#and locking him away | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

killerplink · 1 month ago

Text

OVERTIME

Pairing: Jason Todd x Female Reader

Plot: Jason ignores you for hours, so you get on your knees and make him pay for it. With your mouth, your hands, and a smile he should've known meant trouble.

A/N: This one's for the bestie who wanted Jason try to gather intel while the reader is busy being cheeky and giving him head under the desk 🏃🏻‍♀️

Jason's in the living room, hunched ever so slightly over the big ass desk he set up in the far corner like some kind of broody Batcave satellite station. It started as just a place for him to "do some light recon", but you both knew that he was full of shit.

Fast forward two years and the man's basically turned it into a full blown command center—monitors glowing low in the dim light, shelves stacked with case files and scattered ammo boxes, that drawer he swears is "organized" but you're pretty sure is just where he dumps all the flash drives and burner phones.

And the desk? It's massive. Solid oak. You had to help him carry it in—well, he actually carried it, you mostly complained about the splinters—but the thing is perfect for him. Tall enough for him to sit comfortably and big enough to fit those thick ass thighs when he's planted in that expensive ergonomic chair he won't admit is actually from a gaming store.

You, on the other hand? You're draped across the couch like human roadkill, legs tossed over one armrest, head dangling off from the middle of the couch. There's a bad movie playing on the screen, some half melted latex creature growling at a screaming woman, but you're not really paying attention.

You thought he'd be done two hours ago—shit, you even brought him coffee and snacks to help speed it along—but it's pushing four now and he hasn't moved except to mutter "motherfucker" under his breath at whatever asshole he's currently after. And yeah, you get it. Intel, crime, important shit.

But you're also horny. And the way he's sitting there all focused, forearms flexing, tapping away at that keyboard with his pretty mouth pursed in concentration? He's really not helping himself.

You sigh. Loudly. Dramatically. Theatrically, even. He grunts, but doesn't even flinch. So you do it again, dragging out the exhale like some dying Victorian ghost hoping to be asked what's wrong. This time it's louder, with more flair. Nothing.

You sit up slightly, propping yourself on one elbow, and peek over the backrest of the couch like a nosy cat. Just to check. Just to see. And the second your eyes land on him, all annoyance flies out the window, replaced by a sudden throb between your thighs that makes you swallow a soft sound.

When did he take his shirt off? Because now you're just staring at him—his broad, sculpted back flexing with every precise move, every tap of his fingers against the keyboard. The muscles in his shoulders bunch when he leans in to squint at something on the monitor, that thick line of his spine dipping down to the soft slope of his waist before it vanishes into the waistband of his gray sweats.

Your brain short circuits for a second. Just a second. You blink, trying to remember why you were mad. Oh, right. Four hours of being ignored.

God, you love this man. You really do. With your whole fucking heart. You love the way he brings you snacks in bed without being asked, how he buys fluffy socks because you're always cold, how he kisses your temple when he thinks you're asleep.

Yeah, sure, you also love his stupid jokes and the way he buys you chocolate when you're mad at him, and how he talks about you like you hung the damn moon. You love the way he always insists on walking on the side of the sidewalk closest to the road, the way he holds your hand without thinking, the way he says your name like it means something.

You love how his scary ass reputation melts into soft eyes and dry humor around you. But let's be real, you also love his stupidly hot body. Those muscles he barely even acknowledges like he's just naturally this stacked and still thinks he's "average". The V-line, the thighs, that back. It's actually a hate crime at this point.

You pout like a little brat, voice all whiny and needy, "Jay, when are you gonna finish there?"

At first, you think he's ignoring you. But then, after a beat, long enough to make you think he might not answer at all, you hear him murmur, "Just a few more minutes, doll."

Oh, hell no. You know that tone. That was a delayed response. The kind of half assed "don't bother me" answer you've heard way too many times when he's elbows deep in intel. That man's not getting up anytime soon, and you know it.

You flop back onto the couch with a groan, legs still hanging off one armrest like a bratty display of boredom, staring at the ceiling like it just personally offended you. Your brain starts working overtime, trying to figure out how to unglue your very sexy, very distracted boyfriend from that goddamn desk.

You consider stripping. Just walking over there, butt booty naked, maybe doing a little stretch in the doorway to "relieve tension". But honestly, you could stand there doing jumping jacks with your tits out and he'd probably just glance up, nod, and say "lookin' good, baby" before going back to his files.

Sitting in his lap and playing with his hair? Been there, didn't work. He just kissed your forehead and kept working.

You even think about searching for a bad porno, maybe cranking the volume, hoping the awful moaning would lure him away from his screens. He'd probably laugh and ask if the acting has improved.

Or maybe you should just outright watch it and make sure he hears every fucking second. But even then, you're not sure that'd snap him out of his recon tunnel vision. Stupid sexy vigilante and his stupid crime obsession.

And that's when it hits you. No, not the regular route. Not teasing, not stripping, not throwing yourself at him. Something better. Something cheeky. You sit up slowly, a smile creeping over your lips. The kind of smile he never sees coming until it's too late. Maybe it's time to make him feel the consequences of ignoring you.

You move quietly, your steps light as you pad across the room, and Jason doesn't even look up when you come behind him. He's too wrapped up in whatever mission file he's neck deep in. But the second you drape yourself over his back—arms wrapped around his shoulders, chest flush to him, cheek smushed against the side of his neck—he softens just a little.

His hand comes up, fingers grazing along your forearm in a slow, absentminded rub like muscle memory.

"You okay, baby?"

You hum, lips brushing the warm skin at his neck. "Mhmm."

You start slow, lazy, like you're just being clingy and sweet. But your mouth is on his skin, lips parting slightly to kiss just below his jaw, and you lick a slow line up to his ear before catching his earlobe between your teeth and biting down, a little amused huff slipping from his chest.

"Don't be a little brat. I'll be done in a bit."

Another "Mhmm" is all he gets, this one a little more smug. Because your hands are already trailing down his chest, slipping over the broad stretch of his pecs, brushing lower—slow and teasing—until your fingers graze over his abs and down to where his sweatpants are slung low on his hips.

And yep, he's already half hard. The twitch of his dick beneath your palm is proof enough that all this patience you've been clinging to is not one sided.

You palm his cock through the fabric, just enough pressure to make him grunt, and God, that sound alone makes your thighs squeeze together. You rub him slow, almost affectionate, like you're not trying to be the worst kind of distraction imaginable.

He groans, hips shifting slightly, but then his hand wraps around your wrist, gently stopping you. "C'mon, baby," he says, voice strained. "Be a little patient for me."

You pout into his neck. Full on, lip jutting, pathetic pout. "I've been patient for the past few hours."

Jason snorts, "So you can wait another few minutes, pretty girl."

That tone? Casual, teasing, a little condescending, even. And it seals his fucking fate. You huff, and he hears it, but doesn't really register it for what it really is.

For a second, Jason thinks you're going to pull away. Maybe stomp back to the couch or go sulk in bed with the passive aggressive energy of the chaos gremlin he's so stupidly in love with. He's so deep into his recon shit that it doesn't even occur to him that you've never been exactly good at taking no for an answer.

But he should've known better. That huff? That tiny, dramatic sound? That was a warning shot. And the moment he hears the soft shuffle of movement, feels your body slipping down and out of his hold, it clicks too late. Because now you're dropping to your knees, sliding under the desk, and his brain short circuits like a system override.

Jason snorts. "Baby, what are you—"

You cut him off with a soft huff, "Nothing," you murmur, way too casual for what you're about to do. "Just do your thing, Jay."

And before he can argue, your hands are on him, smoothing up his thighs, trailing closer and closer to the thick bulge straining under the soft grey fabric of his sweats.

You lean in, pressing soft, warm kisses along the outline of his cock. Up the length of it, over the head, nuzzling your cheek against the bulge like you missed it since last night. His head drops back against the chair with a quiet thunk, hand twitching on the mouse like he's still trying to work, but he already knows where this is going and he's powerless to stop it.

"Jesus..." he mutters, voice hoarse.

"Mmm?" you hum innocently against his cock, mouthing over the head again before pressing your kisses down to the base just to tease him through the fabric, feeling him jerk slightly in response.

You smile against his dick as you press another kiss, then another, slow, teasing, trailing up along the heavy ridge until your nose brushes the waistband of his sweats before your fingers hook under it.

He lifts his hips when you tug, obedient without even realizing it, and lets you peel both the sweats and his boxers down to his thighs. His cock springs free—thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip—and your mouth waters at the sight.

"God, you're so hard, baby," you whisper, grinning up at him.

Your hand wraps around the base of his dick, warm and firm, just the way he likes, and you start with a kiss right against the thick vein along the underside of his shaft. Then another at the tip. Your tongue darts out, licking a little drop of precum, and when you look up at him, he's watching you. Eyes half lidded, lips parted, chest heaving.

You lick a slow, wet circle around the swollen head of his cock, tongue flicking just under the ridge, then gliding over the top again, warm and soft and teasing. He's already so sensitive there, and you know it, which is why you take your sweet fucking time. Then you do it again, this time slower, messier.

You keep your eyes on him as your tongue circles the head of his cock, teasing him in slow, lazy swirls like you're just tasting him, like you're enjoying this more than anything on earth. And you kind of are.

He's flushed and leaking, thick drops of precum painting your tongue, and you lap it up with small licks, moaning a little just from the taste, but then you get mean with it.

You press the very tip of your tongue right into the slit—soft, deliberate pressure—and he chokes on a groan above you, hips jerking as his hand shoots down and tangles in your hair. Not tugging, not even guiding, just holding, fist curling tight like if he lets go, he'll fucking lose it.

"Shit—fuck, baby, you're gonna kill me," he breathes, voice rough and so deep you feel it in your clit.

