#and now he's so much more closed off to me even than he was in the golden age. i keep waiting for him to explain stuff and he does not

[xoxojisu]

SOMEWHERE AMONG

synopsis: somewhere among all the little moments, it becomes very apparent to various people in his life that katsuki bakugo is in love with you. (aka when they realize and know that he's so incredibly gone.)

notes: YAYYY more unofficialbf!katsuki !! 3.5k wc. childhood friends to lovers (?) but no real confession or establishment of relationship. so like childhood friends to unofficial lovers. N E WAYS the concept is like. childhood vs now: when people realize he loves you sorta. or at least that's what i wanted originally but at some point i was just writing like idek man. not well-proofread so there are probs lots of errors n mistakes w the flow im sorry. first longer piece in a min w my writing hiatus and all so im a bit rusty but i hope yall enjoy!!

mitsuki knows before anyone else does.

maybe that’s just how moms are. sharp-eyed and a little nosy, always paying more attention than they let on. but really, you’d have to be blind not to notice the way katsuki’s whole damn world orbits around you, even at the tender young age of four.

the first time he declares you’re his, you’ve got dandelions in your hands and dirt on your knees, and he’s stomping around the backyard like he just won a damn olympic gold medal, screaming, “she said yes!! she's mine now!! hell yeahhhh!”

she snorts into her coffee, watching from the kitchen window.

you follow him around like a tiny shadow. he grabs your hand so tight it makes her raise an eyebrow, your little hand crushed into a position that must be painful, but you don’t complain. you just smile, swing your arms with his, and look at him like he’s your whole world.

(it’s the same way he looks at you.)

she keeps the photos. of course she does.

photos of you passed out on the couch together, little heads squished side by side. photos of you tangled in blankets during movie nights. photos of you curled up under katsuki’s arm, his little hand resting on your knee like it belongs there.

because, she thinks, maybe it does.

by the time you both hit middle school, mitsuki’s fully accepted that you’re going to be her legal family someday. she calls you that often. "my future daughter-in-law," "my sweetheart," "my precious y/n-chan.” it's half because she means it and half just to piss katsuki off.

it works every time. he turns bright red. stomps around the kitchen shouting, “shut up, old hag!!” while you giggle behind your hand. she only laughs and hands you more food.

she always makes extra when she knows you’re coming over. which is... pretty much every day.

he complains. boy, he complains. “why do you treat her better than me? i’m your kid!”

she shrugs. “yeah, and she's my favorite.”

the way he scowls is almost too easy.

but the truth is that she’s proud of him. of the way he’s gentle with you, even when he’s sharp with everyone else. the way he carries your bag without thinking, pulls you close when he thinks no one’s watching, the way his hands shake when you get hurt and he pretends they don’t. the way he's learned to love.

she sees the softness he hides so visibly. she is his mom, after all.

-

it's break, so you two are back home and not in the dorms. of course, she still isn't seeing very much of him, seeing as he spends every waking moment of his time with you. she hears him before she sees him come home, stomping up the stairs like a damn elephant. his voice is low, not yelling for once.

“quit squirmin', you’re gonna fall.”

"'s cause you didn't give me any warning before you picked me up! what am i, a sack of rice?”

“yeah, ‘cause you’re too damn stubborn to admit you’re tired.”

"as if you do?!"

"tch."

she peeks out of and sees you in his arms, head on his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut while he carries you to his room like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

he doesn’t even notice her watching.

not until he comes back down a few hours later, shirt rumpled, hair a mess, looking like he just got hit by the best nap of his life and a truck named feelings. (puke)

she leans against the counter. raises an eyebrow. “so, when’s the wedding?”

he groans like she stabbed him. “can you just not for once?”

“nope,” she says sweetly, tossing him a towel. “you still sleep next to her every night like it’s not a big deal?”

“shut up.”

“still let her in your bed but kick that nice redheaded boy out for even looking at it?”

“shut up.”

she smirks. “you gonna tell her how you feel or am i gonna have to do it for you?”

he looks her dead in the eye.

“…you wouldn’t.”

she grins dangerously. katsuki forgets too often that his genes and personality are mainly from her.

“try me.”

he runs back upstairs.

she laughs to herself, puts the kettle on, and pulls out the old photo album. the one full of pictures he pretends not to care about.

she flips to a page labeled “age 4: katsuki + y/n” and looks at the photo of you both asleep in a beanbag chair, his arms around you like he was born to protect you.

“stupid boy’s so damn deep in love,” she mutters.

but she’s not worried. you’ll figure it out eventually.

you always do.

izuku knows before katsuki does.

maybe that’s just how he is, though. observant, over-analytical, always watching "like a damn stalker," as katsuki says. it’s not that katsuki ever told him anything, of course. because he wouldn’t. never in a million years.

but izuku doesn’t need words to see it. he sees it in the little things.

like the way he practically shields you in crowded hallways, hand on your back, just enough to block anyone who might bump into you. like the way he mutters “dumbass” every time you trip, even as he reaches out to catch you without thinking. like the way his hands clench at his sides when you’re the slightest bit hurt. like the way he relaxes when you laugh. like your happiness adds years to his life. like loving you has become a reflex engrained in his body.

izuku remembers the way you used to cling to katsuki's side when you were kids. a ray of sunshine with scraped knees and bright eyes, all trust and affection, following the fiery katsuki around like he was gravity. and he remembers the way he used to puff up like it was his job to keep you safe from everything. even the super scary stuff, like wasps and thunderstorms.

izuku's almost always known that 'kacchan's in love with y/n.' he recalls back fondly to a distinct memory in his childhood. they’re five, maybe six, sitting in the grass by the park, dirtied by playing outside.

-

izuku’s digging in the sandbox, humming to himself, in his own world as per usual, building a castle with just plastic buckets and imagination. he glances over when he hears your laugh. the really bubbly one, the one that sounds like the windchimes his mom puts up when it starts getting warm. he's noticed that that laugh usually comes out a lot more with kacchan.

you’ve got a bandaid on your knee and a flower crown crooked on your head, made from dandelions and clovers, and katsuki is sitting in front of you, scowling at a tiny daisy you’re trying to tuck behind his ear.

“hold still,” you giggle, reaching again.

“why’re you puttin' weeds on me?” katsuki grumbles as if he hates life, but he’s not pulling away one bit. he’s red in the face, squinting at the sun, fists clenched like he can’t decide if he wants to knock the crown off your head or punch something to release his emotion overflow.

he doesn’t do either.

he just lets you keep going.

izuku watches as you lean in close, tongue poking out a little in concentration, and katsuki completely freezes, face red and breath held.

he’s not yelling. not barking. not blowing anything up. he’s just… staring at you. soft-eyed. stunned.

like someone pressed pause on his whole little brain.

and izuku, tiny and curious and wide-eyed, tilts his head.

he doesn’t really know much, or anything, about love. but he knows for sure that kacchan never lets anyone that close.

and he knows kacchan only lets you steal his snacks.

..and his hoodies.

..and his toys.

..and.. him.

and izuku, with sand on his cheeks and a shovel in his hand, watches katsuki blush so hard he falls backwards into the grass, yelling “shut up!!” when you giggle and call him pretty.

and izuku just smiles to himself.

"oh," he thinks, "kacchan's gonna marry y/n one day."

-

now and then, a decade or so later, izuku can still see how hopelessly in love katsuki is with you. you’re sitting on the common room couch. it’s a late night, everyone else mostly gone, the tv playing quietly in the background. you’re curled into katsuki’s side like it’s second nature, his arm slung around your shoulder like a reflex, your fingers tangled with his like neither of you realize you’re doing it.

katsuki’s eyes are closed, head tipped back against the cushions.

but izuku watches as you shift, just slightly, and katsuki’s fingers twitch like they miss your touch before your hand finds his again.

like muscle memory.

like home.

and katsuki has no idea how obvious it is.

he still acts like he’s subtle. acts like he’s got it all under wraps. snaps and scowls like always, but izuku sees how he softens around the edges when you’re near. he sees how katsuki tracks the sound of your voice from across the room. he sees how katsuki smiles at you when you’re not looking.

not smirks. not scoffs.

smiles.

the real kind. the warm kind. the kind izuku didn’t know katsuki even had until you brought it out of him.

and now, even a decade later, izuku watches the two of you interact with fond eyes.

"yep," he thinks, "kacchan's gonna marry y/n one day."

masaru knows before katsuki knows too, but there's no surprise there.

what is a bit of a surprise is just how much he knows.

masaru's always been the odd one out in his family. his wife and son are two peas in a pod, after all. explosive, angry, but caring underneath everything. on the other hand, he's quiet, gentle, and very carefully observant. he watches you two interact over the years with more insight than he lets on. he and katsuki don't talk much, but he is his son, and he is the carbon copy of the woman he loves and knows best. katsuki's never talked about his feelings or anything with his dad before, but masaru knows.

he knows when he sees the way you diffuse katsuki's explosiveness, turning him from a bomb seconds away from detonating into a grumbly, blushing mess.

he knows when he sees that his fridge and cabinets are stocked with foods that no one in the bakugo family buys or likes, and he realizes that they're your favorites. and that katsuki must've bought them.

he knows when he sort of sees himself and mitsuki in you and katsuki, and everyone knows how well they've worked out.

-

"jeez, katsuki really should just hurry up and confess to y/n already! i don't know what he's waiting for!" mitsuki huffs one evening when they're chilling on their bed together.

masaru breaks his attention from his book to give her the acknowledgement to keep talking.

"like, seriously! i mean, they've been in love since before katsuki even formed his quirk. the boy shared his sandwiches with her before he could even pronounce the word right!"

"you're right."

"aren't i?! and y/n is such a sweet girl. if katsuki doesn't get his act together soon, someone else will take away my sweet y/n-chan! and you know what? i wouldn't even be mad with them. it'd be katsuki's fault for letting her slip through his fingers."

"mhm,"

"and do you see how good she is with him? she always balances him out and brings out his nicest qualities. qualities that i forget he has until she comes around. she's honestly probably too good for him, but im too attached to her to let go. plus, she somehow loves our boy to bits, too. theyre like yin and yang. sun and moon."

masaru smiles softly. "they kind of remind you of us, don't they?"

mitsuki looks a little surprised at the new insight before smiling softly as well. "you're right."

she slides closer. "and you and i are a pretty damn great couple."

"we sure are."

masaru sleeps that night holding the woman he loves, and he suspects his son is doing the same.

1a knows within just a week or two of watching the two of you interact.

kirishima notices first, having spent the most time with katsuki. it was an evening study session with the three of you. kirishima finds it kind of odd seeing how it took tons of effort for katsuki to let him in but you just showed up and katsuki opened the door for you.

he shakes it off, knowing katsuki can be kind of weird sometimes.

the sheer difference in treatment was ground-shaking. kirishima thought that out of everyone, he was the closest to katsuki. he was the nicest to him.

boy, was he wrong.

while katsuki would beat kirishima up for getting a problem wrong and threaten to blow him up, he would gently teach you in the softest of tones, giving you a "reluctant" (he wanted it so bad) hug when you got frustrated with yourself.

kirishima just sat there, blinking, pen halfway to paper. like, sure, he knew that his explosive friend had a heart. somewhere. deep down. probably in the fiery depths of hell. but this?

this was a fully tamed beast. a completely different person.

“you’re doin' fine,” katsuki muttered lowly, tugging your worksheet towards himself and redrawing the problem. “look. see? you almost had it.”

you stared at the page, chewing your lip, frustration written all over your face. katsuki barely hesitated before reaching out and flicking your forehead gently.

“oi. don’t get all weird about it. you've got it.”

“you’re weird,” you mumbled back.

“yeah, and you’re dumb. now shut up and do it again.”

but he sat a little closer.

and he pointed out each part of the equation with his arm against yours, like he couldn’t help it. like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

by the time you finished the question right, katsuki grunted and muttered with a slight smile, “told you. that's my girl.”

you beamed up at him, bright and sunny like he hung the goddamn stars.

he immediately turned away like you’d set him on fire.

holy shit, kirishima thought to himself. he's in love. he's totally in love with her.

-

it wasn't long before the entire class caught on.

you’d show up late to class and katsuki was already moving stuff out of the seat he'd saved for you.

you’d get paired with someone else in group activities and katsuki would mutter the whole time, arms crossed, blowing tiny explosions in his palm like he was restraining himself from starting a war.

you’d laugh at something dumb that kaminari said and katsuki would visibly pout for the next twenty minutes.

every time he held the door open for you, took your plate at dinner, passed you notes during lectures, stared at you during hero strategy lessons like you were an addictive substance he didn't know how to breathe without. everybody knew.

i mean, how could you not? everything about him literally visibly softened when you were in the room. you'd be a fool not to notice how he only ever raised his voice to protect you, never to push you away. how he sat with his arm around the back of your seat every time you watched a movie together. how he never, ever flinched away from your touch, even though he did with everyone else.

iida and ochaco and all of them had sort of learned to steer clear of the two of you when you were alone, courtesy of katsuki's guard dog glare. todoroki and yaoyorozu would conveniently need to share a book and weren't able to sit next to you on the couch when he was walking up, much to katsuki's grunt of approval as he slid in next to you.

of course, some were not as wise, such as the bakusquad, who would poke fun of him every now and then. call him a loverboy and tease him about being soft, shoving pictures they'd taken of a sleeping you cuddled up on him in his face.

but at the end of the day, they know it's not just some silly crush that they can lord over his head. it's love. actual, genuine love that sometimes feels too pure to make fun of. something so precious and real that they feel like they should lay off and give you two some space.

whenever they see you two acting all soft and like an old married couple, their expressions are less mischievous, as if they're thinking about doing something really dumb and embarrassing, but more fond and soft, looking at something so sweet and genuine that they can't help but smile.

you were probably the last to catch on.

it's just that katsuki is so katsuki. he's your best friend. has been for as long as you can remember. of course you love him, but you've been loving him for so long it feels as natural as breathing. it's not some huge revelation or big deal. it barely registers as abnormal because it doesn't feel like one of those exhilarating whirlwind romances you see on tv. it just feels normal. because to you, it is.

you've always fallen asleep on katsuki. always hung out with him one-on-one. always shared snacks. always slept over. always jumped for him knowing he'd catch you.

it’s just… him. it’s always been him.

it doesn’t hit you all at once. it’s quieter than that.

it’s in the little things. like how you don’t even knock before going into katsuki’s room anymore. it’s your second home. your charger is plugged in on your side of the bed and you've got a spare set of your uniform in your own drawer.

it’s how you always end up pressed against him on the couch. you never sit down with that intention, but it always happens. at some point, you'll crawl over or he'll pull you into his lap. it just feels right.

it’s how he notices things. you texted him some dumb video at 3am, so he wordlessly shoved your favorite energy drink into your hand the next morning because he knew you'd be sleepy. your shoelace comes undone and somehow he’s crouching down to tie it before you even register he noticed. you mention craving something salty and there's a nameless bag of your favorite chips on your desk by the next period.

and the weird thing is that he doesn’t do that with other people. you’ve watched. he’s snappy and blunt and downright rude to anyone else who tries to get too close. but with you? he's your "soft sweet little katsuki." (said with his face in your hands as you laugh and tease him. his cheeks are red and he won't meet your eyes but he doesn't dare move.)

the realization doesn’t slam into you. you don't feel the love pulsing through you as he kisses you passionately in the rain. you don't gasp and cry when he surprises you with a giant flower arc and a michelin star dinner.

it leaks in through cracks in moments. when you’re laughing so hard at something snarky and witty he said that your stomach hurts and he’s looking at you like you’ve just hung the moon. when he shoves your head gently away, grumbling “dumbass” because you called him a teasingly affectionate nickname, but you can feel how he leans right back a second later, hand coming around to rest at your waist. when he catches you dozing off during study sessions and just keeps reading aloud, voice lower, steadier, like he wants to coax you to sleep.

you don’t think, oh my god, i love him. not right away.

it’s more like: oh, i’ll text him first. oh, i’ll stay a little longer. oh, i’ll bring his favorite snacks with me when i go over. oh, i don’t ever want to leave.

and then, somewhere in between his hand brushing yours absentmindedly and you feeling safer with him than you’ve felt anywhere else in your entire life, you realize you’re already gone. you’re already his.

there isn’t a single “moment.” it’s all the moments, stacked and layered and wrapped around you until you’re here. on his bed, in his hoodie, atop his chest, watching him grumble and rant about how stupid kaminari was in training today, and all you can think of is,

god, i’m in love with him.

and based on the way his hand is curling tighter around your waist, sneaking under your hoodie to rub circles on your bare skin, you think he's in love with you too.

masterlist reblogs + comments are super duper appreciated!

[darkbluekies]

Catch the queen 2025 vers

Yandere!king oc x fem!reader

Summary: you decide to run away from Edmund and hide in the village ... but he has his ways to lure you out

Warnings: yandere, arson, harassment from drunk men, knives, choking, manipulation, isolation, bad names, guilttripping(?), if you feel like ive missed any let me know!!

Word count: 5k

If you were asked to describe how life with Edmund was, you wouldn't be sure where you'd start. His temper? His childish, selfish behaviour? The fact that his view of “personal space” means the two of you in either part of the same room, doing your own things and he slowly but surely moves closer to you until he's back in your space.

Not even when he sleeps does he keep to himself. You're tucked against his chest under his chin like his very own little stuffed animal. His arms are as hard as the steel bars in the dungeon cells down below. His kisses feel like fire, like acid burning your skin. His love hurts … and you can't take it anymore.

You have nothing planned, all you know is that you need to get out of here tonight. You're not sure you can handle another day as Edmund’s doll.

Quietly, you remove his arms from your back. You know he's an extremely light sleeper, the slightest movement jolts him awake. When you accidentally wake him when you have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, he's awake until you return. Refuses to sleep without you as in his arms. Even when sleeping, there's barely a difference in his strength. He's awfully proud of his muscles, always making you watch him work out and praise him when he manages to do more than last time. He feeds off of it.

It nearly takes you half the night only to get out of the happy bed, let alone navigate the dark hallways and dodge guards. You stand by the bed, already exhausted, sweat dripping down your back. Maybe you should just forget it and go lay down again. How will you ever manage to get away with the staff patrolling everywhere?

No, you know you can't stay with someone as self centered as him. You're living his life. Not yours. He says sit, you sit. He says clap your hands, you clap your hands. Because that's what everyone has done to him his entire life. Going against that means going against everything he knows … and he doesn't take lightly to that.

Carefully you try to sneak across the floor without stepping on any creaky floor planks. You snatch your dark blue cloak, knowing it'll give you warmth and cover. Especially in the shadows. Your hands tremble something horrific as you try to tie it. 

Knowing that you’ve never been out in the real world without him after becoming queen, you grab a dagger Edmund has hidden for you, in case you were ever on your own and had to defend yourself. Edmund makes sure that never happens, which is why you’ve never had to touch it before, but now you take it. Just in case.

Edmund turns in bed. That’s your cue. You hurry over to the doors, quietly opening one of them to sneak out. Everything is quiet around you. So much so that you’re worried your own heartbeat will catch someone’s attention. Guards are patrolling and every time they come close, you sink into the darkness creeping against the walls. A part of you regret i again, but it’s too late to turn back. 

It takes an hour before you manage to leave castle grounds. Fresh breeze hits your face. Without looking back, you set off, feet running before your brain catches on what’s going on. You’ve left. You’re actually out. Your feet has run for minutes before you realise that you have no idea where you’re headed. The forest is deep and exceptionally dangerous at night. Especially for you. Thieves hide in the pitch black darkness to get away from royal knights. If they notice you, you’ll become their hostage. What more valuable can a thief steal if not the king’s jewel? Edmund would get you back to any ridiculous price and you’d be right back to where you started. One step forward and two steps back. 

No, you have to get down to the village. The one you’ve been staring at from the large windows in the castle. You’ve fantasized abut the people living down there. Who they are, what their lives look like. What their dreams and aspirations are. 

You doubt anyone’s even awake to help you, but just being in the village and knowing someone would hear you scream seems more comforting than being lost in the forest, not knowing who is around. You hope that the people in the village are good people. 

