if they didn’t forget, they.. did this on purpose?

His eyes narrowed in a pointed gaze.

But.. why would they do this?

He made his way out towards the door, leaving his helmet forgotten and his gloves tucked into his coveralls.

gripping the cold brass in his hand, Oscar took a moment to breathe. Allowing his breath to catch, the shaking in his hands steadying.

Nothing good will come from approaching this in anger. No, he needs to be calm and consistent. He needs to lay out the facts and the evidence for the world to deliberate.

He needs people to know the truth. Not for himself, and definitely not for the team.

But for you.

The girl who came speeding into his life, messing up his sim times with her sarcastic commentary. Sending his heart racing with every second glance, his stomach shuffling with nerves when you laugh, low and controlled, at his jokes.

The one who always stood with composure and grace when people throw brash and sexist comments your way.

The one who shut them up with race results and unteachable talent that left the whole paddock (world) silent.

The one who left him breathless in every sense.

He wasn’t going to stand by and watch as the very team who did this to you, made up excuses and lies- letting the world slander your racing ability.

This wasn’t personal- it wasn’t about you

Just… your ability as a driver.

Yeah, sure. That’s how he will rationalise what he’s about to do.

The door opening caught him by surprise, stepping back slightly as the person sleeked into the room. Standing tall, blocking Oscar’s escape.

Oscar eyes narrowed at the older man in front of him, his manager and mentor Mark Weebar.

Oscar arms crossing against his chest as he rejected the man’s presence, not at all in the mindset for a post race debriefing right now.

Mark stood unwavering in front of the door, mimicking Oscar’s stance watching the young driver intently. His eyes daring Oscar’s to speak first, a smirk itching on Marks features at Oscar’s indifferent expression. Waiting carefully for mark to break the silence first

“Before you go out there, there are some things you should know first.”

Marks gaze met Oscar’s, the older man’s face hanging low. His shoulder weighed with the knowledge of a terrible truth. One he truly didn’t believe Oscar was ready to hear- At least not in his current state.

Marks movements were slow, hesitant as he extended out his arm. His hand clutching a stack of papers, jerstering for Oscar to take them.

Oscar’s hands shook as he gazed the papers, they looked identical to his racing contract with McLaren. The only difference being your name staring back at him.

He thrust the papers back towards Mark, the pile burning in his hands. His eyes gone wide as he stared accusingly at his manager;

This was your racing contact.

He couldn’t have this! He couldn’t read this- he could be fired, or worse.

“I’m not asking you to read it. I’m giving it to you, to leak to the press.”

Oscar wished he heard the man wrong, but at Mark stood unwavering, he couldn’t help but stare down at the stack. His gaze a mix of horror and intrigue.

“Now, you didn’t hear this from me. But-“

Mark oaused, taking a moment to steady his shaking words. His eyes refusing to meet Oscar’s.

“There’s a part of her contract- a… a weight clause.”

The stack of papers fluttering to the floor paused Marks words.

Risking a looks up at Oscar he watched the driver's eyes burn with fury, a blaze igniting as his body started to shake.

Oscar’s eyes closed with his teeth biting hard into his lip, the metallic tinge of blood meeting his taste buds. Every bone had gone ridged, hairs on end as his body practically buzzed with anger.

“Zac insisted on it.”

The two men's eyes met, Oscar’s burning with dark fury.

“They didn’t fill her water for today race, did you know?” Oscar’s voice was calm, head tilted to the side, eyes tracing marks frame. Sizing up the older man.

“I-I didn’t think that they would actually go through with it.” Mark admitted in a whispered confession, eyes closing and he’d lowering in shame and defeat.

Oscar’s foot collided with his helmet, the crack of the plastic visor evident as the headgear crumpled against the wall, sliding with defeat and landing on the ground.

Outside the motorhome, All post race celebrations were forgotten as drivers were whisked away by their teams. Being fed perfectly constructed statements about the incidents of today's race.

With the victor in intensive care, and her teammate and fellow pole sitter missing- there wasn’t much to be celebrating in the first place.

The paddock buzzed with uncertainty, all attention drawn to the McLaren motorhome. The building sitting unerveringly still, no one in or out as reporters and photographers fought for a glimpse inside.

Oscar kept the papers tucked into his race suit, mind steady as he opened the door.

Being met with a wave of flashing lights and incomprehensible questions. Everyone talking over themselves, begging for Oscars statement. He walked slow towards the group, holding up his arms to gain their attention.

“I’m not here to answer questions, just to deliver the facts.”

Oscars turns towards the McLaren motorhome, Mark posted at the door giving him a nod of encouragement. Blocking Zacks attempts to breach the compound to silence Oscar. Zacks fists pounding on the glass echoing behind him, the principals shouted threats silenced.

“It was brought to my attention, that during today’s race y/n’s drink supply was left unfilled. On purpose.” He make sure to put emphasis on that last part. Fighting with his voice to stay steady, praying it doesn’t crack.

“Now I don’t think i have to tell you just how disgusting, not to mentions dangerous that is. But that isn’t all.” Oscars unzips his race suit, the stack of papers being pulled from the confines.

“This-“ he holds the papers high in the air with a shaking arm.

“This is my teammates race contract. You will find a highlighted section on page three. this section outlines the details of my teammates weight clause. Stating, and I quote ‘If driver y/l/n is found to be in breach of the weight limit- set by McLaren- she will be met with immediate reprimands including but not limited to; one race ban, denial/push back of upgrades, limited access to sim testing and/or immediate dismissal from the team.”

Oscar paused as the crowd in front of him erupts. Anger and confusion evident in the air as reporters shout for answers. His eyes locking with a female reporter, her hand brought to her mouth in shock. Her eyes wide with disbelief and she shakes her head.

“I will not stand aside as my teammate is silenced. I will not stand aside while McLaren jeopardise her heath and wellbeing, all for aesthetics.” Oscar’s voice raising into a shout, allowing the words to fly from his mouth with heated passion.

“My teammates body autonomy has been signed away, now under ownership of a formula one team. Y/n lost consciousness after the race as a direct effect of the deliberate decision not to fill her drink supply orchestrated by and under the direct supervision of Zac Brown.” Oscar finished his statement by handing your race contract to the press.

Seizing his opportunity to sneak away while they clawed at the papers, desperate to capture images of the alleged passage. Oscar stands behind the motor home. His hands racking through his hair.

A wave of panic hitting him hard. His throat tightens as he chocked on a sob, his eyes burning with hot tears. His body screamed at him, muscles strained and tired. His jaw ached from clenching it. His hands hurt from his nails biting at the skin. His mind swirled with anger and confusion, unable to think straight.

“That was one hell of a statement Piastri.”

You voice broke him from his spiral, smooth and sweet like caramel. He looked at you with shock and disbelief, his movements stalled as he raked his sore eyes over your frame. Lent casually against the wall, one leg propped against the exterior of the motor home, the other planted steadily on the ground. One hand cluchting your side as the other hold a cigarette. Oscars eyebrows raising as you take a long drag, your eyes closing as you allow the smoke to invade your lungs.

“I didn’t know you smoke?”

The question caused a surprised laugh to slip past your lips. Followed by a sharp and deep couch, it rattled your frame. Leaving you hunched over for a moment. Flicking the but away from you as you step away from the wall. Making your way towards Oscar. Your steps slow and shuffled as you approach the man.

Now face to face you grab his hand, Oscars heart skipping a beat. His eyes refusing to meet your heated gaze, scanning the area behind you.

You step closer to him now, your breath fanning over his face. His eyes closed as he inhaled the stained aroma of cigarettes and Gatorade. Your hand rests on his chest feeling the reparative rise and fall with each breath. The other is placed over his shoulder, the action tensing the man’s body and his eyes closed. Not daring to move and inch, his fingers twitch by his sides.

“It’s going to be hell, once Zac finds us.” The words are quiet. A whispered moment of uncertainty as your eyes trace over Oscar’s face. Raking down his nose, following each freckle down to his parted lips.

His eyes opening just to meet your heavy gaze, the air surrounding you gone thick. His tongue flicking over his bottom lip, swallowing his nerves as he raises a shaking hand. His rough palm resting gentle on your cheek, his thumb tracing over the smooth skin.

He chuckles low, a deep rumble in his chest. A white flicker of a small grin and his froth teeth capture the light of the setting sun. The golden glow slowly warming your tangled bodies. The drum of noise carried away by his smooth voice, low and controlled as always

“Yeah well, I’m not letting you go through hell alone.”

He leans in closer, his lips brushing yours. He eyes still swirling with uncertainty as he hesitates to close the distance. A brief wave of panic overtaking him as his mind catches up with his actions. His limbs burning just as he was about the pull away, you put him out of his misery.

Your hands curling around the back of his neck, coming to rest in the nape of his hair. Using the leverage to pull him down, your lips connecting. The kiss burns, so many words unspoken on the tips of your tongues. His swirling around yours as you lean into him, allowing his arms to wind around you. Your weight easily supported by him as you allow the world to slow.

🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂

Tag list;

@wherethezoes-at @fangirlmusicbiashoe @landosbabe4

If you want to be added to the permanent tag list, let me know!

#oscar piastri x reader fluff #oscar piastri x reader angst #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #op81 x you #op81 x y/n #op81 imagine #op81 fic #op81 fluff #op81 x reader #op81 #op81 mcl #mclaren fanfic #f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader

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rivereverie · 1 day ago

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Just some observations on Astarion learning to see that he is loved

I just saw a clip of Astarion's response to his partner cheating on him with Mizora and it got me thinking. While his entire reaction is very telling and meaningful in its entirety, one line stood out to me:

"I really thought there was more to you. That you were better than other people"

This was striking because it immediately reminded me of something else he says, in the scene after his siblings attempt to capture and return him to Cazador:

"You're the only one. Other people don't have a heart like you. You're you. No one is like that."

These lines feel a little odd at first, because Astarion isn't known for putting the PC on a pedestal. I don't think that's exactly what he's doing here. I think these lines are just capturing the inner chaos and contradiction that naturally come with the gradual unraveling of a long-held worldview. At this point, Astarion is able to process that one person cares for and accepts him, but only one. They must be an outlier: an exception to the rule. Surely they're something special.

Obviously this isn't true, though, and the next step is for him to learn that the PC isn't actually unique in their ability to accept and care for him him. In fact, Astarion is already loved by others and just doesn't see it. This line of his is beautifully contrasted by Karlach's reaction to Astarion's near-abduction. She is righteously angry and protective because she loves Astarion too.

"I dare Cazador to sent more lackeys our way. This is our territory. I'll crack anyone who tries to come into my house and hurt my people."

Earlier in the story, we get a similar moment during the confession scene, showing again how Astarion isn't always able to see the truth of what others feel for him.

When he says this, he sounds surprised. Like the idea of a friend is a revelation. This kind of broke my heart when I first heard it, because I thought it was obvious to him that he already had friends, in both the other companions and my character. But I think a part of him genuinely was stuck in that old thought pattern of assuming that anyone who showed interest in him just wanted to use him. This also makes it clear just how divorced sex is from affection in his mind and experience. Though they've slept together at least several times and grown more emotionally intimate too, Astarion still needs confirmation that the PC actually cares for him.

I made a post once about the two triggers for Astarion's confession here, which further reveal his mindset: going out of your way and into danger to get his scars translated, or choosing not to force him into complying with Araj's dehumanizing demands. Both of these things are concrete demonstrations of respect and care for him and what he wants. Astarion knows very well how empty words can be, so actions are what finally help him believe that the PC cares about him, and gives him the impetus to confess.

Later, If you break up with Astarion, his reaction is extremely telling in that he regresses slightly from this healthier mindset he had developed:

"I can hardly blame you. I don't exactly have much to offer right now, beyond new burdens to carry."

Typically, we witness any traces of Astarion's self-deprecation filtered through irony or dark humor, so his vulnerability in this moment is stark.

He claims that he has very little to offer, but that just isn't true. He may be going through a bit of a crisis, but he is still a shockingly good partner given the circumstances. He is unwaveringly supportive, caring, and clearly tries to lighten his partner's emotional load when they begin to feel the strain of responsibility. Not to mention, just being himself still makes him perfectly worthy of being loved. In any relationship, there will be times when one person needs more support than they themself can give, and that doesn't mean that they aren't enough. We're seeing, yet again, that he sometimes just doesn’t recognize how deeply he is valued by others. At this point, maybe a part of him still feels like he needs to be of service in order to be accepted, let alone loved. I also personally interpret this line as partially concerning his insecurity around not "providing" his partner with sex at this time, reiterating this deeply internalized belief that he needs to perform in order to be valued.

All of these little moments add so much subtly and humanity to his character, and make his development feel natural and earned. The payoff is clear after Cazador's death, when we get to see his new confidence:

He doesn't have to ask "really?" this time.

"You believed in me - believed I was enough just the way I am."

He truly knows now that he is loved.

#sorry for the bad screenshots lol and the chaotic formatting #loathed every second of getting the ones of his reaction to cheating / breaking up #astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion ancunin #bg3 spoilers #baldurs gate 3 #bg3

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aventurineswife · 2 days ago

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Omg can we get a 2nd part to the pigeon reader? maybe like cute interactions with the express members

I need more fluff in my life rn ;;w;;/

"Wherever you go, that's where I'll follow"

Summary: The crew of the Astral Express prepares to explore a new planet, with their quiet and ethereal pigeon companion, who possesses unique powers, keeping a watchful eye on March 7th, Dan Heng, the Trailblazer, and the newly joined Sunday. The pigeon, though in a feathery form, offers soft protection and care, ensuring the safety of the crew through quiet, platonic affection. The crew members, in turn, rely on this gentle guardian, their bond growing stronger as they face the unknown together.

Tags: Astral Express x Reader, Fluff, Platonic Relationships, Soft Moments, Pigeon!Reader, Friendship, Protective!Reader, March 7th, Dan Heng, Trailblazer, Sunday, Lighthearted and Cute Interactions.

A/N: basically the same thing as part 1 just more interactions, and totally not because I'm lazy.

[Part 1]

The soft hum of the Astral Express reverberated beneath your feet as the crew busied themselves in preparation for the next stop. Your wings, though usually at rest, fluttered with a gentle energy as you perched on the edge of a table, keeping a careful eye on the hustle and bustle. You didn’t mind the quiet hum of the train—it was comforting in its own way, a background melody that let you focus on what mattered most: your friends.

March 7th, ever the optimist, was already eagerly bouncing around the room, adjusting her camera and preparing for the exploration ahead. Her energy was infectious, and it was impossible not to be drawn into her world. You cooed softly from your perch, giving her a reassuring glance. She smiled at you with a warmth that always made your heart flutter.

“Oh, hey [Name]! You’re already all set for today, huh?” March laughed as she tugged her overcoat tighter around her. “I hope you’re ready for another adventure! I’m going to snap so many photos today!”

You fluttered down, landing softly on her shoulder. You knew that March didn’t need your protection in the same way that others did, but your presence gave her a sense of comfort. It was as if your wings wrapped around her like an invisible shield, reminding her that she wasn’t alone. As she adjusted her camera again, you nuzzled her cheek in the most affectionate, platonic way you knew how—a pigeon’s way of saying, I’ve got your back.

Behind March, Dan Heng moved with quiet efficiency, checking the equipment and scanning the surroundings with his ever-watchful gaze. As usual, he wasn’t one for much chatter, but he acknowledged your presence with a small, silent nod as he passed by. His stoic nature didn’t deter you; you’d long since learned to recognize the subtle signs that indicated his appreciation. He might not have said it, but you could feel his silent gratitude whenever you made sure he stayed safe, especially when the unknown loomed.

You gave a soft, knowing coo, and fluttered towards him. You landed on a nearby beam, your sharp eyes tracking every movement. The wind from the open window ruffled your feathers, but you stayed steady, focused. You’d follow him anywhere—he was as much a part of your world as March was. Even if he didn’t often say it, you could tell he appreciated the quiet vigilance you kept over him.

"Stay sharp," you seemed to remind him, your eyes following the faintest shift in the atmosphere outside the train. There was always something unpredictable about the worlds they visited, something you could sense even if they couldn’t. Dan Heng glanced up at you, his expression impassive, but a faint hint of something—maybe gratitude or something deeper—flickered in his eyes.

"Always," he murmured, though it was more to himself than to you.

Meanwhile, the Trailblazer was preparing their gear with the same curiosity and enthusiasm that they always had. Their eyes were wide with excitement as they took in the unfamiliar world outside, their eagerness palpable. You couldn’t help but smile at their youthful energy. You fluttered over to their side, gently nudging them with your beak. Their eyes brightened at your soft coo, and they looked down at you with a chuckle.

“I guess you’re ready too, huh?” The Trailblazer smiled warmly, crouching down to your level. “Don’t worry, we won’t get into too much trouble... well, at least I’ll try not to!”

You cooed in response, tilting your head as if to say, I’ll be keeping an eye on you, just in case. Your small form may have been inconspicuous, but you carried a quiet strength—one that could be counted on when danger was near.

As the door to the Astral Express opened, revealing the strange new planet outside, your wings fluttered in excitement. You couldn’t wait to explore with them, though your role would remain unchanged: to keep them safe, to look out for them in your quiet, unspoken way.

March, ever the curious one, dashed out first, camera in hand, snapping pictures of the towering structures and the lush, alien landscape. You followed closely behind her, your wings cutting through the air as you flitted from one spot to another, keeping watch. Your sharp eyes caught every little detail, every shift in the environment that might go unnoticed by the others.

"March, careful!" you wanted to call out, but all that escaped was a soft coo. You fluttered down to land on her shoulder once more, giving her a gentle nudge with your beak to steer her away from a precarious ledge.

"Whoops! Thanks, [Name]," she giggled, not even fazed. "Guess I got a little too excited. But hey, these photos are going to be great!"

As you continued to fly alongside the group, a new presence lingered in the background—Sunday. The newest member of the crew, and with his enigmatic, almost ethereal aura, he stood out. He had been observing you from the corner of his eye, his golden eyes tracing your every move as you flitted between the crew members.

Your sharp gaze met his for a moment, and you tilted your head in curiosity. He was different from the others, distant yet intriguing. His presence was soft, like a quiet wind, but you could sense the weight of his thoughts. The golden halo behind his head caught the light, shimmering like an ethereal crown. You were always so focused on your friends, but there was something about Sunday that piqued your interest.

Sunday smiled faintly when he noticed your attention. "It seems you’re always keeping an eye on everyone," he remarked, his voice gentle and almost reflective.

You cooed softly in response, your feathers fluffing up slightly, as if to acknowledge his words. You may not have been able to speak in the conventional sense, but your presence was enough to communicate a message of warmth, protection, and care.

"Well, it’s my job," you seemed to say, your wings fluttering proudly. "I take care of the ones I love."

Sunday’s smile grew a little more sincere, a quiet understanding passing between you. The others might not have fully grasped the depth of your bond with them, but he did. And maybe, just maybe, he would come to understand your quiet but profound place among the crew.