And when you finally wrap your lips around the tip slow and teasing, being a just little mean about it, Jason lets out a low, guttural sound from deep in his chest. His cock twitches in your hand, already pulsing like he can't decide between fucking your throat or falling apart right there.

You moan around him—soft, needy—and the vibrations make him hiss through his teeth. Your spit slicks him up easy, sliding down past your knuckles as your lips glide further, taking him deeper inch by inch. Your throat stretches around the thickness, your jaw aching in that good way, hand stroking the base in messy, desperate pumps.

You suck harder, cheeks hollowing with wet slurps, loud and unashamed. You want him to hear it, want him to feel it, and fuck, he does.

His hips twitch, the muscles in his thighs flex, and he grits out, "God, baby—your fuckin' mouth—"

You don't stop. Just sink down slow, then pull back with a little pop of your lips, only to sink again, tongue dragging along the underside of his cock. Your chin is soaked, spit webbing between your fingers and his shaft, dribbling down your wrist, your throat working every time he hits the back of it.

He's panting above you, trying to keep still, but that hand in your hair? He's got a death grip on it. His fingers are tangled in your soft strands, his thumb pressing just behind your ear like he's grounding himself, like he might lose it if you go any deeper.

But you want him to. You want to ruin him with your mouth. So you look up at him through your lashes, cheeks flushed, lips stretched around his cock, and suck him down harder, deeper.

He lets out a broken noise, hips bucking, and groans, "Fuck—fuck, I'm not gonna last, baby—"

And you just hum around him like that's exactly what you want. Because it is. You don't ease up, not even close. You fuck him with your mouth like you've got something to prove, like you need to make a point with every wet glide of your tongue and every sharp suck around the head.

But you are still annoyed with him, after all. He thinks he can get away with pissing you off and then sitting pretty like this? Not a chance. Not without you using that dick like it's yours to play with. And it fucking is.

You grip the base tighter, letting your spit drip down because it doesn't matter how messy you get. Your jaw works, mouth hot and greedy, bobbing up and down as you take him again and again. A twist of your wrist, a roll of your tongue just underneath the head, right on that sensitive spot that makes him twitch. He jerks, breath stuttering, and you moan around him with a smile.

God, you love this. Love how this big, scary, brutal man—Red Hood himself—melts under your mouth like this. He's all muscle and grit, scars and guns and growls, but right now? Right now he's fucking trembling. His thighs are tight, his abs clenching, one hand fisted in your hair like he's praying you don't stop, the other digging into the edge of the desk like he knows better than to touch you without permission.

And his head is spinning. Jason's trying to hold it together, but fuck, it's hard. You know exactly how to suck his dick. You're not just sucking it, you're devouring him. Tongue flicking under the crown, lips wrapped tight, cheek hollowing just enough for that perfect pressure. Every time he thinks he's about to get a breath, you take him deeper, sloppier, wetter.

His thoughts are scrambled as hell. He can't even form a full sentence in his head anymore, not with the way your throat clenches around him like you want him to lose it. And God, he is losing it. Fast.

He grunts, rough and ragged, his voice raw. "Baby—fuck, I'm close, I'm—"

And that's exactly when you stop. You pull off with a wet pop, spit glistening on your chin, your lips swollen, your eyes glassy. Your hand stays on his dick, stroking just enough to keep him there, but not enough to push him over.

"Ah-ah," you hum, licking the corner of your mouth. "You don't get to cum yet."

Jason makes this wrecked noise—half growl, half desperate moan—and his cock twitches in your fist, so painfully hard and so fucking close. His chest is rising fast, muscles taut, eyes blown wide as he stares down at you like he doesn't know whether to beg or curse you out.

You blink up at him from under the desk, all wide eyes and fluttering lashes, like you're sweet and innocent. Like you didn't just edge him to the brink and snatch it away like it was nothing. Like your mouth isn't still glistening with spit and precum, lips shiny and swollen from how deep you took him.

And Jason? Jason's stunned. He's got that shell shocked look, like you just short circuited the last few working brain cells he had left. His mouth is slightly open, breathing shallow, brow drawn tight. His dick is still throbbing in your grip, soaked in spit and precum, and your hand—fuck, your hand just keeps moving. Slow, deliberate strokes that make squelching noises in the silence, slick and lewd because you want him to hear every wet slide of your palm over his shaft.

He's not used to this. He's used to being the one in control, used to having you begging, whining, melting under his touch while he teases you until you're crying for it.

His brain is a mess. Fuck—she's never like this—what the fuck—what did I—Jesus, she's so hot like this—look at her—holy fuck, I'm not gonna survive this shit. What did I do? What the hell did I—

You lean in closer, your breath ghosting over the head of his cock, lips curled into the tiniest smirk as your fist strokes him—tight at the base, twisting when you reach the slick, sensitive tip.

"You ignored me for four hours, Jay."

Your voice is sweet, pouty, dangerous and he flinches like the words physically hit him.

He stumbles for an excuse, lashes fluttering, "I didn't—baby, I wasn't—"

But then you twist your wrist right at the head, and his hips jerk forward with a grunt. The sound he makes is raw, desperate, and he chokes on whatever half assed excuse he was about to offer and swallows it back down with a harsh breath.

You tilt your head, all faux sweetness. "No?"

He shakes his head immediately, eyes wide, lips parted like he wants to speak but can't. He's quiet for once, but not by choice, more like every word has been knocked out of him, replaced by nothing but the ache between his legs and the way your hand keeps pumping him slow and steady.

And you—God, you grin like you've already won. Without warning, you lean in again and take all of him in one smooth motion, your lips parting, your throat stretching, your jaw flexing around his dick until your nose nearly brushes his skin. He lets out this choked sound, one hand flying to the underside of the desk for balance, the other trembling where it's still tangled in your hair.

You slide off just as slowly, letting your tongue drag the whole way, spit connecting your mouth to his skin until it breaks with a wet string when you pull off.

You tilt your head just a little, voice all sweet and syrupy like you're not holding him by the fucking balls right now.

"You wanna cum, baby?"

His breath hitches, chest rising and falling fast as he nods, eyes glassy, completely at your mercy. "Y-yeah."

You hum like you're thinking about it, hand still working him slow and mean as your thumb brushes right over the slick head, teasing the slit. He twitches in your fist, and his abs clench like he's trying to keep himself from bucking up again.

"Yeah?" you repeat, all fake sympathy and sugar. "Why would I make you cum, huh?"

And fuck, the look on his face is priceless.

Jason stares at you like you just asked him to solve a riddle in a language he doesn't speak. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, just another choked little sound as your thumb circles the head again, catching on the mess of precum that's already smeared everywhere.

He's got no idea what the fuck to even say. Because this? This is new. You never tease like this. Never leave him speechless like some desperate, trembling mess. That's usually his job.

You can't help but grin. Because seeing him like this—so fucked out, so helpless—is better than any orgasm you could've given him right now. Usually, even half awake after a long patrol, hair a mess, still in his suit, he's got that smug little smirk and some bullshit line ready to go. He always has a comeback. But right now? He's fucking silent. And God, you live for it.

Your panties are sticking to your soaked cunt, clinging to your folds like a second skin. You don't even know if it's the taste of him on your tongue or the sight of him—Jason Todd, Red Hood, this big, grunting, gun slinging menace—reduced to this that's got you dripping. Probably both. Definitely both.

You don't even let him think too hard about it. You lean right back in like you've made your decision, but really, you're just not done ruining him.

You take him deep, no hesitation. Your lips seal tight around his cock, and you slide down all the way until your nose brushes the base, throat stretched wide, swallowing around him like your only mission in life is to make him lose it. Your hand drops to cup his balls, rolling them gently as your mouth works him, wet and sloppy, drool sliding down your chin.

Loud, slick squelches fill the room, his dick gliding in and out of your mouth, your tongue working every inch you can reach, humming low just to feel him twitch.

Jason chokes on a moan, hips jerking forward like he needs more, like he's gonna fuck your mouth if you don't give it to him, so you stop. Again. You slide off with another wet pop, spit trailing from your bottom lip to the head of his cock as he gasps, completely wrecked.

He looks ruined, and you haven't even let him cum, but he already looks like he has.

You lean in close, so close your breath ghosts over the flushed head of his cock and you press a single, featherlight kiss right to the tip. Just a little peck, all sweet and innocent, like you're not the reason he's trembling in that chair right now, leaking and desperate.

He lets out this strangled noise from the back of his throat, his head falling back against the chair with a soft thump, eyes fluttering shut. His thighs are twitching, muscles flexing like he's trying to hold still, trying not to fuck up into your hand. But his cock throbs helplessly in your grip, and you know—oh, you know—he's suffering.

And you love it.

Your hand keeps pumping him slow, slick sounds filling the quiet space between you. His dick is soaked—your spit, his precum, it's all smeared over your fingers, dripping down your wrist, sticky and warm. Every stroke is just enough to keep him on the edge, just enough to make his legs shake.

Then you lean in again and lick that fat bead of precum right from his slit, tongue flicking over the sensitive tip like it's your favorite treat. You do it again, lapping at him with slow, teasing licks, until you feel him start to tremble under your touch.

"Beg, baby," you murmur, voice low and smug.

His head snaps up so fast it's almost dizzying. His eyes are blown wide, pupils swallowing what's left of that pretty blue, and he stares at you like he can't fucking believe what you just said. Like he's not sure if you're serious or if this is some cruel joke.

"Doll—" he says it like a warning, but there's nothing sharp about it.

It comes out broken. Wrecked. Like a man on the edge, like a man barely holding on. His voice cracks halfway through, and you feel his cock twitch again in your hand.

You smile. So innocent. So fucking mean.

"You've been so mean, Jay," you coo, placing another soft kiss on the underside of his tip, just to watch him shiver. "Ignored me for hours. I mean, the least you can do is beg for me to make you cum."