The sound of laughter fills the night air. For a second, they sound somewhat joyous, but the undertone of alcohol and underlying rage quickly cuts through. It’s not anger. Just violence waiting for a reason to be unleashed. You keep to the house walls, hoping the shadows swallow you whole. 

Tomorrow morning you’ll move on, far away from here, back to the capital and then a ship somewhere completely different. Somewhere where the name King Edmund doesn’t ring a bell to anyone. 

You grab a better hold of the dagger. The voices come closer. 

“Look”, one of the male voices, voice barely able to hold straight. “What is a woman doing here alone? Did we really get that lucky?”

“Don’t touch me”, you breathe out, not realizing you’ve turned your head towards them. 

The drunk men stop, foggy eyes clearing a bit. 

“Oh shit, it’s the queen”, another of them slurred. 

They won’t do anything to do, will they? If they know you’re the queen, they’ll let you go … right?

“We really did get lucky”, the last man chuckled, grin spreading in a way that made your blood go ice cold. 

The first one reaches for you. “Come here, sweetheart—”

You slap his hand away, kick him in the shin and jam the dagger into his shoulder and leaving it sticking out of his skin before running off into the opposite direction. His friends shout at you in a drunken, angry manner, but they’re too intoxicated to run after without stumbling. You manage to find a light in a window in a house nearby. Your hands slam at the door in desperate fists, voice caught in your throat. 

Please, open. Please, please.

When it does, a little boy in pajamas opens. He stares up at you, eyes big and full of stars. 

“Why are you crying?” he asks in that innocent way only a child is able to. 

You haven’t even realised that you’re crying.

“I … are your parents home?” you ask. 

“My mom is home … dad’s not.”

“Could you maybe get your mom for me?”

The boy nods and runs in, shouting for his mom. You look down the alleyways, waiting for the drunk men to reappear. You lost your dagger.

“Oh, dear.”

You flinch and turn back towards the door. The grown woman’s eyes are wide. 

“Your majesty … h-how can I help you?”

“I’m so sorry for trespassing, I just really need to hide for a few minutes. I’m being followed. May I come inside?”

“Yes, yes, sure, absolutely. Come in.”

She steps to the side and allows you to slink in. The small, claustrophobic wooden house is warmly lit with a fire in the fireplace and some lit candles. The little boy sits by a round wooden table, teddy bear clutched in his hand. 

“Are you really the queen?” he asks shyly.

You nod. 

“Then why aren’t you in the castle?”

You glance towards his mother. You want to tell her, but the little boy doesn’ have to hear adult talk. 

“I’m … playing hide and seek with the king”, you say hesitantly, thinking over every word carefully. “I can’t let him find me or he’ll win.”

He shines up. “I can help you!”

“No, you won’t”, his mother says. “You’re supposed to go to sleep, Leon.”

“No”, he whines childishly. “I want to be with the queen!”

“Go to bed. Now.”

The little boy sulks, but jumps of the chair and stomps away towards his bed. 

“I can help you”, he says again. “I’m good at hide and seek.”

“I can’t let you get involved”, you smile slightly. “The king is a sore loser. He’ll be mad if someone helps me. He’ll think … he’ll think I’m cheating.”

“Go to bed now, Leon”, his mother says in that motherly tone that says ‘this is your last warning before I come and carry you’.

The boy disappears. The mother turns to you with her face now full of worry. She directs you to the round table. 

“Your majesty, why are you here?” she asks quietly. “Are you alright?”

“I really need some help, actually”, you say hesitantly. 

“Are you hungry?”

“No, thank you … I need to get away from here. I need to go to the capital.”

“I’ll get you something small anyways.”

She returns with a small bowl of porridge. 

“I apologize for the simplicity”, she mumbles embarrassedly and fiddles with ehr fingers. “If I had known you would have—”

“No, don’t apologize”, you assure her. “It smells good. It reminds me of my mother’s cooking. What are you doing up so late, by the way? Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

The woman chuckles in an embarrassed manner. “I know, I should, shouldn’t I? But I get so worried when my husband is out and about. I can’t go to sleep before he’s home. It dosn’t bother me too much, but I wish that Leon would stop trying to stay up too. I don’t want him to see his father’s state.”

“How old is he?”

“Just turned four last week.”

“He’s adorable. He must take after you.”

The woman chuckles slightly, as if a compliment from you had made her whole week and was untrue. Her smile slowly disappears as she takes you in, seeing how on edge you truly are. 

“May I ask what’s going on?” she wonders carefully. “What is the reason you’re out here? Why do you need to go to the capital? I don’t mean to be nosy, I just …”

“No, it’s okay. You’re allowed to ask questions … especially since I’ve intruded like this. I don’t want to say too much, I don’t think that’s a good idea … but I ned to go to the capital to take a boat far away from here.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. I don’t have a plan. I just … can’t go back.”

“Okay, well … stay here for the night, it’s too late to do anything now, and we will come up with something tomorrow, okay?”

“Yes, thank you. You’re too kind.”

“No need to mention it. I’ve always liked you. I’ve seen you here every now and then when the king has his things going on. You’ve always stood out to me as a gentle and kind hearted spirit.”

“Thank you.”

The woman brings out a mattress in front of the cracking fire, but despite her kindness and the warmth from the fire place, you have a hard tim falling asleep. Sooner or later, Edmund will wake up and he will realise that you’re gone. What will he do?

He can feel the emptiness before his brain wakes up. Before he opens his eyes and confirms that he’s alone under the covers. It’s cold. He feels around after you, just wishful thinking, feeling only cold empty sheets. He opens his eyes, looks around. Empty. 

“Y/N?” he asks, voice raspy from sleepiness. “Where are you?”

No answer. He sits up, fresh breeze hitting his bare chest. 

“Y/N?” he asks again. “Where did you go?”

When he still doesn’t get an answer, he feels his blood go cold in his veins. You haven’t left the bed chamber, have you? You know you’re not allowed to wander the castle by yourself. Edmund pushes the covers to the side and jumps onto the floorboards. He grabs his robe to cover his bare upper body and marshes out into the corridors. A few maids carrying freshly washed linen sheets are nearly pushed to the side. 

Edmund rips the door to his office open. His secretary sits by his desk, already awake. 

“Goodmorning, your majesty—”

“Where is she?” he demands to know, slamming his palms onto the desk. “Where is my wife?”

The secretary flinches. “Uh, didn’t she sleep with you? I haven’t seen her.”

“She was not there when I woke up. How can you not know where she is? One of the guards must have seen her and let you know!”

“No one has said anything to me. Let me check with the guards.”

The secretary flies up from his chair and runs out of the room. Edmund runs his trembling hand through his black hair. His entire body feels like lightening. 

The secretary returns ten minutes later, face dull. 

“Well?” Edmund scoffs. “Where is she?”

“Not … here”, the secretary mumbles. “But the gates down to the town have been found open …”

Edmund doesn’t react for a few seconds, almost as if the words had no meaning. But then, in a swift motion, he’s grabbed the secretary by his throat ,fingertips digging into the sides of his neck. 

“How can a minimum of fifty guards not notice one single girl slipping by them?!” he shouts angrily. “That girl is the only reason why I don’t fucking kill all of you!” He lets him go. “Don’t just stand there. We’re going to find her. Now.”

He orders the secretary to get the horses and guards ready while he goes to dress. Normally, he has people dress him, but if anyone touches him now he’ll have blood on his hands. 

The horses stand ready for him on the courtyard. Edmund fixes his glove, glaring at the guards waiting for him. He doesn’t even bother say anything to them, just jumps up on his white horse and runs off. They follow. They always do. They know better.

He’ll find you, and if you refuse to show—or if someone is hiding you—they’ll feel his wrath. He’ll get you back. 

The village has woken up when they enter with their horses. They go directly to the towns square. People are giving them curious looks, probably surprised to see their king come visit their little town … and oh how Edmund hates them. He’d not be here if he didn’t have to, that’s for sure. You’re none of the spectators. 

“May I have your attention?” his secretary calls out. “Tonight, the queen disappeared from the castle. We suspect that she is hiding among you and that one of you have committed the crime of shielding her. This is a crime that shall be punished as if it was kidnapping and if you’d like to avoid the consequences of such a crime, you better give her back within an hour. If not, the royal guards will burn this village to the ground in hunt of luring her out. Be smart, choose right, save yourselves, your children and your homes.”

Edmund lets his ice cold eyes wander over the crowd, hoping that wherever you are, you’ve heard the threat. 

“There’s no chance someone will hide her after this”, he mumbles to his secretary. “Peasants are selfish. They’ll think of themselves and their homes before their queen. They’ll sell her out to save their own skin. I know it.”

You haven’t heard a word. You've slept through it all. The sounds of Leon running around and keeping you occupied with curious questions have made you oblivious to the fire starting to eat away at the wooden houses.

“What was that?” Leon suddenly says.

“What?” you ask. “What did you hear?”

“Someone screamed.”

You look at the woman and she frowns. 

“It smells like smoke”, she says. “Wait here, your majesty, let me check what's going on.”

You follow her to the window. Black, thick smoke covers the sky. People are frantically running down the street. They're crying, screaming. 

“What in the whole …?” you start, but the wan has already grabbed Leon.

“We need to go. Your majesty, come with us, we'll help you. Stay close to us.”

The three of you exit the house and stick close to each other. The smoke makes it impossible to see which way you’re headed. The heat is unbearable. You're pushed left and right by people desperately trying to get somewhere. 

“Knights!” Leon gasps, mouth open in awe. “Look! And the king!”

Your head immediately snaps in the direction Leon's pointing. Through the smoke you can see Edmund on his white horse, surrounded by his men. His jaw is tight, eyes narrowing. Without a single second doubt, you push closer into the overpacked crowd, hoping to be swallowed whole.

“There's the whore!” a familiar voice shouts, but this time it's not drunk. It's stable. Clear.

Your eyes widen. Quickly, you spin towards the woman and her little boy.

“I have to leave, I'm sorry!” you frantically shout. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. I am so thankful. You’ve given me so much courage. Please stay safe. Please. I’m sorry.”

You know what’ll happen to them if Edmund finds out they helped keep you from him. You push through the crowd to get away from everyone,just so that you can run and hide. You’re not sure who you'd rather have capture you, Edmund or the angry now-sober men.

You manage to get into a nearby alleyway without crowds of people swimming upstream. A hand grabs your arm and before you know it, you’re pressed against the wall, forearm pressed over your throat. 

“You fucking bitch”, the one holding you hisses and pressses his arm closer into your skin. “You think you can just stab us and get away with it? I don’t care who you are, I’ll mak sure you never try something dumb like that again!”

You choke out a sound, tears filling your eyes. The pressure of his arm over your throat makes it hard to breathe. 

“And look around you!” another man hisses—the one you had stabbed. “Look what you’ve done to the town! It’s all burnt down because of you! You came here and decided to risk everyone else's lives just for you! People have died!”

He lifts your dagger. You gulp. 

“Get your filthy hands off of my wife!” a familiar voice shouts. 

You turn your head, along with the men, to see Edmund walk towards you with his horse beside him. He holds a revolver directed towards them. 

“I’ll say it again, you worthless creatures”, Edmund almost growls. “Get your disgusting fucking hands off of my wife.”

He shoots the one furthest from you. His two friends flinch. The one with the dagger lets it go and backs away, hands in the air. He’s shot. The one choking you immediately tries to run. He’s hit in the back of the head with a bullet. You gasp for air, knees going out. You slide down alongside the wall, entire body shaking. Everything’s spinning. Broken sobs escape your throat. 

Edmund walks slowly towards you, like a cat. He stops in front of you, looking down at your face. 

“My jewel …”

“What have you done?” you whisper, completely horrified. “What … look around! What have they done to deserve you burning down everything?”

“I had to get you one way or another”, Edmund says calmly, in that way you hate. “No one wanted to tell me where you were, so I had to force you out. I gave them an hour to give you to me or else I’d burn down their village. If they really cared about their pitiful lives, they would have gotten you back to me. It’s not my fault the peasants disobeyed me.”

The tears fall down your cheeks. The men had said it too. That all of this is your fault. Is it? Did your choice of wanting to be free result in deaths? How could it go so far?

You hide your face in your hands, crying heavily. Edmund looks around at the flames. 

“We need to go back to the castle”, he says. “Before we’re caught in this too. Come, my jewel. Let’s go home.”

“No”, you sob and shake your head. You have gone so far. If you go back now, will people have lost both house and lives for nothing? “No …”

He sighs. “You have nowhere to run. You’re tired and exhausted, aren’t you? If you stay here, you’ll get killed by either the flames or angry people. Like those creatures that had you against the wall. Only I can help you out of this burning mess safely—and I will get you out. I will. I promise you. Come on, be a good girl.”

He’s right. You’re trapped. Staying here will get you killed, but giving him back the control is terrifying.

“Your righteous place is here with me. You have to understand that. We’re married. You belong to me by law. These people don’t see you. They see a queen. They see either enemy or ally. After this, I don’t think you have many allies here, my love, so why stay here? There will be nothing left, and people who have nothing to lose are dangerous. You know that. Come here.”

He bends down and helps you stand. Your body has shut down, your legs won’t hold you. He picks you up in his arms and put you up on his horse, climbs up behind you and cages you in by his hands on the reins. 

“Lean back against me”, he whispers in your ear. “Just relax, pretty girl. I got you now.”

With a hand on your stomach, he pushes your back against his chest. You sink back, sighing in exhaustion. 

Edmund calls for his knights and they follow him. Tears fall down your cheeks as you're led out of the town on his horse, but there’s a numbness in you now. A tiredness that overpowers the sadness and fear.

“Do they hate me now?” you whisper and sniffle. “I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt … I just …” Your throat goes dry, a sob breaks through. “I never wanted …”

Edmund lets go of one of the reigns to stroke your stomach. His rings feel hard against your abdomen. 

“I know”, he whispers in your ear. “I know, darling … but this is what happens when you try to leave me. If you don’t want this, you need to stay by my side. No one will get hurt as long as you’re mine.”

You turn your face over your shoulder, looking up at his face with your tearstained cheeks. “Is it my fault? The men said so … they … they blamed me for everything. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

He glances down at you, heart breaking at your angelic face. He wants to say to you that ‘yes it is your fault. If you hadn’t left I wouldn’t have had to burn the village, to kill people. It’s your fault for making me so obsessed with you to the point that I can’t function without you’ … but he can’t, not when you’re looking at him like that. Like the wrong words will break you forever.

“...I know, sweetheart”, he sighs instead, circling his hand on your stomach, caressing. “It’s over now. No one will be able to blame you for this. I will take care of anyone having something to say. You’re my responsibility.”

“But is it my fault? If … if I hadn’t run away they wouldn’t have been hurt …”

“I gave them a chance. They chose to disobey it. They chose this.”

He stays silent until you’re out of the village, riding up the hill towards the castle. You turn your head to watch what’s going on, horrified by how far the fire has spread, and how little there is left of it. 

“That’s what they deserve”, Edmund mutters. 

The courtyard is filled with horses and royal guards when the gates close. Edmund jumps down from the horse. You remain on it, staring blankly in front of you. 

“Y/N”, Edmund says and holds out his hands to lift you down. “Come here, sweetheart.”

You turn enough for him to grab onto your waist and lift you down. He holds you to him when he notices that your legs still haven’t gotten their strength back. Some maids run out to fetch you. 

“Give her a bath”, Edmund orders. “I can only imagine all the disgusting fleas and bacterias she has gotten. She smell like smoke. Make sure shes clean and smells good before you take her to the bed chamber. Make sure she stays there until I get there.”

He watches the maids help you into the castle, jaw tight. Edmund goes to leave his horse in the stable before making his way to his bed chamber. You’re freshly bathed, hair wet, dressed in a nightgown, sitting on the bed with your hands in your lap. 

“I know you feel guilty”, he says, closing the door behind him. “But I won’t let you off the hook.”

“I won’t run away again, Ed, I promise”, you sniffle. “Please …”

“Be quiet, my love. I don’t think you have any right to yell at me. Not after the hell you’ve put me through. You should consider yourself lucky that you’re still alive!” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t think you understand how lucky you are. There are women who would kill to be mine, to live your life. You step on it. I hate to call you ungrateful, but you are. You forget how much of what you have is thanks to me and I think it’s time that I remind you of it. Get up.”

“Why?” you ask carefully. 

“I’m going to show you something.”

He holds out his hand. You hesitate before taking it. He pulls you up and leads you out of the room. 

“Where are you taking me?” you ask as he pulls you through countless corridors. “Please, not the dungeon. Please, Edmund—”

“It’s not the dungeon, don’t worry, my jewel. I have something else planned.”

That only makes it worse, because with the dungeon you know what you’re getting. 

He stops in front of a wooden door. 

“The tower?” you ask in confusion. 

“Yes”, Edmund replies smugly. “You and I will spend some time up there. There’s nothing up there. No furniture, no curtains for the windows, no food. If you want something, you’ll have to ask me. I will be your only company. Maybe this will help you realise how much your comfort relies on me, and you won’t take it for granted like a little spoiled ungrateful girl.”

He opens the door. You stare at the spiral stone stairs. Identical to the ones going down to the dungeon, only that it goes upwards. 

“Up you go.”

You hesitate before walking. He is right behind you, breathing down your neck. If you stop or slow down, he gives you a small push, long slender fingers poking at your back. 

“Move those little legs for me”, he teases. “We’re not there yet—and won’t be for a while. Keep walking.”

“But there’s so many stairs …”, you mumble. 

“You ran all the way down to the village with those legs, you can walk a couple of stairs.”

You reach the round room in what feels like an hour. You fall down on your knees, grunting in exhaustion. Edmund chuckles. 

“You need to gain some muscles”, he says and then frowns, catching himself. “Or don’t. The weaker you are, the less I need to worry about you running away from me again.”

He hadn’t lie. The room is completely empty. Just a round room with plank floor and nothing more. 

“It gets really cold during the night”, Edmund smirks. “You are allowed to cuddle up to me. I encourage it.”

“How long will I have to stay here …?”

“Until you’ve learned your lesson. Everything you want and need, you have to ask me for. Let’s sit down.”

He sits down on the floor with hit back against the wall. A king never sits down on the floor. If anything, there should be a pillow beneath him. Never directly. But he does for you. You sit down on the other side of the room, arms around your legs. The two of you are silent a long time. 

“I hated to wake up alone”, Edmund says after a while, voice dripping in frustration. “I never want to do it again. I thought I was going to throw up!”

“I met a little boy”, you say quietly without acknowledging what he said, face turned towards the nearest window. “A little four year old. He was adorable.”

Edmund seems surprised.

“Really?” he asks. 

“I’m jealous of the innocence of a child. He didn’t seem the slightest scared … everything was exciting for him.”

“You’re crying again, my jewel …”

“I hope him and his mother are safe and unharmed. They were so kind to me.”

“Are you having baby fever? I can solve that.”

You give him a glare. “You don’t listen.”

Edmund sighs and squeeze his eyes shut for a second. “I’m sure they're fine, Y/N.”

Guilt washes over you. So does the tears. Edmund moves across the room until he sits next to you. 

“You killed those men.”

“They touched you. I saw the dagger they held and the one pressing their arm over your throat. I’d done worse if we didn’t have to get out of there immediately. They don’t get to touch you. They don’t even get to look or breathe the same air as you without my permission. I’d never give filthy fucks like them that kind of permission anyways. Only I am worthy enough to be in your presence. They could never afford someone like you. Only I.”

He turns your face towards his softly with his hand. You gulp. 

“You are mine, only mine, and after we are done up here you will have realised that too.”

[iamactuallysocute]

i’ve had this idea for a little while and wanted to share it with you.

what would happen if assistant reader said to each of the saja boys “who’s a good boy?”

like who would genuinely respond with “it’s me, right? i’ve been good, yeah?” and who would be just baffled to hear those words be spoken to them?

just a funny little idea i had! also i love your writing and your series!

“WHO’S A GOOD BOY?”