As the exploration continued, you remained ever vigilant. You were their silent protector, their gentle guardian, and in return, you were their unwavering support. The soft hum of the Astral Express echoed in your heart, a reminder that no matter where they went, you would always be there—watching over them, one gentle coo at a time.

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luvvyouforever · 1 day ago

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random domestic and modern-ish joel miller headcanons (because he's in my head)

: ̗̀➛ joel is the type to poke fun at your reality tv shows and say "aw, no, baby, why are you watching this?" and then he stands just feet away from the tv, watching the hot new bombshell enter the villa. and then, before he can catch himself, he turns to you like "can you believe this shit?" so then you give him context and explanations for everyone. he'll deny it the next day

: ̗̀➛ joel loves playing with your hair and he's so gentle with it. it doesn't matter if you have shorter hair he can just barely run his fingertips through or curls he can very softly detangle or long hair he can get lost in. also, a little note, because of sarah, he's not bad at doing your hair either. he can do simple braids and ponytails and would help you with his glasses on, tongue stuck between his teeth.

: ̗̀➛ joel never really sleeps in. on his days off, he's waking up a little after sunrise. he slowly peels himself from your warmth and tucks you back into the blankets, ensuring you don't miss an ounce of warmth. he'll make himself a cup of coffee and relax on the front porch, watching everyone slowly start their own day. when it gets closer to your wake up time, he'll make a quick breakfast, nothing fancy, but enough to give his love some sustenance.

: ̗̀➛ joel is like the neighborhood handyman and he loves it. you'll get a call from an older lady down the street whose dryer stopped working and he'll walk down with his toolbox, not leaving till it's fixed. the family across the street are struggling to get their hose set up so the kids can use their new pool and he rushes over with some pipe attachment he had in the back of his truck. such a gentleman <3

: ̗̀➛ his preferred date is cooking a nice dinner inside, setting up candles and flowers and all. the house is quiet, save for an old radio playing music on the kitchen counter, and he gets to sit right next to you, talking about your week. his hand sits like a firm weight on your thigh, not pushing for anything, just there as a comfort.

: ̗̀➛ joel would swear up and down that he doesn't want a dog, that he can't take care of it well with his blue collar work schedule. but then you come home with some big puppy with big paws and wide eyes and he's in love. he takes it out on walks whenever he can, buys it the fancy, unbreakable toys, and lets it sleep at the foot of the bed while you cuddle.

: ̗̀➛ joel lets you decorate the house to yours content. he recognizes that he doesn't have much of an eye for decor and only inputs the odd comment here and there about cabinet color or couch quality. he loves coming home to the warm environment you made, the cozy quilts strung over the back of the couch, and the pictures you have hung up on the walls.

: ̗̀➛ joel is so fiercely protective of you and sarah. if there's a sound at night, he's up in his pajama pants checking on everything. he tells sarah to go in the room with you and he encourages you to lock the door behind you. when everything's all clear, he's coming back to bed, placating your worries with a kiss and a soft, sleepy smile. he doesn't like strangers coming up to the front door and gets to know his neighbors really well, always having backup for you.

: ̗̀➛ he loves a lake day with you. you'll pack up a whole days worth of food, sandwiches and meat to grill and drinks. he'll carry down fishing rods and cast his lines on the opposite side of the shore while you swim around. he gets distracted from fishing by watching you smile in the water and misses his rod getting pulled, but he doesn't mind.

: ̗̀➛ joel's ideal wedding with you is small, intimate, cozy. to him, it's not so much about the decorum, more so about marrying you. he'd like to have the ceremony in a small church, or maybe in the backyard of your house, or at some small lodge way up in the mountains. the reception would just be family around, eating and catching up and laughing and smiling. he wouldn't be able to stay away from you and would rather follow you around the whole night than spend a minute apart.

: ̗̀➛ he didn't plan to have another kid, sarah already filling his heart plenty. but when you handed him a gift box, wrapped with a pink bow and he opened it to find a positive pregnancy test, he realized having a kid with you would truly make him happy. he's as helpful as he can be during the pregnancy, offering to take up more household chores and uses all of his banked up sick days to come with you to appointments.

: ̗̀➛ he nests hardcore. tears apart the old guest bedroom to make for your dream nursery. your house is a flurry of construction for at least a week as he executes your dream to an exact match. he baby proofs the entire house. he builds the baby's crib (this makes me sob).

: ̗̀➛ joel's so happy to be growing old with his family. when he retires sometime later in life, he'll want to use his pension to move out somewhere nice and cozy for the two of you, both kids having been moved out at this point in his life. you watch sunsets together on a porch, his gray hairs having taken over most of his head and beard. he plays the guitar softly for you and he swears he's never been happier.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller tlou #joel miller headcanons #joel miller fluff #joel miller x reader fluff #the last of us #the last of us fluff #the last of us x reader #the last of us headcanons #pedro pascal

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andy-15-07 · 1 day ago

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Yo can we have more Joaquin Torres x assassin reader where shes always been compassionate and kind but got forced into the assassin life so whenever she has the chance, she would help hide her targets instead to killing them outright

Kindness in the Shadows

PAIRING: Joaquin Torres x Reader 💋

WORD COUNT: 1386 ✍️

REQUESTS: Open! 💌 (send yours my way — I love writing them all!)

🌟 Danny Ramirez Masterlist 🌟

Joaquin had read the files. All of them.

The photos. The surveillance footage. The redacted lines and endless aliases.

You were the ghost with too many names and too few mistakes. The assassin who didn’t leave bodies, just questions. And most importantly?

You were always gone before anyone could blink.

Until now.

He crouched behind a rusted-out sedan, watching through a cracked warehouse window. You were on the second level, standing far too calmly beside a tied-up target who,according to every report,should already be dead.

Except… you were untying him.

“What the hell,” Joaquin muttered.

His earpiece crackled. “Torres, do you have eyes on her?”

“I do,” he whispered back. “She’s not doing what we thought.”

“Repeat?”

“She’s untying him. She’s letting him go.”

A pause.

“She’s not a killer,” he said softly, almost to himself.

You knew you were being watched the moment your fingers slipped the last knot loose.

Your heartbeat had been calm,steady, even,until now. Now it skipped, fluttered, tugged at the edges of your ribs like a warning.

He was here. The Falcon.

Joaquin Torres. Government-trained. Wings sharp, instincts sharper. Charming smile. Steel trap mind. He was everything they said. Everything you weren’t supposed to get close to.

And still…

You stood up slowly, raising your hands in the air, back still turned to the cracked window behind you.

“You going to shoot me?” you asked, voice soft.

A beat.

“No,” came the reply.

You turned.

He stood just inside the window now, wings tucked, eyes trained on you like he didn’t know what to make of what he was seeing. You were supposed to be dangerous, lethal, untouchable.

But your eyes were kind. And your hands were shaking.

“Hi,” you said quietly.

Joaquin blinked. “Hi.”

“Surprised?”

“A little.”

You glanced at the man you’d just untied. “He’s not what they said he is.”

“I know.”

That stopped you. “You do?”

Joaquin exhaled, lowering his stance. “I’ve been following you for two months. You’ve had six ‘confirmed kills’ in that time. Only one of those people is actually missing. The others? New identities. Witness protection. A woman in Nebraska just had a baby.”

You swallowed.

“I didn’t come to bring you in,” Joaquin said, voice gentler now. “I came to figure out why you do it.”

You looked at the floor.

“I don’t like hurting people,” you whispered. “But they made me very good at it.”

Fifteen minutes later, you sat across from him on the rooftop. The man you'd spared had slipped into the shadows, vanished into whatever second chance you’d carved out for him.

Joaquin passed you a bottle of water. “So who are they?”

You gave him a hollow laugh. “If I tell you, they’ll find me. Or worse,find them.”

“The people you’re helping?”

You nodded. “Some of them… they’re not saints, but they didn’t deserve a bullet. I’ve watched enough people die. I decided if I was going to be forced into this life, I’d rewrite the rules.”

He studied you for a moment.

“You hide them. Help them disappear.”

“I give them what I never got,” you said. “A choice.”

He was quiet for a long time.

Finally, he said, “You could’ve run. Why not disappear too?”

“I tried,” you said. “But they found me. And when they did… they reminded me what they could do to the people I care about.”

Joaquin frowned. “There’s a list?”

“There’s always a list.”

Something sharp flickered in his chest. You were too good at hiding pain. Too soft for the stories wrapped around your name like barbed wire.

“You’re not what I expected,” he admitted.

“Yeah,” you said, tired. “Most people expect a monster.”

He shook his head. “I expected someone colder. Someone who didn’t ask her targets if they were okay before untying them.”

You looked away.

“I’m not proud of what I’ve done. But I sleep at night because I don’t finish the job.”

“Even though they think you do.”

You nodded. “It’s safer if they believe that. It buys time. For everyone.”

Joaquin leaned forward. “So let me help.”

Your eyes snapped to his. “What?”

“Let me help you stay ahead of them.”

“I can’t drag you into this. They’re,”

“Dangerous?” he said. “So am I.”

You stared at him. “You’d risk that? For me?”

“You’ve risked your life to protect people you barely know,” Joaquin said. “I’m not going to let you burn alone.”

The next few weeks blurred into a rhythm neither of you expected.

He covered your tracks.

You saved people.

Sometimes, that meant escorting a cartel informant across a state line. Other times, it meant burning files and staging scenes that looked a lot bloodier than they were. Joaquin became your shadow, your air support, your backup.

And sometimes, your quiet at 3 a.m.

Like tonight.

You sat on a motel bed, patching a cut across your rib cage. Joaquin leaned against the dresser, arms folded.

“That guy nearly gutted you,” he muttered.

“He was scared. I still got him out.”

Joaquin walked over, crouched in front of you, gently pushing your hands aside. “Let me.”

You stiffened for half a second, then let him.

His fingers were warm, gentle.

“Why are you like this?” you whispered.

“Like what?”

“Kind. With me.”

He looked up at you. “You don’t think you deserve kindness?”

You didn’t answer.

He smoothed a bandage over your skin. “You’re not a weapon. You’re someone who was used like one.”

Your breath caught.

“And that’s not your fault,” Joaquin added softly.

You looked away, blinking fast. “If I stop… they’ll come after me.”

“Then we take them down first.”

You laughed shakily. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not. But it’s possible.”

You looked at him. Really looked at him. “You believe in me.”

He nodded. “Have since day one.”

Your next job went sideways.

Someone tipped them off. You barely had time to slip your target out the back before the warehouse exploded in gunfire.

Joaquin swooped in last second, knocking you out of the way, catching a graze across his shoulder in the process.

“Shit,” you breathed, dragging him behind a stack of crates. “You’re bleeding.”

He hissed. “Could’ve warned me about the welcoming party.”

“I didn’t know,They were early. They never come early.”

He reached for his comm, but you grabbed his wrist.

“They’ll trace the signal.”

Joaquin looked at you. “Then what’s the move?”

You swallowed. “We run. No trace. I know a place.”

Two days later, holed up in a safehouse in the desert, you finally spoke again.

“I think they know I’ve been sparing the targets.”

Joaquin winced as you cleaned the bandage. “Then it’s time to stop running.”

You shook your head. “They’ll go after everyone.”

“Not if we strike first.”

You froze. “What?”

“You’re not alone in this anymore,” he said. “Let me in. Let SHIELD in. We can dismantle them. With your intel.”

“I can’t promise everyone makes it out.”

“I’m not asking for a promise,” he said. “I’m asking for a chance.”

You exhaled. “Okay.”

He looked up. “Okay?”

You nodded. “Let’s burn it all down.”

The takedown was ugly.

Fast.

Clean.

Brutal.

You watched from a rooftop as the last of your handlers were led away in cuffs. Joaquin stood beside you, wings out, blood on his cheek.

“You did it,” he said.

We did it, you wanted to say. But the words tangled in your throat.

Instead, you whispered, “I don’t know what to do now.”

Joaquin looked at you. “Start over. Live.”

You gave him a watery smile. “I don’t know how.”

He stepped closer. “Then stay close. I’ll show you.”

You looked at him.

And for the first time in years, you let yourself hope.

ONE MONTH LATER

You stood on the rooftop of your new place, coffee in hand. No guns. No orders. Just sunrise.

Joaquin landed beside you.

“Still awake?”

You smiled. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He leaned on the rail. “Thinking about them?”

“No,” you said. “For once… I’m not thinking about anyone except me.”

He smiled. “And?”

“It feels terrifying.”

He chuckled. “That’s how you know you’re alive.”

You glanced at him. “You stayed. Even after everything.”

“I told you,” he said. “You’re not alone.”

You looked away, cheeks warm. “I know.”

He reached for your hand.

You let him take it.

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wannabespacesmuggler · 3 days ago

Text

SHANE'S GIRL ➵ D. DIXON [14]

Part Fourteen | Masterlist | Buy me a coffee | Check out the playlist

Summary: Daryl Dixon knows he shouldn’t be thinking about you when he’s alone at night in his tent. Hell, he shouldn’t even be looking at you throughout the day. You’re not his. You’re Shane’s girl. But Daryl doesn’t like the way Shane treats you. And he certainly doesn’t like how you’re forced to play ‘loving girlfriend’ to a man with eyes for another woman at the camp.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x female!Reader

Warnings: Shane Walsh & Merle Dixon are the worst, angst, canon violence, mentions of tobacco use, story follows the show but dialogue and events are paraphrased, abusive behavior, a very slow burn

Word Count: 1.8k

Author’s Note: Alright. I'm back after a work induced hiatus. I have missed this story deeply and even though this isn't the most eventful chapter, I'm excited for what it's setting up. I've also updated the playlist on Spotify if any of you want to give it a listen — I think it encapsulates our two favorite apocalypse idiots very well. As always, let me know what you all think and if you want to be added to the taglist.

attack seems to have shaken everyone; however, for Daryl, it’s different. He’s dealt with plenty of walkers during his various hunts after the world’s end, but this wasn’t just one or two stragglers in the woods that he could sneak up on before they noticed him. No, this time they were too close to home, and they managed to get the jump on him. He almost died. The realization almost made him sick to his stomach. It’s not that Daryl fears death. He’d come to terms with his own demise long before the dead started walking. Hell, he always assumed he’d die young anyway. The fear that settled deep into Daryl’s bones last night was not for himself, but for the woman softly snoring into his shoulder: you.

You saved his life. And the terror in your eyes afterwards, as you stared at the bloody knife in your hands, will haunt him for the rest of his days. Because it’s his fault. You killed to save him. And maybe it’s not his place, but Daryl was hoping to shield you from the horrors of this world for as long as possible. He knows the toll that taking another life does to a person — the guilt and pain that lingers in the back of his mind every day. He knows that it doesn’t matter that they’re technically already dead — that walker was still a human being once. He didn’t want that burden on your shoulders, but now it’s too late.

The sun is just cresting over the horizon when Rick’s voice slices through the thick silence that settled over the quarry camp, officially ending the longest night that Daryl has ever experienced.

“I know we’re all running on fumes, but we need to bury our dead.”

Rick’s voice is quiet, but there’s an urgency to his tone as his eyes shift from Daryl to T-Dog and Glenn. The two men had hunkered down near the RV once the chaos had settled and exhaustion consumed the camp for just a few hours. Even though he hasn’t spoken to either of them since you’ve all gotten back from Atlanta, Daryl’s grateful that they stuck close to both of you. Now, more than ever, Daryl believes that there is safety in numbers. Still, he couldn’t sleep. Even though his shoulders sag due to the weight of the last twenty-four hours, the warmth of your body keeps him up. A constant reminder of what he has to protect — of what he could have lost last night amidst the devastation. So, even though every single fiber of Daryl’s being yearns to stay by your side, he nods at Rick’s words.

“Not you, Daryl.”

Daryl’s brow furrows, and he's not the only one confused by his words. Both Glenn and T-Dog look skeptically at Rick until they follow his gaze. Rick Grimes is watching you peacefully sleep against the camp’s, so-called, notorious brute. Daryl suddenly feels uncomfortable and shifts slightly under the weight of their attention. The movement causes you to stir in your sleep and he fights off a smile at the content sigh that escapes your lips as you press your face further into his shoulder. Rick raises a brow at you both before continuing.

“You’re busy. I haven’t seen her get a good night’s sleep since I’ve gotten back.”

He’s right. Daryl’s not sure if you’ve truly rested at all since he’s met you. And a part of him believes that has more to do with Shane Walsh than the end of the world. After all, it’s probably hard to relax when the most dangerous threat to your well-being is lurking in your tent. So, Daryl simply gives Rick a firm nod.

“Man, why does Dixon always get to play bodyguard?”

Glenn’s eyes immediately widen, and he elbows T-Dog in the side. T-Dog’s eyes land on Glenn before following his gaze to Daryl. He raises his hands up in defeat as the archer glares daggers at them both.

“I’m just kidding, man.”

“You better be.”

Rick huffs out a laugh before placing himself between the men. He gives Daryl a momentary, warning glance before turning to T-Dog.

“You best get to work or else you might need a bodyguard.”

T-Dog’s eyes shift from Rick to Daryl. Daryl juts his chin up at the man. He doesn’t want to fight — not when you look so peaceful right now — but he’s not one to back down. Luckily, T-Dog sighs defeatedly before walking off with Glenn in tow. Rick watches them walk away for several moments before turning back to Daryl. He raises a brow at the youngest Dixon brother before collapsing into the lawn chair T-Dog had been lounging in. Daryl watches as Rick roughly runs his hands over his face — it looks like he got about as much sleep as Daryl did last night.

“Listen, I feel like you and I got off on the wrong foot.”

Daryl scoffs at Rick’s words. Off on the wrong foot seems like an understatement. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Rick had a gun pointed at him in Atlanta. But he’s important to you, so Daryl bites his tongue and lets him continue.

“But I know her.”

Rick’s gaze drops down to you, and Daryl’s eyes follow.

“And she trusts you.”

Daryl tears his eyes away from you at that admission. He expects to find confusion or judgment on Rick’s face, but instead, he’s looking at you with the tenderness of a loving brother. And when Rick looks back up at him, there’s a sadness in his eyes that he cannot place.

“I don’t know what happened while I was gone, but I know you looked out for her. Thank you.”

The earnestness in his tone surprises Daryl, but he gives the man a firm nod. In all honesty, he doesn’t need his thanks. It has never been a burden to look out for you, and he’s certainly not trying to pass off the responsibility onto someone else. No, Daryl Dixon has begrudgingly come to terms with the fact that he cares about you. The two men sit in comfortable silence together until another muffled sob escapes Andrea, who is still clutching Amy’s limp hand in hers.

“What are we gonna do about that?”

Daryl motions towards the sisters with his free arm, and Rick glances towards them before letting out a deep sigh. He rakes a hand through his hair, and Daryl almost feels bad for asking. After all, Rick never asked to become the de facto leader of this group. But someone has to call the shots, and Daryl sure as hell doesn’t want it to be Shane.