And your hand doesn't stop, not even close.

Your strokes stay slow, mean, teasing, obscene with how wet his dick is. It squelches under your palm, your thumb smearing the precum over the flushed skin as you drag it back down.

He makes a sound—somewhere between a whimper and a grunt—and his hips twitch again like he's right at the edge, body taut, straining for release that you refuse to give. He's panting, jaw clenched, veins in his neck standing out as he tries so fucking hard not to just break.

"Please."

It's soft, almost inaudible, murmured like it physically hurts him to say it. His eyes flutter shut like if he doesn't look at you, it'll be easier. Like it won't strip every last ounce of pride from his bones.

But you're not letting him off that easy.

Your grip stays steady, tight and slow around the base of his cock, thumb pressing into the underside every time you stroke upward.

He's leaking, throbbing in your hand, so hard it has to ache, but you just smile and coo, "What was that, baby?"

He lets out a shaky breath, head falling back against the chair again. "Please," he rasps. "Please let me cum."

"Hmmm," you murmur like you're thinking real hard about it. Your hand never stops moving. You just switch up the rhythm—faster for a second, then dragging your palm down just slow enough to knock the edge out from under him again. "Didn't hear that, Jay."

He grunts, biting back a groan, and then he laughs. A short, breathless thing that's more frustration than humor. "Jesus Christ, you're a fuckin' menace, aren't you?"

You hum sweetly, unbothered, still jerking him off in that same torturous rhythm. His thighs are flexed so hard they're shaking, abs tight like he's doing everything he can not to lose it.

Then, quieter this time, full of rough desperation: "Please, pretty girl. Let me cum. I'll do anything you want."

That makes you giggle, sweet and dangerous. You slow your strokes just enough to let your thumb drag across the head again, watching his breath catch in his throat.

"Anything, Jay?"

He nods instantly, like the word yes is the only thing left in his vocabulary. "Yeah. Please," he pants, hips twitching uselessly into your hand. "Just—just let me cum."

“Will you fuck me after?” you murmur, voice low, breathy, filthy, like the words themselves are enough to make him burst.

You lean in closer, your tongue flicking out to taste him again, just a soft, slow lick right across the tip because you know how sensitive he is right now. You swirl your tongue lazily, then pull back just enough for your breath to tease him again, warm and cruel.

Jason groans loud. His hand flies to the desk, like he needs something to hold onto or he's gonna break. He looks down at you, eyes half lidded, pupils blown so wide they're nearly black, and that cheeky fucking smile you're giving him?

He hates how much he loves it. He fucking hates it. But deep down? You both know it fucks him up.

"Yeah. Yeah, fuck—anything you want, baby. Just lemme cum."

"Good boy," you murmur, soft and syrupy, the praise sliding off your tongue like sin.

And then you're on him again, no warning, no teasing, just your lips parting, mouth stretching around the flushed, aching head of his cock like you've been starving for it.

You take him deep, your throat working around the thick length of him like you need it, greedy and unrelenting, spit already bubbling at the corners of your mouth as you sink down, swallowing more and more. Your hand wraps tight at the base, guiding what your throat can't handle yet—slick, obscene, absolutely fucking devoted.

Jason loses it. His hips jerk up with a ragged curse, and you let him, his dick sliding deeper into your throat as you choke around it, eyes watering, nose brushing the base. He growls, the sound scraping low from his chest like it was dragged out of him, raw and ruined.

You're not even mad. You knew this was coming. You keep sucking him with that same hungry little desperation, tongue swirling when you pull back, cheeks hollowing when you go down again, throat stretching every time he thrusts up into you like he can't help himself. You're gagging a little, drool dripping down your chin, clinging to your fingers where you still stroke what you can't take, but you don't care.

You like it messy. Because nothing compares to the way Jason sounds when he's right there, when he's got no snark, no self control, just that tight, needy edge in his voice as he pants your name like a prayer.

"Fuck, baby—fuck, fuck, your mouth—"

His grip in your hair tightens, not rough, not painful, just possessive. Desperate. Like he's two seconds from completely falling apart and you're the only thing holding him together. And really, he's not wrong.

You moan around him and the vibration makes his hips stutter, his thighs trembling. His dick is a mess, broken gasps and little shaky groans leaving him as he keeps fucking into your mouth, deeper, harder, chasing the edge.

And yeah, okay, you're definitely gonna regret teasing him this long. But fuck, isn't it worth it? Because God, you're fucking soaked.

Not just wet, you're dripping. Your panties are clinging to your cunt, hot and slick, the mess between your thighs getting worse every time he groans, every time his cock hits the back of your throat. You shift your hips against the floor without even meaning to, chasing the tiniest bit of friction, but it's useless. Nothing compares to this.

Your nipples ache where they press against the thin fabric of your tank top, hard and swollen, rubbing against it with every breath you take. You're flushed all over, body buzzing, and the taste of him—the weight of his dick on your tongue, the heat and stretch in your mouth—has you right there, right on the fucking edge. You could probably cum just from this. Just from sucking his cock like this.

Jason's a fucking mess. You feel the change first, the way his thigh tenses beneath your hand, the way his breathing shortens into ragged, panting little shudders. The way his hips twitch, losing rhythm, like he's barely holding on.

"F-fuck, I'm—baby, I'm gonna—"

And then he does. His whole body jerks, head tipping back as a low, broken moan punches out of him, chest heaving like he's been holding it in for hours. His cock throbs on your tongue, thick and hot, and then he cums. Hard.

Floods your mouth with it—thick, salty spurts that coat your tongue, fill your throat. You don't pull back. You take it, swallowing fast, lips still wrapped around him as your hand slows, stroking his base while your mouth does the rest.

You suck him through it, gentler, with slow, rhythmic pulls, tongue cradling the head as he trembles under you. His hand is shaking in your hair, fingers flexing like he doesn't even realize he's doing it, and he's moaning, soft and breathless, a constant little stream of praise tumbling out between gasps.

"Fuck, doll—God, that mouth—s'good, you're so good, shit—"

You don't stop until you're sure you've got every drop. You lick him clean, spit slick and still twitching in your mouth as your tongue runs slow over the head, careful, delicate. Your eyes water from how deep you'd taken him, lashes damp as you blink up at him, still sucking, soft and sweet.

And Jason? His mind is wrecked. You're so fucking beautiful like this. On your knees, eyes glossy, mouth wrapped around his dick like you own him—because you do. You really, truly do.

No one's ever done this to him before. No one's ever ruined him so gently. So thoroughly. You tease, you torment, you push him to the edge, but you know how far to take it. You know how to bring him back.

He's had flings, hookups, girls who wanted the Red Hood for the story. But this? You?

You're it. And God, he never thought he'd get this. Never thought he'd deserve it. But looking down at you—lips still wrapped around his cock, cheeks flushed, hair messy from where he's been holding you—he's never been more sure of anything in his life.

You finally—finally—give him a break. You know he's way too sensitive, dick still twitching in your mouth, so you ease off with a soft little pop and kiss the flushed, swollen head, all slow and sweet.

Jason twitches. "Fuuuck—" he groans like the sound was dragged out of him.

And then he's moving, his chair rolling back just enough before you can even blink, and his hands are on you before you can breathe.

"Baby—" you yelp as he hauls you out from under the desk and right into his lap, landing with a little bounce, your thighs straddling him, the thick press of his dick snug right up against your soaked pussy.

Your tank top is a mess, your panties are ruined, and you're breathless from the sudden shift, but you don't get another word out. One hand settles rough and sure on your ass, the other tangling in the back of your hair, and he doesn't even bother saying anything before he kisses you.

And fuck, he kisses you. It's not sweet. It's not gentle. It's hungry. Wet and messy, all tongue and teeth and desperate moans swallowed between gasps. He kisses you like he's trying to make up for the four hours he left you wanting with just his mouth alone, tongue pushing into your mouth without hesitation, licking into you like he needs to taste himself on your tongue. And it's there, the sharp, salty taste of his cum still clinging to your lips, your teeth, your tongue, and he moans into it like he's losing his fucking mind.

It's all greed and spit and the kind of desperate, breathless kisses that feel more like gasps than anything else. He breaks away for a second, groaning into your mouth, just to dive right back in, tilting your head with a rough hand in your hair, licking deeper, slower.

You whimper into him, hips rocking down against his, instinctive and needy, and his hand squeezes your ass in response. His other one doesn't let go of your hair, holding you close, still tasting himself off your tongue like he doesn't care how filthy it is—no, he likes it. Loves it. Wants it all.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, voice wrecked and low,

"Fuckin' knew you'd ruin me, pretty girl."

You lick into his mouth one more time, dragging your teeth over his bottom lip before pulling back with a breathy little gasp, smirking as you murmur, "Your turn, Jay."

And oh, that fucking gets him. He hisses through his teeth, pupils blown wide with heat, the grip on your ass tightening for a second before his hand slides lower—fingers trailing between your thighs from behind, right over that embarrassingly wet patch of your panties.

"Fuck," he mutters, lips brushing your jaw as he grins against your skin. "You're soaked, baby. You this wet just from suckin' my dick?"

You whimper, breath hitching when he pushes your panties aside with two thick fingers, brushing the bare, sticky heat of your cunt. His fingers slide through the mess and God, you're dripping for him.

His hands slip under your thighs, lifting them effortlessly as he spreads your legs wide over the arms of his chair. Pinned open, soaked, squirming—he's got you just how he wants you, and he knows it. You grab his shoulders instinctively, nails digging in for some kind of grounding because you already know what's coming.

"Jay—"

He slaps your ass. Hard enough to sting, soft enough to make you moan, and the sound of it echoes filthy and perfect in the quiet room.

"You want me to fuck you, huh?" he growls, cocky and breathless, dragging the head of his dick through your slippery folds, teasing you just enough to make your hips twitch.