AN: I’m so sorry love I know you said assistant reader but I loved the idea way too much to make it with a still unstable relationship, this way it can go into something way more intimate, in the sweet way. We can say this is not assistant reader, or assistant reader after getting into a relationship with her boys.

cw: implied female reader, dom!reader, no actual p in v anywhere but heavy nsfw, jerking off, almost-shower sex, almost-footjob, dry humping, Mystery getting a little wild

JINU

Jinu’s beside you on the couch, long legs sprawled out, robe hanging loose over his bare chest, scrolling through his phone. His hair is a little messy. He hasn’t said much for the past fifteen minutes.

You lean back against the cushions, tilt your head toward him. “Can you bring me my makeup brush?”

You just like to play with it, alright?

There’s a pause. His scrolling stops. A deep, quiet sigh leaves him like you’ve just asked him to hike across the continent barefoot. But he gets up anyway. He’ll roll his eyes, mutter something under his breath, act like you’ve disrupted the most important meeting of his life… but he’ll still do whatever you ask. No hesitation.

You watch him disappear, robe dragging just a little behind him. You don’t even have to raise your voice, he’s already back, brush in hand, looking at you like he’s considering making a snarky comment but thinking better of it.

He places it into your hand.

“There we go.” you say, voice turning into something just a shade warmer than casual. “Who’s a good boy?”

The shift in his eyes, holy shit, like you just tugged on a thread he didn’t know was showing. And then… the tiniest hesitation before he sits back down, as though his body is deciding whether to pretend he didn’t hear it or to lean in fully.

You already know which way it’s going.

“C’mere.” you murmur. You don’t even have to pull, he folds in toward you, closing the gap.

The moment he’s within range, he tips forward just slightly, nose brushing into the curve of your neck. A quiet inhale ghosts against your skin.

Yeah. He liked it. More than he’d ever admit. You can feel it in the way he lingers there, just breathing you in for a moment. His hand settles against your knee, thumb tapping once.

And then there’s that shift, the tilt from “I’ll indulge you” to “I want more.”

It’s subtle. His mouth moves, a barely-there brush along the base of your jaw. His fingers tighten slightly at your leg. You don’t even have to look at him to know what’s in his eyes, you’ve seen it before.

“Don’t start.” you warn, though your tone is lazy at best.

“I’m not.” he murmurs into your neck, voice rough in that way that says he absolutely is. His nose nudges you again, trailing higher, lips skimming the line of your throat.

The truth is, Jinu likes control. Loves it. But with you, that power flips so easily. It’s not just that you can tell him what to do, it’s that you can make him want it. All it takes is the right tone, the right touch.

And “good boy” might as well be a commandment.

You bring your hand up to his hair, smoothing it back slowly, fingertips dragging just a little at his scalp. He reacts instantly, leaning into it, eyes fluttering shut for half a second.

“Good boy.” you say again, softer now. Almost absent-minded.

It does something to him.

You feel his breath hitch where his mouth is pressed against your skin. His hand leaves your knee, sliding up, slow and warm, fingertips grazing the outside of your thigh.

But you’re not giving him the win. Not yet.

You keep stroking his hair, keep your voice calm. “See? You can be useful when you try.”

A low sound leaves him, half scoff, half something hornier. He pulls back just enough to look at you, but he’s closer than before. “Careful.”

You lean back just slightly, forcing him to follow if he wants to stay this close. “What? Gonna bite the hand that feeds you?”

His gaze drops to your mouth for a fraction of a second before climbing back to your eyes. “…Maybe.”

But he doesn’t. Not yet. Instead, he settles back into you again.

You know exactly how this works. No matter how selfish, manipulative, or downright evil Jinu can be, when you turn it on him, when you make him come to you, when you coax him into that space where he’s the one responding, he’s yours to play with.

All it took was four little words.

And the rest of the night?

Well. You already know who’s the good boy.

ROMANCE

The mirror is fogging over already by the time you finish rinsing the cleanser from your face. The bathroom is humid, warm, steam coming up from behind the frosted shower glass where Romance is currently taking a shower. You’re at the sink, leaning in toward the mirror, hair tied back, going through your nightly routine. He’s humming in there when not talking. Right now, he’s talking.

“…and then Abby said it was my fault.” he’s saying. “Like—what? I wasn’t even—oh, hey, where’s the moisturizer you like? The one with the gold cap?”

You don’t look at him, just reach for a small jar on the counter. “Right here.”

“Mhm.” he hums, letting it go if he actually has to exit the shower for it, clearly not listening to his own story anymore. “Okay, but for real, I think we should—”

“Where’s the cotton pads?” you cut in, still focused on your reflection.

“Top drawer, left side.” he answers instantly.

You hum back in acknowledgment, pulling one out. “And the hair serum?”

“Under the sink, behind the basket.”

You smile faintly at your own reflection, and without looking toward the shower, you drop it. “Thanks. Who’s a good boy?”

The water keeps running, but his voice changes instantly, brightening, a little too eager. You can hear the smile. “Me.” he says, like it’s obvious. “Me, baby.”

You lean back against the counter, one brow raised, letting a slow, knowing smile curl on your lips. “Yeah.” you say lightly, dragging the word out. “You.”

When you glance over, you catch the blur of him through the fogged glass, the outline of his figure turning toward you. His hand smears a streak into the glass with the side of his palm, enough to see you clearly.

You turn away to fuck with him, looking back at the mirror.

The next sound is the glass door sliding open halfway, steam rolling out into the room. He leans one wet forearm against the frame, hair slicked back, water streaming down over his shoulders and chest.

“Come here.” he coaxes, voice low and velvety. “It’s warm. Feels good.”

You shake your head. “No.”

“Don’t make me come get you.”

“Romance—”

“—good boy.” he interrupts himself, repeating it under his breath. And then he crooks his finger at you. “Say it again in here.”

“I’m not getting in the shower right now.”

Two beats later, there’s the tap-tap-tap of his knuckle against the glass. You glance over.

He’s drawing something on the fogged surface with one fingertip. A crooked heart. Then another. Then your initial.

“Look.” he says, tilting his head, eyes pretty and unbearably pleased with himself. “That’s you. And that’s me.”

You try not to smile.

“I’m serious.” he keeps going, tracing little arrows between the hearts. “Together. Forever. You know.”

You roll your eyes, but he’s not giving up. His voice turns coaxing, sweet. “Baby… come in. Just for a minute. I’ll wash your back, I’ll be good.”

“Good boy good?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“The best boy.”

You turn back to the sink, ignoring the way he’s now just leaving random handprints on the glass, his palm dragging down .

“Come in.” he says again. “It’s nice. I’ll hold you. Wash your hair. Draw you more hearts if you want.”

You sigh. But he sees the flicker in your expression, the part of you that is tempted.

“Come on.” he says softly now, palm against the glass again, leaving another heart. “Don’t make me beg.”

And you believe he would. You really, truly believe he would.

“Just for a minute.” he says. “C’mon, pretty thing. I’ll even—” he sketches another heart on the glass “—make you one of these in person.”

You sigh, but you already know where this is going. By the time you unclip your hair and pull at the hem of your shirt, his palms are flat on the glass, breath fogging it up even more. He’s watching you undress like it’s the first time he’s ever seen you.

When you finally step in, he shifts just enough to give you space, the water beating down warm between you, but you’re barely in before he leans forward a little, voice low and so sweet.

“Hi.” he says, like you haven’t been sharing a bathroom for the past fifteen minutes.

It would almost be adorable.

If there wasn’t a seven-inch problem pressing against you the second you’re close enough.

Your back finds the tiled wall before you’ve even realized he’s moving you there, one slow, inevitable push of his body until there’s nowhere left to go. His head(not the one on his neck), you can feel it on your stomach. It’s enough to make your pulse jump, and his breathing shifts subtly when he catches the flicker of reaction in your eyes.

Romance isn’t smiling now. This is different, focused, intent. It’s ridiculous that all of this is because of a name. Good boy. And yet, you can feel the way it lit something up in him.

One hand is on your hip, he uses the other to cup the side of your face, his thumb tracing your cheekbone slowly. It’s so stupidly sweet that it almost disarms you, like he’s reminding himself to look at you, to take this in. Then his hand is traveling again, down the column of your neck, over the curve of your shoulder, cupping one of your tits. He likes doing that. The other stays low on your ass, holding you against him, so there’s no mistaking what he wants you to feel.

Then, that hand skims down his own stomach before wrapping around himself, a quiet groan slipping from his throat when he tugs on himself a little.

It’s so intimate in a way you hadn’t prepared for. There’s no frantic groping, no clumsy rush. Just the heat of his body pressed to yours, the quiet, steady rhythm of his breathing syncing with yours.

He’s touching you and himself at the same time, his hips moving, fucking his fist in slow, deliberate rolls that match the slide of his palm over your skin.

His other hand finds yours against the wall and laces your fingers together, pressing them there. His grip on your hand tightens briefly when you drag your nails over his shoulder, the faint hitch in his breathing the only sign you’ve thrown him off balance.

You feel him shift closer to you, hips pressing forward just enough to make the hardness between you more pronounced. Romance isn’t looking at you now, he’s looking down, watching the place where you’re pressed together, his jaw tight. The water slicks everything.

When his lips finally brush yours, it’s not the start of anything rough or rushed. It’s soft, just a press, lingering. His hand squeezes yours once.

It’s weird that you can feel him in four places at once, his lips on you, his hand in yours, his cock slapping against your skin when he lets it go for a second, and his hand between you, stroking himself.

It’s not frantic. It’s not even about getting off quickly. It’s… intimate.

He lifts his head to take a big breath, then his forehead drops to your wet temple, lips brushing there without quite kissing. The water is so loud that every little sound he makes, those soft, breathy groans, feels magnified. Now his hand is working himself in a way that drags his knuckles against your stomach with every stroke.

Your both of your hands are on him, one in his hand, connected to him, the other lower, your fingers curling against his hipbone. He reacts instantly to the touch, hips rocking forward in a slow grind that has his breath stuttering.

His nose brushes your cheek, and you catch the smallest hint of a smile against your skin, like even now, he’s stupidly happy to have you here, this close, like this.

Slut.

Every little movement is a wordless conversation.

You’re mine. I want you. Don’t pull away.

ABBY

Abby’s been your personal ride for the entire day. Not figuratively, literally. His broad back has been your throne since morning, his massive hands hooking under your thighs to keep you steady while he moves around like you weigh nothing. You’d dropped hints before that you liked it, but now it’s out in the open, you love it. The way his shoulders settle when you climb on, the easy grip he has on your legs, the small hmph he gives if anyone even looks like they might try to take you off him, it’s obvious. Carrying you from room to room, up the stairs, down the stairs, through the kitchen, even into the living room where the others barely batted an eye.

Then you drop your hair tie.

And without a word, Abby crouches down with you still on him to grab it. And god, he’s so strong, moving like it’s nothing, his huge frame dipping down with you still on his back. His hand reaches out, fingers curling around the little tie you’ve been playing with for the past half an hour. He doesn’t even have to shift you, just one smooth motion, and you’re both upright again, your thighs bouncing against his sides as he stands.

You kiss his cheek, as a thank you. Then in an appreciative way: “Who’s a good boy?”

His response is exactly what you expect—a sharp, dismissive “Tch.”

He keeps walking. He does it without complaint, his hands still braced firm under your thighs. But as you shift a little higher on his back, you angle yourself so you can look over his shoulder… and clear as day, pressing against the front of his pants, he so has a boner.

You move your legs slightly, adjusting your grip, and let your feet brush slowly over the bulge. Just enough pressure to make it obvious.

He freezes for a half-second mid-step. Then exhales through his nose. He doesn’t say a word, but his grip on you tightens just a little, like he’s making sure you don’t slip. Or maybe making sure you don’t stop.

You do it again. A little harder this time.

He doesn’t drop you or tell you to cut it out. He carries you straight down the hall, through the doorway of his bedroom. The door slams shut with the heel of his foot.

Then, he tosses you down onto his bed. You bounce once on the mattress, propped up on your elbows, looking up at him. His size is even more obvious like this, standing over you, chest rising and falling.

Abby’s eyes rake over you, lingering at your mouth, your neck, the line of your body against his sheets.

His hands are already on the mattress, caging you in as he leans forward, the shadow of him falling over you. The scent of him is stronger here. And maybe it’s the rush of being carried around all day, or maybe it’s the way his jaw tightens when you smile up at him, but whatever restraint he had in the hallway is gone now. His mouth finds yours without hesitation, hot, insistent, sloppy and hungry. One big hand braces against the bed near your head, the other grips your hip.

You push at his shoulder just enough to break the kiss, to make him look at you. You see the faintest twitch in his jaw, the shine in his eyes. It’s beautiful.

“Still a good boy?” you murmur, low enough that it’s almost lost under the sound of your breathing.

You can feel him, hard and unashamed, pressing into your thigh.

You plant the heel of your foot right between his legs, on his bulge, slow enough for him to notice, hard enough for him to understand it’s not an accident. His whole body stills, eyes locked on yours.

Then you push.

Not hard—you’re not trying to hurt him—but enough to shove him back, the press of your foot against his cock a clear little not yet. His breath leaves him in one sharp exhale, almost a growl, and he rocks back onto his knees at the end of the bed.

The look he gives you isn’t confusion, it’s understanding. He knows exactly what this is.

“Nuh-uh.” Your voice is calm, almost bored, even though you’re curling your toes onto his bulge.

He exhales sharply through his nose, but you can see the restraint. Abby’s not used to being denied, not when he’s already here, already in it. And he’s definitely not used to you setting the pace once he’s wound this tight.

You keep your heel right there, an unspoken line he can’t cross unless you let him.

“Earn it.” you add, voice low and deliberate, and you watch the meaning sink in.

Abby’s the kind of guy who can throw you over his shoulder without blinking, the kind who can make your knees buckle with a look. But you just reminded him that all that strength, all that presence, doesn’t mean shit unless you give the green light.

Now he wants it even more.

His hands slide off the mattress, palms up in a slow gesture, like he’s showing you they’re empty. Then, instead of coming forward again, he settles back on his heels, giving you that little bit of space while keeping his eyes locked on yours. Part of him wants to grab your ankle, pin you down, and prove you wrong. The other part… the other part is leaning into this, letting you lead him right into the palm of your hand.

He drops his gaze for a second, just enough for you to catch him taking in the press of your foot against him, the subtle arch of your body on his bed. When his eyes come back up.

“What do I have to do?” He’s not used to asking for things.

You ease your foot off him just enough to keep him wanting. “Guess we’ll find out.” you say, leaning back against his pillows like you’re settling in for a show.

He could fold you in half without effort. But he doesn’t.

Your heel is still propped against the hardness in his pants, not pushing now, just moving in lazy little circles that make his eyes flutter half-shut. He’s not touching you, not grabbing, not rushing, which is so unlike Abby that it’s almost disarming.

Every shift of your toes makes his breath hitch. You see the way his big hands curl into the blanket instead of into your hips, the way his chest rises and falls in tight, uneven pulls.

He’s being good.

Which is wild, because Abby’s not the kind of man who does patience well. He’s not the type to wait his turn. Except now, with your foot on him, he’s sitting there like a statue, watching you.

You drag the ball of your foot in slow, deliberate little circles, feeling him shift under the pressure. Every once in a while, you push a little harder, then ease up again, just to see what it does to him.

It’s not just about touching him, it’s about watching him take it. His big hands flex like he’s dying to grab you and yet he doesn’t move an inch. His breathing’s changed, too, deeper, slower, like he’s trying to control it but every little movement from you knocks him off his rhythm.

You let your toes press a little more firmly against him, a tiny reward. “Good boy.”

His jaw clenches, his eyes narrow just a little, and you can see the subtle roll of his hips forward before he catches himself. He swallows, hard, like the words went straight through him.

It’s intoxicating, watching someone like Abby, someone who could probably snap the headboard in half without trying, reduced to this still, obedient patience because you haven’t given him permission to move.

You’re savoring it. Drawing it out. Making him wait.

The first time his hips jerk involuntarily, you catch the way his head tips forward, chin to chest, like he’s trying to hide his reaction.

“Look at me.” you say, just to see what happens. You’re actually having so much fun.

His gaze comes up immediately, and god, those eyes.

You drag your foot slowly along the length of him, watching how his breath changes to shorter.

“Feels good?” you ask, casual, knowing exactly what you’re doing.

He huffs. “You know it does.”

You smile, just a hint of teeth, and keep going. You switch between rhythms that make him have to shift his hips just to keep contact. Every now and then you pull back completely, just to watch the frustration flicker over his face.

Minutes pass like this. You’re not rushing, and Abby—somehow—is letting you set the pace.

The bed creaks when he adjusts his stance, spreading his knees wider, bracing himself on the mattress. He’s leaning into your foot now, not even subtle about it. Slow, steady rolls of his hips, grinding against the arch of it.

You let him, because watching him choose to be good for you is just as satisfying as forcing him to be.

And that’s exactly why you sigh. Loud enough for him to hear it over the quiet between you. “Come here.”

When he finally reaches you, his hands go to either side of your hips on the bed, his body hovering over yours.

You tilt your head back against the pillow, giving him that lazy little smile. “See?” you murmur. “Not so hard to behave.”

“Earned it, huh?” he says against your mouth, not kissing yet, his voice a low rasp.

You smile, tilting your head so your lips just brush his. “Every inch.”

That’s all it takes, he kisses you like he’s been holding it back for hours, teeth grazing your bottom lip. His hands slide down to your hips, fingers digging in.

The thing about Abby is that when he’s got the green light, he doesn’t waste it. Every touch is heavy, sure, and there’s no mistaking the sheer want in him, but there’s also this surprising precision. He knows exactly where to put his hands, exactly how much weight to press into you, exactly how to make you feel the size difference between you.

His hands find your thighs, sliding them apart so he can settle between them. You hook your ankles behind his back without thinking, pulling him closer, and he makes a sound low in his throat, half-groan, half-growl.

It’s not lost on you that all of this closeness, this heat, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing worth seeing, came from making him earn it.

And judging by the way he’s holding you now, neither of you are going to forget it anytime soon.

MYSTERY

The kitchen smells like cinnamon and sugar, the oven humming low in the background. You’ve got flour on your fingers, a streak of it on your cheek you haven’t noticed, and Mystery’s standing nearby.

It’s comfortable, this rhythm. You tell him “pass me the whisk” and without a sound he does. You ask for the sugar, the measuring cup, the bowl, each time, he’s there immediately, giving you anything you say if he knows what the thing is.

It’s so easy to forget he’s been alive for centuries when he does things like this. Like he’s just… your helper in the kitchen.

You set the bowl down, wipe your hands on your apron, and turn toward him. Then you step into his space, catching his face between both your hands before he can step back. His hair brushes over your knuckles, but you push enough aside to see the faintest glimpse of his eyes.

Your fingers squish his cheeks together in pure, unfiltered cuteness aggression, making his lips pout slightly, and you can feel the faint jolt in his posture.

“Who’s a good boy?” you ask sweetly, shaking his face around softly. He’s genuinely so cute.

If he feels anything about it, he doesn’t show it, not outwardly. But you don’t miss the faint hitch in his breath when you lean in and give him one quick peck on the lips. Then another. Then a third, right at the corner of his mouth, before your lips wander over his cheek, his jaw, the bridge of his nose.

You pull back with a smile, already turning back to your mixing bowl. “Anyway—oven’s almost ready, so we need to get this in soon—”

And that’s it. You’re already talking about baking again.

The whisk scrapes against the side of the bowl, the cinnamon scent getting stronger, and Mystery hasn’t moved. His hands are shoved into his pockets, shoulders tense in a way you’ve never quite seen before. That one phrase—good boy—and those feather-light kisses are replaying in his head.

One moment, you’re focused on folding the batter, the next, there’s a sudden warmth at your back. Mystery’s chest pressed against you, his hands braced lightly on the counter on either side of you. You feel his breath at the back of your neck, the subtle way his weight leans into you without trapping you entirely.

“Not now, baby.” you murmur softly, your tone warm but dismissive, giving a little shrug of your shoulders to loosen his hold. You’re used to his clinginess by now.

He does step back barely. Just enough to let you keep working, but not enough to give you space.

The truth is, in his head, there’s a quiet logic forming: you gave him affection when you were happy. That affection was tied to a phrase. If he wants more of that, he has to earn it.

And for someone like Mystery, “earning” means staying close, being useful, watching you.