“I already talked to her. She said she’ll take the shot — but only after she turns.”

A sudden rage courses through Daryl’s veins. Waiting for Amy to turn into one of those monsters endangers everyone in this camp. Rick knows the risk, and yet he’s still allowing it to happen. Daryl isn’t in charge — he doesn’t want to be — but he will not risk your life for the convenience of others. Maybe it’s selfish, but he really doesn’t give a shit.

“You can’t be serious. That girl’s a time bomb and you know it.”

Rick’s face hardens, and his jaw clenches.

“What do you suggest?”

“Take the shot. Clean, in the brain from here. Hell, I can hit a turkey between the eyes from this distance.”

“Don’t be an ass.”

You mumble the words into Daryl’s shoulder, just loud enough for both men to hear. Your face scrunches up immediately once you open your eyes. A groan escapes your lips as you try to adjust to the morning sunlight.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine.”

Rick snorts, which causes you to peel yourself away from Daryl so you can shoot the sheriff a playful glare. For a moment, Daryl is disappointed by the loss of contact, but then he spots the blush that’s creeping across your cheeks due to the nickname he’s given you. It tumbled off Daryl’s lips before he could think twice about it. He meant it as a lighthearted jab — understanding the way your eyes meet the rising sun with nothing but disdain. After all, he didn’t become a morning person until the world fell apart. He recalls the nickname rolling off his mother’s lips on the mornings she remembered to wake him up for elementary school. And the groan that escaped you reminds him of the ones he’d let out as Merle would exclaim that nickname in the kitchen when Daryl finally stumbled out of his room late in the afternoon with an intense headache due to the hangover he had from the eventful night before. But honestly, in Daryl’s heart, it’s less of a nickname and more a term of endearment — one he could find himself using more as long as you keep letting him.

“What’s so funny, Grimes?”

“Nothin’. It’s good, sunshine. Fitting, even. Just wish I’d thought of it myself.”

You roll your eyes at the sheriff before shifting your eyes back to Daryl. Your playful expression suddenly turns serious as you regard him.

“I’m serious, Daryl. Let her be. She needs to do this her way.”

Daryl studies you for a moment. And Rick watches as you both seem to have an entire conversation without speaking. The interaction confuses him deeply, and he desperately needs to sit down with you to catch up on everything he’s seemingly missed. To his surprise, Daryl shifts on his feet slightly before giving you a nod.

“‘Lright.”

You give him a small smile — a silent thank you to him for trusting your intuition. Daryl’s eyes shift from you to where T-Dog and Glenn are burying the dead. Even though he knows it’s not his responsibility, he suddenly feels guilty that he’s not helping. You follow his gaze and put the pieces together. You know how hard it is for Daryl to stay still, especially when he knows there’s something else he can be doing. You reach out, grabbing his forearm to get his attention. His focus is immediately on you — his expression brimming with concern as his eyes check you over.

“Go.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’ve got Rick. Go.”

Daryl’s eyes shift to the sheriff before finding their way back to you once more. You understand how he feels. After last night — after watching that walker almost tear into his flesh — you don’t want Daryl out of your sight right now. But you’ve both got things to do and there will always be responsibilities that will pull you away from one another. Finally, Daryl seems to relent.

“You need anything, you come get me. ‘Lright?”

You nod at his request and watch as he slings his crossbow over his shoulder after getting up. He looks down at you one last time before walking off towards Glenn and T-Dog. Your eyes follow Daryl for longer than you care to admit, and once you finally peel your gaze away from him, you’re met with an incredibly perplexed Rick Grimes. He looks like your protective older brother — arms crossed tightly across his chest and brow raised in confusion.

“I think you and I need to have a little talk.”

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midgarangel · 3 days ago

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nsfw alphabet sephiroth

contents: unhinged sephiroth hc’s, dom!sephiroth x sub!reader, protective/possessive seph, p*rn w feelings, somnophilia, marking, yandere/stalker archetype mentioned in “j.”

— ʚɞ

a · aftercare

It usually goes like this. You remain pressed together, him inside you, above you, gentle kisses dropped onto your oversensitized skin. He is the only thing that exists, your entire world, all-encompassing, a universe of comfort and love and searing heat. You are far beyond words, and even your tears have stopped running, but it doesn’t matter, because he feels his heart beat in tandem with yours, your soul intertwined with his. Your cunt occasionally clenches around his still somewhat hard cock, but he doesn’t move, careful not to hurt, but loathe to leave your warmth. He wants you to feel how much he loves you, because words will never feel good enough. And right now, after loving you so thoroughly that you are both still shaking, he slowly pulls out, slipping two of his fingers inside you to help you slowly close up, minding the whines that tumble out of your mouth, minding your clit, oversensitive from his abuse. “i’ve got you.” and he settles on his side, facing you, pulling you into him, to kiss and caress and hold you until you fall asleep in his arms.

b · body part

Sephiroth likes his body more for functionality than aesthetics. That can’t be said for his hair though. At first, he liked that he was strong, big, and tough enough to deal with the abuse his father and his shitty environment threw at him. He likes how he’s always been so agile and fast. Always catching others by surprise, their incredulous eyes when his masamune is in their throat before they even see him move. He loved when he could finally fight back and win. Then, he came to love and hate in equal parts the way others looked at him, trying to gauge if they wanted to talk to him or run from him. He knows how tall he is, and that his muscles are packed, the width of his shoulders. He likes his dexterous hands, he likes his strong jaw and smooth voice, how it makes anyone shake a little bit. He loves that he can pick you up and manhandle you so easily, like his body was made to worship and adore yours. He likes his cock too, even though you were weary of it at first, not sure if it would fit. He lives for the way it takes everything in you to take him. How he breaks you apart every time, threading the line between pleasure and pain, between worship and desecration. He goes insane for your pussy, his own personal heaven, made for him to lick and fuck and breed. Loves your thighs and covers them in bite marks, your legs wrapped around him, loves your pretty tummy and the way it goes all taut when you’re on your hands and knees as he presses on your back until your arms give out. He loves your dainty hands in his. He loves your neck with his teeth and his kisses, holding your life in his hands. He’ll sometimes possessively grope your ass out of nowhere, just to make you jump, and he loves fondling your tits in the crudest, most vile way possible, to make his good girl squirm and blush, reminding you that your his. A contrast to when he lays on your chest to listen to your heartbeat, your hands running through his hair, making delicious little shivers run down his spine, his hips and into his cock. And what makes his heart burst and his eyes twitch, what makes him so unbelievably hard, is your face, all of the thousand different smiles you have, your plush lips and your delicate teeth, your sweet tongue, your nose he can’t stop kissing, your jewel-like eyes he has to make himself look away from, your elegant cheekbones and the curve of your jaw. The little beauty marks in random places. Can’t forget about your voice, soothing him and exciting him in turn. Sometimes it almost makes him hate himself, that he was born to kill and ruin and destroy, that this is what he is the absolute best at, when all he wants to do is worship your beauty and your life. He’ll have to settle for sex, to make up for all he cannot say.

c · cum

He’s only a man, isn’t he? It’s natural to want to come inside you all the time, he reassures himself. It’s biology. He loves when you swallow him down too, begging for his cum down your throat, on your face too sometimes. He had to pull out of you (ignoring your frustrated whines) to make himself come on your stomach so many times when you were just starting to mess around. Now that he knows the absolute ecstasy of emptying himself deep inside you, of filling you up, making you utterly his, he’s never, ever pulling out again.

d · dirty secret

His intelligence and terrifying laser-focus, his ability to strategize and predict an exact outcome. Mind tricks and invincibility, combined with his physical abilities and talent for violence, it made him a dream for shinras science department and would have made him a nightmare for such a sweet girl if he didn’t love you so much. Being on the receiving end of his full, undivided, eternal attention feels like standing in the eye of an omniscient god who just really, really wants what’s between your thighs, what’s behind your ribs, what’s inside your skull. His frequent deployments and ventures mess even more with his need to claim you, and your need to be claimed, to be held and possessed by him, and because you’re so smart, you do some research and shyly suggest that he give you a toy only he could control. His brain fully stops functioning for a moment, especially since you bring this up during a fully clothed conversation about your mutual feelings. You take his silence for hesitation, or even worse, rejection, so you give him some more arguments, about how you both love and crave when he orders you around and you obey him perfectly, the relief and sense of rightness that floods you both when you’re at his mercy. How he gets off on telling you you’re his, his and only his, making you repeat it back to him. When his hand rests around your throat at all times without squeezing, just because he needs to feel you with him. When he rewards you endlessly for being such a good girl for him, for keeping yourself safe like he taught you, for sucking his dick when he told you to, for showing him how wet his voice makes you. You say all that, and he says “Anything for you.” in that voice of his, desire burning in his eyes.

e · experience

Not much but that doesn’t mean he can’t fuck. Sephiroth was primarily focused on his goals and his connection to Jenova, not on romantic relationships. But then you came along. In a way you helped guide eachother. He hears your wants and needs, turning them into realities. You learn from eachother.

f · fav position

He loves it all, with a preference for anything that allows him to see your face, all of your blushing, see how you look up at him in pure adoration and love. He needs something that allows him to cage you in, hold you against him, all safe and sound, for him to position however he wants. He’s a big fan of fucking you on your back with your ankles crossed behind his neck, folding you until you’re completely at his mercy, opened up for him to take. Really loves fucking you on your side as well, especially in the middle of the night, under the covers, with you all tangled in his arms, your leg high on his waist, every inch of you pressed against him. Prone doggy works really well too, especially when he covers you with his heavy body, better than any weighted blanket, to take away all your anxieties and help you focus on nothing else than receiving his love, and giving him all of yours. Sometimes he takes you against a wall, when he wants to show off his strength, but your height difference can make it somewhat awkward.

g · goofy

Sephiroth = very dry, and dark, sense of humor. He can be witty at times. When you first began your relationship, he tried so hard to make you laugh even if the jokes were awkward, so you’d relax and feel safer with him. He allowed you to make little jokes in bed, because he knew the tension was hard on your poor nerves. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous either. The nervousness melted away eventually.

h · hair

Sephiroths not very hairy on the rest of his body, courtesy of his light hair. The hair on his head is a different story. Sometimes during sex you’d pull on it without realizing, earning a graon and a, “Do that again.” from above you.

i · intimacy

Any sort of relationship with Sephiroth will need a stupendous amount of trust and intimacy to even exist in the first place. He, just like you, is far too intense, too odd, too traumatized to allow for regular human feelings and relationships. Sex with him feels like you could drown if you aren’t careful. If he didn’t keep you conscious and swimming in his arms, in the tsunami of feelings and sensations you bring to each other. It feels like a declaration of love every time, and you cry under him more than a few times (he’s always so proud of you for giving him so much). Everything about living with Sephiroth is intimate, the s necklace around your neck, the ache between your legs, his scent in your bed, his kisses whenever he’s close to you, his voice permeating your dreams. When you bring him a glass of water while he’s doing reading, and he loops an arm around your hips to bring you closer. He looks up at you just long enough to kiss your hip in thanks, and you curl up with your own book on the couch opposite to him, not prying in his business, but still present. He takes you to bed twenty minutes later. When he makes you strip in front of him while he sits with his legs spread. When you both wake up in tandem at three on some random thursday night, overcome with love, even though you already had each other not five hours ago, you lift your leg over his hip he can slide inside of you. Your face pressed against his throat, while he mumbles insane words about how much he loves you, thanking you for letting him inside you, that he knows it hurts, and you’re his little slut and he loves you to death.

j · jerk off

Sephiroth has this uncanny ability to dominate his environment, to use every single piece of sensory information, of material component for his own purposes. He remembers every sensation, every ache, every movement. He remembers every pleasure, every taste, every feel. When he’s deployed, thousands and thousands of miles away from you, the only thing that can put him to sleep is to drown himself in every sensory memory he has of you. When he’s sharing living areas with his fellow soldiers, he sometimes contents himself with remembering the silk of your skin and the weight and texture of your muscles when he gives you a massage, or the sound and light pulsing of your heart when he lays his head on your chest. Most of the time though, he needs more. He can’t help it, he’s only a man. He’s real good at risking his life, at killing, at being a strategist, analyzing, at manipulating intel out of every person and item around him. He’s also a healthy young guy with a really hot girlfriend and very high libido. He needs the release so he doesn’t go insane again, so his aggressiveness won’t make him do something stupid when he’s out on the field, with dangerously high levels of testosterone thrumming through his blood and his brain reminding him of what you look like bent over. He’s always rough with himself, the way he usually is with you, because he doesn’t know of any other way to express his love for you. Other than to utterly ravage you and himself. He usually thinks of something absolutely depraved, like of being a deranged stalker slipping into your bedroom at night, while you’re sleeping naked and feeling all safe, unaware of the predator looking at you. His hand tugging at his cock faster as he imagines standing over you, pulling your covers down and kneeling over you so he can stare directly between your legs, jerking off on top of your dreaming body, until he comes all over your sex, your inner thighs, your lower belly. A terrifying gift for you to wake up to, so you know there’s a monster watching over you. It makes him so hard to think you’ll always have his claim on you.

k · kink

Panty thief? maybe. Definitely has a scent kink, obsessive/possessive, slight stalker tendencies. Light somnophilia. Very into marking and soft restraints. Wants to know everything about you, all the time. Cannot get enough of hearing you whine and blabber “I love you” when he’s inside you, making you come. Feeling safe to be so utterly needed and worshipped by one he worships also. He knows he likes being in control. he also knows how grateful he is that you give yourself to him. Shibari makes sense then and it makes him go berserk. Nothing else exists in his big brain other than the ritual of tying you up, taking you both into this other space, and you, all bound and pretty, at his mercy, it makes him want to spoil you rotten, want to make you come until you pass out. His whole life, his day to day, his work is a continuum of violence and domination. He’s only ever getting more dangerous, endless potential where most men his age have already reached their prime. It feels sane/normal for him to be in command, to know exactly where he is going, to hurt and kill and destroy in favor of a larger objective. Or maybe the opposite when he actually saves someone. It’s just in his nature, and then he comes home to his partner and takes her as he should.

l · location

He has a preference for your place, because it smells and feels like you. Never in public.

m · motivation

He’s heavily touch-starved, touch-desperate, touch-ravenous. Sephiroth cannot get enough of your hands all over him, caressing his face, tangling in his hair, massaging his scalp, his neck, all over his chest, digging into his back, grabbing his ass, caressing his cock. Even just holding hands gets him going, or when you touch his forearm, trace his muscles and veins with your fingers, and he’s got a thing for you kissing his arm when you’re out in public. It makes him feel so wanted by you, helps him understand you truly do love him. Praise. You praising him. You begging for him. Him providing for you. “Sephi, I love you so much,” with tears running down your flushed face, followed by a little hiccup of pleasure, as he methodically ravages you. “You feel so good inside me, so big, perfect fit.” When you finger yourself open and make yourself take four of your dainty fingers in front of him, dripping wet, begging him that you’re ready, that you can take it, and it’s still a stretch when he fills you up. You telling him you need him, can’t live without him, need his cock, need his cum. Giving yourself to him. He loves protecting you, keeping you safe and sound. Making sure you have everything you need. He needs to be your reason for living, the one you want entirely. He needs you to take his love, take his cock, take his teeth on your neck and his hands all over you. Any show of intimacy gets him going, from you crying in his arms to falling asleep curled up next to him, showering together, whispering your deepest secrets. He also has a (barely) hidden wish to get you pregnant, make you fully his. I should’ve added that to kinks. Breeding kink.

n · no

Not a strict no at first, but he doesn’t really like being penetrated. He’s tried it and it just doesn’t do it quite right for him, though it does make him more considerate towards his partner he tops. A bit of spanking is okay in his book but he’d never want to take it further than that when it comes to violence. He’s rough, and strong, and big, and passionate, but he’d never hurt you for real. You feeling safe in his arms, being needy for his touch is what he craves.

o · oral

Oral is a whole topic for Sephiroth. Its very own category of sex he could spend hours on. He loves eating pussy. He loves giving because it feels so intimate, so good, he wants you on his tongue with your thighs shaking and squeezing around his head. He loves to bite your inner thighs, to make you spread your legs wider. Loves to fuck his tongue inside you and feel you clench, feeling you dripping. Gently sucking on your clit until you go from tense and thrashing to soft and crying his name, begging him to stop, but he knows better, right? This pretty pussy belongs to him, and he’ll lick it for as long as he wants. And you sob out a “Yes, Seph..” that makes his cock throb. He adores making you sit on his face, ready to worship you like the little goddess you are. His offering to you white and sticky on his skin where he came untouched, just from the ecstasy of being surrounded by your body. He loves it as much as you love sucking his cock, taking him on your knees with your aching throat stuffed full. You’ve spent just as many hours licking his cock, the two of you training your mouth, your jaw, your throat to open up enough for him to slide deeper, and deeper, like you cannot get enough of him no matter how much it hurts. He learns you need it as much as he does, and as your dynamic progresses, he learns to use it as a way to center you and himself, to fulfill your mutual craving for obedience. When he comes home and tells you to get on your knees before he even kisses you, tells you to keep his cock warm while he’s reading through a debrief. He never knew there would be so much intimacy in fucking your pretty mouth, holding you down, coming down your throat as there is in licking you open, having his face all drenched in you, feeling every fold of your pussy on his tongue. He also really, really loves to 69.

p · pace

Sephiroth naturally tends towards the rough and fast, but he learns to be soft, to be slow, to be gentle not only because he’s concerned about the stretch he imposes on your sweet cunt, but also because you teach him to explain his feelings without violence. It’s hard for him, but he tries, really hard. He’s especially good at going slow and soft when he’s already come once, or when you’re the more assertive one. He’ll usually be softer when you’re particularly fragile and vulnerable, broken down by whatever troubles your mind and the harshness of the world, to remind you that he’s here and always will be. He’ll protect you against everything but himself, and you can let go of everything else if you just hold onto him.

q · quickie

Penetration with no prep is difficult at best, impossible at worst, but he knows exactly how to take care of you when you suddenly get needy for him and he has no time. Gathers you in his arms, “Spread your legs for me.” and kisses you while his long fingers work you open, mercilessly hitting every single nerve inside you without the slow buildup you prefer, and it feels like electricity running through you, too much, too fast, too strong, and he pulls an orgasm out of you before you can get your bearings, putting you in this fuzzy headspace where he rules everything. Sephiroth loves you all out of sorts and fucked out like this, allowing him to take your body, and to take your mind into a place where you don’t need to think. “I need to leave soon, so you just need to open your pretty mouth and let me fuck your throat, can you do that?”

r · risk

His life is molded around risk and danger. He never risks you, but sometimes the heat of battle, of absolutely dominating during a mission , of danger, it makes him hard, makes him see red, and if you were there, he would do things to you he would not be proud of in the morning.