You nod fast, needy, thoughtless. "Yes—yes, please, just—fuck me, Jay, I want it—"

He scoots just a little, lining himself up, and you feel the blunt head of his cock press right against your hole before he pushes in.

Fuck. You shudder, mouth falling open, nails pressing into his shoulders as he slides in so easily. Your walls stretch around him without resistance, just soaked and swollen and ready to take every inch. He groans low in his throat, head dropping to your shoulder as he sinks deeper until his hips are flush with yours and you can feel him throb inside you.

"You're so fuckin' wet," he murmurs, voice wrecked already. "Took me like you've been waitin' for this all evening."

And you have. God, you fucking have. You barely have time to adjust to how deep he is, your body still fluttering around the stretch when Jason yanks your tank top down in one quick, rough motion. The fabric strains before it slips beneath your tits, baring them to the air—and to him. His mouth is on you in seconds, hot and hungry, groaning as he buries his face right between your tits.

You let out a breathless little moan, your hands braced on his broad shoulders as you start to move. The position is perfect—you're spread open over the chair, anchored by his grip and the way his thighs are planted beneath yours, and it gives you leverage.

You roll your hips first, then start to bounce, each slick slide down making you gasp. His cock fills you just right, hard and pulsing, stretching you perfectly as you fuck yourself on him.

He groans against your skin, cupping both your tits with those big, rough hands, squeezing just hard enough to make your back arch. "Goddamn, baby, these fuckin' tits..."

And then he's licking you. Everywhere. His tongue drags between your nipples, slow and wet, before he sucks one into his mouth, lips wrapping tight around it as his tongue flicks and rolls. You whine, hips stuttering, and he doesn't stop—switches to the other nipple like he can't pick a favorite, sucking it hard enough to make you gasp again.

"You ride me so good," he mutters, voice all fucked out, his hands kneading your tits like he owns them. "Bouncin' on my dick like a good fuckin' girl."

Your breath catches as he pulls back, his mouth slick with spit, and you don't even get a second to adjust before his hands are on your ass. One rough grip on each cheek, and he slams you down, holding you there, pinning you as he starts fucking up into you.

Your head falls back with a whimper, the wet sounds between your legs growing louder every time he slams into you. Your arousal coats him, slick and messy and everywhere, and you can feel it. The way it clings to his skin and your folds, shiny and sticky. And Jason? He's watching all of it. Losing it.

"Look at this pussy," he groans, hips snapping up fast and hard. "Look at how you take me—fuckin' swallowin' my dick."

He fucks you like he means it. No holding back, no teasing. Just deep, hungry thrusts that stretch your soaked pussy wide every time he buries himself inside you. Your thighs twitch, muscles straining as he slams up into you with enough force to make the chair creak underneath you both, and all you can do is hold on.

You feel full, stuffed to the hilt, every inch of him hitting so deep, like he's fucking your pleasure into the deepest part of your pussy. Your tits bounce with every snap of his hips, heavy and slick from his spit, and he watches them like a man obsessed.

"Touch your pretty little clit," he pants, voice wrecked with how hard he's breathing, how tight your pussy is squeezing him. "C'mon, baby, rub that messy little thing for me."

And you obey without thinking, how could you fucking not? You slide one trembling hand between your thighs and find your swollen clit instantly, already throbbing and slippery with your arousal. You rub it in fast, messy circles, breath stuttering from the pleasure overload of it all—your soaked cunt getting pounded, your clit aching from how worked up you are, his dick splitting you open so perfectly.

"That's it," Jason growls, his hands gripping your ass. "Look at you—ridin' my dick, rubbin' that sweet little clit like a good girl. You're fuckin' perfect, baby."

And you fucking break. Your body shudders once, then again, your voice catching in your throat before a moan punches out of you, high and desperate. Your fingers never stop moving, and neither does he, fucking you through it, even as your legs seize up and your back arches.

And then it happens. You squirt, just like that. Your orgasm crashes through you in wet, pulsing waves, hot and intense, your pussy fluttering wildly around his cock as fluid gushes out of you. It soaks your fingers, his dick, his lap—everything—your slick arousal spraying out with each deep, perfect thrust. Your hand is drenched, your thighs are dripping, and Jason moans so loud, head falling back as he watches you come completely undone.

"Holy fuck," he hisses, fucking up into you harder, rougher. "So goddamn pretty when you make a mess, baby."

You tremble, panting, overwhelmed and wrecked, barely able to moan out a soft, broken "Don't stop, Jay—please—" even as your walls keep pulsing from aftershocks.

You lean in, still trembling from your orgasm, thighs quivering on either side of him, and Jason doesn't even wait. His hand flies up to the back of your neck, rough and greedy, and he pulls you down into a kiss like he needs your mouth just as much as your pussy.

It's messy, all spit and panting breaths, tongues sliding together in a wet tangle. He groans into your mouth like he's starving for you, and you swallow the sound greedily, hips rolling as his dick keeps driving up into your soaked cunt.

You moan into him, the slick drag of his cock inside you still hitting every swollen, overstimulated nerve, your pussy fluttering around him. You're still so fucking wet, everything between your legs an absolute mess, your arousal smeared all over his cock and clinging to your thighs, pooling under your ass with every grind of your hips.

His tongue licks into your mouth like he owns it, like he can't fucking help himself, and you kiss him back just as hungrily, both of you panting into each other's mouths as your bodies slap together, wet and obscene. You can feel the way his hips jerk every time your walls clench down, hear the little grunts he makes when your nails dig into his skin.

You break the kiss with a gasp, lips slick with spit, your breath coming in short, helpless pants, and Jason's eyes are blown wide when he looks at you—wet mouth, flushed face, tits bouncing every time he drives into you.

"Fuck," he grits, hips stuttering just for a second. "You kiss me like that while I'm inside this pussy, I'm not gonna last."

But that doesn't stop him. He licks into your mouth again, sloppy and hot, like he can't get enough, and he doesn't stop fucking you even for a second, your cunt sucking him back in again and again.

But then he stops. Just fucking stops, cock buried deep and throbbing, and your whole body twitches when he stills, when that perfect stretch suddenly halts, and all you can do is let out this desperate, broken little whimper against his mouth.

Jason grins. That smug, shit eating, cocky little smirk that makes you want to slap him and fuck him harder all at once.

"Oh, you didn't think I'd let you finish me off like that, did you?"

Before you can even beg, his hands are under your thighs, and he fucking stands with you still on his dick. You gasp, clinging to him as he lifts you, and then, with a little thud, your ass hits the cool surface of his desk.

"Jason—"

Papers scatter. A pen clatters to the floor. His cock slips out for the briefest, aching second, but he's already lining up again, one hand sliding under your thigh to lift your leg, the other grabbing your neck.

You moan sharp and high, head falling back as his dick drags in deep and fast, hitting that perfect spot again and again, every thrust brutal and wet and perfect. Your pussy squeezes him tight—too tight—and he groans, deep and ragged, his hips stuttering just a little.

"Shit—yeah. Just like that. Fuckin' stranglin' my dick—"

His hand around your neck squeezes just enough to make your pussy clench hard, and that makes him pause just a second as your walls squeeze his dick like a fucking vice.

"Jesus—fuckin'—Christ," he groans, eyes flicking down to where he's buried in you.

And God, it's filthy. Your pussy is drooling around him, soaking his dick and his desk and your thighs, the slick wet sounds echoing with every thrust as he rails you, fast and deep, making the desk creak. You cry out when his thumb suddenly slides down between your legs, rubbing tight little circles over your clit—slippery and fast, making your thighs tremble where they hang off the desk. Your whole body twitches, hips rocking forward instinctively, chasing that pressure even as he fucks you.

"Yeah?" he pants, circling it hard and fast, smirking at the way you squirm. "That what you needed, baby?"

You nod, frantic, breathless, clutching at his biceps while he ruins you, rubbing your clit in tight, messy circles as he keeps fucking you, every thrust sending wet heat sparking down your spine.

"Sound so fuckin' pretty when I touch you," he grits, watching how your face crumples with every swipe of his thumb. "Wanna see you cum again. Wanna feel this little pussy soak my dick."

And the way he says it? Low and wrecked and hungry? You know you're not gonna last long.

"J-Jay," you whine, voice high and ragged, words tumbling between shaky breaths, "T-too much, baby, I can't—"

But he shuts you up with a kiss, rough and hot and wet, mouths mashing together like he's trying to taste every moan you're too wrecked to hold back. His tongue licks into your mouth, greedy and slow, and it's all spit and gasps and his quiet groan when your lips cling to his like you're starved. Which, you are. You always are.

"Yeah, you can, doll," he murmurs between kisses, words rumbling against your tongue. "C'mon, give it to me."

And you try—God, you try—but your thoughts are fucking gone. Just a mess of heat and Jay and the stretch of his cock pounding into your soaked cunt, over and over again. You haven't even cum more than once, but you're already seeing stars. Truth is, you were pent up before you even dropped to your knees under his desk—fuming, needy, aching.

So now, with his dick hitting just right, his hand tightening a little more around your throat, his thumb still teasing your soaked, swollen clit? You fucking shatter.

Your mouth drops open, a choked little moan spilling out as your pussy clamps down hard, gushing around his dick in a hot, wet rush. You tremble against him, thighs shaking where they're pinned open, and all you can do is feel—your cunt clenching, fluttering around his cock, your soaked skin sticking to the desk, the way his thumb never lets up.

"Fuuuck—that's it, baby," he groans, watching it all, voice all heat and adoration, worshiping the way your cunt flutters around him, "Jesus, look at you. So perfect. So good for me."

He slows down just a little—not stopping, no—but just enough to feel every squeeze of your pussy, every twitch. Jason doesn't even say anything, just presses one last kiss to your lips before he straightens up and gently pushes you down onto your back. Files and papers scatter everywhere as he clears the space with a sweep of his arm, but he doesn't give a fuck.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, drunk on the sight of you laid out for him, pussy wet and glistening and taking him so fucking good.