So he hovers. Any time you reach for something, it’s already in your hand before you can ask. When you turn to get the milk, he’s holding it out. You don’t even hear him move.

The oven timer dings, and you move to slide the tray in. His hand covers yours briefly on the oven handle, not to stop you, but to steady it, like he’s worried you’ll burn yourself.

You thank him without looking back.

Inside, he feels that tiny flicker of reward again. He files it away.

As the cookies bake, you start cleaning up, and he’s still there. You feel his gaze on you, though with his hair falling over his eyes it’s impossible to tell if he’s even looking.

When the cookies are done, you pull them out. You plate a few to cool, and as you do, you feel him closer again, almost pressed into your side this time.

You give him another gentle shrug. “You’ll get one when they’re cooled, don’t hover.”

But he’s not hovering for the cookies.

He’s hovering for you.

Because in his mind, a good boy gets rewarded, and he’s going to make sure he’s the best one you’ve ever had.

The cookies are cooling on the counter. You’re rinsing the last mixing bowl when you feel him again, pressed close enough behind you that the warmth of his chest cuts through your shirt.

At first, you think he’s just in another one of his clingy moods. He gets like this sometimes, like he wants to crawl under your skin and stay there. You start to give the same little shrug you’ve used all afternoon to gently move him back, except this time, he doesn’t move.

You glance over your shoulder. He hasn’t stepped away.

“Love.” you warn lightly. “I’m trying to clean up.”

But you can feel a boner pressing into you as he presses close again.

“Mystery…” This time, your voice is softer.

His mouth finds your neck first, the barest graze of lips at the base where your pulse flutters. You shiver, and his hands are on your hips, drawing you back just enough to fit his body flush to yours.

You turn your head, about to say something, but he beats you to it, his mouth catching yours in a kiss. Your fingers find the edge of the counter behind you, gripping it for balance as he kisses you, harder and harder. His hair falls forward, brushing against your face, and you push some of it back so it doesn’t tickle you.

“Baby—” you start, but it’s breathless, not a protest.

He just shakes his head slightly, like words aren’t worth it, and mouths at your jaw instead. One of his hands slips lower while the other slides up, ghosting under your shirt just enough to feel the heat of your skin. That’s all it takes for him to press in closer, his hips moving just enough that you can feel the heat of him grinding against you. You don’t mind. In fact, your hands come up instinctively, curling into the fabric at his shirt to pull him closer. His hair brushes against your cheek, soft.

He makes a low sound, something between a sigh and a growl, and his hands move lower. Sliding down until they’re gripping your ass with no hesitation. He squeezes, hard.

You break the kiss for just a second, catching your breath, very conscious of how hard he is, but he doesn’t retreat. His lips trail down to your jaw, your neck, his hair tickling over your skin as he presses you back against the counter.

Your heartbeat is loud in your ears. Your sweet, silent boyfriend is not silent right now, not in the way his breathing hitches, or the way his grip tightens on two greedy handfuls of your ass.

You pull back just enough to reach for the plate of cookies on the counter. You take one, still warm, and hold it up to his lips.

He hesitates only for a second before biting into it, his eyes, barely visible under his hair, locked on yours the entire time.

It’s ridiculous how hot it is.

Something about the way he takes the bite without breaking eye contact, the faint brush of his lips against your fingertips, the little hum in his throat as he tastes it, it’s insanely charged.

You laugh softly, but it’s breathless, and when you try to step back, his hands tighten on your ass again, pulling you flush to him once more. The cookie’s barely gone and he’s kissing you again, the taste of sugar and cinnamon mixing between you. No, it’s not disgusting.

And god, you can feel how much that little praise earlier has affected him. Every kiss, every press of his body into yours, is him wordlessly saying I’m a good boy, see?

And you’re starting to think maybe he’s right.

You realize you’re getting glimpses of his demon side. His control is fraying.

The next kiss is almost too much, wet, open-mouthed, his tongue moving wildly, his hips grinding into you like he’s already imagining what it’d be like without your clothes in the way.

You barely notice the faint, sharp scrape at first, but then, oh, you do. His fangs are out. Not fully, just enough that when he drags his lips across yours, they catch. He bites. Not deep, but hard enough to sting and your gasp only makes him kiss you harder.

He’s pressed right up against you now, one leg between yours, and when you shift just slightly, you feel the full press of him, hard, hot, desperate, grinding against you. It drags a low, guttural sound out of him.

You make a noise you didn’t mean to, and next moment, he’s guiding you into the rhythm without saying a word. Slow at first, then deeper. His hips move in perfect sync with yours, a low growl vibrating against your mouth each time you meet in the middle.

And fuuuuck man, he’s not letting you breathe. Both hands stay locked on your ass, holding you so close that every inch of him presses into you with every grind. Your chest, your stomach, your thighs, every point of contact is a hot, perfect line of friction.

He’s always so quiet, but right now, his breathing is ragged, audible, wanting.

Your lips leave his just long enough for you to murmur it. Low, close to his ear, letting it drip off your tongue. “…such a good boy.”

The counter digs into your lower back as he shoves you against it, your hands flying back to brace yourself. The jolt forces a startled shriek out of you, but he’s right there, kissing you through it, pressing into you like he could just push himself inside your skin. His hips are grinding into you faster, harder, like he’s chasing something he can almost taste.

You’re breathless, laughing a little in disbelief between kisses, because he’s not letting you go.

And in the middle of it, when he finally pulls back enough to breathe, his lips barely a whisper from yours, you can see it in him. That need. That yes, I’m your good boy, don’t you ever stop telling me.

BABY

Baby does not want to be here.

That much is obvious from the moment you roll out your yoga mat and toss him one with this big, bright we’re doing this together grin. You don’t even know how you convinced him to do this. Baby doesn’t do morning activities, he doesn’t do routines, and the concept of wellness is something he usually laughs at with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other.

And yet, you have him here. On the mat you laid out for him, sitting. He’s cross-legged, slouched, leaning back slightly on his hands.

You, on the other hand, are in full lotus position, posture tall, breathing slow and even. You look like the picture of serenity. He looks like the picture of get me out of here.

“Okay.” you say brightly, voice all sunshine and encouragement because let’s be honest, he’s your bratty, annoying, skinny-ass boyfriend and you love him anyway. “First thing, straighten your back.”

He blinks at you. Then he blinks again. And… doesn’t move.

“You’re slouching.” you remind, tilting your head, smiling patiently.

“No I’m not.” he replies, like he’s the one who’s been doing yoga for years and you’re the rookie here. He runs a hand through his hair.

“Straighten.” you repeat, softer this tim.

He exhales, a dramatic, put-upon sigh, but his spine stays curved.

You could push, could tell him you’re serious, but no. You’re sweet. You’re angelic, because that’s what he gets from you, even when he’s impossible. “Okay,” you murmur. “we’ll work on it.” You breathe in. “Leg out, lean forward. Like this.” You extend one leg, folding over it, stretching gracefully.

Baby just… straightens his leg, doesn’t lean, and then stares at you.

“There you go.” you praise warmly, looking up at him from your stretch like he’s just nailed a headstand. “Amazing, sweetie.”

“Uh-huh.” he hums, leaning back on his hands, looking at you instead of doing anything remotely yogic.

When you guide him into trying a simple twist, he half-asses it, his torso turning maybe 10 degrees, and you still murmur, “That’s perfect.” When you coax him into sitting up taller, he leans back instead, and you only brush your fingers over his knee with a fond, “Better than the first one.”

You reach over, resting your hand lightly on his knee. “We’ll try something easier.”

“Easier than sitting? What’s that, lying down?”

“Close.” You shift to a simple seated forward fold, motioning for him to copy you. He does, if you count bending forward just enough to rest his elbows on his knees and then stopping.

“That’s… close enough.” you say.

“I know.”

You laugh quietly under your breath. You can’t help it, he’s such an asshole, but somehow it’s endearing. Maybe it’s because under the bratty surface, he is here. He is sitting on a yoga mat with you. That counts for something.

You move on, demonstrating a side stretch, arm overhead, leaning gracefully. Baby mimics it, his arm not even fully extended, his body tilting a fraction before he decides that’s “good enough.”

You adjust his arm with the gentlest touch, and he lets you, watching you. “There. That’s better.”

The next one, he shifts his legs out lazily, mimicking your stretch again, but there’s no reach in it, no tension. Just the bare imitation of what you’re doing.

You smile like it’s the most sincere effort you’ve ever seen. “Perfect, love. You’re a natural.”

The moment you stop making him follow along with your little stretches, he flops onto his back on the mat. Arms spread, head turned lazily toward you. His hair’s a mess, his eyes half-lidded, the very picture of I am not participating in anything else today.

Useless fuck.

But he’s your useless fuck, and you love him for it.

You keep going with your own poses for a minute or two, letting him just be there, because sometimes Baby needs to melt into the floor until he becomes part of it. But eventually, you finish your stretch and crawl over to him, planting your hands on either side of his hips.

“Alright,” you murmur, sweet as honey. “if you’re going to lay there like a lump, I’m at least going to make sure you don’t turn into a tight lump.”

He groans without opening his eyes, voice deep and lazy. “Do whatever you want.”

Wrong answer, because that’s exactly what you were going to do. You grab one of his legs, bending it toward his chest for a hamstring stretch. He doesn’t resist at all, just goes limp in your hands.

It’s ridiculous. This boy is older than your entire family tree combined and you’re here stretching him out like he’s an infant you’re teaching to kick.

“That’s it.” you murmur, adjusting his ankle and holding it steady. “Good stretch, baby.”

He hums low in his throat, eyes still closed, not even pretending to help. His muscles are loose, his breathing steady, and he lets you push and pull him however you want.

You switch legs, guiding him through the same motion, and he’s still just… there. Not even tensing. Not even pretending to put in effort.

“Sweet boy.” you praise, and his lips twitch just enough to let you know he heard you. Then, because you can’t resist, you slide your hands down his calf, rotate his ankle a little, and give him a smile. “There we go… who’s a good boy?”

It’s subtle, but you feel it, the little pause in his breathing, the faintest shift in his posture. And oh, he likes that.

You don’t say anything about the way his jaw loosens, or the way he exhales like you’ve just hit some secret switch in his brain. You just keep going, stretching him, coaxing him along with the same gentle touch, the same sweet voice.

You hold both his feet, pushing gently toward his chest until he’s in the laziest, most relaxed version of a happy baby pose. You can’t help but laugh at the fitting name.

“Perfect.” you murmur, pressing a quick kiss to his shin. “My perfect boy.”

Yeah, you’re very aware of the erection pressing against the thin fabric of his sweats. You don’t say anything about it, but you do take your time moving him, finding the stretches that’ll just happen to make his thigh shift, or his hip angle in a way that drags the fabric against it. Nothing blatant enough to call you out for, but enough that his jaw tightens every few seconds.

You straighten his leg again, pushing his ankle toward the ceiling. “There we go.” you murmur, your voice syrup-sweet. “So good for me.”

His eyes flick up at you.

“Feel that?” you ask, leaning in slightly so your torso presses into the underside of his thigh, pushing just a little further. The move forces the fabric of his pants to pull taut right across him.

“Yeah. I feel it.”

“Good. Nice, love.” You slide his left leg up again, pressing it slowly toward his chest. He makes a quiet sound, too low to be a groan, too short to be a sigh, but still telling.

“There we go.” you murmur, holding the stretch. “Perfect.”

You can feel him tense just a little at the words. You slide his ankle back onto your shoulder, leaning in. From this angle, you can see the faint rise and fall of his chest, how his jaw flexes every time you press a little deeper into the stretch.

“Good.” you whisper, brushing your fingers along the side of his calf. “So good, Baby.”

He shifts, just a fraction, and his hips tilt upward before he catches himself and tries to settle again.

You lower his leg slowly, drawing it out, keeping the motion slow until his foot hits the mat again. Then you take the other leg, lifting it high, leaning your weight into it until the stretch has him letting out a low breath.

“Mm, that’s nice.” you hum. You just so happen to tilt his leg slightly outward. The motion shifts his hips, dragging the seam of his sweats right across him again.

This time, he inhales sharply through his nose.

You keep your expression neutral, innocent. “Too much?”

“No.” Quick answer. Too quick.

“Mhm.” You start to ease the stretch, then suddenly lean into it again just to watch the way his body tenses.

You’re not blind to the way his breathing’s changed, either. Slower, heavier.

“Doing so well.” you murmur, brushing your fingers lightly along his calf before setting his leg down. “Proud of you.”

When you lower his leg this time, you don’t let go. You keep your hands on him, smoothing over muscle, adjusting his hips. And you don’t bother hiding that your eyes have slid down, right to the evidence he’s not as unaffected as he wants you to think.

You tilt your head. “Baby…”

His eyes cut to you. “What.”

“You’re hard.”

He gives you this look, somewhere between and your point is? and say one more word.

You just grin. “It’s cute.”

“It’s not—” He stops himself, sighs, and stares at the ceiling. “You’re annoying.”

You switch positions, straddling the mat beside him and taking both of his legs at once, guiding him into another stretch that brings his knees toward his chest. And oh, that’s a bad idea—well, bad for him, fun for you—because it pushes his hips up just enough that his sweatpants tent more noticeably. You keep his legs where they are for a few more moments, feeling the way every shift makes him subtly press against himself, and you swear his breathing’s getting uneven now.

You decide to test how far he’ll let you go. You take his right leg and ease it up again, pushing it toward his chest while keeping your other hand braced near his hip, fingers dangerously close to where he’s straining against the fabric.

“That’s it.”

“Perfect.”

“Just like that.”

“Good boy.”

Every little adjustment moves his thigh over his cock, slow friction through soft sweats, making his breath grow heavier without him realizing it.

You ease his leg back down, only to take the other one and do the same, moving in a way that just happens to grind him again.

The first real sound slips from him without warning. A low, strained hum that’s more like a quiet groan. “Hhh—”

“Mm? Something wrong?” you tease, feigning cluelessness.

“No.” but the unintentional hnnhh that slips past his lips makes you glance up.

“Sweet boy,” you murmur, patting the side of his thigh before leaning forward again. “you sound like you’re enjoying yourself.”

He says nothing. But his hips shift, almost unconsciously, just enough to press against you when you lean closer.

“Ohhh,” you hum softly, dragging your fingertips down the inside of his leg. “you are enjoying yourself.”

The next stretch has you leaning even lower, his leg bent high, his thigh brushing firmly against the bulge in his pants. His breath hitches, short, sharp. “A-ahh…” It’s barely there, but you hear it.

You keep going. And every sound after that comes a little easier. Little broken exhales, short hums, the smallest whimper when your palm presses down and the friction spikes.

He’s deadass close. The centuries old demon is deadass about to cum from some yoga.

“That’s it.” you say sweetly, knowing exactly what you’re doing.

When you change position again, it’s even worse for him. You guide one of his knees up and over your thigh, stretching him in a way that forces his hips to roll. The move drags fabric over him with slow, maddening friction, and you hear it—a sharp inhale followed by a muffled, “…fuck…”

You push him further, leaning into the stretch until his head tips back against the mat.

There’s a low hum when you press too close. A barely-there whimper when you adjust his leg. A soft, breathy, “…hah—” when you shift just right. His head tips to the side, eyes half-lidded, mouth slack. You lean forward into the next stretch, your hips moving against his thigh, and his quiet, “…nngh—” gives him away completely.

“Mm, that’s it… nice and loose now… so good, Baby.”

You slide behind him, legs bracketing his hips, and pull him gently back into you, keeping his thighs spread. You guide him into a twist, your hand on his thigh, thumb brushing the inside where it’s most sensitive.

The little hitches in his breathing are coming more frequently now. Quiet, shallow sounds. Ahh—hnh— and the other colleagues.

You tilt his leg higher. You know exactly what you’re doing. And when the heel of his foot drags just slightly against himself because of the position—

“Nnh—!”

You bite back your grin, pretending it’s just about form. “There we go. See? You’re getting more flexible already.”

“Y—you’re… ridiculous.” But it comes out breathy, not biting.

You tilt his leg again, slow and deliberate, and his hips twitch involuntarily. Now he’s breathing hard, little mmh—hah—ahh— noises slipping out before he can stop them.

He’s seconds away. You know it. You can feel the way his thighs are shaking now. His hands have clenched into fists on the mat.

Then you move and swing a leg over and set right into his lap, straddling him.

The noise he makes is boyish, deep because of his natural voice, somewhere between a growl and a groan. His head tips back for just a second before he drags his eyes back to you, narrowed, but his breath is ragged. He puts his hands on your hips, gripping, holding you down exactly where you are. You can see how close he is. You feel him shift beneath you, just a subtle roll of his hips that sends heat crawling up your spine.

“Well,” you sigh lightly, glancing toward the far wall as if you’ve suddenly remembered something important. “I’m not about to start dry humping you here. On the yoga mat. That’s… unsanitary.”

Baby’s breath catches, and his hands stay locked around your hips, holding you in place anyway.

You tilt your head like you’re lost in thought. “Mm, I really should wash my hair later. And—oh, I think I left my water bottle in the kitchen. You want anything to drink?”

His hips twitch upward. You feel it. He’s doing it without even thinking, desperate little movements against you, trying to get friction without actually begging for it.

You glance down at him lazily. “You’re awfully fidgety for someone just stretching.”

“Shut up.” he mutters, eyes flicking away.

“Mmh.” You pretend to think it over. “Okay, well, if you say so.” You glance toward the ceiling like you’re mulling over the grocery list. “We’re out of milk. And I think the tiger chewed through the corner of the blanket on the couch again. And—”

“Stop talking.” he mutters through his teeth, but you don’t think he actually means it. His hips keep moving, slow and grinding.

“Why?” you ask sweetly, tilting your head. “You don’t like conversation?”

He lets out this rough little sound, frustrated, needy. “Not now.”

You act like you didn’t notice him grinding up into you again. “Did you know some yoga poses are supposed to, um… increase blood flow? I guess we’re seeing proof of that now, huh?”

Another noise from him, rough, low, so needy. He’s lost in it now, rhythm picking up, every movement dragging him against you in perfect, maddening friction.

“And I really should water my plants before bed. They’re probably dry by now. And I still haven’t ordered groceries for the week.” you continue, brushing a bit of hair out of your face, like you’re having any conversation except the one your bodies are having. “I was thinking of making pasta, but then again—”

Another grind, harder this time, dragging you exactly where you’re sensitive.

Your words stutter for half a second, but you recover, smoothing your palms along his shoulders. “—I could just do takeout.”

Baby’s mouth parts slightly, breath heavier now. No words, just a low nnnhh when you shift forward just enough to catch him right.

“But then again…” you hum thoughtfully, “I don’t really feel like spending the money right now.”

He jerks his hips up again, slower this time, and you bite your lip to keep from smiling. He’s so easy to wind up.

“And there’s the laundry. I left it in the washer—”

This time the sound he makes is longer, deeper. Mmmhh—hahhh— His grip on your hips tightens, pulling you down into the slow grind he’s started.

“Oh my god.” you say suddenly, looking over your shoulder toward the kitchen. “I think I left the kettle on earlier—”

His hips buck sharply, cutting you off. “Hhhhnn—!”

The rhythm gets sloppier, hungrier, his breath catching with every grind.

You’re still smiling, still pretending to be so fucking funny(which you are), even as your own pulse spikes. “You’re doing so well for me, baby.” you whisper sweetly, dragging your nails lightly up the back of his neck.

“Mmh—hahh—nghh—” He can’t even form words now, just sound and heat and movement, grinding up into you like he needs it to breathe.

You’re still talking, still teasing, but your hips have matched his rhythm now, both of you moving together, and every drag sends little jolts through your body. “Maybe I will dry hump here.” you say lightly. “Since you seem so desperate.”

He makes another helpless sound, hips twitching up again, and you know it’s only a matter of seconds before he’s gone.

You keep swaying against him, casual as can be. “You know, I read once that yoga can actually improve sex. Like, the flexibility, the breathing—oh, speaking of breathing, yours is a little fast. Are you—”

He cuts you off with a sharper, almost desperate ahh—! as you shift just right against him. You glance down at him, all faux innocence.