s · stamina

It took months of continuous sex and of you repeating to him that you loved him and needed him, for his dick to finally occasionally get soft after his first orgasm. It’s better now, but he can still spend the night between your legs, overstimulating you both to tears, coming half a dozen times until he physically cannot get hard anymore, and you can’t even sit up.

t · toys

Big fan of them. Especially since he loooooves overstimulating you.

u · unfair

He’s not that big of a tease, preferring to overstimulate you until you’re sobbing. He knows it hurts to not have anything inside you when you’re turned on, but it also hurts when he forces his cock inside you without any preparation. So he settles for shushing you, gathering you in his arms so he can make out with you while fingering you open, the delicious stretch of his fingers so satisfying. You writhe and moan and curl in his arms like a kitten in heat, and he kisses you endlessly, pressing his weight against you to pin you down, not giving in to your pleas for his dick just yet, “need to stretch you a little more, okay?”

v · volume

Sephiroth is vocal for sure. His voice drops an octave when he’s turned on, he can’t help it. When he tells you dirty things it often ends in animalistic sounds, he’s a growler. He tries to muffle those sounds at first, afraid of scaring you, because you’re so pretty and sweet, you don’t deserve to get fucked by someone who can barely keep himself from sinking his teeth into your pretty throat. Then he understood that you like the gravel in his voice, and his breaths, his moans, his whines, his breathless little growls that rumble in his chest. He learns to be a little louder for you. Most of all, he learns how wet his voice makes you, and that his pet names, loving and degrading and praising you. It makes you go insane. He loves making you whine, cry out, and sob his name. Loves when he manages to break through your self consciousness until you forget everything but him and scream.

w · wild card

Can occasionally be submissive, usually when emotion is breaking him down, and your love is the only thing keeping him from drowning, the only light at the end of the tunnel. That usually means you overstimulating him like he does you, telling him you love him while kissing his forehead, and he whines and comes and comes and comes. Will send you dick pics, and videos of himself jerking off, especially when he’s away. He has a secret folder in his phone cause he just misses you. You make him hard even when you’re not there. He keeps a stash of slutty pictures of his love.

x · x-ray

Sephiroth is big everywhere, and he knows it. “F-fuck Seph, you’re so biiiig” makes his head spin, and when you add “it’s too big, I can’t take it” with wet eyes brimming with tears, looking up at him in adoration, he has no choice but to reply: “It’s not even halfway in, honey. I know you can take it, though, can’t you? Just trust me, baby, give yourself to me.” He shows you he can split you open without pain, bigger than anything you thought was possible for you, taking you to a place beyond ecstasy. It takes all of your focus each time, feels more like a religious experience than anything else, like receiving a god inside you. But for him you’ll do anything. Rearrange your body however he wants, loving him as intensely as he loves you. 

y · yearn

Ready to go at a moment’s notice, ever eager for your touch, your kisses. Sephiroth is a frozen abyss of thought and feeling that never learned how to express anything other than what he needs to accomplish, specific objectives. There’s a presence inside him howling for love, bleeding for your attention. He’d like to have you every morning and every night. Have you preen under his caresses during the day, and allow him to do awful things to your body while you sleep. Trusting him like he’s some kind of knight instead of a wild animal.

z · zzz

Sephiroth has had trouble sleeping for years now, never really having a truly safe place to rest at night has messed with his brain. In your cozy little place though, in your plush bed, his body closest to the door, you curled up in his arms, he slowly learns to relax and let go of constant vigilance. Sex helps too, especially when he allows himself to use you until he’s come once, twice, sometimes thrice or more. Then after you’re both cleaned up, he wraps you up in his arms and kisses you until you both drift off. You usually wake up with his arms around your throat and face, pressing you fully against him, an iron embrace you’d have trouble breaking from if he didn’t wake up at the same time as you.

— ʚɞ

i hc sephiroth as a sub most of the time but i love picturing him this way too.

#sephiroth x reader #sephiroth smut #sephiroth ffvii #sephiroth fluff #sephiroth ff7 #sephiroth final fantasy #sephiroth #final fantasy 7 #final fantasy vii #final fantasy seven #ff7 #ff7 remake #ff7 rebirth #final fantasy imagine #final fantasy series #cloud strife final fantasy #tifa lockhart #aerith gainsborough #midgarangel

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shadowbriar · 3 days ago

Text

Bucky Barnes — Naked

Bucky’s vibranium finger draws circles to her bare shoulder, gently leaving his invinsible trace that he secretly wished would inked a little deeper on her. His other arm was underneath her head, working as a makeshift pillow as he became the bigger spoon for her. He breathes in deep the scent of her shampoo. The way the strands of her hair becomes the only barrier between her head and his chest—his chest that is trying it’s hard to conceal the fast beating of his heart—was comforting. Something he could claim closest to what a home would feel like.

With every rise and fall of her shoulders, Bucky could only wish that the universe would do him this one favour, just one time: to stop the sun from rising and let him lay with her a little longer. He would die a happy man tomorrow if he could just hold her a little closer tonight. Kiss more inch of her skin, and breathe more of her laughter between their kisses. But even for a selfish man like him, he knew that some things were just beyond your reach.

And so he plants a soft kiss on her shoulder, whispering the silent sentiment that’s threatening to burst out of his lips to her ears before peeling himself off of the blanket. He reaches for their phones, hitting snooze on both of their alarms. He knew just how much she needed the rest. The trainings and missions she’s thrown herself lately have been quite worrying, but he knew better than to waste the little window they had with scolding her about it.

Bucky’s steps were silent as he entered the bathroom. The only sound breaking the stillness of the bedroom now was the faint trickling of water from the shower. She opens her eyes, assured that he’s out of sight before letting out a sigh.

Now she sits up, leaning her back to the head of the bed as her eyes stare longingly to the bathroom door. She wonders if his mind was heavy like hers. She wonders if the weight in her chest was felt by him, as well. She wonders if it was getting harder to breathe, staring into each other’s eyes and silently praying that the other would take the leap of faith and shed their pride. She wonders.

She glances at the clock. It’s barely three am, right now. They wouldn’t be needed for another good four hours, but supposed staying over her apartment was already a breach of their initial agreement, and she shouldn’t demand for anything more than she’s spared of. Having Bucky around wasn’t of her right, it was of grace. She knew her place. She’s heard of the women he’s ever been involved with, and it would be foolish to think she could ever carve her name on the list.

But it has been more challenging not to let herself indulge in such fantasy. The way his eyes would linger. How his smile would only bloom whenever she’s around, and the overly protective manner he shows to her lately. How he would inspect her equipment before she’s off for a mission himself. Lord, who wouldn’t think of the best possible scenarios when his eyes were locked on yours while his hands were busy checking the harness on your body? When he authoritatively demands for you to promise on being careful and keeping the intercom on at all times? When he begs for your return?

It was cruel. He was cruel. But she’s rather be the object of his cruelty than to be nothing at all.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes scenario #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you

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calebsg1rl · 3 days ago

Text

Warnings/desc : Partial/very short smut <- MC rides Sylus, female orgasm depicted, no male orgasm, MC is noncommital(I struggled to stick to that part of the plot😔), very obvious insinuation of sexual trauma because of past relationships(talks about MC thinking of orgasms between them as currency), slightly angsty?, AFTERCAREEEEE, yearning, Sylus is a gentleman, shared bubble bath, intimate convo, sweetness, written with female MC in mind, race is ambiguous, body type is ambiguous(one part says something about Sylus making you look small, but it’s Sylus so it applies to everyone)

Enjoy 😘

The first time Sylus saw you was in a high profile club in the N109 Zone. Your face bathed in the pink glow of the lights, you looked skittish, ready to run at the slightest inconvenience, but he saw through it. Your eyes were almost predatory, stalking, setting the bait for some poor fool to fall into your clutches. He approached you that night, paid your tab and swept you off your feet and back to his penthouse.

Consider him the happiest fool there’s ever been.

After the first couple passionate nights spent together he learns a few details about your life, you’re a model, a renowned one at that. You never see him before sunset, you have a tendency to disappear before sunrise, and you like it rough. You have more than a couple shitty exes, and you hate pillow talk. Or you pretend too.

Sylus doesn’t think he’s ever been so captivated by a woman. You’re an evasive thing, fragile in the way a firecracker is fragile. He’s okay with the idea of loving you, with the idea of chasing you. You don’t believe in love, that’s another thing he learned. He’s intent on changing your mind.

Tonight is one of those nights, nights spent together. Nights spent rolling and tangling in his satin sheets. He’s had you every way imaginable, and it still doesn’t feel like enough. He fears it never will.

You’re on top of him, he’s inside you. He finds that for the first time, he doesn’t care about his own pleasure, as he watches you grinding down against him, rolling your hips back and forth, all he can bring himself to do, is squeeze your hips in his large hands, helping you along.

He’s learned your tells, the way your brow furrows, the way you take your bottom lip between your teeth, and finally the moment when you finally let out those sweet ‘ah ah ah’s.

You practically collapse into him as your orgasm rolls over you, and it feels like victory. He slowly rolls his hips beneath you, his arms cross over your lower back, pressing your chest to his. His grip is unshakeable.

“Look at you…” his voice is low, teasing, bordering on intimate. He leans up, lips pursing as he blows cold are over the skin on your neck and shoulders. It makes you shiver as the heat from before recedes, and that little action is enough of an excuse for him to pull the blankets up over both of your bodies.

“You didn’t cum…” You say, observant, critical, but theres something else there too.

“I did. Two rounds ago.” He offers a toothy grin.

He notices as you scoff, moving off his chest, and he lets you, despite how he aches to keep you close. Your fingers wrap firmly around his length under the blankets, and his own hand shoots up to grab yours.

“No, princess. It’s alright.” This is another thing he’s learned, something he’s noticed without you telling him. You always like to keep things ‘even’. You count the orgasms between you like currency. He knows why, aforementioned shitty exes, but it still makes something protective and fiery swell up inside him whenever it shows through.

“It’s fine I’ve got it.” You speak like it’s a chore, a job, something you have to do. He can’t help the way he stares at you, you hate pity, he knows that. But pity isn’t what he’s trying to convey.

“You don’t owe me anything.” There’s nothing humorous in the way he says it, because he isn’t in the slightest way joking. “Just, wait here. Please.” He slowly, reluctantly, slides out from under the covers. You watch as he slides on his boxers, and his sweats over that. It’s impossible not to with the way he’s sculpted. Like marble and limestone. There isn’t an expanse of his skin that isn’t perfect to the eye, and to the touch.

You can hear as he shuffles around, as he starts the bath in the bathroom. You should leave, that’s all you think. Maybe you would, if you weren’t so sure you’d stumble if you tried to stand.

He comes back in after a little while, there’s a fondness to his face. One you know the leader of Onychinus isn’t known for showing. You move to stand off the bed, but he stops you.

“Let me?” You hesitate, really hesitate. But you nod.

He scoops you off the mattress into his muscular arms, hands holding you in just the right places make your heart squeeze, and not in the sexual way. There’s nothing sexual about the way he carries you to his huge bathroom, the gentle, tenderness he exhibits as he sets you into the tub, body hidden beneath a thick layer of pink tinted bubbles. The room smells like warmth and strawberries, it’s…familiar. You glance at the edge of the tub, catching sight of a familiarly coloured bottle of strawberry bubble bath. Your favourite brand.

Sylus has been over to your apartment a record of two times. Once to pick you up, which really doesn’t count, but the other time he’d stayed the night. It was the only time. You didn’t like the lack of control, the intimacy of having him in your space. But he left in the morning as you’d told him to, gone before you’d woken up. He’d listened, and you could still remember the unexpected giddiness you’d felt at the realization.

Apparently he’d taken more note than you’d realized.

“There’s towels,” He gestures to the white cotton towels hanging off hooks on the wall. “Just let me know, before you leave.” He offers a small smile, before going to leave, and you hate the way you call out.

“Do you have something to do?” God you sound needy.

He glances back for a moment before responding. “No.”

“So…why are you leaving?” You feel like crashing through his huge glass pane windows and falling hundreds of feet to your demise.

“I figured…”

“What? You figured what?” Defensive, snappy, damn it…

“I figured you wouldn’t like me intruding.” He turns to fully face you now. “If that’s not the case, that’s all you have to say.” The way he pauses is so deliciously Sylus.

He puts the ball in your court. There’s no teasing, no begging. He’s calm and cool and oh so handsome standing there in those sweats. You won’t say it, it feels like there’s something lodged in your throat that won’t allow it. But you do manage to scooch forward in his obnoxiously massive bathtub, hoping he gets your message.

His heart almost melts right there, the gesture, the sheepish, almost shy look you give him as you do it. He’s a over his head in shark infested water. And he doesn’t want to be saved.

It’s barely moments before he’s stripping of his bottoms once again, sliding into the water behind you. Your body looks pathetically small compared to his. Every part of you does.

He doesn’t reach out to touch you, and you understand now it’s because he doesn’t know if you want him too. You take the jump, sliding slightly back, pressing your back to his chest. Guiding one of his arms to drape over your front.

Your both quiet for awhile, letting the warm water seep into your sore muscles. He hates to disturb you, but he has to say something.

“You know I desire a relationship with you, correct?” He whispers, but even his whispers have strength to them, a calm undercurrent of something smooth and sturdy.

“Do we not have a relationship?” You try to laugh it off, but he doesn’t allow it, not this time.

“You know what I meant.”

Even as tension coils in your stomach, you don’t sit up or pull away, he tales it as a sign to continue.

“You are the most…bewitching woman I have ever met. I don’t see anyone but you, I wanted you to know that. And I wanted to ask how you feel now, if it’s the same as all the other times.” He tries to keep it brief, simple. But nothing about how he feels when it comes to you is simple.

How could you deny him? Something about Sylus, is he has the greatest capacity to cause you harm. Theoretically and theoretically alone. He has the resources, the intelligence. But something in his crimson coloured eyes, in the way his fingers trace delicate patterns into your skin. The fact that you can’t tell if he’s trying to soothe your nerves, or his.

“I…am not as opposed.” You pause, then continue.” To the idea of a relationship.” You clarify. “With you.” You clarify again.

There are no words to describe the feeling that practically explodes in his chest. He can’t help pressing a couple tender, drawn out kisses starting at the base of your neck and trailing over your shoulder, shoulder blades, as far down your upper back as he can manage.

“Stay tonight? Stay for tomorrow.” He corrects himself. He’d be lying if he said he hasn’t been dreaming of waking up with you in his arms every night since the first.

All you can do is nod against him.

It’s currently 1:15 in the morning, I hope you enjoyed lovely! Cursing everyone’s evil exes and letting you know my requests are open ❤️

#x reader #lads sylus #love and deepspace sylus #smut #fluff #sweet #sylus x reader #sylus x mc #lads #ladsfic #loveanddeepspace #love and deepspace #fyp #fem reader #fem mc #She/her #racially ambiguous #all body types #shortfic

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jetii · 1 day ago

Text

Man or Commander

Pairing: Wolffe x fem!Reader / Wolffe x Doctor!Reader

Words: 17,082

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! established relationship, fluff, it's like 50/50 pwp, protective!Wolffe, smut, oral (f recieving), fingering, unprotected sex, pinv, dirty talk, so much of that, praise kink in a big way, size kink, veryyy soft dom!Wolffe, Wolffe is a cuddly drunk

Summary: After your first date in months with Wolffe is ruined, you want to make the most of your night together. All Wolffe wants is you.

A/N: This was born from @cyaretra and I discussing Wolffe's guilty pleasures of red wine, trash reality tv, and fast food. RIP Wolffe you would love space in-n-out.

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“How much further?”

You and Wolffe share a look over your shoulder as he hoists Boost further in his arms, Sinker dangling from yours like a wet bag of laundry. Comet trudges behind, looking for all the galaxy like he just got kicked in the face.

He had, by Wolffe's own account.

“If you don’t stop whining, I’ll leave you all here in the street,” Wolffe grumbles back, and you can tell he’s only half-joking.

Boost and Sinker, to their credit, shut up.

Comet, who has always been the most perceptive of the bunch, says nothing and tries his hardest to keep pace, limping on what you guess is a sprained ankle. The rest of him looks like a bruise, with various shades of reds, purples, and blues covering most of his exposed skin. He had been the first of them to get tossed around in the scuffle, the others jumping into the fray a little too late for him to not take the worst beating.

You try not to think about what might have happened if they hadn't intervened.

The streets of Coruscant are never truly empty, not even during the day, but they are at least quieter in the early morning hours. Which means that when a small squadron of clones, one of whom is being carried, appears from around the corner, people notice.

People stare.

You feel a wave of secondhand embarrassment for the four of them. You can practically hear Wolffe's internal cursing, and he makes sure you know he isn’t happy by the way he grabs your arm and pulls you close to him.

The four of you are going to look quite the sight once you reach the barracks.

Not a bad sight, mind, just a bit... rough.

Wolffe and you share the burden of Boost and Sinker, but it’s mostly him carrying both. You simply hang on, your free hand grasping one of theirs so they don't fall from their commander's arms.

Comet is still trailing behind, and Wolffe shoots him glances, trying to gauge whether or not he is going to pass out before you make it back. He doesn't say anything, though, and neither do you. Comet must take as some sort of dismissal, because he starts trying to make conversation.

"You know, sir, you should really get us some medals for this," he starts, and Wolffe looks up to the sky, asking some unseen deity why it hates him so.

You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing, but a giggle still escapes, and it makes Wolffe glance at you. You offer him a small smile, and his lips twitch slightly in return.

Comet keeps talking. "It was a hard-won battle, sir. We had them outnumbered. I bet there were twenty of 'em, at least."

"There were six," you say, turning back to him, and he shrugs, which you guess is as good a response as any.

"They were pretty big, though. They were probably part-Wookiee. Did you see the size of them? Huge."

You look at Wolffe again, who looks ready to drop Boost and Sinker in order to throttle his soldier. You can't help the laughter that bubbles out of your mouth.

Comet looks pleased with himself, and you think the pain of the fight is starting to make him delirious.

Wolffe glares at the two of you. "I hate both of you."

”Me?” you ask. "I didn't do anything!"

He doesn't answer, which is his usual response when you’re right.

You turn and continue making your way down the street. The neon signs and blinking lights of the seedy district fade into the darkness of the night as you walk, the sound of music and raucous laughter fading with them. The city is still busy, but it’s a different crowd, and they seem to be a bit more interested in getting home than making their way to the next club.

Not that there are many places open at this hour. It is, after all, one in the morning.

You and Wolffe share a sigh as another person pushes past, nearly knocking you over.

You've had about enough of this city. You were ready to go home the moment the sun went down, and now, it‘s all you can think about. You barely had time to look at your bed when you dropped off your bag this afternoon, and you want nothing more than to curl up in it, Wolffe at your side, and sleep for about a week.

That was the original plan, after all.