And when he starts moving again? It's deep. Deep enough that your toes curl and your hands claw at the edge of the desk. Deep enough that you gasp his name like a prayer, like you've already forgotten how to breathe.

Jason's thoughts are fried. All he can think about is this. You, flat on your back, eyes all glassy, tits bouncing with every hard thrust, that tiny little bulge low in your belly when he bottoms out. He's obsessed. Addicted, even. No one's ever looked this good on his cock. No one's ever taken him like you do, like your pussy was made for him.

"Fuck," he breathes, leaning over you, bracing his forearm beside your head. "You feel so good, baby. So fuckin' good."

His mouth is back on your tits like he missed them, like he can't stand being away for more than a second. He licks up the slick curve of one, all heat and filthy little groans like he's getting drunk off the taste of your skin. And he kind of is. He sucks your nipple into his mouth with this greedy little noise in the back of his throat—deep, wet, messy—while his cock keeps fucking into you.

Your back arches off the desk the second his teeth so much as graze you, and he fucking smirks against your skin, the asshole. He switches to the other, tongue flicking lazy little circles before he sucks hard. One of his hands slides up to hold your breast, big and warm and possessive, while the other stays locked on your thigh, pinning you down so he can keep pounding into you.

Your fingers slide into his hair without even thinking, tangling tight at the roots because you need him right there, mouth locked around your nipple while he fucks you deep enough to make your toes curl. And he doesn't complain. He groans when you tug, hips stuttering for half a second like it gets him off, like he likes being kept there, held in place with your hand in his hair and your thighs starting to shake around his waist.

His hands drag down your sides slow, palms hot and possessive like he's trying to feel all of you, like he wants to memorize the way your body trembles under his. Jason grabs under your thighs and lifts, just enough to tilt your hips, to fold you open a little more for him, and then he's fucking into you harder.

Like full body, desk rattling, brain melting hard. You gasp—loud, messy—arms wrapping around his neck as the desk underneath you starts to groan with every deep, punishing thrust. It's all slick skin and filthy moans, your tits bouncing with every snap of his hips, one of them still wet from his mouth. You can feel him grinding deeper, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, his breath hot against your chest, jaw tight, barely holding himself back.

And that's how you know he's close, when he gets like this. When his rhythm goes from slow and controlled to desperate, deep, rough enough to shake the furniture.

Every thrust punches a whimper out of you, every grind of his hips drags a broken moan from your throat, and all you can do is babble—slurred, fucked out praise spilling from your lips without a single filter.

"Just like that, Jay," you breathe, voice all high and wrecked, like it's getting fucked right out of you. Your nails are digging into his shoulders now, legs trembling where they're hooked over his arms, and your head falls back with a broken little cry as his dick slams into you hard. "Fuck—fuck, you feel so good, baby—don't stop—don't stop, please—"

You're barely making sense, the praise through mixing with every breathless moan because your brain has gone fuzzy from how deep he's hitting. And it works—God, it always works. You know exactly what it does to him when you talk like that, when you gasp his name and whimper about how good he fills you up like you need it to breathe.

"Fuck, baby—God, you sound so pretty when I fuck you like this—"

Then he loses it. His rhythm stutters, gets all rough and desperate, and then he's muttering something low under his breath as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

"Shit—gonna cum—fuck, baby, I'm gonna—"

He slams his dick into you deep, so deep it punches the air out of your lungs, and then he's there, hips jerking as he cums hard, cock pulsing deep inside you while he moans against your skin, low and wrecked and so goddamn gone.

You feel the heat of it the second he lets go, thick and hot, spilling into you in long, desperate pulses that make your whole body jolt. He's buried as deep as he can go, cock twitching inside you as he fills you up, and fuck, it's so much—you can feel it flooding you, pooling deep in your cunt, so warm it makes your toes curl.

It's messy and raw, the way it leaks out around the base of his cock with every little grind of his hips, like your pussy is too full to take all of it, but you want to. You're clutching at him like you need to be filled, like you ache for it, moaning brokenly into the side of his neck as your walls clamp down, greedy and pulsing, your pussy desperately trying to drag every last drop out of him.

And that's it. That's what sends you over. Your back arches off the desk with a cry, eyes fluttering shut as your orgasm crashes over you—hot and blinding, slick and overwhelming. Your cunt clenches around him, so tight and messy you feel him groan deep in his chest, his hips giving one more slow, grinding thrust just to fuck it deeper. You're gushing around him, wet and desperate, your whole body shaking as you cum so hard it almost hurts, like every nerve has been set on fire.

And all the while, you can feel him still twitching inside you, his cum leaking out around his cock and dripping down onto the desk under you, warm and slippery and so much it makes you whimper. He stays there, buried deep, panting into your neck, and you both just hold onto each other, sweaty and shaking and so fucked out you can barely remember your own name.

Your walls are still twitching around him, little aftershocks rolling through your belly while his cock stays buried deep, keeping all that warmth right where he left it. You're both still breathing hard, your legs loose around his waist, one of your hands threaded in his hair while the other just rests over his heart like you're trying to steady the way it's still pounding.

And then he starts kissing you.

Soft, slow, sweet, like he's making up for every hard thrust with something gentle. His lips drag over your throat first, right where he'd been moaning your name seconds ago. Then your jaw, your cheekbone, your collarbone—he presses messy little kisses over every inch of skin he can reach, warm and lazy and full of affection, even as your pussy still flutters faintly around his dick.

By the time he reaches your lips, you're already tilting your chin up for him, mouth parting instinctively like it's muscle memory, like you're wired to kiss him the second he gets close.

And God, when he kisses you? It's everything. It's hot and deep and messy, more tongue than precision, like neither of you care about finesse, just the feel of it. His lips press to yours with this greedy, aching sweetness, like he missed your mouth even though he's been wrecking you for the past half an hour.

His tongue licks into your mouth slow, lazy and possessive, tasting every moan you don't even mean to let out. You whimper into it, walls tightening again with oversensitive need, and he feels that too—groans into your mouth and presses his hips a little deeper, just to feel your pussy squeeze down around him.

You kiss him back wet and open and hungry, lips parting wider, tongue sliding against his in a way that says please don't stop. And he doesn't. He kisses you until you're breathless, until your thighs twitch around his waist, until he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his dick still pulsing faintly inside your soaked, aching cunt.

Jason chuckles against your lips, breath still ragged, chest rising and falling like he's just barely gotten it under control again. You can feel his cock twitch inside you, still not soft, still hot and hard and so deep, and it's got you grinning already, even before he speaks.

"Jesus, doll," he mutters, voice rough and warm and fucked out. "You're such a fuckin'—"

You squeeze around him. On purpose.

"You little—" he huffs, trying to sound pissed.

But then you giggle. That soft, sweet little sound you make when you know exactly what you're doing, when you're all pleased with yourself and looking up at him like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth.

And he can't even be fucking mad at you. He wants to be. He should be. But your eyes are sparkling and your smile is too damn pretty and your skin is still flushed and glowing and sticky with sweat and sex, and all he can think is fuck, I love my girl.

You smile up at him, all smug and satisfied, knowing exactly what you just did. You know he won't say it—he won't admit it out loud—but you know. You know he's ruined for you, and you wear it like a crown.

You sigh, soft and happy, still full of him, still stretched wide around his cock and completely fucked out.

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head like he's exasperated, but his mouth is curved just a little too much to sell it. "Happy now, you gremlin?"

You brush your nose against his, still smiling like you just won the damn lottery. "So happy, Jay."

He just looks at you for a second like he's trying to memorize the stupid, blissed out little smile on your face. Then his lips are back on yours, and it's slow this time. Lazy. Tender. The kind of kiss that makes your toes curl even though you're already fucked out and cock drunk and full of him.

His tongue sweeps into your mouth and you moan into it without meaning to—soft and breathy—because fuck, he's still inside you. Still warm and thick and deep, and every tiny shift of his hips just rubs the right way, dragging over that raw, overstimulated spot that makes your whole body jolt.

He groans into the kiss like he feels it too, like your moan goes straight to his cock. And maybe it does, because it twitches inside you again, and your hips shift instinctively, chasing the friction even if it makes you whimper from how sensitive you are.

By the time he pulls back, you're dazed all over again, lips swollen and slick, eyes fluttering open like you're trying to remember where the hell you even are.

Then he kisses your nose. Just a quick, sweet little peck right on the tip of it, and you giggle like an actual, honest to God giggle. Completely, helplessly dick drunk.

He grins, because he knows exactly what kind of mess you are right now, and then his big hands slide under your ass and he lifts you off the desk.

You squeak, arms flying up to wrap around his neck, your legs instinctively tightening around his waist to keep him close, cock still buried deep inside you and dragging deliciously against your walls with the motion. Your head falls to his shoulder with a breathless little moan, and you feel him chuckle like he loves every second of it. Because he does.

"C'mon," he murmurs against your temple, voice low and still a little hoarse. "Let's get you cleaned up, doll."

You sigh, all dreamy and content, arms still looped around his neck like you've got no intention of letting go anytime soon. He carries you through the apartment with that same casual strength he always has—like you weigh nothing, like he wants you in his arms. And you just bury your face in his neck, pressing soft, lazy kisses to his skin as you go. Right under his jaw, just beneath his ear. He smells like sweat and sex and a little bit of cologne, and it makes your head spin.

By the time he steps into the bathroom, the warm light hits your skin and you start to come back to yourself a little right up until he pulls out.

You whimper at the sudden emptiness, thighs twitching as his cum starts to leak out of you in a slow, sticky trickle. Jason curses under his breath, eyes flicking down between your legs, watching the mess drip down your thighs, and his grip on you tightens instinctively.