“Anyway, did you ever fix that cabinet door in the kitchen?” you murmur, still moving in slow, steady rolls of your hips against him. “Because if you didn’t, I think Mystery’s going to break it next time he slams it shut, and then—”

He groans so hard it almost interrupts you, eyes squeezing shut for a second.

“—and then we’ll have to listen to Abby complain about how nobody knows how to take care of things, and—Baby? Are you even listening to me?”

Another noise from him, breathier this time, almost a whimper.

“Mm, thought so.” you say sweetly, shifting again and dragging your hips against him in a way that makes his breath hitch hard. Gives a sound like hhhnnhh—ahhh, his hips jerking slightly as he pushes into you again.

And you just smile like you’re discussing the weather. “I think we’ll have sushi tonight.”

Hhh—fuck. It’s barely audible, muttered under his breath as he shifts again.

“Oh, so now you’ve got opinions.” you tease, sliding your hands up his chest. “Funny. You’ve been silent all class.”

You keep the pace, rocking forward and back, not giving him a moment to catch his breath.

You keep going, all sweet and innocent. “Oh, and the plants? They need watering. Remind me later, okay?” Another slow rock of your hips. His breath hitches.

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even try. Just another sound from him, a low hnnh.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep your grin from showing and start moving again. Rocking back and forth like you’re in no rush, like you’re not dry humping the hell out of your three-hundred-year-old brat boyfriend.

You pick up the pace just slightly, your body pressing him into the mat. “Mat’s totally gonna slide off the floor at this rate.” you say lightly, even as you grind harder against him.

He groans again, louder this time, and his hands grip your hips like he’s holding on for dear life.

Forward. Back. Forward. Back.

Well, this is not exactly how a good boy behaves, but sure I guess. As long as he’s happy.

[clawsdevour]

a "bet"

wc: 0.9k content warning: post-timeskip, smut, yearnerrrr bestfriend suna x reader, oral (receiving), mention of overstim, squirt, not proofread

◌ ○ . ﹡

you've never squirted before, just makeouts and lame sex from your old flings to which suna, your best friend, is always the one to hear you complain. at some point, he even started jokingly suggesting that he was going to be the first guy to probably ever make you squirt.

somehow, you didn't even realize why he began suggesting that he should be the one between your legs.

"bet you can't do it" you laughed under your breath, thinking that suna doesn’t even know where the clit is.

"tch, don't underestimate me."

your legs tingled with every warm stroke, imprint, touch, of your best friend suna's big hands. his hands, so masculine and calloused from countless years of volleyball training, yet they were so delicate as they felt your smooth skin.

"you say that when your legs are already trembling," his fingers rubbing soft circles into your skin which made your ears start to feel hot at the thought of your best friend going down on you.

his slender eyes dare to linger between your knees before forcing your legs apart, splitting them to the sides with one strong push leaving you with a parted mouth full of shock.

"why're you gasping when i haven't even touched you down there?" suna snickered, his breath on your skin.

upclose, he's eye level with your underwear that has a slightly already wet spot from all the kissing and slight grinding you've been doing to get into the mood. and yes, of course suna notices the damp spot first thing.

"aren’t you cute, already dripping wet," he murmurs before pressing his fingertip on the spot, making you tense your core that leaked.

"feels good, huh?"

his lips pepper the inside of your inner thighs, ticklish and hot until you felt a bit breezy down there. suna's fingers were pulling your undies to the side, leaving him face to face with your soaked cunt that glistened back.

right when you noticed your cunt was exposed to his beady little eyes, suna's tongue already beat you to even say a word. that boy was put to work licking and lapping up your essence that kept oozing out of your little hole. you tilt your head back at the stimulation of his tongue that worked wonders on you, fingers grasping onto the bedsheets while your eyes rolled back into your head.

suna left you no mercy when he started on your little bundle of nerves. finding it was a piece of cake, unlike what you thought. coming into contact with your clit, it was like he was having a full-blown makeout sesh with it and you couldn't complain.

his tongue swirled and made your mind drift off with ecstasy. suna circled your muscle with his hot tongue, flicked it with the tip of it, and sucked on it all while your hands traveled below to grasp onto his head full of thick brown hair. you can't help but moan and curse with every stroke of his tongue, babbling on how good it is and how you wanted more.

things got even better the moment you felt a finger slip in. using his long middle digit, he’s slowly moving and correlating his pace with his tongue, causing you to pull even a bit more on his head with his eyes peering up at you from below.

lord did suna used to pray for times like this. secretly pining on you for years and now suddenly in between your legs, about to dive into your sweet pussy like it was his. suna's crazy about you, pussy drunk while tasting your sweet juices. his pupils are so dilated, blown so wide you could probably see your own reflection in them.

his slender fingers are so much more different than when you do yourself. suna’s able to hit deeper parts of you, all while getting you to your release. at this point your cunt is sopping wet and suna’s lapping it up like a dog, ruthless and thirsty for more.

"r-rin..! fuck, i think i'm close already" you whimpered, watching him continue despite your vision starting to turn white.

"but i'm not" suna said while his hands appeared behind your knees to keep your shivering legs open for his stature.

his mouth was everywhere, following the slick you kept dripping: your swollen pussy, your inner thighs, and your throbbing clit that yearned for more of his touch. it was like your body was moving on its own, up and trying to avoid the overwhelming pleasure that was focused on only your clit.

"you think i'm done huh?" suna's fingers latched themselves onto your clit, starting to rub them in fast circles that made your mind go blank.

the pleasure at this point is sweet euphoria, it feels like all that built-up pressure was starting to rise and pop at any given moment. your body was arching like crazy from the fast pace of his fingers were going while you screamed out his name.

"shit.. rin!! i think i'm c-ccoming.. i can't take it!!" rolling your eyes back while pulling on his hair as his fingers continued to work endlessly to make you feel good.

the moment you squirted was the moment stars were sprawled all over the ceiling, followed by your heavy breathing which was the only thing you could focus on. after recollecting yourself and looking down, you could see your chest heaving with every breath you took as well as suna at the end with his face soaked with not just your slick but also your squirt.

"...told you i could do it"

masterlist here

[benjaboyisatwink]

Part 2 of the one that got away with Simon. Not much to add lol, it's just the guys shocked abt it. Also sue me, yes, I do think Simon isn't at all that closed off if you were someone he was close I'm with for so long, I just don't think that's Simon.

.𖥔 ݁ 🍯 a tad bit suggestive, mentions of sex, but it's brief˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

They were confused. The 141 men were completely confused. They had seen weeks ago a stranger throw a box at Ghost, shout at him, hit him, get away with it, and even have Ghost hug them.

What?

Johnny was already theorizing about it. But he was honestly as flabbergasted as the rest, specially since they suddenly saw Ghost look...happy?? He was in a great mood since that ceremony, even recruits noticed how the lieutenant was casually humming under his breath as he walked through the halls of base.

Kyle even saw him eat a homemade meal, packed with a small note the lieutenant put in his pocket as soon as he read. Kyle was simply too shocked by it and the food's smell to do anything other than stare as Simon ate it all with a smile.

Price was shocked that Simon was actually leaving base when he could. Staying away after deployment instead of being in his barracks until the next op.

"What's got you so happy, son?"

It was Price who broke the silence on the table. They were at the bar they usually went to, but Simon was smiling the whole time he was drinking, humming along to everyone's talk half heartedly. They all had noticed, and the captain was set on getting some answers, Simon being slightly drunk already helped, too.

"They didn' forget t' write" he mumbles, humming like that was some great news "hell..found out they're living around 'ere"

The guys frown, Gaz is the one to bite the bullet, feigned aloofness as he sips his beer.

"Who?"

Simon hums, texting someone before glancing up like he just remembered he was being questioned.

"My friend" he mumbles "not exactly friends anymore—"

Before they can assume said friend died or something, a person walks up to their table. You, the random they saw at the ceremony. They're ready to tell you to piss off, when Simon glances at you and melts, calling out your name softly.

"Simon Riley...you told me you wouldn't even drink! Do I really have to babysit you like before?"

You huff and puff, but can't help to soften softly as he drunkenly murmurs your name, taking your hand in his, a boyish grin on his face, one that didn't change at all from your teen years. Though you don't remember Simon being so dumb and gooey around you, you blame it on the teen love filter you had at the time. He looks like an idiot, smiling up at you, balaclava pushed up to show his lips, and the visible corner of his eyes crinkling.

"I'm fine, luv" he rumbles, standing up fairly straight and putting his hands on your hips as he smiles down at you, amused by your annoyance "y' weren't this uptight 'efore"

You roll your eyes, trying to hide your own smirk

"We're not teens anymore"

you huff some more, then glance at the other men, who are looking like Simon grew a second head. You wave at them, introducing yourself as an old friend of Simon's. Simon doesn't seem to like that and grumbles, putting a hand over your mouth.

"Not just friends."

you push his hand off your mouth and glare at him. Sure, you two had started talking again, and he may or may not kissed you until you felt like a puddle at your doorstep, and he may or may not have fucked you dumb a few times already since that ceremony. But you weren't really going around telling people you're together — or at least you thought you weren't.

"What?" He shrugs at your glare "'s true ain't it? Or d'you always let your friends f.."

You groan loudly and push him away, pulling him away from his friends with a haste goodnight.

And the 141 are still confused. Because they found out why Ghost was in a good mood, but now they also found out that apparently Ghost now had a pretty bird waiting for him at home, and he was soft with them. A totally different man than the scary lieutenant they knew.

They all just give up trying to understand it as a few weeks later he goes back to dark and brooding Ghost. Though they still saw how soft he was when you'd come pick him up after he went drinking with the boys.

[vigilantekisser]

apple lotion

pairing: college!matt murdock x f!reader

18+ cw: unprotected [irresponsible] sex. just the tip (until it isn’t). mutual loss of virginity - slight bleeding. thighfucking. pussyjob. slippery slope. creampie. mutual pining. idiots in love. religious references/guilt. banter as foreplay lol

summary: your friend’s reputation of being good in bed is common knowledge to the entire living-and-breathing student population of columbia. confusion arises when he tells you he’s actually a virgin. (wc: 11k - i know 😔)

a/n: hello. :) this is PURELY self-indulgent wish fulfillment, initially written for the touch prompts “foreheads pressed against each other” + “two fingers against a pulse point,” then i swiftly lost control after the first 2k words. I LOVE LOVE LOVE MATT MURDOCK JUST THE TIP FICS, i love their authors, and so here is my contribution!!! addtl warnings: lots of talk about religion, purity culture talk, matt’s guilt (featuring my favorite: intrusive thoughts of bible verses during sex). matt & reader lose their virginity to each other. that’s it… enjoy my filth…

“No fucking way.” 

It’s ridiculous: Matt’s desk isn’t made for two. Not even close. It’s for this reason that you’ve ended up almost on top of him, trying to act like your thigh isn’t pressed to his. 

And if your excuse for all this was that you were trying to get any real learning in, you’d be a liar, and a bad one at that. 

Because despite your valiant efforts at fighting the stubborn spine of your copy of The Phenomenon of Man flat, and despite Matt’s visibly pained attempts to not cringe so openly at the sound of its pages being manhandled, absolutely no studying has occurred. 

The conversation has veered off course. Reliably, you’ve spiraled it toward the hot topic of hookups. It’s an area in which Matt seems to be constantly embroiled, as far as corridor gossip—and Foggy’s colorful commentary—is concerned. It’s also an area that feels masochistic to keep asking about, yet you do again and again with your needling and poking and prodding, for no other reason than to wind up that sick thrill of jealousy in your chest.

Of course, all of it is inconsequential to Matt. He never seems to take offense. He plays along with impeccable composure, which all the more confirms that your chances of getting with him live somewhere in the zip code of Fuck All and Nowhere. It’s your conviction he’s on a much different playing field than you—his revolving door of ruthless future litigators/intense poets/vowelless heiresses. All undeniably drop-dead gorgeous, much so that you weren’t even sure at first who you were jealous of, them or him. 

Besides, it’s not that you like to wallow. You’d like to believe you’re fairly attractive yourself, thank you very much—but there’s much ease in giving in to joyless comparison when, like right now, Matt’s face is lit golden from the afternoon sun and he’s so beautiful, the shapes and lines of him so harmonious it’s only natural he’d be surrounded by people just like him. 

Not like you.

So, rash girl that you are,  you lash out the only way you can. Sarcasm, disbelief.

“You’re telling me,” you say slowly, jabbing your highlighter into the air, “that you, Matthew Murdock, are a virgin. You. You?”

His lips twitch at the corners, amused. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“What the fuck were they doing in and out of your room then? And I quote–‘he was really good’? You giving them confession or something?”

Matt feigns innocence, presses a hand to his chest. With an air of clipped smugness, “Who knows, maybe they were talking about Foggy.” 

Your silence must clue him to the fact that you’re gaping. 

“What? Girls love him!” he says, grinning wide. You can’t argue with that, at least, that much is true. “Besides, it’s a question of semantics. For one, what the word ‘virgin’ even entails when—”

“Just strangle me if you’re going to quote Wittgenstein again, Murdock. You’re a virgin or you’re not.”

Newly emboldened, Matt holds out a thumb to press it against your arm, pushing you playfully. 

“Well, then, enlighten me.”

Enlighten me.

You’re being confronted at your own game and clearly, your prodding can’t hold its own water—embarrassment flooding you instantly at discussing something this bold with someone you’re wildly, secretly in love with. Matt seems to pick up on this, granting you a little reprieve. His mouth quirks, “Alright, I’ll tell you what I think, and you tell me if you agree.”

You have to hope you’re doing a good job of pretending his suddenly stern, even tone doesn’t send your blood pressure skyrocketing.

Calm as ever, he continues, “One would define a virgin as someone who’s never had sexual intercourse.”

One would also define your face as going nuclear, hotter and hotter with each second he discusses this so breezily. Just another day of laying out the facts, like he’s in a debate.

“Yeah,” you manage.

“Sexual intercourse, to mean sexual contact with penetration. Yes?”

“Oh, stop it, Matt,” you groan, hands fidgeting with the page.

“Well—yes?”

“Okay. Yes.”

“Okay.” He leans back, casual, like this is the simplest thing in the world. “If penetration has to be the only metric—then yes, I’m a virgin. Again, if it has to be.”

As if that made any sense, you nod at him, blinking. “Yeah, yeah.” Another blink, upon finally coming to your senses. “Has to be? The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Well,” he repeats airily, biting down a smile. Oh no, he’s enjoying this—“do you think sex is just penetration?”

It takes you a second.

To be more precise, it takes you three seconds. Your confused gaze flicks from his shielded eyes to his mouth, to the tip of his tongue, that which has darted out to wet his pink, pink lips… 

Oh.

“Oh my God,” you utter. Cheeks aflame, you bury your face in your hands instantly, eager to escape his puppylike yips of laughter at your mortification. “Oh my God.”

Jesus. Of course he’d eat pussy like a champ.

“What? What?” His voice has gone high and incredulous.

“Shut up! This paints you more like an asshole in my book, actually.”

He’s grinning wide. “Because?” 

“Because!” Dropping your hands, you stab a finger at him. “I’m pointing at you very disapprovingly, by the way. It’s one thing to brag about being good at sex, y’know, the–uh–uh…p..” 

Just say the word, goddammit! You’re giving yourself away!

“C’mon,” he teases lowly, that delicious rasp in his voice. “You can do it. P-p-p–”

“Penetration,” you spit. “Ugh, Matt!” 

You smack his chest and, scandalously pleased with himself, unbidden laughter escapes him. You have half a mind to simply leave the room; perhaps by doing so, you’ll be spared the punishment of suffering that immaculately handsome smile. Instead, you do nothing but groan. 

“You are such an asshole. Anyway—being good at that is one thing, but you’re saying all that praise was for oral? That’s even worse.”

“Worse? How is that worse?”

“You can’t really coast on– on mutual friction with that. You gotta… um… actually be good at it.” 

Immediate regret bubbles up as soon as the words leave your mouth. Because consequently you’re now picturing Matt’s face between an array of legs, all immaculately smooth, un-stubbly legs, shapely deerlike legs that aren’t yours.

A grotesque fantasy; it may be the worst thing you’ve ever done to yourself.

Matt raises his hands in mock surrender. “They said it, not me. I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Sure. Right.” Eyes returning to the textbook, you grumble low and bitter words you yourself can’t even make form of. Jealous, though you’d sooner bite your tongue in half than admit aloud that you are.  In front of you, the chapter title reads The Season of Life—and Christ take yours now, you’re praying. Matt’s lucky enough he can’t see the withering look you’re leveling at him, but never one to pass up the opportunity to be petty, you utter, “That’s all fiction anyway.”

His head tilts fractionally. 

“Sorry?”

“It’s all fiction.”

“Being good at oral is fiction?”

“Yes.” 

“As in, not real?”

“Yes.” 

Where you’re going with this, you don’t know either. Your brain and your mouth are no longer on speaking terms.

There’s a pause before he speaks again, his voice amused but careful. 

“So in the entire span of human existence—through all of time—you’re telling me not one person has been good at going down on a woman? Not a singular one?”

“Yes!” You throw your hands up, giggling. All rational thought has hurled itself out the window, given way to stubborn absurdity. “Because I’m horrible. And egocentric, and I have to see to believe. Or—feel, sorry. So as far as I’m concerned, no, it has not existed.”

A barrage of your thoughts fill the silence that comes after. What are you even saying? What are you trying to insinuate? Are you coming onto him? Why can’t you just control the goddamn words coming out of your mouth?!

“That’s a terrible worldview,” Matt says at last.

“You’re welcome to leave,” you utter, plenty aware that this is his dorm room.

“Mm. Fiction,” he drawls, mouthing the word again like he’s testing wine. You dare to glance up at him and immediately know you’ve made a mistake: he’s got that smug thing going, head cocked and looking too entertained for his own good.

“I don’t know,” he muses, “it seemed pretty real to me. And to the very respectable women you’re currently calling liars.”

You roll your eyes hard enough you’re sure you can see your brain.

“No, I’m serious. Not only is that dismissive of their agency–”

“Oh God.”

“–but you’re also insinuating I was– What? Pity-praised?” Matt leans forward just slightly, that damned tongue darting out again to lick his smirking lips. “You think it was pity praise for the blind guy?”

“What?! No! I think–” You reel back, flailing, face hotter than it’s ever been in recorded history and you tug away from him as if that’ll help. “Matt, fuck you for real.”

Matt’s grinning so hard now, showing teeth and you can’t bear to face him so you rub your cheeks with your palms again.

“Christ. Okay fine, I walked right into that one.”

“Yeah, you did,” Matt repeats your words, mouthing fiction, shaking his head. “I hope that’s not from experience.” He pauses, tipping his head, a funny expression crossing his face. “Is it?”

Fuck me, you think, panic blooming white-hot, Fuck me, literally, preferably now–

“I- I– Well.” You swallow, finally slamming your textbook shut.

So as not to give anything away to his freakishly good perception, your next words are as matter-of-fact and carefully enunciated as you can manage: 

“Who I put between my legs is none of your business, Murdock.”

Matt raises his brows, frowning and nodding as if to say, ah, alright then, if you say so. Sinking back in his seat, he lets out a sigh so dramatic, you’d roll your eyes again if your entire bloodstream weren’t currently on fire.

“Duly noted,” he says coolly. “And who I put between mine is fair game. Good to know.”

You blink. Fuck.

He’s right. You’re unsure what the etiquette here ought to be. What is it one does when your stupid-smart, obscenely hot crush hits you with an uno reverse that’s technically correct? And now you have to face the fact that you’re the asshole for slut-shaming him when really you’re just… 

A little bit, catastrophically, stupidly jealous…?

“I– um– shit…” you answer brilliantly. “Um… Shit… Okay-you’reright-I’msorry.”

But Matt doesn’t have an answer to give you, no quip to shoot back. He dips his head low, and his shoulders start shaking incessantly. You can’t see much of his face like this—only his mouth twitching in a tight line.

He’s… crying. 

That made him cry?

No way. You’ve never seen him cry before. 

No, no. He’s wheezing. 

From laughter.

“Ha!” he says, eyes bright behind his glasses as a full-bodied laugh finally breaks free from him, smug and delighted. “Got you!”