It's been months since you've had a day together, and you have been looking forward to it. A few drinks. A nice dinner. A walk through the city. An evening spent catching up on all the episodes of that awful holo-series the two of you have gotten hooked on. And then, you and Wolffe could crawl into bed and stay there for as long as possible.

It's what the two of you have been planning for weeks, and now, thanks to your over-zealous, over-protective, and frankly, ridiculous boyfriend and his brothers, you'll be lucky if you make it home before sunrise.

You can't bring yourself to be mad at them though. If they hadn't stepped in when they did, you and Wolffe would be the ones needing to be carried.

They saved the day, and you can't be mad at them for it.

But you are going to complain.

A lot.

"Why is there a fight every time we come here?" you ask. "Every time. We can't even get through one night without someone saying or doing something that causes a riot."

"Because Boost can't keep his mouth shut," Wolffe grunts, and the clone in his arms groans, which you think is an attempt to defend himself.

"You've got to stop picking fights with the locals," you add, turning to Comet, who’s looking worse and worse the closer you get to the barracks. "And I swear, if one more person calls me a 'trooper's whore'..."

"I will rip their spine out," Wolffe growls, and you and the others stare at him. He's a little bloodthirsty tonight, and you have a feeling it has to do with the way he'd been pulled from your embrace in order to break up the fight.

"That's a little graphic, don't you think?" you say, and he glares.

"They deserved it."

"Of course they did, honey," you placate, knowing it's easier to agree than to argue. He knows you're humoring him, but he lets it go.

A few more blocks, and the lights of the barracks come into view. There’s a single floodlight above the entrance, a few windows on the first floor still lit, but the compound itself is quiet. You’re the only ones walking the streets, and as you make your way through the gate, the silence settles around you. It’s a welcome change.

You step into the building and walk to the lifts. Wolffe presses the call button, and the doors to one open with a soft ding. You all shuffle in, and as soon as the doors are closed, you let out a collective groan.

Sinker snorts and lifts his head, his face contorted in pain. There’s a cut on his forehead, and a black eye mars the left side of his face. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

Wolffe shifts, trying to keep his hold on Boost while also giving Sinker a little shake.

That seems to do the trick. Sinker clears his throat and speaks, his voice hoarse. "I'm sorry, Commander. I really didn't mean to cause any trouble."

Wolffe shakes his head.

"You didn't. Those shabuir did,” he says. Boost grumbles, and Wolffe jostles him a little harder than Sinker. "Shut it. You're lucky I didn’t let Fox throw your shebs in the drunk tank. And I'm only not doing it because she," he nods to you, "won't let me."

Boost grumbles again.

"What was that?"

"Thank you, Commander," Boost mumbles, and Wolffe sighs, letting his head fall back against the wall.

"I'm not mad," he continues, and you and Comet share a look, knowing what’s coming next, "but I am disappointed."

There's a chorus of groans and winces, and you have to cover your mouth with your hand to keep from laughing.

The lift slows to a stop, and the doors open. You and Wolffe shuffle out, the boys in tow, and turn towards the infirmary. The halls are still and empty save for a few droids who patrol the floors, and your footsteps echo in the silence.

You pass the first ward, then the second, until finally, you arrive at the third. You enter, and the lights flicker on as you move into the main room, heading for your equipment.

"Let's get the droid. I'll take Comet," you say, nodding at Wolffe, and the two of you deposit your passengers on the nearest cots. The medic droid, sitting idle since you left, stands up and powers on, the little light on its head flashing red.

"How may I help?"

"Run a diagnostic on Boost, would you?” you ask as you thumb through bacta patches. “I'm pretty sure he has a concussion."

"Yes, Doctor."

You come to stand beside Wolffe as the droid scans Sinker, and he wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you against him. You lean in and rest your head on his chest, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"I'm sorry our evening was ruined," he says softly.

You hum and smile. "It wasn't a complete disaster."

"We didn't get to eat. Or talk. Or..."

You lift your head, and place a finger against his lips, shushing him. "No, we didn't. But we got a few things instead. For one, you got to prove to everyone that you can still take on three men twice your size."

"They were drunk," he points out, and you roll your eyes.

"And we got to spend some time together."

"Barely. Then they got jumped,” he says, motioning to the men, who are now all staring at the two of you. You give them a pointed look, and they avert their gazes, but not before muttering a few apologies.

"We also have the rest of the day, and tomorrow,” you add, raising your eyebrows suggestively, “to do whatever we want. With no interruptions."

"Is that a promise?" he asks, his lips pulling up into a smirk. He leans over you, his mouth inches from yours, and your breath catches.

"Absolutely."

"Oh, gross," Boost groans, and Wolffe pulls away from you, his glare returning.

"If the next words out of your mouth aren't a 'thank you' or an 'I'm sorry,' I'm going to make you wish you'd never been decanted."

"Thank you," Boost mumbles, and the other two chime in. Then, the droid speaks.

"Doctor, I have completed my diagnosis," it says, and you and Wolffe move towards Boost. "Trooper Boost has sustained several contusions and minor abrasions, including a sprained wrist, and a laceration requiring five stitches. He will also need an anti-inflammatory and analgesic."

"Shab," Boost lets his head fall back and groans, and Sinker rolls his eyes.

"I told you. Didn't I tell you? Didn't I say that would happen?"

"Yes, Sinker, we get it," Comet interjects.

"Did I not?"

"Yes, Sinker. You did."

You tune out the bickering as you move to help the droid with Boost and Sinker, then move on to Comet. By the time you’re finished, his ankle is wrapped and the bruises and scrapes have been covered. He still looks like he got hit by a speeder, but at least he isn’t bleeding.

The droid makes a note of the injuries and gives you the report, which you quickly read over before setting it aside.

"Alright. All three of you," you start, pointing a finger at each of them, "will stay here for the night. No strenuous activity, no training, no lifting or pushing for a minimum of one week."

There’s a round of protests, but you hold up your hand, cutting them off. "No. You all will do as I say, or you will spend the rest of the war in the infirmary scrubbing bedpans. Are we clear?"

"Yes, doc," they all grumble, and you smile, satisfied.

"Good. Now, try and get some sleep. If you need anything, just ask the droid. Don’t call me.”

Wolffe, who’s been standing silently behind you, steps up and crosses his arms. "Do what she says. I'll be back in the afternoon, and if I find out any of you left this room..."

He lets his words hang, and the three clones nod vigorously, promising to stay put.

"Good."

"Thank you for defending my honor. But next time, please try not to get yourself beaten up in the process,” you say, squeezing Comet’s arm.

He nods and smiles, his grin crooked thanks to the split lip. "You got it, doc."

You pull away and reach for the datapad, signing off on the treatment plan before handing the pad back to the droid.

"Notify me if any of their conditions worsen," you say, and the droid's head flaps in understanding.

"Of course, Doctor."

Wolffe steps up and places a hand at the small of your back, giving his men a parting nod.

"Behave yourselves," he warns.

You step away, and the three clones give their goodbyes, calling their apologies and promises of good behavior as you and Wolffe leave the infirmary. The door hisses shut behind you, and you turn, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with Wolffe back to the lifts.

The corridors are still and quiet, the silence broken only by the occasional beep from a passing droid. The lights are dim, the shadows stretching long across the durasteel floor, and you can feel the fatigue of the night begin to creep in. Your body is tired and aching from the adrenaline crash, but the thought of getting to curl up in your bed with Wolffe is enough to keep you moving.

You stop at the lift, and the doors slide open, the both of you stepping inside. As the doors close and the lift begins its descent, Wolffe turns and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you into his embrace. You sigh and tuck yourself against his side, his warmth seeping through the fabric of his off-duty uniform.

"They shouldn’t have done that," he says, his voice low.

"They did it because they care," you answer, running your hand over his back.

"They're idiots."

"They're sweet," you correct. "I know they got a little carried away, but I think they're going to have plenty of time to reflect on that."

"You're too nice,” Wolffe replies as he leans down and nuzzles your temple.

"And you're too protective," you point out, smiling.

"You're worth protecting."

He presses his lips to your hair, and you close your eyes, savoring the rare display of affection. He’s not as sober as he appears, you realize, the faintest trace of alcohol still on his breath. He’s always more hands-on when he drinks.

Not that you mind.

You turn and kiss his cheek.

"And you're just mad because your brothers stole your thunder," you tease, giving him a grin.

"Damn straight," he says, leaning down to nip at your earlobe, and he smirks as you let out a squeak.

You slap his chest and turn to face him, his smirk widening at the flush on your cheeks. The lift slows to a stop, and the doors open, but neither of you make any move to exit. The idea of making the long journey back to your apartment is as unappealing as sneaking out of Wolffe’s quarters at the crack of dawn, and you can’t bring yourself to tear away from his embrace.

He tilts his head and nips at your jaw, his lips dragging along your skin. You sigh and run your fingers through his hair, gently scratching his scalp, and he lets out a pleased groan, his mouth traveling up to press a soft kiss against your cheek.

"You're staying," he says, the warmth of his breath ghosting across your ear, and you shiver.

It's not a question, but you pretend to think it over anyway, humming softly as you continue to play with his hair. Wolffe’s eyes narrow at your act, and his foot moves to stop the door from closing on his floor, his gaze never leaving yours.

"You're staying," he repeats, his voice taking on a commanding edge.

You give him a sly smile and shake your head.

“I need to eat and shower, and I’m not using GAR-issued soap,” you say, wrinkling your nose. “My body is not a weapon, and I refuse to treat it like one."

Wolffe huffs and removes his foot from the door, letting it slide shut. He punches the button for the ground floor with more force than necessary, and the lift jolts, slowly continuing its descent.

“I suppose that means we’re going back to your place then," he says, his tone dripping with resignation.

"Unless you have a private collection of luxury soaps I don’t know about, then yes. I'm sorry to say we are," you answer, grinning, and you slip out of his embrace as the lift comes to a stop.

You step into the hall and turn, watching as Wolffe slowly follows, a pout firmly on his face.

"You know, a good boyfriend would keep an extra bottle of shampoo for his girlfriend in his shower,” you tease as he comes to stand beside you.

"If she's such a high maintenance woman, maybe she shouldn't be dating a soldier," he retorts, giving you a pointed look.

“Oh, well if that's how you feel..."

You trail off and start walking towards the exit, but Wolffe catches your hand and pulls you back, tugging you into his arms. You collide with his chest, letting out a soft 'oof' before looking up and meeting his gaze.

His eyes are soft, and the hint of a smile plays at the corner of his lips.

"Come on, cyare, we both know I'm the only man for the job," he murmurs, leaning down to brush his lips against your temple.

You laugh softly and wrap your arms around his waist, holding him tight.

"Yeah, you're definitely the only one who can handle me," you say, and Wolffe’s eyes turn dark.

"Mmm, that I am," he rumbles, and he nuzzles your neck, his stubble scratching your skin.

You shiver, and Wolffe pulls back, looking down at you. He brushes a few stray hairs from your face and tilts your chin up, placing a gentle kiss on your lips. It's brief, barely a whisper, but it still makes you smile.

"Let's go home. We can finish our conversation there."

He drops his hand from your face, and you turn, looping your arm through his as the two of you begin to walk. It doesn't take long to reach the lot where your speeder is parked. The streets are empty, and the air is cool and fresh, the sky dark and dotted with stars. It's a pleasant night, and if it weren't for the events that transpired over the last few hours, you'd say it was perfect.

You shoot Wolffe a grin and hop into the driver’s seat, revving the engine. Wolffe rolls his eyes, but a small smile plays on his lips as he gets in and straps himself in, his hand coming to rest on your knee. He squeezes once, nodding, and you take off, heading home.

It's quiet as you fly over the city, the buildings nothing but blurs of color below you. You're not in any rush, and you fly leisurely, taking your time as you navigate the city streets. Wolffe's thumb moves in a gentle circle over your knee, his eyes fixed on the view outside the window.

You can't help but glance over at him every so often. It’s rare to see him like this, relaxed and unguarded. His head rests against the back of the seat, and he watches the city move by, the neon lights dancing across his features.

You know how much this break has meant to him. How hard it’s been, waiting for a day, an hour, even a minute where the two of you could be alone together. He's done well to hide it, but now, without the threat of prying eyes, his mask falls. He looks tired, and sad, and there's an edge of relief to his features, his eyes softening the closer you get to your apartment. You wonder how much sleep he's actually gotten over the last few months.

Not much, by the look of him.

The man doesn't know when to stop. Or when to say no.

It's part of the reason you fell for him. He's always trying to protect his men, his friends, his family. He puts others before himself, and you love him for it. You'd never ask him to change, but you do wish he'd take a little more time for himself.

Wolffe's eyes drift over, and they catch yours.

"What are you looking at?" he asks, his brows drawn together.

You shake your head and look away, back out the windshield.

"Nothing,” you reply. “Just wondering when the last time was that you slept."

He snorts and looks back out the window.

"That's an easy one. I can't remember,” he answers, and you frown.

"That's exactly what I was afraid of."

He chuckles as he turns his attention back outside, and you let out a sigh, shaking your head. He's impossible.

"Well, then I'm making sure you sleep tonight," you state with finality, a plan beginning to form in your mind.

Wolffe raises his brow and glances over.

"Oh, are you now?"

You nod, your gaze fixed on the street in front of you. The turn to your apartment complex is coming up, but instead of turning left, you fly straight past it. Wolffe’s thumb stops moving on your knee, and you bite back a smile as you continue on, heading towards the city center. He doesn’t say anything, but he sits up straighter, his gaze narrowing as he watches the cityscape pass.

"Yes. It's the doctor's orders," you say, giving him a sidelong glance.

Wolffe lets out a hum and sits back, his thumb starting its gentle movements again.

"Alright, then," he concedes. "Where are we going?"

"To get some food. I'm starving, and I can't sleep on an empty stomach," you reply, and Wolffe grunts.

"So we're stopping for a snack? We have food at home," he points out, and you shake your head.

"No, we're going to the best restaurant in the city."

"What restaurant is open at two in the morning?"

You look over, grinning, and Wolffe gives you a flat stare.

"Wolffe, my love, it's Coruscant. There's always something open."

Wolffe doesn't respond, but he does squeeze your knee, his thumb resuming its movement, and a shiver runs through you. He knows just how to work you, and even though the two of you are dead tired and the adrenaline has faded, it doesn't mean he isn't going to try and get his way.

But you have your ways, too.

You reach over and place a hand on top of his. He laces his fingers with yours and brings your hand to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.

"Wolffe," you warn, but it's a weak attempt.

"Cyare," he answers, a knowing smirk on his lips. It’s barely there, a twitch of his mouth and a crinkle in the corner of his eyes, but it's there, and you know it's not going anywhere anytime soon. Not when the two of you finally have the chance to spend the night alone together and not under the watchful eye of his men. Or worse, Master Plo.

"Sorry, Commander,” you tease, your eyes flicking over to meet his. He raises a brow, and you grin. "Food first. Then we can talk."

"You drive a hard bargain, Doctor," he replies, but he doesn't sound bothered in the least.

"That's why you love me."

"Hmm, that's not the only reason," he murmurs. You give his hand a squeeze, and he brings it to his mouth again, placing a kiss against the inside of your wrist.

"I'm sure there are many. You'll have to tell me later," you say, feeling a blush spread across your cheeks.

"Count on it."

You turn another corner and drift down into a district lit with neon signs and glowing advertisements. It's busier here than the other places you've passed through tonight, and the sidewalks are filled with people. You’re forced to stop the speeder as a large group crosses the street, their laughter and loud conversations reaching you in the safety of the vehicle, and the two of you watch, waiting for them to pass.

“What are you planning?” Wolffe asks as he makes eye contact with two men who step too close to the speeder. They catch sight of him and immediately stop, backing away. He smirks.

"To surprise you," you answer, and he huffs.

"I don't like surprises," he replies, his eyes drifting over the crowd.

"Yes, you do," you say with a disbelieving laugh. You can name a few surprises he’s enjoyed in the time you’ve known him, and not all of them were of the sexual variety. Just most. "You just hate the idea that there might be a variable outside your control."

"I've got enough of those to deal with already," he grumbles, and you squeeze his hand.

"You're off duty. Just enjoy the evening."

He huffs, but you can see the corner of his mouth pull up, the dimple on his cheek becoming more pronounced.

"I'll admit, I've enjoyed some of the surprises you've come up with,” he says, giving you a sidelong glance.

A blush spreads over your cheeks, and Wolffe lets out a low chuckle. You shake your head and try to hide your smile.

"You're terrible," you murmur as you shift the speeder into gear.

"Maybe, but at least I'm honest," he replies, giving your thigh a squeeze.

"That's something I can't argue with."

The crowd clears, and you take off, zipping between the other speeders on the road. You turn and head towards the parking area, and the moment the speeder is secured, Wolffe is out of the vehicle and around to your side, opening the door and helping you out.

“What a gentleman," you tease, and Wolffe huffs, shutting the door and pulling you close.

"Don't go telling anyone. I have a reputation to uphold," he murmurs, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss against the corner of your mouth.

"I wouldn't dream of it," you whisper, tilting your head and catching his lips in a gentle kiss. He lets out a soft groan and his arms tighten, pulling you closer, his mouth opening slightly, his tongue darting out to swipe against your lower lip. You pull away, and Wolffe chases your lips, capturing them in a soft, brief kiss.

You chuckle and rest your hands against his chest, pushing him away. He goes with a slight stumble, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, his thumbs rubbing in gentle circles.

"Come on. I'm hungry, and you're drunk."

"Am not," he mutters, but the way his eyes flick back down to your lips says otherwise.

"Oh, you're not, huh? That's not why you're so affectionate right now?"

"No,” he grumbles, his lips pulled down into a pout. You snort a laugh, and he rolls his eyes, his expression relaxing. He leans forward and presses his forehead against yours. "All right, fine, maybe I'm a little drunk. But not so drunk that I can't keep up with you."

"We'll see about that," you say, pulling back. You let your hands linger for a moment before taking a step back and turning, making your way towards the restaurant.

The door chimes as the two of you step inside, and you’re immediately faced with a line of patrons snaking up to the counter and staff bustling back and forth. Wolffe makes a face as he scans the room.

"What is this place?” he asks, and you can hear the slight judgment in his tone.

“This is a restaurant, Wolffe," you reply, trying to hold back a grin. "I figured the best way to cure a hangover is with some greasy food. And you’ve never had a burger, so I figured we could fix that tonight."

"A what?"

You roll your eyes and take his hand, tugging him into the line. He lets you drag him along, and as soon as you find a spot, you turn and explain. Your hands run over his chest, and his come up, his fingers curling around your wrists, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin on the inside.

“It’s like a nerf steak, but better. It's a mix of ground meats, and there's this bread called a bun, and you put all these other toppings and stuff on it,” you say as you bounce up on your toes, bringing your face close to his. “It's good, trust me. You'll love it."