"Fuckin' hell, baby..."

He presses you against his chest again like he knows your legs won't hold up and yeah, he's right. You're limp as a ragdoll, legs jelly, brain soup, and you don't even pretend to argue. You just lean into him, face pressed to his chest, nose brushing over his skin while his hand comes up to cradle the back of your head.

He reaches into the shower with one hand to turn the water on, testing the temperature like he's done it a hundred times before, and you just stay where you are, warm and safe and so thoroughly used you feel like you're floating.

Once the water is going, he shifts his grip, easing you down to your feet—barely, just enough to start tugging at your soaked panties. They cling to your thighs, damp with sweat and slick and the mess he left inside you, and he peels them down slow, steady, not saying a word.

Then comes your tank top, and he helps you out of that too, his fingers brushing your sides as he eases it over your head, careful not to jostle you too much. Both pieces of clothing go straight into the washing machine with zero hesitation. You hear the soft thunk of the lid closing while he checks the shower one more time, then turns back to you.

Naked, warm, and still kind of wrecked, standing in the soft light with your thighs sticky and your chest rising and falling—his girl. And you just look up at him, dazed and smiling, because you'd let him do it all over again if he asked.

The shower is warm, steam curling around both your bodies as he pulls you in with him, keeping you close, keeping you safe. You sigh into it, forehead resting against his chest, arms draped around his waist.

He grabs the body wash and works up a slow, soapy lather between his palms, then starts to run his hands over your skin, so gentle even though those hands were gripping your hips and fucking you into the desk not even fifteen minutes ago. He washes you carefully, like you're fragile, like he's undoing every rough touch with something soft and slow now.

His fingers slide down your back, over your thighs, across your belly, lingering just a little between your legs, wiping away what's still dripping out of you with careful swipes.

You moan softly at the touch, even if there's no heat behind it, just sensitivity and love and the way his hands feel like home.

He presses kisses wherever he can reach while he works—your shoulder, the side of your neck, that spot right under your ear that always makes you sigh. You tilt your head up to meet his mouth when he leans in, and the kiss he gives you is slow and sweet and deep. Just tongues brushing lazily, mouths open and soft because you're both too blissed out to care about anything but the taste of each other.

When you pull back, you're both smiling. Dumbly. Lovingly. Pure adoration in his eyes. Like he's still a little wrecked from the way you clung to him back on the desk, like he can't believe he gets to touch you like this, kiss you like this, love you like this.

By the time you're rinsed off and clean and completely melted into him, he shuts off the water and helps you out, holding your hand like you might tip over on the bath mat if he doesn't. You probably would.

He wraps a huge, fluffy towel around your body first, tucking it tight under your arms, and you can’t help the little shiver that runs through you when his knuckles graze your skin. Then he grabs another for himself, slinging it low around his waist and raking a hand through his wet hair before turning back to you.

"Don't move, doll," he says, soft and amused.

And you don't. You just stand there in your towel, still warm and a little pink from the water, watching him disappear into the bedroom like some kind of domestic dream.

He's back less than a minute later with exactly what you knew he’d bring. A clean pair of panties and one of his t-shirts, big and soft and worn thin in all the right places. You snort a little when you see it.

"Didn't even bother with my clothes, huh?"

Jason just smirks, holding them out for you. "Why waste the effort when I know you're just gonna end up in this anyway?"

You roll your eyes but your heart melts, and he looks so smug about it you almost want to kiss him again.

He tugs on a pair of boxers, grabs some soft drawstring shorts from the dresser, and slips them on low on his hips, still damp, hair messy, towel slung over one shoulder as he moves around like a man with a mission. The second those towels are tossed in the bin, he turns back to you with that warm, post shower glow and holds out a hand.

"C'mon, gremlin."

You giggle as he helps you back out to the living room, and yeah, you are kinda shuffling like a little creature in his oversized shirt, clean and soft and half asleep on your feet. He settles you on the couch with way too much care, like you're some fragile thing that might tip over if he lets go for too long, tucks a blanket around your legs even though it's not cold.

Then he leans down, kisses your forehead and says, "Stay here. I'll be right back."

You hum, content, watching him as he turns and walks off and, naturally, the moment he's out of reach, you flop over and twist to rest your chin on the backrest just in time to see him stomping toward his desk. Like full blown damage control mode.

You watch as he shuts the monitors with a bit more force than necessary, muttering something under his breath, probably about how the fuck am I supposed to get work done when you keep doing shit like that, and then starts stacking the files you so rudely distracted him from. You can't even pretend to feel bad.

Especially not when he looks down at the mess on the surface—your handprint, the faint fog of sweat, and probably a little bit of cum—and lets out this put upon little sigh like he's not absolutely delighted with himself.

He wipes it down quick, grabs his phone, and you hear the soft beep of him opening his food app. Because yeah, no one's cooking after that. Dinner shows up faster than you expect, and Jason's already halfway through pretending he's not gonna baby you tonight.

"You could've gotten up to get the door," he grumbles, grabbing the bags and carrying them into the living room like he didn't just tuck you into the couch ten minutes ago. "Y'got legs."

"Jelly legs," you remind him sweetly, stretching like a cat under his shirt, bare thighs peeking out. "Your fault."

He shoots you a look but it's useless. His mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile, and before he can stop himself, he's nudging your legs apart and pulling them into his lap as he sits beside you.

"You little shit," he mutters under his breath.

But then he's opening the containers, poking around for your favorites, and feeding you bites between kisses to the top of your head. Like fucking clockwork. You hum after every one, leaning into him, basking in the warmth of his lap, and he gives up the fake grumpiness entirely once you nuzzle against his chest like the clingy little menace you are.

Eventually, dinner's forgotten somewhere on the coffee table, TV flickering in the background while you’re curled up half on, half under him, both of you pretending to watch.

It starts small, your fingers absently toying with the hem of his shorts, his hand smoothing down your spine in slow, lazy strokes. Then your nose brushes his jaw. Then your lips do. And then he turns toward you, and it just happens. Slow. Drowsy. Addictive.

His lips press to yours, soft and easy, and it's like you both breathe out at the same time, sinking into each other without thinking. Your mouths move together like you've done this a thousand times before, wet and slow and deep, his tongue brushing against yours with this teasing little flick that makes you whine into his mouth.

Jason groans low in his throat, one hand slipping under his shirt, palm warm and rough on your bare waist. You gasp into the next kiss, thighs shifting on either side of him, and that sound—that needy little noise you make—has him chasing your mouth like he can't get enough.

There's no rush. No angle. Just the quiet slide of lips and tongues and soft gasps between kisses that get deeper, longer, messier. You tug at his hair and he huffs a laugh against your mouth, pulling you tighter to him, completely wrecked by how much he wants you even now.

But eventually, your mouths slow down. Kisses taper off into soft little pecks. Your breathing evens out. His fingers stroke along your thigh, and your eyes flutter shut, head tucked under his chin like you've found your home and you're not leaving it.

Jason exhales like he's never been more relaxed in his life. "Needy little gremlin," he murmurs, but there's no heat in it, just affection, worn in and real.

You smile sleepily against his chest. "I love you too, Jay."

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters, like he's pretending to be over it but his arms tighten around you all the same.

You don't say anything back, too far gone already. Your breathing has gone slow and even, face squished into his chest, lashes fluttering against his skin. And then it happens, that first soft snore.

Barely there, just a tiny little puff of air through your nose, but Jason hears it. He always does. And he can't help it—his chest shakes with the little laugh he tries to smother.

Because you swear you don't snore. Every time he brings it up you're like "no I don't, Jay, you're lying, I sleep like a princess", and maybe you do. But you're also snoring like a baby animal, and it's the fucking cutest thing he's ever heard.

He looks down at you, completely dead asleep on him in his shirt, wrapped up in his arms like you belong there, and honestly, those files on the desk can rot. He knows he's not done, knows he should've closed out those reports or replied to that one message before knocking off for the night. But all that can wait.

Because right now, you're laying on top of him, breathing slow and even, little snores puffing against his chest, and he's got one hand tangled in your hair and the other cradling the soft curve of your thigh, and he couldn't give a single shit about anything else.

There's always tomorrow.

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ceruark · 4 months ago

Text

what the cat dragged in

[yan! michael kaiser x fem! reader, childhood friends au.] synopsis: your grandfather once cautioned you against feeding strays. it’s a lesson you wouldn’t fully learn until many years later. words: 4.6k cw: yandere themes - obsession, possessiveness, implied stalking, slight dubcon (no nsfw). a/n: [head in hands] this was supposed to be a drabble

“You be careful with that, now.”

At the sound of your grandfather’s voice, you glance over your shoulder, fixing your attention on the man standing in the doorway, propped up against his cane. Your knees and face are smeared with mud, as any seven year-old’s would be.

You turn back around, cooing gently at the scraggly kitten that eats the canned tuna out of the palm of your hand. You lift your free hand to scratch at its head, smiling as it nuzzles into your hand before going back to the food.

“Why?” You ask innocently. “It’s so cute.”

“It’s a stray,” your grandfather says, voice dripping with disgust on the last word. “If you feed it, it’ll keep coming back.”

You frown. Would such a thing be so bad? If the poor little guy was hungry, you would happily indulge it; after all, withholding such a vital thing to its survival would be cruel.

“But it’s hungry,” you whine. The kitten polishes off the rest of the tuna before looking up at you and meowing loudly, bumping its head against your palm. Your heart soars at the endearing action.

“I’m serious,” your grandfather snaps at you in the tone that tells you you’ll be in trouble if you don’t listen. You give the kitten one last pet before reluctantly retracting your hand. You bite down on your warbling lip and blink away tears when it meows at your sudden absence in confusion and protest.