“Oh fuck OFF, Matt!” you snap, the heat clawing its way down your neck. “I thought you were crying! That’s not–!”

“You walked into that one again.”

“That’s not funny!”

.

Ever the asshole, Matt does find it pretty funny, though. 

Your outrage, your flushed face, the ridiculousness of it all at your expense. And if he weren’t currently fighting for his goddamn life, he’d have the presence of mind to really savor it. Teasing is what the two of you do, an unconsciously learned dance. Yet for Matt, evidently, this back-and-forth holds more weight for him, it being what he can do to deflect from that… what even is it? 

That bite in your voice, every time the topic turns to that.

Disdain, maybe. Disgust. Pity, if he’s being generous.

An indulgent part of him wants to believe it’s jealousy.

But why would it be? You’ve never given him any sign, done anything to be an indication that you’d think of him as anything more than a friend. He knows you: smart, uncompromisingly honest. 

The kind of person who’d never waste time on someone who can’t keep his dick in his pants. 

Which is clearly how you see him.

So that edge, those jabs and barbs and the snide twist with which you said really good… For lack of a better expression, he’s not blind to the fact that you’re disgusted at how careless he must seem. At the thought of him being cheap, shallow, shameless, all of it. Your image of him must be comical, he’s certain: throwing himself in half-clothed thrill, a meaningless chase of affirmation—since anything deeper would be too much. 

Matt likes being your Friend. Loves it, if he’s honest. Which is why he lets you believe what you believe, and he does what he always does: grins, gets on your nerves, then backs off. Just like he’s supposed to. 

Still, it’s not so easy, especially not like this. It’s not so easy now when he’s in sensory hell, and he can smell your apple-scented lotion and the ghost of sunscreen warm on the backs of your knees from walking across campus in the sun. He must catalogue it all: your clean sweat, blooming its sweet human humidity in the bend of your elbows; your anklet clinking and betraying your every restless shift; your rapid heartbeat he can’t even begin to dissect. 

He can smell all of it, hear it, feel it, and God help him—just from this stupid conversation, he’s already hard. 

Be self-controlled and sober-minded, for the sake of your prayers.

Matt exhales, long-suffering, trying to summon some humor for a shield.

“Fine,” he says at last, aiming for flippant and failing spectacularly. “I plead guilty. The rumors are true.”

Your dry snort hits him square, and he can practically feel the eye-roll radiating from you. Still, he goes on, fully aware of what he’s risking. Sentimentality scares you away, he knows this. “The nuns at the orphanage, they’d say it was something special. To share with someone within the sacrament of marriage.” Matt says it grandly, the theatricality making you snort again. Then a little pointedly, because he can sense your mouth already poised for a quip, “I’m not exactly waiting for my wedding night. If that’s what you’re thinking.”

The little hitch in your breath betrays you before you can speak. 

“It’s just…” voice dropping, shoulders curling slightly, Matt doesn’t even know why he feels the need to explain this to you. A bid for understanding, maybe, though he knows that’s too much to hope for. “I haven’t found it in myself to go all the way yet, what with the”—he waves a hand vaguely, words quieting down into a mumble—“the words… in my head, and all.”

“What?” Your brow furrows. “What words?”

He shrugs, lips quirking into a cornered smile. “Nothing.”

“What?!” Before you can even finish talking you’re laughing, grabbing at his wrists in mock outrage. It makes him inhale sharply, your two fingers grazing the tender skin there, and he thanks God you don’t have his senses or you’d know how embarrassingly fast his pulse had leapt beneath your touch. 

“What words, Matt? Do you hear the Holy Spirit or something? Is that a thing?”

He huffs. “I think it’s called a conscience, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. 

For a second—just a second—your heartbeat skips after he says it. Usually, for anyone else, it’d be that tell he knew by heart: Gotcha. Granted, it’s a useful gift, one that’s gotten him into more agreeable doors and down more girls’ jeans that he’d expect. Only it’s not like that with you. He’s long learned that you’re anything but usual to him, the opposite of an open book.

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

Just as he’d expected, it’s annoyance. Not interest.

Matt glances away, smile wavering. “Ah. Sorry.”

But like it’s nothing you’re already chuckling and saying, more quietly, “All that repression, Matt. M’starting to believe your rumors now.”

Tilting his head back again, he nods to himself. There’s not much to say anymore, the two of you falling into a sort of ambivalent silence as you bury yourself back into the study material as if it’s suddenly become fascinating. But for him, it’s less studying the text and more studying you, picking up your heartbeat that seems to be beating quicker and quicker in… Anticipation?

Erratic, like a caught moth, like you’ve found something to say that’s titillating, or inappropriate. 

He could do you one better. He could do inappropriate. He could ruin your friendship right now.

No, no. He has to bite his tongue, chastising himself. Bad Matt. Friendship. Don’t.

Still, your pulse keeps climbing faster and faster.

“Okay,” you finally eke out, mouselike. “My turn.”

Matt tilts his head.

“I’m a virgin too.”

Oh?

That’s not what he expected, and he’s not entirely sure how to react, brows lifting slightly. Keeping his expression careful, one hand rises to rub between his eyes the way he does only when he’s attempting to buy himself time.

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with your admission. It’s not a big deal; it shouldn’t even be one at all. Only, it’s sparked something in him that feels too much like relief. Yet it’s for this reason Matt had shut it down the second it reared its head. He knows himself well enough. If he lets that door open, lets himself want anything from that admission, that greedy part of him will enter and everything else he’s spent so long trying to hold back will come barreling with it. 

He can’t afford that. So he shoves it down, hard.

“Okay,” Matt says gently. “That makes two of us then.”

You groan and collapse so far back into your chair it creaks in protest under you. 

“Ugh. Actually, I’m like half a virgin too or something. Aren’t you gonna be a little weird about it? I was so weird about yours, I feel horrible.”

“No, not at all. I’m deeply moved by your honesty, actually.”

“Dick.”

He smiles.

You sigh, scratching at your temple. “I know there’s more leniency when it comes to girls, and I kind of hate that that’s a thing. Like, I don’t give a crap about it, which is why I do? Does that make sense?”

Matt nods solemnly, though the smile’s still tugging at his mouth. “No flaws in logic there.”

You swat at him again, but it’s lighthearted and your hand finds his arm and stays there, fingers drumming absently at the fabric of his sleeve.

“It’s not even about the sex,” you continue. “A lot of stuff makes me feel like it’s a lot more important than it actually is—”

“Hey.” He cuts you off, soft and steady, “You don’t have to justify yourself, you know. Not to me. I get it.”

You nod, shoulders relaxing. You’d gotten completely unaware of how worked up you were getting, the heat starting to pool again in your face.

“Thanks. Sorry.” You pause for a bit, thinking. “I’d just… I’d like it to be with someone I like. Doesn’t even have to be someone I love– I think I’d actually prefer that, just so it isn’t that big a deal. Just… not some random asshole.”

Right.

Matt has to chew the inside of his cheek until he starts to taste blood.

He could be that asshole. He really could. He could make this easy, make it soft, careful, good for you. For both of you.

“Mm,” he says, noncommittal. “Yeah, I know.”

“Just do it once—then it’s over.”

“Then it’s over,” he agrees helpfully. 

“Stop repeating my sentences!” You laugh and slap his chest again, and by that touch he’s a little breathless. He exhales, tongue running along the back of his teeth. There goes the apple-scented waft from your skin again, mingling with the sun-warmed salt.

“Right,” Matt says promptly, forcing himself to lean back. He places his earbuds back in—a futile effort, he’s unable to hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears—and swipes back at his notes with the pad of his finger to seek where he left off.

The issue, of course, is that he’s hard. 

Hard and sweating and stuck. 

If God were any bit the merciful being He claimed to be, Foggy would walk in right now. He’d take any easy excuse to stop and force him out of his predicament. But Matt knows he won’t. He knows it’s just you and him, and nothing but his own will could stop him now. 

Set a guard, o Lord, over my mouth. Keep watch over the door of my lips.

You’re murmuring to yourself over the book again, lips shaping out words he can’t hear because all his focus has narrowed down to the sound of your heartbeat. Then you’re leaning closer, pointing something out, and the hem of your top’s brushing his arm. You don’t realize how much he’s shifted, so when you turn to finally look at him, your breath’s fanning his cheek and he stills. You stop laughing, then you laugh again at the sight of his jaw tightening like he’s bracing for impact.

“You okay?” you murmur.

He forces a tired smile, an expression soothed to something carefully neutral. “Just trying to focus.”

“Oh, sorry.” You duck your head, meek, guilty. Suddenly abundantly aware of the weight in the air, you say, “I can move–”

“No, no.” Matt’s hand finds your waist with unerring accuracy, fingertips skimming your side in a featherlight touch. “Stay. I like it when you’re close.”

Something in your chest flutters, and Matt’s more than a little pleased at the shift in your pulse, the way his words had landed and rippled through you.

Christ, Matt. This how you do it?

He’s so close now he can hear every heavy thump of your heartbeat, and he’s listening hard, desperate in his search for anything to prove it’s more than biology, more than proximity, more than his wishful thinking. 

But he can’t take it anymore. He can’t care anymore.

His thumb strokes your side.

“Alright,” Matt whispers, breath escaping ragged, “I’m gonna kiss you, okay?”

You nod before your brain can even catch up.

“…Okay.”

For an agonizing second, neither of you moves. Then he tilts his head, closing the distance slowly—almost painfully so, like he’s giving you every last chance to pull away. Your heart’s ricocheting so hard he can hear the shape of it.

And then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss when it comes is soft. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he presses his lips to yours. You make a sound—a little hum, surprised at yourself—and that’s all it takes for him to deepen it. He’s clued in infinitely to the goings-on in your body, the stutter in your breath, the way your hand lifts hesitantly before settling against his chest, fingers splayed over the steady hammer of his heart.

There’s the faint tang of your lip balm on his tongue when it dares to flicker against you, coaxing your mouth open. Strawberry, kiwi—no matter, he hungers to swipe all of it off you with his own lips. His tongue slides against yours and Christ, he can’t help the soft noise that rumbles in his own throat. When Matt pulls back it’s only enough to breathe, noses bumping, but before you can think any better of it—before you can even think about what you’ve ruined, what you’ve just begun—you’re already leaning back in for more, and he catches your bottom lip between his teeth in a fleeting, tender bite before kissing you again, harder this time and less careful. 

Your fingers clutch at the fabric over his chest like you need something to anchor you. And just as you’re shifting closer and closer, the kiss much deeper, the chair under you creaks ominously and then—

It jerks, slipping sideways.

You yelp and flail gracelessly, but Matt’s faster by years, catching you before the fall can register. His arms wrap around your back, a firm hand finding your thigh to steady you as you land hard against his chest, your body flushed against his. You burst out laughing, breathless and embarrassed.

“I got you,” he murmurs, voice roughening at the edges. His black glasses have slid slightly crooked in the commotion, making him look just a little disheveled. His smirk is nothing short of devilish now that you’re straddling his lap fully, thighs bracketing his own with snug pressure. 

It’s then that you both feel it: the heat and the hardness of him beneath you. Even through the barrier of clothing it’s impossible to ignore; by instinct, your body shifts to feed its own want, the hot ridge of his cock grinding against your center through your own clothes.

“Should we…” you start, unsure what it is you’re even asking.

“Yeah,” Matt says shakily, “Bed. Before you fall again and actually get hurt.”

You nod and start to move off him awkwardly, but he catches you again—arms looping around you without effort—and then he’s standing, lifting you against him like it’s nothing. By reflex, your thighs wrap around his strong waist, arms snaking around his neck as he carries you across the room. There’s a second you consider offering directions, murmur clumsy instruction, but Matt moves with complete certainty—exactly where to place you, exactly how to touch you. The surety makes your stomach knot with something sharp and bitter: experience, you think, even as you tell yourself not to—don’t ruin this, don’t rob yourself of how good it feels just to be wanted by him. Fighting against impulse, you swallow it down and let yourself surrender to the moment. 

Matt deposits you gently onto the bed: a twin-sized mess of rumpled sheets and textbooks shoved aside. Coming up to between your legs, when he kisses you this time it’s worlds away from the one before—it’s deeper, hungrier, tongue slick and mouths sliding together in a mess of panting breath and soft noises, your fingers curling into the hem of his shirt.

“Can I—?” he asks between kisses, and you nod, already tugging it up. The dark shirt comes off easily, pulled one-handed over the back of his neck. Like an errant magpie, your gaze is caught momentarily by the silver glint of his cross necklace catching the light, just before your eyes slide down his broad chest, lean and defined, the clean cut of his abs tapering down with a trail of dark hair arrowing below. 

Jesus. 

But you don’t get to ogle him as long as you’d like—it’s your turn then, his hands at your sides, slipping beneath your shirt. Matt’s an impatient man and sure enough, sooner than soon your band shirt comes off, tossed somewhere over the bedframe.

“Goodbye, Nick Cave,” you murmur solemnly.

Matt huffs a laugh, and his lips scorch your newly-bare shoulder, then your collarbone, trailing heat as his hands roam—sliding over your soft stomach, then up to cup your breasts gingerly through your bra, thumbs brushing the edges of the material. You’re tugging at each other again, kissing between whimpers, your fingers fumbling at the button of your shorts, and Matt’s hand covering yours to help. 

Cursing under your breath, you kick the shorts off with a frustrated huff, left in your underwear now, damp and clinging. Unfairly so, Matt’s still wearing those goddamn grey sweatpants that make everything impossible to ignore. You can see everything. You can feel everything. Still above you, now between your legs he ruts forward without meaning to, and his cock grinds against your soaked, clothed core through the layers of cotton and elastic. Like the rhizomatic nature of your conversations with him, natural and free-flowing, the both of you move in unconscious rhythm now, tuned in completely to the feeling of his thick ridge dragging across your core.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters into your mouth.

“For what?” you ask, breathless, trying not to fall apart too quickly.

He hesitates. “I just… didn’t know if you wanted to keep going.”

“Are you kidding?” you whisper. “I was about to ask you that.”

A giggle breaks out from both of you, soft and nervous, mouths brushing, and he kisses you again, desperate. “This feels good,” he mumbles against your lips.

“Yeah?” you breathe.

“Yeah. Yeah.” His fingers slide behind your back, fumbling at your bra clasp. You arch slightly, trying to help, but he curses softly. “Fuck—sorry—can’t—”

“Let me,” you say, laughing again, sitting up just enough to undo it yourself. His ears are flushed now, the tips red with embarrassment, and he opens his mouth to apologize again but your kiss finds him instead, as you reach for his hand and guide it to your chest.

Matt groans into your mouth when you place his palm over your exposed breasts, and he wastes no time, pawing at you greedily, kneading and squeezing like he’s starved for it. Fingers finding your furled nipples, pinching lightly, you shudder under him, clutching his wrist. Summer be damned, the velvet feel of his skin on your skin makes your head swim, and you can’t steal enough of his warmth to be sated. 

His kisses then trail lower, down your neck now, down your sternum, each breath ghosting sultry heat across your skin, and then he’s at your navel, tongue flicking briefly at the dip there. But just as he ghosts lower, nose nudging at the waistband of your panties, you jerk. Acrid panic comes up your throat; before you can think you’re already tugging him up by his hair and the back of his neck, heart hammering against your ribs.

“Wait. Wait—”

He stills instantly, blinking up at you unseeing. His hair is mussed, lips wet, mouth open like he’d been caught mid-word. “…What?”

“I don’t—” The words knot in your mortified throat, and you can’t find the nerve to look at him directly. “Um—I just—”

It’s a burn not solely from want but from the shadow of uncertainty: the thought of him down there, to see you with such closeness, tasting you, and what if you’re disappointing, what if you’re not worth it, if every rumor you’ve pretended not to care about has been true after all and you’re nothing compared to them—

“What’s this, then?” His voice is low, teasing, sufficient enough to puncture your own spiral. Chuckling softly, he asks, “Gonna keep pretending it’s fiction?”

You flush so hard it makes your ears ring. “Shut up. Next time, okay?”

His brow quirks. “‘Next time,’” he echoes, savoring the phrase on his tongue like it’s proof you’ll never get away from him now. 

“Ugh, Matt—just come here—” Flushing hot and annoyed, you yank him up by the collar, mouth crashing against his before he can say another word, swallowing his grin into your kiss. Slick and consuming, it feels euphoric to slot your own mouth against his like this—lying down, full-body, you could kiss him for hours, your recent indiscretion forgotten—and you’re melting beneath him, your hips grinding up against his, your hands pulling at his pants.

Picking up on your insistence, Matt pulls back, breath ragged, and peels off his sweatpants. They catch at one ankle as you help him tug them off, hands brushing his calves. What’s left then is the stretched fabric of tight black boxer briefs, the full outline of his cock thick and unmistakable, a dark patch of damp where precome’s already leaked through.

You reach for the waistband, teasing it down with one finger. “This okay?”

His voice is strained. Nearly breaking. “Yeah. Please.”

Pulling the briefs down, you have to take a second as his cock springs free, flushed and leaking while it curves toward his stomach, the base nestled in a thatch of dark hair. You swallow hard, because he’s beautiful, Christ, he’s so hard, and he’s already twitching. 

You shimmy your hips forward to be closer to him, legs parting, and he groans loudly the second your plush thighs close around his cock. Beginning to rut forward, he grinds against you slowly, dragging the thick length along your clothed slit, again and again, the damp cotton thankfully doing little to dull the obscene friction. The pressure of each hardened pass catches your clit just slightly makes you gasp, makes you rut back up against him. You can feel the heat bleeding off him, your cunt pulsing with how close he is, how much you need more.

It’s everything and nothing and still not enough. Then, as if to notice this, Matt’s hand drifts down, thumb brushing the waistband of your panties.

“These…” he murmurs lowly, fingertips tracing the edge of your panties with the kind of searing touch that makes your lungs forget their rhythm, “describe them to me.”

For a beat you’re not even sure you heard him right. “What?” you manage, though it’s hardly more than a whisper.

That damned smirk of him has made a reappearance, lips glossy from your kisses. The mockery in his tone is pure provocation, prodding at you endlessly, testing your limits. “Tell me what they look like.”

At his demand, the rush of blood behind your ears is instantaneous. You’re not sure whether it’s that or simply the love-addled lens you’re viewing him through, but a ridiculous little giggle betrays you, shy and uncontainable, as though your body is already conspiring with him. And so despite your attempts to suppress, you relent because he’s waiting, and frankly, because his devilish smile has unmoored you completely. 

“They’re… white,” you begin, voice faltering as though you’re confessing something forbidden, “cotton. Lace at the sides.”

And because this is Matt, you can’t seem to stop, seizing his hand and tugging it down until his broad palm rests against the soft material, your pulse jumping beneath prickling skin.

Matt tilts his head as if he can see every detail anyway. Savoring the description, tasting it out as his smile curves wickedly. “Mm. Fancy?”

“Not really.”

“They expensive?” 

“What? Jesus. No, you perv.”

“Good.” His tone’s dropped lower, thicker with play; its cadence is so warm it flushes heat straight between your thighs, beneath his palm most especially. And as if that singular word has become verdict— his purposeful fingers hook into the waistband sharply. 

RRRIP—!

Your thighs jerk, eyes flying wide as the cotton gives under his decisive grip. Matt tears the panties apart at the seam as though they’re paper, unable to find patience to stop himself from wrenching the ruined fabric aside until you’re bared to him completely. It takes you a second to catch your breath, but you finally break into incredulous laughter, shock and arousal having knotted together in your chest so tight it feels like a stone in your sternum. 

“Couldn’t wait,” Matt pants, “Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry.”

“No, I’m not.” His grin widens, flashing wolfish teeth. “Not even a little.”

“You’re gonna have to pay for that, Murdock.”

His laugh tumbles directly into your mouth as he kisses you again to shut you up, hot and reckless, and then drags lower once more— “This is okay, right? You’re okay with this?”

“Yeah. God, yes. Oh—” Yet despite thinking you’ve already tamped it down, the reality is that the two of you are now completely bared to each other; hence the voice of reason from inside your head still emerges, causing you to swallow hard. “Wait, Matt. Are we gonna— I mean, is this—?”