"So you're telling me this thing," he starts, gesturing with his head towards the board where all the food options are listed, "has all the same nutrients as a nerf steak, but the texture is completely different, and the flavor is...better?"

“Pretty much," you answer, giving him a wide grin.

Wolffe doesn't look convinced, eyeing the board with barely veiled skepticism. A laugh escapes you, and his gaze snaps down to you, his eyes narrowing.

"What?"

"Nothing, you just look so confused right now. I've never seen that look on your face before," you reply, grinning.

"I don't think I've ever been this confused in my life," he states, turning his attention back to the menu. His brow furrows. "What the kriff is a 'tater tot'?"

A loud laugh escapes you, and the sound draws a few eyes. You cover your mouth, trying to quiet yourself, and Wolffe shoots you a glare, his cheeks turning pink.

"Sorry, I'm sorry, but it's just so funny seeing you like this," you explain, and his face softens. He reaches out and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side.

"Well, I'm glad one of us is enjoying themselves."

"Oh, come on, you're having fun,” you murmur, poking him in the ribs. He jerks, and his glare returns, but his arm doesn't move. You laugh and wrap an arm around his middle, patting his stomach. "Don't worry. I'm going to order for us, and you're going to eat what I get. And then we're going to go back to my place, and I'm going to tuck you in."

Wolffe snorts, but the smile on his lips and the way he relaxes in your arms says it all.

"Oh, is that all?" he hums, and you can feel his hand sliding up and down your back.

"Mhm," you tease, running your hand up his chest, your fingers playing with the buttons on his fatigues. "That's it."

"Just tucking me in, huh?"

"Yup. Nothing else," you say, giving him a smile that is anything but innocent.

Wolffe's eyes narrow, and his fingers tighten against your hip, the pressure firm and steady. He's considering his next move, and judging by the look on his face, he's already made up his mind.

You take a step back and reach up, adjusting his collar, smoothing it out. You take your time, letting your hands run over his shoulders and chest, feeling the planes of his muscles. He holds still, watching you with dark eyes. You lean in, and he holds his breath, waiting for your next move.

You pat his shoulder, giving him a small smile.

"Well, maybe if you’re really good, I'll read to you," you tease, giving him a wink before turning to look at the menu, standing on your toes to see over the crowd.

Wolffe huffs behind you, and his hand comes up, wrapping around your waist.

"You're mean," he whispers in your ear, his breath tickling your skin.

"Mean? How so?"

"You're being mean to the man who just got out of a drunken brawl in your honor," he murmurs, and his hand tightens around your waist, his fingers pressing into your flesh.

"Well, when you put it like that," you begin, turning and looking up at him. You tilt your head and give him a sweet smile. "Would the man who got into a drunken brawl in my honor care for a milkshake?"

Wolffe looks down at you and sighs, shaking his head. His lips turn up in the corner.

"I suppose he wouldn't be opposed to the idea."

"Good, because I'm getting you a jorganfruit one," you answer as you fall back on the soles of your feet.

"Is it good?"

"So good," you say, nodding enthusiastically. His mouth twitches into a smile, and his arm slides up, wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you close.

"Then I guess I can't say no," he replies, and he presses a soft kiss to the side of your head.

You sigh and lean into him, his warmth surrounding you. Your head falls against his shoulder, and his arm tightens around your waist, holding you close.

It's the first time in weeks the two of you have been able to just exist, and you take a moment to relish the feeling of his body pressed against yours, the warmth of his breath on your hair. You can feel the eyes of the patrons on you, a few even openly staring, watching as if they're trying to solve some great mystery. It's not often they see a clone officer around here, especially one as decorated as Wolffe.

You're sure it's not every day they see one with his arms wrapped around a woman, holding her close, his eyes filled with nothing but warmth, either.

You can't blame them. The two of you are quite a sight, and while you know Wolffe's presence tends to make people nervous, you hope they can see him the way you do.

Strong, but soft.

Fierce, but tender.

Warm, and protective.

You tilt your head and look up, finding his eyes fixed on the crowd. He's scanning the room, his gaze roaming over the patrons, assessing the threats. It's a force of habit, and one that you're sure he'll never shake, no matter how many times you remind him that he's allowed to relax. Not that you can blame him. Tonight was a perfect example of the dangers of the world, and while you are grateful for the protectiveness he and his brothers show, you hope he knows that he can be vulnerable, too.

You reach up and place your hand against his cheek, gently guiding his gaze back down to you. You offer a soft smile, and you watch as the furrow in his brow fades, his features relaxing as his attention settles on you.

The line moves, and before long, you’re placing your order. Wolffe stands behind your shoulder, watching the man behind the counter as he takes your order with an unflinching intensity that you've grown accustomed to over the last year. He doesn't move, and he doesn't blink, not until the man hands you a cup and the receipt.

"Enjoy your food," the man says, shooting Wolffe a wary look.

Wolffe nods, but his eyes stay fixed on the man, watching as he turns and moves into the kitchen.

"Wolffe," you whisper, elbowing him.

He huffs, and a hand moves to rub at his side.

"What?"

"You were being rude."

"Was not," he mutters, his brows drawing together.

You raise an eyebrow, and his frown deepens.

"Fine, maybe I was," he says, turning his attention to the packed seating area. He scans the room again, his eyes moving from table to table, studying the occupants. They're mostly couples, a few groups of friends, but the place is busy, and Wolffe's unease seems to grow.

"See anything interesting?" you ask, bumping him with your hip.

"No," he replies as his eyes come back to rest on you. He leans down, brushing his lips against your cheek. "Just making sure no one gets any ideas."

You laugh and shake your head.

"No one is going to bother me, Wolffe."

"After the day we’ve had, I'm not taking any chances,” he grumbles, and you turn, stepping closer and looping your arms around his waist. He doesn't hesitate to pull you into his embrace, and the two of you stand there, watching as the food is prepared and the people come and go.

When your number is finally called, Wolffe's arm stays locked around your waist, his grip tight and sure as he guides the two of you towards the exit.

The walk back to the speeder is uneventful, but the air is cool, and the sky is clear, the stars shining bright overhead. You lean into his side, and he turns, pressing his lips to your hair, holding you close as the two of you walk back.

The streets are still busy, and the sidewalks are lined with people, the sounds of conversation and laughter floating around you. You can see the neon signs of the restaurants and bars that line the streets, the bright colors and flashing lights a sharp contrast to the calm night.

The two of you come to a stop outside the speeder, and Wolffe moves to open the door for you, but you skirt around him, snatching the bag of food from his hand. You hop onto the hood of the speeder and turn, grinning as he glares at you.

"Really?"

"I'm hungry," you say, shrugging and opening the bag.

He huffs, his lips pulling into a frown.

"And you expect me to sit here and eat on top of the speeder?"

"I don’t expect you to do anything. I'm going to sit here and eat my food," you state, and you take a bite of a fry, making a show of letting out a pleased moan.

Wolffe watches, and the longer he does, the more you can see the cracks forming. He glances around the parking lot, his gaze shifting from one car to another, his eyes flicking over every darkened corner and shadow. When he's satisfied no one is watching, he walks over, his steps heavy. He steps between your legs until his thighs are pressed against the hood, and he leans forward, his hands coming to rest on either side of your hips.

You swallow and look up at him, and he raises a brow. His face is impassive, but his eyes are alight with humor. You take another bite and grin, and his expression softens, the corner of his mouth turning up in the barest hint of a smile.

"Well, are you going to share, or not?" he asks, tilting his head.

"Hmm, I suppose I could," you begin, and you reach into the bag and pull out a fry, bringing it up to his lips. "Open."

Wolffe hesitates for a moment before leaning in, his mouth parting. You push the fry in, and his lips close, his teeth sinking into the potato. You try not to stare as he chews, his mouth moving slowly. He's not trying to be sexy, but the way his jaw moves, the way his lips press together, has you entranced, and a shiver runs through you, heat pooling low in your stomach.

He swallows, and his tongue darts out, licking his lips.

"Good?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

"Decent," he answers, his gaze fixed on your lips.

"Just decent?"

"Mhm. I could do without the grease."

"That's half the point,” you say, laughing softly.

“You’re a doctor, shouldn’t you be telling me not to eat garbage food like this?"

"No. I'm the Chief Medical Officer, not your mother. You can eat what you want," you retort, and you pull out a burger. You carefully unwrap it and offer it to Wolffe. "Eat this."

Wolffe stares at the burger in your hand, his expression flat.

"Why are you looking at it like it's poisoned?"

"Because it might be."

"Oh Force," you mutter, and you pick up a fry and shove it into his mouth. "Eat. Both. Or so help me, I will drag your sorry ass back to the infirmary and have the droids hook you up to a nutrient drip."

He gives you a look, but he takes the burger from your hand and bites down, chewing slowly. His expression softens, his eyes widening, and his eyebrows lift as he takes another bite.

"You're right," he says, swallowing. "It's good."

"I told you. I always know best."

"You're impossible," he mutters around his food.

"And yet you're still here."

"Where else would I be?" he asks, giving you a sidelong glance.

You can see the affection in his eye, the way his cheeks turn pink, and the smile that threatens to break out. He tries to hide it, but his walls have always been easy for you to see through, and you know him better than anyone.

"Oh, I don't know, off chasing after a new woman," you tease, and his expression turns sour.

"Don't be stupid," he grumbles, taking another bite.

"Well, why wouldn't you?"

"Because I have a beautiful, intelligent, infuriating woman who loves me right in front of me. And I love her," he states, the last words coming out a little softer than the others.

You blink, and he blushes, turning away.

"So that's why I'm here," he finishes. He reaches for another fry, popping it into his mouth.

A grin spreads across your face despite your best efforts to stop it, your cheeks warming. Wolffe never talks about his feelings. Not in the way most people do. He's a man of few words, and when he does open up, it's never as flowery or sweet as his brothers. But the things he says, the small moments when he lets his guard down and tells you the things he wants, or how he feels, are so much more meaningful.

He's told you he loves you before, but it's not something the two of you say often. You know it, and you think it, every moment you're together. The fact that the two of you even have the chance to have moments like these, where you can just be yourselves and not the faces people expect, is enough.

"I love you too," you say, your smile widening. Wolffe meets your gaze, his eyes soft.

"I know," he murmurs.

"Good. Because I'm going to tell everyone you said that."

"Don't you dare.”

You give him a shrug, and he scowls, taking another bite of his burger. You chuckle and reach for another fry, popping it in your mouth and chewing, looking out over the lot. It's a nice night, and you take a moment to enjoy the feeling of the breeze on your skin, the coolness a stark contrast to the warmth of the man between your legs.

You can't help the smile that spreads across your lips as you watch Wolffe, his cheeks stuffed with food. He's enjoying himself, and while he'd never admit it, the food is helping him sober up. His cheeks are less flushed, and his eyes are brighter, less hazy.

He'll sleep well tonight.

Wolffe catches your eye and smirks, and you smile back. The two of you finish your meal in comfortable silence, the occasional laugh or comment passing between the two of you. By the time the food is gone, the lot is all but empty, the streets quiet and still.

"That was good," he admits, crumpling the wrappers and tossing them into the bag.

"You know, that's what I said about the nerf steak, and the dumplings, and the soup, and the fish, and—"

Wolffe huffs and places his hands on either side of your hips, leaning down and nuzzling your neck. You squirm, trying to push him away, but he's stronger than you, and all it does is bring him closer.

"Alright, alright, I get it, you've got good taste,” he murmurs, and you giggle as he nips at your jaw. "Now, are we going home or not?"

You shiver, and a smirk pulls at his mouth, pressed against your skin. He knows exactly what he's doing, and you don't know whether you want to slap him or kiss him.

You opt for the latter.

You slide your fingers through his hair, the dark strands silky under your touch. He lets out a quiet groan and tilts his head, his hands moving to grip your hips. His lips are warm and insistent, and the faint taste of jorganfruit lingers on his tongue as it runs over your bottom lip. You let him, and he kisses you slowly, his hands running over your back, pulling you closer until there's not a sliver of space left between the two of you.

The two of you make out in the parking lot for longer than you should, your mouths moving lazily, your bodies flush against each other. Neither of you can bring yourselves to care that anyone could walk up and see the Commander of the 104th kissing his medical officer like a lovesick teenager, and neither can you bring yourselves to stop.

If anything, you think Wolffe is enjoying the display a bit too much. His kisses become bolder, more consuming, and his hands wander, running up and down your sides and over your ass. He presses until your back is flat against the hood of the speeder, and his thigh bullies its way between your legs, nudging the apex of your thighs. He doesn't do anything more, doesn't grind or move against you, but his intention is clear.

You pull back, and Wolffe makes a sound of protest, leaning forward and chasing your lips. You laugh and place a hand against his chest, gently pushing him back.

"Wolffe," you say, trying to put as much authority into your voice as possible. It's not easy when you can feel the warmth of his thigh between your legs, his breath hot against your mouth.

He doesn't move.

"Wolffe," you repeat, your voice dropping into a whine.

He doesn't answer. Instead, he tilts his head, pressing a series of slow, lingering kisses against your neck. They start behind your ear, his lips dragging over your throat, stubble scratching your sensitive skin. He's gentle, his touch almost reverent, and you let out a soft moan, arching into him.

He takes advantage of your distraction to move his thigh, pressing it snugly against your center. Your head falls back, and your hands curl around his arms, squeezing. You can feel the muscle flex beneath your fingertips, his strength evident even under the layers of clothing.

Wolffe presses another kiss to your skin, his teeth grazing your throat, and you know that if he doesn't stop, the two of you are going to end up doing something in the middle of a parking lot that will have you seeing Fox for the second time tonight.

"Wolffe," you breathe, and this time, it's more of a gasp than a command.

"Cyare," he rumbles as he pulls back, his eyes dark and filled with something you know very well.

"Take me home."

His eyes narrow, and his hands tighten around your waist. He's not going to take no for an answer.

"Or we can stay here, and I can bend you over the hood," he murmurs, and your face grows hot.

"Wolffe!"

He chuckles, the sound low and gravelly, and his hands run over your back, smoothing out the wrinkles in your clothes.

"Just saying," he says, giving you a teasing smile. You push him away with a hand on his chest, and he goes willingly, backing away from the hood and offering you his hand.

"You're terrible," you chide as you take it, sliding off the hood and straight into his embrace.

"Maybe," he murmurs, and his hands settle low on your waist, holding tight. "But you like it."

You roll your eyes, but you can't deny the fact that you very much do like it, and the fact that the man holding you is the only person you've ever felt like this with. He's the one who can bring you to the edge of your control with just a few touches, a few words, a kiss.

He's the one who makes you feel wanted, and desired, and loved.

He's the one who holds your heart, and the knowledge of that makes your head spin, a dizzying mix of arousal and affection washing over you.

"Let's go home," he whispers, and the look in his eyes says everything.

He's thinking the same thing, and his control is waning, the tension between the two of you thick and heavy.

You nod, and Wolffe wastes no time. He guides you around the front of the speeder, opening the door and helping you inside. He takes the bag from you and tosses it into a nearby can before sliding into the passenger seat. You turn to ask if he's ready, but the question dies on your lips, replaced by a squeak as he pulls you into a kiss, his hands cupping your face, his fingers tangled in your hair.

It's brief, his lips brushing yours once, twice, before he's pulling away, leaving you breathless and wanting.

"Thank you for dinner," he whispers against your lips.

"You're welcome," you reply, breathless and smiling.

"But if we don't leave now, I'm going to fuck you in the backseat, and then we're really going to be in trouble," he growls, and you shiver, heat pooling between your thighs. He pulls back and gives you a look that says he means business, and you bite back a whine as he settles back into his seat, fastening the harness.

"Let's go," he orders.

You're quick to obey, starting the engine and taking off. The ride back is silent, but the tension between the two of you is tangible. It's heavy and demanding, and all you can think about is the man sitting beside you, the way his mouth feels, and his hands, and how good it's going to feel when he finally has you alone.

Wolffe’s hand, heavy and warm, comes to rest on your thigh.

You swallow and press your foot down a little harder.

The city drifts by, and it isn't long before you're flying down a street lined with artificial trees, their branches reaching towards the sky. A few blocks down, and you're turning, entering the parking area below your building.

You park and kill the engine, and the two of you sit in silence for a moment. The lights from the streetlamps filter through the windshield, casting the interior in a soft glow. You take a deep breath, and Wolffe turns, his eyes catching yours.

“Are you ready to go inside, cyare, or do you want to do this here instead?" he asks, his voice low and gravelly.

A blush spreads across your cheeks, but you can't find the words to respond. Instead, you unbuckle your seatbelt, and his mouth twists up in the corner, a smirk spreading across his lips.

"Alright then, let's go," he murmurs, and his hand slips from your thigh.

He's out of the speeder and around the front, opening the door before you can even reach for the handle. He helps you out, his hand steady and warm as he pulls you into his arms. He closes the door behind you, and then he's walking, leading you towards the lobby.

You follow him inside, and the man at the front desk does a double take, his eyes wide as they land on the pair of you. You offer him a small wave, and he waves back, his face slack with surprise.

"Evening,” Wolffe greets, low and gruff. His hand finds the small of your back, gently guiding you to the lift.

“Have a good night,” you call over your shoulder as the two of you pass.

"You too, Doctor," the man answers, his gaze still fixed on Wolffe.

You press the button for the lift, and it comes to a stop, the doors sliding open. Wolffe wastes no time in ushering you inside and hitting the button for your floor. He stands close, his hand still pressed firmly against the small of your back.

The doors slide shut, and Wolffe steps in front of you, his eyes intense as they meet yours. His hand moves, sliding over the curve of your ass, cupping and squeezing. You let out a surprised squeak, and he huffs, a smirk twisting his lips.

"What? You thought I'd be able to wait until we got upstairs?" he murmurs as his head dips, his lips hovering a hair's breadth away from yours.

"I thought you were going to try," you whisper, trying to hold back a shiver.

"Mm, no. Not tonight.”

You can feel the warmth of his breath on your lips, the closeness making your head spin. His hands move over your body, and his eyes roam over your features, his gaze heated. He looks hungry, his desire clear in the way his eyes linger on your lips as you reach out, your hands moving to the buttons of his uniform.

"I think I can agree with that," you murmur, undoing the first button. Your thumb runs over the small patch of skin bared at the hollow of his throat.

Wolffe grunts, his eyes fluttering shut. You can feel the shudder that runs through him, and his hands come up, his fingers wrapping around your wrists. He doesn't push them away, though, instead, holding them loosely as you undo another button, then another.

You take your time, savoring the feeling of his skin beneath your fingertips. You know he's struggling, the need for control warring with the urge to give in. He doesn't often let himself lose control, always focused on the task at hand, but tonight, he's off duty, and the man between the lines of command and the soldier has shown his face.

And he's desperate.

The lift dings, and the doors slide open, the sudden noise startling the two of you. Wolffe's grip tightens as he lets out a frustrated sigh.