You walk over to your grandfather, and he takes your small wrist into his hand. He takes in your crestfallen expression and sighs, shaking his head.

“It’s for the best,” he says softly. “You don’t want strays getting attached to you.”

You look up at him with big, watery eyes. “Why not?”

“Because no matter how much you feed them, they’ll always be hungry, and then they’ll never leave you alone.”

Despite your grandfather’s warning, you continue to feed the kitten.

You’re careful to do it somewhere he won’t catch you, though. It’s summer, so you’ve been spending a lot of your time in the park that’s only around the block from your house. Turns out the kitten has been spending lots of time sunbathing there, too, so you make sure to start sneaking out some canned tuna with your packed lunch.

You walk past the swingset and toward the large, twisting slide that you’ve gotten used to finding the kitten under this time of day. Your small purple lunch bag bounces against your leg as you skip happily, swinging your arms animatedly. The tune you’re humming gets stuck in your throat and dies as you duck under the play structure and find a small figure already huddled beneath the slide.

A boy in a black hoodie two sizes too big for his frail body sits criss-cross on the floor. Bruised hands gently pet the kitten, which is curled up in his lap and purring softly. He can’t be that much younger than you— probably only by a year— but he seems far smaller than the kids in the grade below you at school, concerningly so.

His head snaps up as your feet come into his line of his vision, wide, impossibly blue eyes locking onto yours. He flinches so hard that the kitten yowls and jumps out of his lap, startled. He curls in on himself defensively and his breathing becomes labored, yet his wide eyes never leave you, tracking your every movement.

You blink in confusion at his reaction. “Um,” you start to say, but you’re cut off by a loud meow cutting through the air.

You turn to the kitten, which has now settled at your side and is pawing at your lunch bag. You giggle— of course, it’s already come to know where its next meal is coming from. You pick up the bag and unzip it, producing the canned tuna from inside it. You grunt as you tug at the tab a few times, but finally it gives way and comes off cleanly. You place it down, and the kitten eagerly prances up to it and starts eating out of it.

After a long moment of watching it eat, your eyes drift back to the boy across from you. His eyes are locked onto the kitten with such focus that it’s concerning.

Then, you realize he’s not looking at the kitten— he’s looking at the tuna sitting on the floor.

You reach back into your bag and take out a sandwich secured tightly in saran wrap. You unwrap it then split it in half, extending your arm out to offer it to the boy.

His eyes dart down to the sandwich and back to you, but he doesn’t make any move to take it.

“Here,” you say, waving your arm up and down in emphasis. “You can have some, if you want. Mom always packs too much for me, so I’m okay sharing with you!”

He glances back down at the sandwich and hesitates for just a moment more before his hand shoots out, snatching it out of your own and quickly bringing it to his mouth. You avert your eyes back to the kitten as he eats it, slowly working through your own half of your lunch.

When you’re done, you peek into the bag to see what else your mom packed for you. There’s a small bag of chips, an orange, and a banana. Maybe it’s a little selfish to keep the chips for yourself, but the boy seems to be just as eager when you set the fruits in front of him, so it’s probably fine.

He finishes eating before you do, and slowly, he inches closer toward you and the cat. He begins petting it again, stealing glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking.

Finished with your snack, you crumple the bag up and throw it into your lunch bag before zipping it back up. You brush your hand off on your pants, leaving a smatter of chip dust behind that your mom will probably chide you for later.

You look up at the boy, who is already staring at you. He flushes red and is about to look away when you hold your hand to him and introduce yourself.

You tilt your head toward him with a warm smile. “What’s your name?”

Michael waits for you under the slide the next day, and the next, and the one after that.

Days bleed into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years. You become permanent fixtures in each other’s lives. You bring snacks and books, bandages and a gentle touch and an unspoken oath to never ask, never pry. He brings nothing but himself, but for you, that is enough.

Your mother never asks why you pack extra food, or where it’s ending up. She likely just chalks it up to you being a growing girl, and for that, you are grateful.

There are some days, though, where you’re being looked after by your father, who chides you for taking more than you need and makes you put the extras back in the pantry. On those days, you apologize to Michael for the smaller portions you both have, but he simply brushes it off. He says he couldn’t care less if you show up with no food at all, so long as you show up.

At some point, it stops being about the food, you just fail to realize it. Michael never breaks his habit of trailing behind you like your own shadow, and he’s not exactly a sociable person (in fact, his glare alone scares off any other kids your age who try to approach you two), so you figure there’s still something he wants from you. And because of your upbringing, hand-holding and leaning against each other and hugging is something so normal to you that you cannot even begin to suspect that there is something much different he’s actually after.

You’re fourteen and he’s thirteen the first time he kisses you.

It’s a sunny day, but not too hot; there’s a nice breeze in the air that keeps you cool as you sit in the grass, idly popping grapes into your mouth as you watch Michael kick a ball into a wall over and over again, as is customary for you two these days. As always, he eventually wears himself out and finds his way over to you, collapsing beside you and leaning his full body weight against your side as you complain and futilely try to push him off.

“Micha, get off,” you whine, shoving at his shoulder. He doesn’t budge, and instead sighs in irritation and wraps his arms around yours to stop your attempts. “You’re heavy!”

“Your fault for feeding me so much,” he mumbles into your shoulder, prompting you to roll your eyes. “Seems like oversight on your part.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have if I knew you’d grow up to be this annoying.” Your words lack heat, of course— you don’t really mean it, and even if it wasn’t evident by your tone, it’s evident in the way you relax into his embrace. “Seriously, though. You’re all sweaty. It’s gross.”

Michael gives one last aggrieved sigh before releasing you. He reaches for the water bottle set beside you and drinks from it, and you go back to your grapes.

A comfortable silence settles between you two as you observe the other people in the park. It’s summer, so it’s busier than usual, which means Michael will probably leave sooner rather than later.

You turn to look at him, but as always, he’s already looking down at you.

You tilt your head to the side. “Do you need something?” You ask playfully.

Michael stares at you a moment longer, the wind rustling his hair into his face. Then, he leans down so quickly that you can’t react before he presses his lips to yours.

It’s soft, gentle. It’s barely there, his desire contained by a hesitation you haven’t seen within him in so long.

When you don’t respond, he pulls back, his face carefully smoothed over into a blank canvas, but you know him better than that. Fear dances in his eyes, fear that he’s overstepped and swung a sledgehammer straight into your friendship.

You blink rapidly, trying to pull yourself together. “Oh,” you say, smartly, and then feel yourself flush red as you fully process what just happened.

“Sorry,” he mutters under his breath. It sounds wrong coming from him, and you reach out to grab his arm just as he starts to withdraw into himself.

“Hey, look, it’s fine. I just— you just caught me by surprise. That’s all.”

He looks back at you, and you feel your breath catch in your throat. His blue eyes are shining, but there’s something dark in them that you haven’t seen before, something you can’t quite place.

“It’s fine?” He echoes in question.

You feel your face grow hotter.

“Yeah,” you whisper back, “it’s fine.”

When he leans down this time, you respond in kind.

You’re always the one to break off the kisses shared between you two.

At this point, you’re convinced he’s not human, given the way that lack of air never seems to be a problem for him. If anything, he seems more annoyed by the fact that you’ve stopped kissing him than the fact that he’s nearly panting from how long he’s gone without taking a proper breath.

He’s insatiable, you quickly find out. Shockingly, for a few weeks following your first kiss, he spends more of his time kissing you under the slide than playing football. When you get tired or want to take a break, he just opts to hold you in a tight embrace until you’re ready to kiss again or have to leave.

Eventually, his initial enthusiasm dies down, but his way of kissing you never changes. Shallow, rapid kisses swapped between inexperienced middle schoolers, but he never lets up, always eager to meet your lips again and take in your breath in place of oxygen.

You never put a name to whatever’s happening between you two. You’re not friends anymore, that much is clear, but you two don’t have the means of going out on dates, either.

Regardless of what you are, he becomes clingier than ever following the shift in your relationship, and a small part of you can’t help but feel like you’re suffocating.

“Micha.”

He looks up from the ball at his feet, skillfully dribbling it despite the fact that his focus is elsewhere. It’s impressive; hopefully, one day, you’ll be able to see him play professionally.

Your heart sinks to your stomach and sits there heavily. Would that be the next time you see him? On some screen, miles away from him, years from this moment in this time?

You’re moving out of Berlin. Your father’s being suddenly transferred to an office in Cologne, and you have just five days to get all your stuff packed up and ready to go for the train ride on Sunday. You have a shitty starter phone— your parents aren’t keen on you having a smartphone, yet— but Micha has nothing. You suppose you could write to him, but that would put him at risk if his father got to the mail before he did.

When he catches the look on your face, he settles the ball at his feet and locks his full attention on you. “What’s wrong?”

You swallow, averting your gaze to the ground. “I’m moving,” you mumble.

A thick silence settles between you two. The soft breeze is sharp in your ears, like deafening static reverberating through your head.

His voice comes out sharp, digging in a way you’ve never heard it before. “What?”

“I’m moving,” you repeat. “I’m leaving. Dad’s job— we’ve got to go to Cologne.”

He doesn’t respond for so long that you finally force yourself to look up at him. His face has gone completely blank, and there’s only something dark in his eyes, something completely unreadable to you.

His voice is tight when he asks, “When are you coming back?”

“I—” You sigh. “I don’t know. I don’t think I am. I think the transfer’s permanent.”

He looks down, seemingly mulling over your words. When he looks up again, his gaze goes is cold, and he hums, straightening out. “No.”

You blink, confused. “No?”

“You’re not leaving.”

You furrow your brows. “What?”

He looks down at you derisively, seemingly irritated that he has to repeat himself. “I said you’re not leaving.”

“I can’t just not leave,” you spit out. He’s starting to be ridiculous, and his condescension has never been something that bodes well with you, having only been on the receiving end of it so few times. “I’m not gonna have any family here.”