Christ, you don’t even need to finish. He knows what you’re asking, he can tell. And the fact of the matter is, it’s not simply the nature of his suggestibility. Matt’s will is strong, mostly unshakable. The only counterpoint is that it’s you. You’re the one offering, wanting, needing. He’s the one with the conscience clawing at him and telling him to stop. 

But how the fuck can he stop, when you’re whimpering under him, begging for him so openly?

The thought of whether this is the line he’ll cross, it hammers in his chest and remains. Matt can’t bring himself to say it out loud, can’t let the words be real, because despite all his guilt, all his restraint, he wants it too much. He wants to do it right this time. He wants it with you.

He should stop.

“C’mon,” you whisper, bold and desperate in equal measure. “As long as it doesn’t go in, it’s okay. Right? For you?”

Matt’s breath shudders out of him, chest pressing hard against yours. His lips part on a half-formed prayer you don’t understand, and then he’s nodding, rendered helpless by the way you’ve said it.

“Jesus,” he mutters, breaking. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”

Wetting his lips, he pulls back and he pushes your pillowy thighs together slowly, and slides his cock between them, the swollen head dragging slickly between your bare folds, through your wetness. Slow at first, drawing each movement out until he feels like he’s about to die from lack of it. Every pass coats him more, precum mixing with your arousal, smearing the softness of your thighs as his cock glides in tight, controlled thrusts. 

You’re wet. So wet he can hear it. The sounds filling the room are lewd and rhythmic, your thighs slick, your cunt clenching around nothing, desperate.

And Matt’s losing it.

He’s not even inside you and already he feels like he’s going to break.

His hands tighten on your hips, heavy enough to remind you he’s holding back by the skin of his teeth. With each pass of his shaft it’s cushioned indulgently by the soft flesh of your thighs, dragging along your folds, hot and wet and thick, the ridge of the swollen head bumping against your clit with every motion and sending zings of pleasure shooting up your spine until you’re breathless, gasping, toes curling.

You don’t realize you’re whining loudly until he leans over you, breathing hard onto your cheek, his chest heaving. Mouth brushing your ear, he mutters, “Mine.”

His claim on you makes your whole body arch, makes your cunt clench down uselessly on nothing, aching.

And it’s true. You’re his, no question now about it. All of it is proof enough: the wetness slicking your inner thighs, your bare pussy glistening and desperate and utterly bare beneath him. 

You roll your hips up instinctively, desperate to catch more of him, to press harder against the hot, swollen weight grinding between your thighs, chasing the flash of electricity when the crown of his cock skims your clit. But his grip only tightens, fingers biting bruises into your waist, holding you down like he knows better than to let you move, like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to sanity.

It feels like sin. This little game the two of you are playing at, it feels better than it has any right to, filthy and exquisite in equal measure. Each rut of his cock through the slick vise of your thighs drags the swollen tip across your folds, every pass smearing you wetter, every sound between you growing louder, lewder. The air is thick with it, every breath you take steeped in sex. It feels so fucking good—all of it, all of it—all building towards something, something you realize to be this conclusion: it’s not nearly enough. 

“I want more,” you gasp, the words tumbling out unbidden as your eyes flick helplessly downward, caught on the sight of his cock sliding in and out of the tight press of your thighs. The swollen head keeps vanishing and reappearing, glazed with you, every filthy pass making you shiver harder, “Want you.”

“I know,” Matt exhales, and the sound is ragged, breaking in his throat. He presses his forehead against yours, his feverish skin scorching yours completely. “Me too. But we can’t.”

As if a spoiled child, you whine, “Why not?” high and frustrated as you rock your hips against him anyway, greedy, begging with your body even as he keeps you pinned.

Without needing to speak aloud, the answer to your question comes to him with absolute certainty. A hoarse rasp of conscience: Because I’m an asshole.

“Please,” you whimper, every instinct in your body screaming for more. His hands only tighten to keep you down, yet it finds no success in having you stop; it only makes your need bloom sharper, makes your pleas spill faster. “Please, it won’t change anything. We’re still friends, right? Right?”

And then, just for an instant, just enough to catch at your entrance, the head of his cock slips and pushes blunt and hot and shocking against the swollen threshold of your body.

The air is torn from both of you in the same instant, gasps ripping through the thick silence.

The shock of it intoxicates you, blinds you—just that sliver of him breaching you, and you’re undone.

Beside your head, his arm strains to brace his weight, with biceps taut and straining, veins standing out as though his whole body is about to snap. The silver cross around his neck swings free, dangling above your face, catching the faint light with every tremor. 

Matt doesn’t move, shouldn’t, but his cock throbs where it presses into you, every instinct commanding him to push deeper, to sink, to lose himself. To give you what you’re pleading for.

“Fuck—m’sorry,” he grits, wrenching back, pulling himself back out. He’s shaking, chest heaving, the words tumbling from him wild and frantic. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—You’re just so wet, fuck, I’m sorry—”

And if your hand causes you to sin…

“It’s o-okay—” You’re trembling, nails biting into the meat of his bicep. Your body is buzzing, still lit by the electric shock of him almost inside, and what terrifies you most is the clarity flooding you. 

Singular and decisive: you can’t stop now.

“Matt,” you whisper, sordid with want, “what if—what if you put it in, just a little. A little, please. It’s not enough. It won’t even count.”

You sound like you’re begging for your life. Reduced to nothing but a bitch in heat.

Matt’s hand slides up to your jaw, thumb dragging across your cheek in a trembling, sultry caress, and his head dips, unsteady laughter rasping out of him, “Don’t tease.”

“I’m not,” you plead, “S’long as… s’long as it’s not fully in, it doesn’t count, right?”

“Fuck—” Matt exhales hard, head hanging as if the weight of it will break him. His throat works as he swallows, trying to claw the words out of his conscience. 

He needs to stop. He knows he needs to stop.

Do not let my heart incline to any evil, to busy myself with wicked deeds.

But how can he refuse you?

“Fuck. Okay. Are you sure?”

You nod, frantic. For Matt, whose senses are paradoxically both focused entirely on you and tuned out by the intense arousal in his head, this simple gesture is insufficient. He shakes his head. “I need you to tell me you’re sure.” His lips brush over yours as he breathes it, a coded message of him desperately begging you to say stop, to absolve him, control him from his own sin.

You do no such thing. 

“Fuck, I’m sure,” your eyes are wet, and you cling to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you alive. “I need you, Matt.”

Need you, Matt.

He squeezes his eyes shut. “Fuck. Okay. Just the tip, okay?”

You nod quickly, almost giddy with relief. 

God can forgive him if it’s just the tip. It doesn’t even count. He’ll be forgiven. 

No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. He will not let you be tempted beyond your ability…

Having made his decision, Matt bites down on a groan, then kisses you so hard it steals the breath from your lungs once more. You have the sense his mouth is fierce and desperate to seemingly smother the truth of what he’s about to do. And, ever obliging, his hand reaches down, fumbling between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance.

Then he’s pushing forward.

Just the tip—barely inside, barely breaching. Enough to tear the air from your lungs, enough to lock every muscle in your body.

“Mmff—” the sound wrenches from him, low and ragged, almost a growl as your heat swallows the thick crown of him. His head drops, sweaty hair brushing your face. “Fuck—that’s tight. You okay?”

You nod quickly, clinging to his arm, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you feel him stretching you out.

“Y-yeah,” you gasp, fighting for your voice not to tremble, “it just… hurts. A little.”

Hurts.

Stop now, Matt. Stop it. Stop it.

If he’s looking for a sign, this is it. He’s hurting you. Right? He should stop. Pull out. Apologize. Pretend this never—

But your body won’t allow him to believe it. Not with the way you’re squirming under him with need. Still, he must keep to his word—just the tip. So he doesn’t move, though his cock throbs thick inside you, just the swollen crown wedged in that slick tight heat that’s clenching and fluttering so helplessly around him.

The moment he’s lodged fully inside your entrance, you instantly wish you hadn’t begged for it. The taste of it is too good, too much, and now that you’ve had it, there’s no way this could ever be enough. You want more. You want all of him.

As if hearing your own thoughts, Matt grunts low in his chest, the sound guttural. He grits his teeth, refusing: he knows better than this.

Instead, one hand braces you at the waist, keeping you still, the other fisting the rest of his exposed length. His hand slides up and down his shaft in a desperate grip, every stroke smeared with the arousal you’re drooling down his cock, wetting him to the base. He shouldn’t be doing this. He really shouldn’t. No condom, no plan, no fucking clue how to stop. All he’d need to do was push forward, slide the rest of his cock in and bury himself to the hilt. And as if to compound his own struggle you’re writhing, too, trying to roll your hips the tiniest bit, trying to fuck yourself on him, his grip on your waist being the only thing stopping you.

“Unfair,” you whined, trying to defy the iron clamp of his hand.

“What’s unfair?” 

Jesus. He’s so hoarse he can’t even recognize his own voice.

“You get to—” your chest heaves, words tripping over the wreck of your own pathetic desperation, “—get to jerk yourself off while I—while I can’t even—” Another sharp whimper breaks you off, and for a second Matt thinks you’re going to start completely sobbing right then, with your cunt clenching down helplessly on the head of his cock buried inside you. “I can’t even take it all.”

Christ. 

Matt swallows.

This girl is gonna be the death of me.

“S’not—” he tries, but the word shreds out of his throat like gravel, sweat dripping down his temple. His fist works himself tighter, faster, the slide of it wet and obscene from the mess you’re making all over him. You’re so fucking slick; all of it his, yours, both of you, smeared together down his cock and onto his knuckles. 

“No, no– see–” As if to abate the mounting tension his fingers find your clit, rubbing in frantic little circles with your own wetness. The effect is instant: your back arching, cunt clamping down on his cockhead.

“See?” he rasps, eyes wild. “See? You can feel good too, sweetheart. Just like this.”

Thumb working circles onto your clit, you squirm helplessly under him, sobbing into his mouth when he kisses you again. Every squeeze of your pussy around him frees another curse from his lips, another jerk of his hips forward without his permission, the thick crown driving a fraction deeper before he can stop himself.

“Fuck—” his forehead drops to yours, trembling with effort, “fuck, sweetheart, I can’t—”

The moment his fingers drag again over your clit, you buck deeper onto his cock with a sob.

“I’m not gonna move,” he pants, nipping at your lip to keep himself tethered, “I’m not gonna—fuck—” 

But even as he says it, his hips are already rocking, shallow thrusts plunging his cock just barely in and out of your pussy, every ridge of him catching on the trembling mouth of you. Just the tip, he tells himself. Just the tip. Over and over like a prayer.

The truth is, Matt doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. A live wire embodied, he’s guided by instinct and need alone, no practiced rhythm, no skill, just messy, urgent biology taking the reins. Having given way to baser impulses, his body moves the way it wants to, chasing what feels good, listening to every slick sound, every clench of your cunt, every gasp from your pretty mouth.

“Shit—sorry—sorry—” he grunts, rocking forward again, every shallow thrust ratcheting up the tension inside him like he’s being wound too tight, like he’d snap if he stopped.

“Matt—” you beg, arching up to claw at his arm. “More. Please. More.”

“I can’t,” he says hoarsely, but he doesn’t stop either, still working the tip of his cock into you with ragged little thrusts. “I shouldn’t.”

But your body’s melting open beneath him already, milking him just from that shallow stretch. Just the tip, just the tip, he repeats to himself, but every second inside you only makes him wonder how much better it would feel if he gave you all of it.

He shouldn’t, but Christ, it’s you.

You. Always you. Not just his friend, not just the girl he teases and studies with, but the one his hands ache to memorize, the one whose heartbeat he knows better than his own.

“Fuck—” the curse shudders out of him, his breath stinging your face, “You’re—Christ, you’re so good to me, my girl—” 

Sweat’s beginning to sting his unseeing eyes now as he focuses on the way your pussy squeezes around him. But each time he pulls out, his hips push back in deeper—just a fraction, just a millimeter more. It’s not conscious, not yet, but his cock’s greedy, his body aching for more, and he lets it happen again. And again. And again.

His mouth is everywhere—kissing you hard, biting your lip, licking the sweat from your collarbone as his hips twitch, plunging deeper. Bit by bit. Inch by inch. Until he’s slipping past the point of no return, your walls stretching to take him, your moans soft and broken in his ear.

You gasp when the thick crest of his cock pierces deeper than ever.

“It’s alright,” Matt rasps, between his sultry claims of my girl into your neck. “It’s just a bit, just a little, it’s okay, right? S’okay? Sorry, sorry, shit—”

Make every effort to supplement your faith with virtue.

And then suddenly, inevitably, he’s in all the way.

Bottomed out, buried to the hilt, his hips pressed flush to yours. His cock seated deep inside your body, throbbing, pulsing, sheathed fully in your wet heat to the very base. He can’t breathe, can’t think, and the only thing tethering him to the moment is the frantic hammer of your pulse and the tight, fluttering clutch of your pussy strangling his cock like you were made to fit him.

Knowledge with self-control… self-control with steadfastness… steadfastness with godliness…

Fuck off, he thinks viciously, growling it in his head to drown the endless refrain of scripture that batters at him even as he trembled above you. He’s not praying anymore—he’s fighting to silence the voice that tells him this is wrong, that this is sin, when all he wants is to make you feel good. 

“Matt,” you whimper, soft and urgent. “Move. Please.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, exhales raggedly against your jaw, and then—hesitantly, testing—he slides his cock out.

It’s too slow. Painfully so. Your swollen folds cling to him desperately, like your pussy is trying to suck him back in, each inch dragging fire across his length until he nearly loses his mind. Your cunt stretches, weeps around him, and when he pushes forward again, even slower, the shaft sinks back inside with obscene resistance, the slick sound of your bodies meeting loud in the overheated room.

“Fuck, so tight,” he gasps, forehead dropping to yours.

He pulls out again. Slides back in again. Every retreat slick, every push met with a bearing down so tight he chokes on his own breath.

And then he does it again.

And again.

And again.

Your thighs tremble against his hips, your back arching, your mouth falling open as you watch him—watch the way his cock disappears inside you, coated thick in your wetness, then reappears glistening, only to sink back inside to the hilt. A ring of wet white clings to the base of his shaft, spreading with every stroke, proof of how thoroughly he’s splitting you open.

“Oh my God,” you whimper, voice thin, eyes glued to the sight. “Matt.”

As if through otherworldly understanding, he says your name back to you, siphoning heat into your mouth—and almost without meaning to, his pace picks up. The slow grind of his hips becomes sharper, his thrusts longer, the rhythm picking up with every drag of your pussy milking him tighter. He pulls back halfway and drives forward again, harder this time, and the sound it makes—the wet slap of your bodies, the squelch of your slick around him—nearly unspools him.

“Fucking hell,” he pants, brow furrowed, eyes shut tight, as if concentration alone can keep him from losing himself entirely. “You’re so—so fucking tight, sweetheart.”

Your hands clutch his shoulders, helpless against the pace as he pumps into you now, faster, deeper, your cries tumbling into the room in a shameless chorus. And still you can’t stop watching his cock slide in and out of your pussy, faster and faster, his stomach clenching, his silver cross swinging tauntingly above you.

One moment he’s easing in, trying to keep that tight rhythm steady, whispering prayers and half-formed apologies against your mouth, and the next he’s simply gone, for lack of a better word. Crossing the threshold of his own control, he’s resorted to straight up fucking you, hips hammering into you, cock pistoning in and out like something feral’s taken hold of him. He’s sloppy, untrained, rutting wildly, but again, biology doesn’t need finesse, and when someone’s fucking you like this—driving into you hard, desperate, needy—the result is still more than enough to make you arch and moan and claw at his back like you’ll die if he stops.

“Fuck—fuck—” Matt pants, forehead slick and pressed against yours, his voice dissolving into hoarse groans each time his fat cock slams all the way in. He’s greedy with it, chasing his own high with reckless abandon. Ever errant, his mouth searches blindly for balmy skin—your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—pressing wet, scorching kisses between bitten gasps. He tastes sunscreen and sweat, your salt and his and that damned apple-scented lotion, the tang so sweet it makes him dizzy, and when your anklet clinks in counterpoint to his every thrust, the tinkling chime fills his ears like music, like a hymn that drives him to thrust harder.

The bedframe protests, the cramped mattress squeaking beneath the combined weight of his body pressing yours down into it. There’s no space left between you at all; he’s smothering you in heat, his musk, his ragged breath against your lips, and you’re drowning in it, in him. His cane clatters to the floor when his thrusts jostle it loose from the headboard, forgotten completely, as though he’s swearing off every marker of restraint with every thrust.

“Matt,” you breathe, and then again, louder, chanting it helplessly, “Matt, Matt, Matt…” with the same fervent rhythm he’d once used to pray the rosary, your cries his new litany.

He can’t get enough. Your cunt is so wet, so tight, clenching around him like it was made to keep him, and he can’t stop laughing breathlessly into your face, disbelieving, “So fucking tight—Christ, you’re so tight—” before his hand’s sliding down again to abuse your swollen clit, your shared wetness slicking his touch until your body jolts violently against him.

Knowing you so well, that’s all it takes—your whole body seizes, your mouth falling open on a silent cry as your orgasm rips through you like a snapped cable. Your vision goes white and you writhe beneath him, clutching and pawing at his back, shaking so hard your knees knock into his hips.

By reflex, Matt buries his face against your neck, his body surging with yours as your cunt spasms around him, soaking him even more. He knows he should pull out. He knows. But the way your pussy’s gripping him, sucking him back in, the soaked evidence of your orgasm leaking down his cock, the way you’re still trembling and panting his name like it’s salvation—

He can’t.

He’s not thinking anymore. Just fucking.

And the bed’s tiny, barely big enough for both of you, and there’s nowhere to go but into each other, sweat dripping off his forehead onto your own, your skin hot and shiny under his, your nails dragging down his spine, and he’s laughing now—breathless, manic—between thrusts.

…That each one must know to control his own body in holiness and honor… 

It should shame him, too. Matt catches it: the slight copper tang of blood lacing the air, the sting of your body stretched too suddenly—but instead it makes him shake, makes him rut harder, makes his cock twitch greedily inside you. Some dark part of him finds the trace of blood endlessly alluring, proof that you’ve ruined each other for anyone else. He doesn’t stop to think, finding himself unable to.

…not in the passion of lust.

Was he this much of a fucking freak, that verses floated up unbidden even while his cock was bullying your cervix, stretching you indecently deep?

He’ll be forgiven. He’ll be forgiven.

As long as he doesn’t come inside you. 

That’s the line. That’s the last shred of self-control he has left, and he clings to it while his hips rut and slam with abandon, while your body milks him so good he’s dazed with it.

But he wasn’t supposed to go this far, so what’s a little farther? 

He doesn’t believe in halfway sins. If he’s going to hell, then he’ll make it worth everything.

“I’ll pull out,” Matt rasps, his voice half-promise, half-prayer. “I’ll pull out, I swear—just a little longer, just—fuck—”

But “a little longer” turns into a little too long. His rhythm breaks down into sloppy, desperate pounding, each slam of his cock inside you wetter, louder, deeper than the last, his breath coming in ragged sobs. His cross necklace clinks wildly above your breasts, slick against your skin where his chest presses you down. His mouth drags open over your lips, teeth nipping, tongue sloppily seeking to catch yours, and when you kiss him back he groans like he’s being possessed, his entire body jolting with the force of his thrusts, helpless as he says again without thinking, “Mine.”

And finally, in acquiescence, you whisper back, “Yours,” clamping down so tight, twitching and moaning under the maddened stroke of his thumb over your overstimulated clit, and he can’t take it, can’t fight it anymore. The thought of pulling out vanishes as though it never existed.

“Oh fuck—fuck—” he chokes, hips slamming forward one last time, burying himself deep as he can go and his cock pulses violently, spilling hot, thick spurts of his seed into your cunt.

It gushes out of him, painting your walls with ropes of it, mixing with your creamy slick as he groans loud and shameless into your open mouth, kissing you through the ruin. His body wracks with it, every muscle seizing, every thrust reduced to helpless little jerks determined to push his spend as deep inside you as he can.