"Fucking hell," he mutters, turning and guiding you into the hall.

You chuckle, and his hand squeezes your hip, his expression darkening.

"You think this is funny, huh?" he growls, his voice dropping an octave.

You bite your lip, but the grin spreads across your face, the smile bright and full. Wolffe's eyes narrow, and a hand moves, sliding over the curve of your ass. A yelp escapes you as his fingers dig into your flesh, the sensation shooting straight between your legs.

"Oh, it's funny," he mutters, shaking his head.

He pushes you forward, his hand guiding the two of you towards your door. It's only a few steps, but it feels like a mile, his touch firm, the promise of what's to come clear in the way his grip tightens the closer the two of you get. You can feel his presence looking behind you as you unlock the door, your hands shaky and fumbling.

He doesn't say anything, but the heat in his eyes is unmistakable, his desire evident. He's going to make you pay for that smile, and while a small part of you is nervous, the rest is excited, eager to see how he's going to get his revenge.

You open the door, and before you can even step inside, his arm is looping around your waist, lifting you off the floor and into his arms. He steps into the entryway and kicks the door closed, the slam echoing in the otherwise empty apartment.

"You're a fucking tease," he grumbles, kicking off his boots.

"Me? A tease?" you ask, incredulous. You squirm in his arms, and his grip tightens. "Who was the one who couldn't keep his hands to himself the entire night? Or the one who tried to seduce me in the parking lot?"

"You're one to talk. If you weren't such a damn menace, we would have been in here hours ago,” Wolffe counters, his grip tightening around your waist. He steps around his discarded boots and carries you into the kitchen, flicking one of the cabinet lights on with his shoulder. You kick off your heels as you go.

"You know, I think I remember you being the one to pin me to the hood of the speeder,” you point out, and you raise a brow, giving him a look.

Wolffe sets you down on the edge of the counter and places his hands on either side of your hips, leaning close. You lean back, and his hands slide over your thighs, gripping and pulling until his hips are pressed between your knees.

"Well, I'm not sorry,” he says as he dips his head, nuzzling your neck. “It was the best part of my night."

"It was?"

"Mhm."

"Better than the fight?"

"Much better," he answers, his breath hot against your skin. His teeth graze the spot just behind your ear, and you shiver. Your legs wrap around his hips, and your hands find his shoulders, curling around the fabric of his uniform.

"That's high praise, coming from the Commander," you tease, tilting your head and allowing him more access.

Wolffe chuckles and presses a kiss to the hollow beneath your ear.

"Mm, well, the Commander likes a good fight, but the man prefers spending his time like this," he murmurs, his hands moving up, sliding under the hem of your shirt.

His fingers trail along your sides, running over your skin in lazy circles, the touch firm. You can feel him everywhere, the warmth of his hands, his lips, the way his hips press against yours. The outline of his cock, hard and insistent, brushes the inside of your thigh, and you shudder, pulling him closer.

"Like this, huh?"

"Mhm."

"And just what does the man have in mind?" you ask, biting back a moan as his hands dip lower, running over the curve of your ass. He squeezes before continuing on, fingertips dancing over the tops of your thighs until they settle between them, his thumbs rubbing firm circles into your skin.

He lets out a thoughtful hum, the sound rumbling in his chest, his breath hot against your skin. It takes all your self-control to keep still, but the anticipation is delicious, the knowledge that he's going to do whatever he wants, and you're going to let him, a heady rush.

Wolffe pulls back, his gaze roaming over your face. Even his clouded cybernetic eye can't hide the lust, the way his eyes have darkened, the black almost completely consuming the brown of his iris. His cheeks are flushed as he studies you, and his lips are red and slightly swollen from where he's been biting them, trying to hold back the noises he wants to make.

"What does the man have in mind? Let me see," he murmurs, his fingers curling around the fabric. He pops the button of your pants and pats your thigh, and you obey, lifting yourself so he can tug the clothing down your legs. He drops them to the floor, his gaze returning to yours.

"Well?" you ask, a smile playing on your lips.

Wolffe doesn't answer. Instead, he reaches out and cups your sex, the fabric of your underwear a thin barrier between the heat of his palm and your aching core. His touch is gentle, barely there, and yet the pressure is enough to send a spark through you, your skin prickling. You swallow, and his lips turn up, the hint of a smile spreading across his features.

"Let's see," he begins, his finger tracing a line over the damp fabric, drawing a gasp from your throat. "First, I'm going to undress you."

His hands move, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of your underwear, fingertips sliding over the smooth expanse of your skin. He pulls the fabric down slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He watches as you shift and shiver, his expression calm, the only sign that he's not unaffected the slight tremble in his hands.

"Then, I'm going to taste you, get you ready for my cock," he continues, his voice rough.

His touch is slow, methodical, the drag of his knuckles and fingertips torturous. Your underwear slides down, and you let out a small whine, the fabric bunching around your thighs.

"And when you're all nice and wet, and you're begging for me, I'm going to fill you up, and fuck you, nice and slow," he growls, his hands running over your legs, sliding your underwear down and tossing them to the floor.

Your face grows hot, the blush spreading across your cheeks and down your neck, the heat creeping down until it settles low in your stomach. Wolffe's eyes track the movement, and he finds the hem of your shirt, pulling the fabric up and over your head, his hands immediately cupping your breasts over your bra.

"What do you think about that, cyare?" he asks, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, the fabric rough against your sensitive flesh.

You bite back a moan, and his brows raise, expectant. You know what he wants, and you can't bring yourself to deny him, not when his hands are already on your body, his fingers working the clasp of your bra.

"Yes, please," you whimper, reaching up and sliding your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

"See? That wasn't so hard," he says, his lips twitching. He unclasps the garment, and it falls open, the fabric sliding down and joining the rest of your clothes on the floor.

You're left bare before him, exposed, and Wolffe takes a moment to drink in the sight. His hands come up, his fingers tracing the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder. They run over the swell of your breast, his touch feather-light, the contrast between the cool air and the warmth of his skin raising goosebumps. He continues down, over the plane of your stomach, the ridges of your ribs, until he comes to rest against the flare of your hip.

"Perfect," he breathes, his gaze returning to yours.

His mouth is mere inches from yours, his breath ghosting over your lips. He doesn't move, and neither do you, the two of you locked in an intense stare. You're waiting, wanting, and it's a battle of wills to see who will give in first.

You lose.

Your head tilts forward, and Wolffe is there, meeting you halfway. His mouth closes over yours, the kiss gentle, tender, nothing like the rough, demanding way his hands grip your hips, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh.

It's the opposite of the words that tumble from his lips, the things he says, the filthy promises whispered between heated kisses. But it’s so him, the juxtaposition of the gentle and the rough, the soft and the demanding.

It's everything, and it's all you want, all you need.

Wolffe groans as your lips part, his tongue darting out, tasting the sweetness of your mouth. It's slow, his pace measured as he licks his way inside, his movements controlled and steady.

"You have too many clothes on," you murmur against his lips, and Wolffe huffs, pulling back.

"I guess I do," he says, his eyes roaming over your body, lingering on the curves and dips.

His gaze is so heated that it's nearly palpable, the intensity bringing a blush to your skin. He steps back and takes a deep breath, and you squirm as he stares, taking in the sight of you perched on the counter, spread out like an offering.

He reaches for his uniform, popping the buttons, his movements slow. The fabric parts, revealing the tight white undershirt, the thin material straining over the broad planes of his chest, dark hair peeking out from the collar.

You bite your lip, watching as he shrugs off the outer layer, his eyes fixed on you. The fabric slides down his arms, his muscles flexing as he works. His movements are fluid, easy, but each one is deliberate, his gaze never leaving yours.

"Wolffe," you groan, biting back a frustrated noise.

"What?" he asks, his tone innocent.

He drops his shirt to the floor, his fingers hooking into the fabric of his undershirt. He peels it up, slowly, his eyes shining with amusement as he exposes his toned stomach, the planes of his chest, and finally, the broad expanse of his shoulders.

"Are you in a hurry, cyare?"

"A little," you admit, the words coming out breathy.

Wolffe grins and steps closer, his hands finding your knees. He pushes them apart with ease, his palms sliding over your skin, his touch firm.

"I guess I can't blame you," he begins, his gaze drifting down to where your thighs have parted. "I mean, look at you."

"Wolffe, come on," you mutter, trying to close your legs.

His hands move, holding you in place. You don't stand a chance against his strength, the muscle of his arms rippling as he pushes you back, his palms running over your inner thighs.

"Shhh, let me enjoy the view," he chides, his eyes moving over your exposed skin.

You can feel his gaze like a physical touch, his eyes drinking in the sight of you, naked and bare before him. His hands run over your thighs, and then his thumbs are dipping into the apex, spreading you open.

"Look at how pretty you are," he rumbles as he brings his thumb up, running the pad gently over your clit, his touch barely there.

A whimper escapes, the contact not nearly enough to satisfy. You want more, but he doesn't give it, his thumb moving lower, dipping into the heat of your entrance. You shiver, and Wolffe makes a pleased noise, his eyes flicking up to meet yours.

"And I haven't even done anything yet," he teases, his thumb pressing into the sensitive flesh, circling your opening.

"Please, Wolffe," you whine, and his brows raise, the corner of his mouth turning up.

"Oh, I like the sound of that," he murmurs, his eyes darkening. "Please, what?"

You glare, and Wolffe smirks, his gaze dropping back to the apex of your thighs. He presses his thumb in further, his knuckle catching against the edge, and the contact sends a shiver down your spine. You bite your lip and squirm, heat coiling low in your stomach.

"Please, what? Use your words," he murmurs, his tone dripping with saccharine sweetness.

"Stop teasing," you hiss, trying to press down against his hand.

Wolffe's lips pull into a frown, and his grip tightens around your hips. He yanks you towards the edge, his hands keeping you from sliding off, and you cry out, a spike of arousal shooting through you at the rough treatment.

”Try again," he says, his tone dropping an octave.

You take a shaky breath and glare, and Wolffe's expression grows darker, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your hips. He's waiting, his eyes fixed on yours, the weight of his gaze heavy and expectant.

"Please, just...I want—"

"You want, what?"

"I want your mouth," you breathe, heat rushing to your face.

Wolffe hums, his thumbs rubbing circles against the inside of your thighs. The gesture is meant to be soothing, but it does nothing to quell the ache that has settled between your legs. He watches, waiting, and when he's satisfied with the desperation that's seeped into your expression, his lips curl up into a smirk.

"Good girl."

The praise sends a wave of warmth through you, and the blush spreads, creeping down your neck, the heat settling against your chest. Wolffe lets out a pleased rumble and leans forward, nuzzling your neck.

"That's what I wanted to hear," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on you, trailing slow, lingering kisses down the column of your throat. He pauses and sucks the sensitive skin between his teeth, biting and nibbling until a mark blooms beneath his lips.

He continues down, his mouth moving over the swell of your breast, his tongue flicking out, licking a path between the mounds. He pays the same attention to each one, his lips closing over your nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh.

A moan escapes, the sound loud in the silence of the apartment. Wolffe huffs a laugh and presses a kiss against your sternum, his hand sliding over your waist, his fingers dancing across your stomach.

"Let me hear you," he says as his lips drift lower, his tongue trailing over the line of your ribcage, his stubble scraping your skin.

He kneels, and the sight alone is almost enough to send you spiraling. Wolffe is the very picture of devotion, his hands warm and reverent as they run over your skin, his mouth gentle and sure as it moves over the soft expanse of your stomach. He presses a kiss just above the line of your hip, and you can feel the way his lips curl up, his eyes fixed on you.

"So beautiful," he breathes, his voice muffled against your skin.

His words are sweet, but the hand that grips your thigh, pushing it back, is anything but. It's demanding and firm, a wordless order to spread your legs. You obey, and the grin on his face is wicked, his eyes flashing.

"There we go, just like that," he murmurs as he leans in, his nose brushing against the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh.

His lips trail higher, his mouth warm and wet as he sucks the tender skin between his teeth. You can't help but squirm, the sharp sting of his teeth followed by the soothing sweep of his tongue sending a rush through you. When he sucks another mark onto the opposite side, you let out a whine, your hips bucking against his grasp.

"Don't move," he growls, his voice low and dangerous.

You still, the commanding tone enough to make you freeze. You've seen the way Wolffe can get when he's in the mood, and while it's fun to tease him, to rile him up, there’s something about the way he’s looking at you that says tonight isn't the time.

Tonight, he's not going to let you get away with a single thing.

"Yes, Commander," you whisper, and the sound that escapes him is sinful.

"That's my girl," he rumbles. His tongue darts out, sliding over the skin. "I knew you'd listen."

He gives you a few more languid kisses, his mouth moving slowly, deliberately, working his way up until his lips are brushing the apex of your thigh. Finally, the first kiss lands, a soft brush against your clit, the touch feather-light and barely there. You bite back a groan, your head falling back, but you keep still.

"Good girl," he praises, and you can feel the smirk against your skin as he presses another kiss, his lips dragging over the sensitive bud.

The feeling sends a spark of heat through you, the praise mixing with the gentle drag of his lips. He knows exactly what you like, but he seems in no hurry to give it to you. Instead, he's content to tease, his tongue darting out, giving a few long, lazy licks before retreating.

He repeats the process, his tongue moving over you in slow, methodical strokes. He laps at your entrance, lapping up the wetness that's gathered, the taste of you filling his senses.

It's not enough.

Not nearly enough.

Wolffe pulls back and blows a stream of air against your heated skin, the coolness making you squirm.

"Wolffe," you whine. “Please."

"Shhh," he says, and his thumb comes up, rubbing small, gentle circles over your clit. "Let me taste you. I told you to stay still, didn't I?"

You don't answer, and he leans in, nipping at the soft flesh. You let out a squeak, the sound turning into a moan as he sucks on the spot, soothing the sting with his tongue.

"Cyare," he begins, and his voice is stern, his grip tight.

"I know," you mutter, forcing yourself to relax.

"That's better," Wolffe says as his hands move, trailing over the inside of your thighs. His touch is firm, his fingers tracing the path his lips just took, his palms spreading your thighs wider.

He doesn't keep you waiting long.

Wolffe's tongue drags a path from your entrance to the tip of your clit, the feeling so intense that you nearly miss the way his thumb hooks against the hood, exposing the sensitive bundle of nerves. The next lick is followed by the gentle pressure of his lips closing over the bud, his tongue swirling. It flicks over your clit, once, twice, before dipping lower, the tip sliding inside your entrance.

"Oh," you gasp, your hand flying to his head, tangling in the soft strands.

"Mm, so wet," Wolffe groans, and his tongue slips deeper, the muscle pressing against the silken walls.

He works you open, his tongue curling and twisting, fucking in and out, the wet sounds echoing in the room. You can't help the noises that spill from your lips, the moans and whines mingling with the sound of Wolffe's mouth as he devours you, his hands keeping your hips firmly pinned against the counter.

You're lost in the sensations, the feeling of his tongue, the pressure, the heat of his mouth, the way he groans as his head moves, his eyes fixed on you. Your fingers curl, tugging at his hair, and the vibration of his answering groan has your head falling back, the breath stuttering in your chest. Arousal pools heavily between your thighs, oozing over his tongue. He laps it up, his pace quickening, his nose brushing against your clit.

He fucks you on his tongue until you're dripping, and then he pulls back, his breathing harsh. The sound is obscene, the wet, sucking noise enough to make your face flush hot. You watch as his lips part, his tongue snaking out, licking up the mess you've made. He doesn't miss a single drop, his movements measured and thorough, his eyes fixed on yours.

"You're perfect," he murmurs, fingers tightening their hold.

You open your mouth to speak, but no words come out, the compliment taking you by surprise. You're still getting used to his more open displays of affection, the things he says when the two of you are alone. The Wolffe that the world sees is nothing like the man who kneels before you, the soft, gentle side that he saves just for you.

You reach out, and Wolffe's lips curl into a smile, his cheeks pink and warm under your palm. He leans into your touch, his eyes closing as your thumb brushes over the scarred ridge under his eye. The moment is tender, a stark contrast to the things he's said, the way his hands have moved, his grip firm.

He looks at peace, and the sight has your heart melting, a warmth spreading through you, pooling low in your stomach. Wolffe's eyes blink open, and the warmth turns into heat, the flames stoked by the hunger that's crept into his gaze.

He wants, and you want him to have.

"Wolffe," you begin, but the rest of the words are lost as his mouth closes over your clit.

He sucks the swollen bud between his lips, the pressure firm and steady. He's relentless, the flat of his tongue stroking the length, the tip flicking and swirling. You’re overwhelmed by the intensity, and there’s no time to brace yourself before two fingers slide home to the hilt and curl.

"Oh, fuck," you gasp, arching into him.

A satisfied grunt rumbles through his chest, the vibrations going straight to the apex of your thighs. The suddenness of the intrusion, coupled with the heat of his mouth, the drag of his tongue, is enough to send a hot wave of pleasure through you, and your toes curl, the first tingles of an orgasm building in the base of your spine.

"More," you beg, tugging at his hair.

Wolffe lets out a soft noise, something between a groan and a growl, and his hand moves, slipping from your hip and sliding under your ass. His fingers dig into the plump flesh, the touch firm. Your back arches, and he pushes you forward, tilting your hips.

You have no choice but to lean back on your elbows, his strength too much for you to fight. Your head falls back, your neck strained to look at him, but the new angle leaves you spread wide open, his lips sucking eagerly.

"Oh, fuck, yes, just like that," you whimper as the pressure builds, the sensation coiling low in your core and spreading along your thighs.

He's merciless, his tongue and fingers moving with purpose, and his hands guide your movements, pushing and pulling you, your body pliant beneath his touch. He's completely in control, the position allowing him to do whatever he wants, and the realization sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, a gush of wetness dripping down his fingers.

Wolffe doesn't seem to mind, his nose buried against your skin, his tongue working. The sounds that fill the air are obscene, the slick, wet noises mixing with the filthy moans and groans that fall from his lips.

"You're so good, Wolffe, so good," you praise, a strangled moan escaping as he presses his fingers in deep. He curls, rubbing them over the spongy tissue, his mouth closing over your clit.

Your words seem to spur him on, his movements growing bolder. His grip on your ass tightens, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. He's relentless, his tongue and fingers working in tandem, his rhythm unwavering.

The coil in the pit of your stomach grows tighter, the familiar pressure building until it threatens to break. Your legs come up, wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him close, and Wolffe obliges, his hand leaving your ass to press his arm over your hips, pinning you in place.

You let out a choked noise at the show of strength, the muscles of his arm flexing as he holds you down. Your mouth opens, but the only sound that escapes is a series of short, breathless gasps. The fire spreads, burning through you until you're a quivering mess. It's too much, the combination of his mouth and his fingers and the way he looks between your thighs, his eyes dark and filled with something akin to adoration.

It's the thought that breaks the dam.