He jostles the ball between his feet as if this is another one your shared mundane conversations. “So we’ll just run away together.”

You narrow your eyes at him in disbelief. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”

He slants a side look at you. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

“Oh, sure,” you say, voice getting higher with each word, “just two teenagers running away and figuring out how to make ends meet. Can you please take this seriously?”

His foot comes down on top of the ball, hard. He flicks a finger between you two. “I am the only one taking this seriously.”

“This,” you echo, incredulous. “A stupid relationship.”

He kicks the ball to the side and turns to face you fully, and that’s how you know you fucked up. Each word bites as he asks, “Is that all this is to you?”

“You know I care about you, Micha,” you say carefully, “but asking me to throw away my family to stay with you is insane.”

Something shutters in his expression, but it’s gone before you can even register it. “I knew it,” he spits, “you’ve never cared about me as much as you’ve led me to believe.”

You grit your teeth. “Are you serious?”

He shrugs. “You obviously don’t value me as much as I value you.”

“Oh my god,” you snap, “you are fourteen. Get the fuck over yourself.”

“You think this is meaningless because we’re young?”

“I think,” you hiss, “that we have our whole lives ahead of us. I wouldn’t ask you to stay by my side if you had bigger and better things ahead of you.”

He continues to stare at you in icy silence. You sigh, frustrated.

“If it’s meant to be, it’ll work itself out,” you say.

Michael tilts his head, as if considering this. His eyes wander your face, committing every bit to memory. Then, he walks over to you, seizing your wrist in his hand. You step back, a bit thrown off, but he lightly tugs on your arm, pulling you back toward him.

“It will work out,” he says, eyes boring into yours. “I’ll make sure of it.”

He leans down and presses a familiar, gentle kiss to your lips.

“Then you won’t have to leave me ever again.”

This time, when you pull away, he lets you go. Seemingly without a care in the world, he turns around and picks up the ball, heading toward the trail that he takes home.

You return to the park the day before you leave, but you don’t see him. You wait for hours, but he never shows.

The unease twisting in your gut doesn’t unravel until the train speeds away from the station, leaving Berlin behind you.

You’re about to turn eighteen when you see him again.

Not in person, but on a screen like you expected. The name Michael Kaiser sits in a scrolling bar across the bottom of the screen which plays footage of him playing on Bastard München’s youth team, his long golden hair flowing behind him beautifully. The news anchor says something about him being one of the most promising players of the new generation— not that that’s something you need to be told.

Your friend says something from across the table, ripping your attention from the screen. You don’t notice how tense you’ve gotten until you relax again.

Despite the lingering feeling of unease his memory leaves you with, you’re still glad he made it, after all.

“Who’s this?”

You’re back home for the holidays during your second year in university. Your studies have taken you back to Berlin, albeit a part you hadn’t grown up near and is still new and fresh to you. “Home” might not be the right word, though— you’re spending Christmas Eve at your grandmother’s house. She’s been hosting your entire family the past couple years since your grandfather’s passing forced her to relocate to a smaller house, an attempt to fill the empty home with warm presences.

Currently, she’s playing with a small, bedraggled dog that has wandered onto her porch. It’s wheezy and staggers when it walks, indicative of its old age.

“Oh, just a sweet little thing,” your grandmother replies as she pets its back. “You know, your grandfather always hated it when I would feed the strays. I did it a lot back at the old house on the other side of town, but there’s not too many animals on this side, so I don’t really do it anymore.”

You consider the dog. Its fur is matted, but nonetheless, its tail wags so hard from your grandmother’s attention that its whole body shakes with it. It sneezes pathetically.

You shove your hands into your coat pockets. “So this is a new one, then?”

“Well, not quite.” Your grandmother chuckles. “I first met this little guy back at the old house. I’ve been feeding him since he was a puppy! Seems he found his way back home on his own.”

“Huh.” Your eyes snap back to her. “I didn’t think they could actually do that.”

She laughs some more. “The most determined and loved ones can.”

You retreat back into the house. Your younger cousins jump on you immediately, demanding you play whatever nonsensical game they’ve thought up this time. You shed your coat, and with it, your lingering distress at your grandmother’s words.

“Oh my god, do you have a secret admirer?”

Your roommate’s voice pulls you out of your shocked state. The dread freezing your veins gradually thaws out, and you kneel down to pick the bouquet of flowers off the floor in front of the entrance to your shared apartment.

Blue forget-me-nots, with some blue roses interspersed throughout.

It’s October now. Just under a year has passed since Christmas, but your grandmother’s words are fresh in your mind, as if you’d heard them just yesterday.

You fumble around with the bouquet, movements becoming more frantic when you can’t find what you’re looking for. “There’s no card attached to this.”

“Well, duh,” your roommate says. “That would defeat the purpose of a secret admirer.”

Except, it’s not a secret who sent you these. You might have been able to brush it off if it was just the forget-me-nots, but the roses speak for themselves.

You flick your wrist out to the side, shoving the bouquet into your roommate’s chest. She grabs onto them, so you let them go in favor of getting the door unlocked.

“Figure out what to do with them,” you say as you enter the apartment.

She trails in after you, hot on your heels in incredulity. “Wait, you’re seriously not going to keep them?”

“You know I’m not interested in a relationship right now,” you say breezily, feigning a calmness that contradicts your racing heart. “It’s a sweet gesture, but I don’t want them.”

“I mean—” Your roommate stammers a bit before her words peter out. She sighs, then starts rummaging in the cabinet beneath the sink. “Alright, whatever you say.”

She ends up arranging them in a nice glass vase you weren’t aware you two even own and sets them in the center of the dining table. They mock you until they wither and die, and you can finally dispose of them.

By the time February rolls around without any further incidents, your guard has lowered significantly, which is, of course, your first mistake.

You’re lounging on the couch in the common space when there’s light knocking at your apartment door. There’s mostly college students renting in this unit, so it’s not uncommon for someone to stop by and invite you to some party or other, and with Valentine’s around the corner, there’s sure to be plenty.

You set your laptop down on the coffee table and get to your feet, sliding your feet into your slippers and crossing the room to get to the apartment entrance. You reach up and begin to undo the locks without checking the peephole, which is your second mistake.

You pull the door open, and immediately, everything freezes in place.

His eyes are as blue as the day you met him, only his gaze is far sharper than they were even on the day you left.

The television and billboards really don’t do him justice. He’s fully grown into his figure now, the diet and training regimen of a professional athlete filling him out in ways that the portioned-out food fed to him from your hands could not. His hair is choppy, but a face that gorgeous can make anything work. It’s pulled up into a messy bun made to look regal by the glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. The blue rose on his neck is stark against his skin, and you eye the thorny vines that trail down and disappear beneath his shirt.

You meet his eyes again, apprehensive. His face is impassive, but the intensity of his gaze betrays him and keeps you pinned in place.

You clutch the doorknob so tightly your knuckles go white.

“Michael,” you say softly, and he frowns slightly at that. “What are you doing here?”

How did you find me? The unasked question hangs in the air between you two, but neither of you reach for it.

“Who’s Michael?” He asks airily. He steps forward, and hooks a finger under your chin before you get the chance to move away from him. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your Micha already.”

You swallow thickly. “I haven’t,” you mumble.

He hums. His thumb brushes against your chin lightly as his gaze trails over your body. When it lands on you again, his eyes swallow you whole. “You look good.”

Heat floods your cheeks in spite of the dread settling in your stomach, and you look to the floor again. “Thanks.”

You attempt to step back, but there’s a hand that finds its way to the small of your back before you can. The hand on your chin tilts your head up, up, until you’re forced to look at him again.

“I spent so long waiting for you, liebling,” he says. “Is this how you greet your boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend?” You sputter. “I don’t—”

His thumb presses firmly against your lips, quieting your protests. “Friends don’t make out, do they?” When you don’t respond, he adds, “We never did break up, you know. I’m glad to see you haven’t cheated on me in my absence.”

You finally reach your breaking point, all the agitation and unease within you spilling over. You shove at him as hard as you can, but if he didn’t budge all those years ago, he certainly wasn’t budging now. You shove at him again, this time trying to use the movement to push yourself away rather than push him, but he swiftly grabs hold of both your wrists and tugs you back toward him. Caught off guard, you careen forward and crash into his chest. His arms snake around your waist, an iron cage holding you firmly against him.

“Micha,” you hiss, “let me go.”

“Now, liebe,” he coos, releasing his hold on you just enough for you to shift and properly look up at him. “You know what that will cost you.”

You glare up at him, but to your chagrin, he seems perfectly content to simply hold you and gaze down at you. As seconds bleed into minutes trapped in his hold, you crack under the pressure.

You tilt your head up fully, and Michael lowers his head just enough to be within your reach. You close the distance between you two, intending for the kiss to be short, shallow, and sweet, just like your first.

You honestly should know better at this point. One of his hands comes up to cradle the back of your head, and he pulls you back in just as you’re about to get away.

The next kiss is deep, far more passion behind it than anything you two shared before you left. He bites at your bottom lip, and forces his tongue in when you startle. A whimper leaves your throat as he continues to lick into your mouth. You reach up to try to shove at his chest, but he places his other hand over it, rubbing his thumb against your knuckles in a mockery of a soothing gesture.

You gasp out when he finally breaks for air. Your lips sting from the sudden release of pressure, and a thin trail of saliva lines your bottom lip. You stumble back, but firm arms are there to catch you again.

You look up, and his pupil-blown eyes cause that unease to settle over you once more.

Gently, he brings your hand up to his lips and ghosts your knuckles over them.

There’s a glint in his eye as he asks, “Aren’t you going to invite me inside?”

Never satisfied. Insatiable, and now, somehow finding his way back to you.

You should have listened to your grandfather when you had the chance.

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