His lips wrap around the bud of your clit, and the first flick of his tongue has you toppling over the edge, the pleasure bursting through you. Your head falls back, your eyes screwing shut, and a long, drawn-out moan leaves your lips. You can feel yourself gush around his fingers, and Wolffe groans, his fingers picking up speed. Your thighs clamp around his head, and your nails dig into his scalp, and you hold on, a choked sob escaping as your body writhes beneath him.

Wolffe doesn't slow. He fucks you through the waves, his mouth working, his fingers rubbing against your walls, drawing the pleasure out and coaxing another, smaller orgasm from you. It crashes over you in a burst of sparks behind your eyelids, shooting down to your fingers and making your toes curl.

It's only when your hips jerk away from his mouth, oversensitive, that he finally relents, pulling back with a wet pop.

"Fuck, cyare," he breathes, and his voice is hoarse, his breathing ragged. "So beautiful."

"Wolffe," you croak, unable to formulate a proper sentence. Your head spins, and you have to force yourself to breathe, to relax, your heart racing. The release has left you feeling drained, and all you can do is lay there, gasping and whimpering as Wolffe's tongue gently cleans the mess you've made.

He pulls away, a wicked smirk playing on his lips, his chin glistening with your release. He looks proud and a little smug, but the effect is ruined by the dazed look in his eyes, the way he leans into the hand that cups his cheek. You watch, transfixed, as he stands, gently maneuvering you until you’re sitting up, your back resting against the cupboards.

“Good girl, take a breath," he whispers, running his hands over your legs, gently massaging the tense muscles.

You obey, taking a deep, shuddering breath. The oxygen clears the fog, and when you finally open your eyes, it's to the sight of Wolffe, his hands undoing the belt at his waist.

"I need to be inside you," he says, the words a low, raspy growl, barely audible underneath the sound of the metal buckle clinking against the counter.

The noise has you swallowing, your mouth dry. You watch as he slides the leather out and sets it down, the thud of the metal buckle against the countertop making you jump. His eyes dart to the offending item, and a smirk pulls at his lips.

"Nervous?"

You shake your head, and his expression softens.

"Good. No need to be, not with me," he says, and the belt is forgotten, his hands returning to his pants.

"I'm not," you whisper, and your eyes move over his chest, taking in the dark hair and the smattering of scars, the dips and ridges of his muscles, the broad expanse of his shoulders, and the way his arms flex as he pushes the fabric down his hips.

"I know, cyare," he says, his expression gentle. He's watching you closely, his hands coming up, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No," you reply, the word coming out breathless. Your eyes are locked on the damp spot that's darkened the grey fabric, the bulge of his cock straining against the material.

"Then what do you want?"

"I want to see you."

Wolffe's breath catches, his eyes widening slightly.

"Okay then," he murmurs, his voice low.

His thumbs hook into the elastic band, and he pushes the fabric down, the hard line of his cock finally free. It's heavy, hanging between his legs, the tip flushed a deep red. The sight has your mouth watering, and your eyes follow the thick, pulsing vein that runs the length, the bead of pre-cum that has gathered at the tip, slowly dripping down.

"Like what you see?" he teases, reaching down and wrapping his fingers around his length.

"Always," you breathe.

You watch as he gives himself a few long, slow strokes, his fist closing around the head. The motion brings a bead of precome to the tip, and he spreads it down the shaft, the movement slow and deliberate.

"Are you sure you're not nervous?" he asks, his voice soft.

"A little," you admit, the words coming out shaky.

You know exactly how thick his cock is, but the sight of him standing between your thighs, the head level with your stomach, always takes your breath away.

"Shhh, I've got you," he says, stepping closer. "I'm gonna make you feel so good."

You nod, and Wolffe's hand leaves his cock, his fingers curling around your ankle. He lifts your leg, guiding it up and over his shoulder, his lips pressing a soft kiss against the inside of your knee. He reaches out and runs a knuckle down the length of your sex, the contact gentle and teasing.

"So beautiful," he murmurs.

His other hand moves to his cock, lining himself up. The head bumps against the inside of your thigh, and you gasp, the wet heat searing against your skin. It leaves a trail of precome, and the sight has your heart rate picking up, the anticipation coursing through you.

"That's my girl," he whispers, his hand sliding up, fingers brushing the swollen bud.

Your hips jerk, and the tip of his cock catches against your entrance, the slick head nudging at the opening. It's enough to make him grunt, the muscles in his neck straining, his hand squeezing the base of his cock.

"I'm gonna put it in, cyare, and I want you to stay nice and still, okay?"

"Okay," you agree, your hands gripping the edge of the counter.

He gives a few experimental thrusts, the head sliding against the wet heat, spreading your slick along his shaft. He pushes in, the first inch, and the stretch is immediate.

"Fuck," he hisses, and his hand drops, his thumb moving to press against the hood of your clit, rubbing gentle circles. "Just relax, sweetheart, take a deep breath."

You do as he says, sucking in a deep breath and forcing yourself to relax. The pain fades, replaced by the intense stretch, the pressure of his cock. He's not even halfway inside, and already you feel so full, the feeling almost overwhelming. It feels like it's been years since the last time he had you like this, his body pressed against yours, and it takes all your willpower to remain still, to keep from fucking yourself onto his cock.

"There you go," he says, and his tone is gentle, his expression soft. "Just like that."

He rocks his hips, the head sliding in and out. Each thrust is easier than the last, the silken walls loosening and allowing him deeper. Wolffe’s eyes flutter, his mouth falling open, his fingers moving against your clit. He's lost in the sensation, the tight, wet heat of your pussy clenching around his cock, and you can't help but stare, watching the way his brows draw together, a sheen of sweat already forming on his forehead.

"Fuck," he mutters, his voice strained. He grinds deeper as if trying to get as close as possible, the action drawing a whimper from your lips, and he stops. "You okay?"

You can only nod, tears prickling in the corners of your eyes as his tip kisses the end of you. It's too much, the stretch, the heavy weight of his cock, and yet it's not enough. You need him deeper, his skin against yours, his weight bearing down on you, pinning you beneath him.

"Words, cyare. I need words."

"Please," you gasp, trying to rock your hips.

He shakes his head and squeezes your hips, keeping you still. His jaw is clenched, and his eyes are shut tight, his brows drawn together in concentration. You can feel him pulse inside you, the throbbing a steady beat, his cock twitching with each squeeze of your walls.

"Wolffe, please, fuck me," you beg, a desperate whine escaping.

Wolffe's eyes open, and his gaze finds yours, his expression softening.

"There she is," he murmurs, the corner of his mouth turning up. "That's what I like to hear."

He presses a kiss to your ankle, and he doesn't take his eyes off yours as he pulls out, his length dragging against your walls. It's torturously slow, his movements measured and precise, and he keeps his pace, his hands gripping the soft flesh of your thighs, his palms hot.

"Such a pretty girl," he says, the words strained. He thrusts into you, a slow, steady roll of his hips. "So good for me, letting me take my time, letting me enjoy the way you feel."

"You feel so good, Wolffe," you moan, arching into him.

"Oh, I know," he grunts. "I can feel it."

His thrusts are steady, each one hitting the same spot, his pace never wavering. He keeps his movements slow, his eyes never leaving yours. He's watching you, gauging your reactions, taking note of every sound, every facial expression.

You've been intimate before, but tonight feels different, and you realize that Wolffe isn't in a hurry, not anymore. He's taking his time, enjoying the feeling of being buried inside you, of watching your reactions. The lines around his eyes and the creases in his forehead have smoothed out, his jaw no longer clenched tight. The tension has melted from his shoulders, replaced by something that looks suspiciously like contentment.

"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice low.

You can only nod, unable to speak, your mind a foggy haze.

"That's good, that's so good," he murmurs, and his lips turn up, his expression soft. "I like having you like this, all to myself."

You whine, and his smile grows, the tips of his canines flashing in the dim light. He's beautiful like this, his head bowed, his dark hair hanging in his face, a reverent, awestruck look in his eyes.

"Do you like this, too?" he asks, the words punctuated by a firm thrust, his hands gripping your thighs.

"Yes," you gasp, a moan slipping out as he hits a spot deep inside you, sending sparks down your spine.

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

"Good, because I think we should do it more often," he murmurs, leaning in.

"Yeah?"

"Mmhm," he breathes, and his nose brushes yours, his lips a breath away.

He's so close, the heat radiating off his skin. You can taste the sweetness of your release on his lips, and you want to lean forward and claim them, but he's just out of reach, and all you can do is stare.

"You're a tease," you whisper.

"I think I can live with that."

His eyes move, roaming over the exposed expanse of your body, and they linger on the place where his cock is buried, the skin stretched and glistening. He bites his lip, his hands gripping the soft flesh of your thighs, and his pace quickens, his hips snapping against yours.

The feeling has your toes curling, and you try to reach down, to stroke the bud of nerves that is aching for contact.

"No, no. Not yet," he chides, his hand grabbing yours and pulling it away. He brings your wrist up, pressing a kiss to the tender skin. "I'll get you there. Be patient."

You pout, and Wolffe smiles, a crooked, mischievous grin. He lets go of your hand, his palm coming to rest on your stomach. His thumb finds the spot, rubbing circles over the sensitive flesh, his gaze never leaving yours.

"It's not fair," you mumble, trying not to squirm.

"Mhm, tell me about it."

He presses down, his finger rubbing the spot in lazy circles, the pressure intense.

"How does it feel, cyare? To have my cock buried inside you, nice and deep?"

"Feels good," you breathe, arching into his touch.

"Does it?" he asks, and his eyes flicker down, watching as he pulls out. He pauses, the head caught against your entrance, the tip shiny with your arousal.

He stays there, the two of you joined by the very tip, his length coated in a mixture of fluids. The sight is obscene, the slick mess dripping from his cock and down his balls, the fluid coating the tops of his thighs.

"Look how messy you are," he breathes, his eyes wide.

"All for you," you murmur, and his eyes snap to yours, his lips parting.

"Fuck," Wolffe mutters.

He guides your leg off his shoulder, hooking his arms underneath both of your knees. He spreads you open, and the sight of his cock sliding in, the thick length disappearing into the mess, makes you groan, a fresh gush of wetness slipping from your entrance.

"Wolffe, please, I want more," you beg, trying to press closer.

“More, she says," he huffs a laugh, and his fingers dig into your legs, the pressure almost bruising.

"Yes," you moan, nodding.

"Then you're going to get more."

The words barely have time to register before his cock is slamming home, his hips pressing flush against yours.

You cry out, your back arching, and he wastes no time in setting a rough, unforgiving pace. His grip tightens around your legs, and he bends, leaning over your body, his hands planted on either side of your hips.

The angle allows him to drive deeper, and you can feel his pelvis grinding against your clit, the roughness of his pubic hair scratching against the sensitive skin. You try to move, to meet him halfway, but the position, coupled with his strength, leaves you immobile. All you can do is lie there and take it, his cock splitting you open.

"Oh, fuck," he grunts, his pace never slowing. His eyes are fixed on yours, the dark brown and grey shining with pleasure. "I could stay like this forever, just buried in that sweet cunt."

"Yes, yes," you cry, the words tumbling from your lips.

"Do you want that? Do you want me to fuck you all night, keep you full?"

"Please," you beg, arching into him.

"Fuck," Wolffe groans, his eyes falling closed. His pace picks up, his movements growing frantic, and he leans forward, his hands wrapping around the tops of your thighs. He uses his hold as leverage, tugging you towards him, the motion causing your head to knock against the cupboard.

"Sorry," he pants, and he reaches out, his hand cupping the back of your head, the gesture almost tender. "Fuck, I'm sorry."

"Don't be, please, just—"

"I've got you," he whispers, and his lips press against the side of your neck. "I've got you, sweetheart."

"Please, Wolffe, I'm so close," you plead, your nails digging into the skin of his forearms.

"I know," he growls, and his hips snap, the feeling making you gasp. "I'm right behind you."

His lips find the juncture of your neck and shoulder, his teeth scraping against the skin. He bites down, the pain sharp, and a cry escapes as he sucks, hard. The delicate capillaries underneath your skin break, a purple-red splotch blooming in the wake of his mouth.

"Oh, fuck," you gasp, his mark sending a fresh wave of arousal through you.

"Mm, there's my girl," he grunts. "I'm not going to last, sweetheart. You're going to have to come for me, okay?"

You nod, unable to form the words, and you reach down, your fingers finding the apex of your thighs He's pressed so close that your hand brushes the coarse hair covering his pelvis, the tips grazing the base of his cock.

"Come on. Let go," he urges, his breath hot against your neck.

Your fingers brush over the sensitive nub, and you're sent over the edge, your climax hitting so hard that the room begins to spin. You're barely aware of his voice, urging you on, praising you as your walls flutter and pulse around his cock.

"That's it, let me feel it," Wolffe groans, his pace growing sloppy, his hips jerking erratically. "Fuck, I'm gonna come."

You can feel the way his length pulses, his cock throbbing as his release builds, and then he's following after you, a long, low moan rumbling in his chest. He pushes in deep and grinds his pelvis against your clit, his movements frantic as his orgasm washes over him.

You're vaguely aware of his body jerking, his hips moving erratically, and then his release is flooding you, the warm liquid painting your walls. He fills you up, his seed leaking out and dripping onto the counter, the mess smearing over the smooth surface.

"Oh, shit," he hisses, his arms trembling. He sags, his forehead dropping against your shoulder, his breathing heavy.

You can feel the sweat-slick skin, his chest rising and falling, the movement uneven. He's shaking, his body trembling as his arms finally give out, and the weight of his upper body presses down on top of you.

"Hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Wolffe replies, his voice muffled. "Just...just give me a minute."

"Wolffe?"

He doesn't answer, and you reach up, your hand threading through his hair. It's damp, the locks plastered to his scalp, and you run your fingers over the soft strands, trying to soothe him.

"I'm fine," he says, his voice quiet.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," he replies, and his body shudders, his limbs growing heavy. You hear him inhale sharply through his nose, and then his arms are sliding under your back, wrapping around you. He's clinging to you, his embrace almost too tight, and you can feel the way his heart is racing, the rapid-fire beat thudding in his chest.

"Wolffe," you whisper, and his head shifts, his chin resting on your shoulder.

"It's okay, cyare. I'm alright, I promise."

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," he says, his voice soft. "I'm just..."

He trails off, his face turning, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to the spot where his teeth had been moments before. You shiver, the feeling making your walls clench, and Wolffe lets out a shaky breath, his hands gripping tighter.

"It's just...tonight was a lot," he murmurs, his mouth moving against your skin.

"Yeah," you agree as you run your fingers through his hair.

"It was intense, and I needed...well, I don't know what I needed, but this helped. Being with you, having you here, it helps," he says, his tone quiet. He pulls back, eyes glassy, his gaze searching.

"I'm glad," you say, swallowing.

"I love you," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the curve of your neck.

"I love you, too," you reply, a smile pulling at your lips.

Wolffe falls silent, his eyes closing, and you can feel his muscles relax, his body sagging. The exhaustion is finally catching up with him, the adrenaline of the fight, followed by the intense release, leaving him drained. He's spent, and the realization has a fondness blooming in the pit of your stomach.

He's always so tough, and it's rare that he lets his guard down, even when the two of you are together. It's not the first time he's shown you his softer side, but tonight seems different. Tonight, it's the most vulnerable you've ever seen him, and you can't help but admire him, the way his face has gone slack, his brows no longer drawn, his eyes no longer filled with pain.

"You're tired," you say, running a hand through his hair and pushing the damp locks from his face. "Let's get cleaned up, and then we can go to bed."

"I don't want to move," he mutters, burying his face against your neck.

"Wolffe, come on. Up," you coax, your hands running over his shoulders. You drag your nails down the back of his neck, and he shivers, his arms tightening around you.

"No. 'M comfortable," he mumbles, his mouth pressing against the soft skin below your ear. His lips drag over the shell, and he sighs, his breath hot against your skin.

“There’s no way that’s true,” you tease, and you pinch his side, making him jump.

"Hey!"

"Up, please. My ass is falling asleep."

"Fine," he huffs. He cracks his eye open and gives you a pointed look, and then he's shifting, pulling out, the mess of fluids following.

"Fuck, that's a lot," he murmurs, his hand reaching between your legs.

You shiver, the feeling of his fingers slipping against your slickened skin almost too much.

"Stop it, Wolffe," you chide, and you're rewarded with a grin, the look in his eye mischievous.

"Alright, alright," he relents, pulling his hand away. "Can't blame a man for wanting to play a little."

"You can play all you want in the morning," yo say, giving his arm a gentle squeeze.

"I'll remember that."

"You better," you retort, and he chuckles, the sound making you smile.

Wolffe finally straightens, his back cracking as he stretches. He rolls his neck, and a pained groan escapes, his face twisting into a grimace. You wince, and he lets out a tired laugh, his lips curling into a half-smile.

"I'm getting old."

"No, you're not," you argue, sitting up.

"I am. I can feel it. Next thing I know, I'll be one of those old men, complaining about my back," he says, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

"Well, if you'd stop being such an idiot and letting people throw you through tables, maybe it wouldn't be an issue," you mutter as he approaches with a damp washcloth, the fabric warm and smelling faintly of soap.

"Ah, you can't blame me. I had a good reason."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah," he says, and the look in his eyes is soft. He reaches out, running his thumb over the apple of your cheek. "I had a feeling I was going to get a nice reward for my efforts."

"Oh, did you now?"

"I did," he replies as he works, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "And I think I'll get a few more in the morning."

"I bet you do," you say, unable to hide the smile that's threatening to spill over.

"Now, hold still. Let me get this cleaned up."

You nod, and Wolffe's eyes move, his gaze drifting over your body. He takes his time, wiping away the mess that's coated the tops of your thighs, and his touch is gentle as he cleans between your legs, his motions measured and precise. When he's finished, he throws the cloth in the hamper down the hall and returns, scooping you into his arms.

"I'm not completely useless, you know," you say, wrapping an arm around his neck.

"Oh, I'm very aware of that," he replies, his lips twitching. "But I want to carry you."

"Alright, then," you murmur, unable to deny the warmth that spreads through you at the gesture.

Wolffe carries you through the apartment and down the hall, his steps slow and steady. The lights are dim, and the darkness is peaceful, the sounds of the city outside muted. It's late, and you know the two of you should get some sleep, but the thought is drowned out by the comfort that comes with being pressed against him, his arms strong and secure around you.

"Think we still have time for an episode of Love Island?" you ask as he nudges the bedroom door open.

Wolffe chuckles, the sound low and soft, and you smile, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

"Yeah, cyare. I think we do."

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#commander wolffe x reader #wolffe x reader #commander wolffe #wolffe #clone trooper wolffe #tcw wolffe #roy writes #clone x reader #does anyone else get possessed by a fic idea out of nowhere and neglect basic needs in order to write it every chance you get #or is that just me #i wrote this idea down months ago and suddenly it was all i could think about

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