And all you can do is take it—take every spurt, every twitch, your body clenching and milking him desperately as though it refuses to let him go, your name and his name blurring together into moans and gasps until there’s nothing left but the sound of your hearts, hammering in tandem, and the wet, lewd squelch of his cock still seated in your dripping, stuffed cunt.

Matt gasps against your throat, body twitching with aftershocks as his cum leaks out around his cock and down the curve of your ass. You whimper at the warm, slippery sensation, still pulsing around him, still clinging, your cunt reluctant to let him go.

Afterwards, there’s nothing but silence.

Neither of you has any mind to move. His cock is still lodged deep inside you, twitching weakly with every tremor that runs through him. You’re trembling together, not from cold or the heat but from everything, from the enormity of what you’ve just done and the enormity of how right it still feels despite that.

Finally, Matt groans in defeat and rolls his weight just enough to keep from crushing you. It’s not far, though. Not far enough to leave, which relieves you immensely. 

His arm slides beneath your back, gathering you against him like he has no intention of ever letting you go, anchoring you to him, anchoring himself to you. Your legs slip apart at the shift and a tiny whimper of protest spills from your throat, but his grip only tightens, grounding you as if to say, don’t drift away from me.

The sheets are damp beneath your back, your thighs tacky where sweat has sealed you together. Matt’s hand spreads broad at your ribs, thumb stroking lazy arcs into your slick skin. His other arm stays firm beneath you to lock your bodies together, his cross cool and sticky where it’s fallen between you.

“…Jesus Christ,” you finally whisper, the words barely more than breath.

“Yeah.”

Your lips are still swollen from his mouth. “That was intense.”

The pause that follows is thin and fragile as an oyster windowpane. He has no desire to break it at all, but he has to for your sake, and you’re aware of the conscious effort he makes to soften his voice, stripped raw: “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You turn your head toward him, brows faintly knitting, heart twisting. This must be it, he’s going to tell you he wishes it hadn’t happened. “...I was about to ask you.”

Oblivious as you usually might be, you know you’re feeling each other out, testing the waters. 

“Yeah. I’m okay,” he answers finally, then, so quiet in comparison, he continues, “but you’re not… freaking out?”

“No,” you murmur. Your throat tightens as you add, almost shyly, “I liked it.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Matt huffs affectionately against your hair, and tilts to nudge his nose against your temple, pressing dazed little kisses along your cheek, your face, your jaw. Tension having snapped, the silence fractures into soft, exhausted laughter—half relief, half disbelief. And for a long moment you’re content to drown in it, until Matt shifts, arm bracing to push himself up, muscles trembling. 

Your hands clutch at him before he can slip free. “Don’t.”

“I should—I should get you cleaned up.”

“Later,” you insist, pulling him down again, hooking your leg over his to keep him trapped. Your voice is small but iron-willed. “Let me have this, Matt.”

There’s no fight in him, not when you ask like that. He finds it to be what’s ubiquitous across it all: the inability to deny you what you want, no matter what. And so he collapses back into you obligingly, burying his face in your neck. 

A small giggle slips out of you. He lifts his head, curious. “What?”

“I think my brain’s finally coming back online,” you say, stretching enough to wince at the soreness between your thighs.

“Aw, tragic,” Matt drones, “You were so agreeable when it was melted.”

You smack his arm weakly. He catches your hand, presses a kiss to the back of it, and keeps it there against his mouth.

“We should probably get back to studying.”

“Speak for yourself. You’re the one who said you were behind.”

“You’re the one who made me more behind!”

His laugh is a vibrating buzz against your collarbone, tickling you as he nuzzles in closer. “Five more minutes, then.”

You hum, pliant, with no snide retort to shoot back.

For once, you don’t care. For once, you're not afraid of what comes after.

The clatter of dice hits the table, and someone curses irately at rolling another nat one. The campaign pauses just long enough for Marci to look up from the character sheet she’s been only half-invested in, propping her chin in her hand, still a little incredulous that she let Foggy drag her out to D&D instead of spending the afternoon at his place. But he’d been mysteriously insistent on it, and now, watching Foggy grin like a man sitting on a royal flush, it dawns on her what he’d had planned all along.

“They better not hook up,” she mutters idly. 

“You might as well just pay up now,” Foggy says without missing a beat, sliding his root beer aside to make room for his pile of winnings. He doesn’t even look at her, oozing smug satisfaction. “I told you it was gonna be today. No way it was gonna take another month.”

Marci glares at him. “How the hell do you even know?”

“I’ve been watching those two make goo-goo eyes since freshman year. It was only a matter of time,” Foggy says, matter-of-fact. “Besides, she was wearing the apple lotion today. That stuff drives Matt crazy. He’s toast.”

There’s a beat of silence around the table before Marci groans, digging into her purse reluctantly.

“You guys are so weird. And disgusting.”

“Yes we are,” Foggy agrees cheerfully, plucking the bill from her hand. He tucks it neatly into his wallet and tips his dice bag toward her in mock toast. “To young love, and finally getting its head out of its ass.”

[wiatchswift]

all i need is you / bucky barnes

warnings: mentions of sex, sneaking around. little age gap?? word count: 1.9k A/N: this took so long make it appreciated thanks. but i didn't proofread sorry.

you were the little sister that got dragged along to parties and hangouts because your mom told your siblings to bring you.

the events you were dragged to were science fairs and Coney Island trips. 

Steve Rogers was your older brother. scrawny and always being put into fights.

you and Steve weren’t much alike. that was what made it hard to tell you were siblings. Steve had minimal friends, Bucky and…

you, on the other hand, were great friends with Rebecca—Bucky’s little sister.

ordinarily, the best friend to the brother would hate the little sibling’s guts, in a… friendly way.

but no, really. James Barnes was really sweet to you. he brought you along to these events as if you were just a little sibling to him, just as you were with Steve.

until, one day, he arrived at the Rogers’ house and… you were there.

grown up. mature. actually… woah.

Bucky was there to pick Steve up for another night out together. instead just wanted to take you out somewhere.

he knew it would probably get in the way of everything. Steve trusted Bucky with you, he trusted that Bucky wouldn’t try anything with you, wouldn’t make a move—despite his Brooklyn charm that nobody could resist.

everything from there was risky. you had always had a thing for Bucky, since you were, like… three.

so, naturally, you guys were sneaking around. behind Steve and Rebecca’s back.

you both always felt guilty about it. Bucky imagined, sometimes, if the roles changed. if it was Steve sneaking around with Rebecca. he hated the thought, and could only imagine what would happen if Steve found out about you two.

the way Bucky looked at you, though. he looked at you like you hung up the stars and moon. like you were more than just a little sister to his best friend.

if you were laughing, he was smiling. that would always make your heart explode with affection, because nobody had treated you better than Bucky.

now, you were using the excuse to your parents about “having a sleepover with Rebecca” when in reality, you and Bucky were having sleepovers and not the most modest ones.

sitting in Bucky’s bed, back against the headboard, he was talking to you while pacing around the room.

it got like this sometimes. he would get stressed and you would be there to listen to him.

walking back and forth at the end of the bed, Bucky talks and talks. “and I mean, how can I not feel bad about it? you’re… his baby sister. I’m fucking my best friends baby sister.”

you chuckle, stifling it at the end so he didn’t think you were laughing at him. “Jamie, I’m pretty sure I want this just as much as you do—”

he cut you off, continuing his ramble. “I used to think you’d be the godmother of my kids, sweetheart.”

“then I’ll be the mother?”

Bucky paused in his pacing, facing you. you were like this, very blunt when it came to those close to you.

he was used to it, really… but, mother? “you’d have my babies?”

you chuckle again, less stifling this time. “we’re still young, babe. maybe I will, I’d be honoured.”

“don’t even joke about it.” Bucky said sternly, pointing a finger at you.

you get your back off of the headboard, moving on the bed towards him. “look, Buck. if Steve finds out, he’ll have to deal with the fact his baby sister isn’t a baby anymore.”

you take his hand in yours, tracing small circles on the back with your thumb. “we could even blame it on me. say that it was my idea.”

Bucky sighed, shoulders slumping with exhaustion. “I guess we could—wait, no. we’re not blaming us on you.”

you let out a small noise. a mix of a scoff and snicker. “and why’s that?”

“I’d rather him get angry at me than you.” He states, matter of fact.

letting out a huff of air, you tug his hand gently, pulling him down to kiss you. pulling back, you mutter, “you’re too good to me.”

“‘s what I do best.”

you laugh, kissing his cheek after. “about that baby thing…"

—

a few hours later, you two were cuddled up in bed, half-naked.

he was in his boxer briefs, you were in a bra and panties—after a great decision to cover up at least a little after you had sex.

well, you tried to have sex.

Bucky paused in the middle of a thrust because he started feeling anxious again.

like the paranoid feeling you get when you think somebody’s watching. he felt that, but with Steve.

chests pressed together, legs tangled. you were on top of him, not really focused on anything but him.

you were tracing small patterns on his bicep with your fingertips, he was looking up at you that same way he always did. like you were the best thing in the world.

your eyes shift, looking into his now. “what?” you say with a suppressed smile. he always got you feeling mushy inside.

Bucky shook his head softly, his own smile growing. “you’re just so… beautiful.”

you chuckle softly, cheeks growing pink. “stop that.”

“stop what?”

“that.”

Bucky was seriously in love. you could tell. his eyes told everything, his actions, his voice. 

you were one of the only people he would soften up to, take care of, love.

though, you weren’t there yet.

hadn’t said those words yet.

but they had been on the tip of his tongue for months. he kept chickening out, thinking there would be a better time for it.

was he even allowed to get that deep into this thing you two have going on?

probably not.

a conversation you two had when all of this was started, you both agreed on it being a fling, hook-ups and nothing more.

but, of course, neither of you followed that. it showed.

he wished that maybe, just maybe, you could be something more in the future. that it could be you who he married. you could have his children.

stop getting ahead of yourself, James.

—

once Bucky ended up asleep, you had to slip out of his house without a word.

your parents thought you were having a sleepover with Rebecca, and thought you would be home in the morning.

you knew, if you spent the night at Bucky’s place and the mornings, you wouldn’t be leaving.

he’d give you that pout and make you feel bad for even suggesting leaving to go home.

he wouldn’t, really. but it was a great technique to scare you from staying overnight at his.

you sat up, untangling yourself from his limbs and leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth.

you really didn’t need to say anything, he was dead asleep, but you did anyway. “I’ll be back soon, honey.” you whisper against his skin, pulling back once finished.

standing from the bed, you stretch your arms slightly. bending down to pick up your discarded shirt from the floor, then your pants.

you looked over your shoulder, seeing Bucky fast asleep in bed. you hated the feeling, hated how wrong what you two were doing was.

going completely behind Steve’s back, and Rebecca’s. it was a matter of time before they found out. 

when you arrive home, it’s late. nobody’s awake. probably for the better.

you were getting that feeling again. it was the same feeling Bucky got, but told you all about. you tried acting like these things didn’t affect you. but they did. badly.

that thing started happening again. your hands started getting clammy out of nowhere.

fingers trembled against the doorknob, opening the door to your bedroom.

ironically, the only thing you wanted right now was for Bucky to hold you.

but he couldn’t. not now, at least. 

and now your arms were doing that tingly thing again.

–

the next time you two saw each other, it was at a hang out.

Steve, Rebecca, Bucky, and you.

Steve and Bucky sat sprawled out on the floor, you and Rebecca were up on the couch talking to each other about everything that wasn’t science and nerdy guy stuff.

Bucky was tossing a tennis ball up in the air and catching it once it fell, just above his face.

oh, how badly you just wanted to be near him. and for it to be okay to do that.

Rebecca was in the middle of a sentence, then noticed how you were completely, utterly zoned out.

“and I was—hey, Y/N… earth to Y/N?”

you didn’t realise you were staring at Bucky up until now, blinking a few times, your eyes meet Rebecca’s.

“yeah. uh—sorry. I was just a little—”

“lost?” Bucky chimed in, doing that smug grin that made you want to wipe it right off.

you roll your eyes, continuing back to the conversation with Rebecca.

now, it was Bucky’s turn to stare.

he loved the way your eyes looked as if there was a speck of glitter in them every time you talked about something you loved, or even looked at somebody you loved.

he loved how your smile made everything in your face light up.

how you talked so smoothly and softly, and made the person you were talking to feel like the only person in the room.

it was really stupid that Steve thought Bucky wouldn’t fall in love with you.

you were just sunshine.

you were the light in a dark room.

and oh how Bucky loved you.

even if he hadn’t said it before,

you just knew.

Steve mentioned something to Bucky about going to get some takeout for dinner, considering none of your four cooked much.

Rebecca piped up immediately, finishing up her story and jumping off of the couch to run to the store with Steve.

that left you and Bucky together.

finally, alone.

you smile at him once the door shuts, and he pulls your hand and gives you a kiss like he was starving.

which, in all honesty, he probably was.

that was what most of it was while Rebecca and Steve were gone.

but they were gone for longer than anticipated.

sidewalk traffic, delayed orders, and whatnot.

that gave you and Bucky time to be together.

after nearly ten minutes of kissing and laughing and talking, you lay on the couch, head on Bucky’s thigh. his fingers absentmindedly ran through the strands of your hair, and he was rambling on about something Steve had said earlier that day.

when you just really wanted him to shut up, you straightened up your back and moved on the couch.

“what’re you doing?” Bucky asked, brows furrowed.

then, you planted yourself straddling his lap. leaning your head in to press a kiss to his lips.

“shutting you up,” you murmur against his lips. he returns the kiss with hands on your waist and slipping under your shirt.

it wasn’t long before it was just a bunch of chuckles between kisses and all tongue and stupid love.

and it wasn’t long before the front door was unlocking.

but with your fingers tangled in his hair, and your mouth all over his, it was really hard to care for what was happening around you two.

when you hear a pair of keys fall onto the kitchen counter, you pull back from the kiss.

his palms were still beneath your shirt, and your fingers still locked in his hair.

turning your head over your shoulder, your mouth falls agape..

fuck.

masterlist | divider by me, inspired by @/saradika-graphics

[gay-dorito-dust]

Based on how goose has said that Jax hasn’t been hugged in a really, really long time. Aka the one fic where you hugged Jax and now he can’t stop thinking about what he’s been missing.

The first time you had hugged Jax was completely an accident, heat of the moment thing, when you and him had won an in house adventure of laser tag and everyone was required to pair up into teams. You and Jax just so happened to be close by each other for Caine to just pair you both up for the sake of speeding things up.

Apparently to everyone else being paired with Jax was the equivalent of a death wish with how their eyes became sympathetic and grieving in their own way, as though they were mourning you before Jax completely kills off your soul entirely in record time. You knew Jax was…well Jax and he’s hardly a pleasant person to be near at any instance, especially not without feeling as though he was thinking on how to discard you without anyone knowing with how his smile seemed to widen and his eyes seemed to become two mischievously slits of black.

Besides the only thing he’s ever said to you before the game started was; ‘don’t get in the way, or get shot by anybody I don’t like -which is everyone- and embarrass me.’ Not leaving you any time to respond as he was quick to make Ragatha and Pomni his first targets, quickly disregarding the whole ‘team bonding’ aspect of the game as you decided to go in the opposite direction after Kinger or whoever you came across.

By the final stretch of the game it was just you, Jax and Zooble left and within seconds Zobble was out, declaring you and Jax the winning team of the adventure. You were so happy that you had won at something that you had exclaimed ‘WE WON! WE WON!’ As you hugged Jax tightly, smiling into his chest and just filled with so much happinesses in that moment that once it wore off, you were quick to realise what you were doing and felt how stiff the purple bunny went within your touch as you pulled away from him. The look upon his face told you that you were the first person to hug him in a really, really long time with how his arms hung at his side and his eyes had a far away look as they peered at you, leaving you to feel very embarrassed by your actions because despite him throwing his arm over others shoulders or nudging them or just being in close proximity that didn’t necessarily mean that he himself was overly fond of physical touch.

You were conceded with yourself that you had crossed an invisible boundary that any attempt to apologise on your behalf was made awkward with how hard you were trying to give him some space. Meanwhile Jax was stuck on the moment you hugged him tight like you’ve been wanting to do so for a while, holding him as though he would disappear between your fingers and you were desperately trying to get him to stay a little while longer. You held him like you’ve cared, held him like he was a friend, somebody you felt deeply towards as your warmth seeped into him.

Even when you pulled back out of realisation Jax still could fell your embrace as though it was now embedded within his digital code, forcing him to remember just how well you fitted against him in that brief moment of celebrated victory. He could still feel your arms tighten on his waist even now when you had all but left his side to speak to Ragatha and Pomni about the game, congratulating on them trying their best and patting their shoulders, a complete opposite as to how you touched him mere minutes ago.

You touched them briefly while you held him like eternity was slipping away, like you couldn’t fathom letting go until reality -the digital one at least- crashed into you as you remembered just who you were hugging. Your hand never linger on their shoulders like your hug lingered upon his fur more than he’d like, even when brushing himself off he felt as though you were hugging him again for far longer this time. His eyes wordlessly followed you and closely observed you and how you interact with the others, noting your brief bouts of affection with them, unable to find the words to say as his mind had the happy and content look upon your face frozen within his mind.

You looked happy to hug him. Why? He didn’t understand, he’s a dickhead and wasn’t liked by most of the people here! You should at least take notes from them and hate him too instead of hugging him like you’ve known each other for a while. Jax was conflicted on how to feel as he walked away from the rest of you, only looking over his shoulder to look at you as you absentmindedly put Zooble’s feet in your lap as you all traded stories and laughs on the couch, his eyes narrowed as he forced a scoff to leave his lips.

‘Unbelievable.’ As he made his way to his room, laying flat on his back upon his bed as he drifted off to sleep, not knowing he’ll wake up soon to find his limbs trying to recreate the sensation of you hugging him. How sad.

[catchingfallingstars]

MAYBE | CALEB X READER ♥︎

♡ SYNOPSIS: This isn’t the first time Caleb has woken you to have his way with you while he’s drunk, but it is the first time he’s taken it too far.

♡ WORD COUNT: 0.7k

♡ WARNINGS: 18+, pseudo-incest, non-consensual somnophilia, drunk sex, revoked consent, first time.

♡ A.N: I’m not really happy with how this turned out, but I decided to just post it instead of letting it rot in my drafts.

WRITING TAG ♡ REQUEST ME

You’re roused from your slumber suddenly when you feel someone drape themselves atop you, playing with waistband of your underwear as they kiss the back of your neck. You blink, confused, before reality sets in and attempt to jerk the body off of you.

You only stop when you hear Caleb’s voice proclaim, “Shh, it’s just me, pipsqueak.”

It’s just your brother.

Immediately, you settle, letting out a sigh of relief even as your heart continues to hammer in your chest. “You couldn’t have been more subtle? Or, you know, just have woken me up?”

Against the shell of your ear, he whispers, “Where’s the fun in that?”

This close, you can smell the stench of alcohol on his breath. Of course, you have to deal with a tipsy or possibly drunk Caleb. Of course. Here’s to hoping he simply knocks out, but with your luck, he’s probably going to be horny.

“You’re the worst,” you mutter, closing your eyes and snuggling your face deeper into your pillow. Still, you tell him, “Take something and drink some water, so you don’t feel like shit in the morning.”

“Already did,” Caleb murmurs, nibbling at your lobe before moving his attention to your neck. He grinds against you, and you shudder as you become aware of his nakedness. You had thought he felt warm, and now you know why. He moves your panties to the side and plays with your clit.

“Per—vert,” you accuse, voice breaking when his tip presses incessantly against your entrance.

“You like me like that,” he retorts as he slides through your folds expertly, the way he does when he wants to drive you mad with desire, and suddenly, you’re wondering if he’s actually sober.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s used the excuse of drunkenness to explain his behavior, staring at you with puppy eyes as he apologizes. He’s usually so good at asking for permission, but not during these times. You let him get away with it every time. Maybe you even encourage it because deep down you like him like this—unrepentant about his own desire, even at your expense, especially at your expense.

The excuse is flimsy, and you both know it, and yet still, you both exploit it.

“Maybe.”

You can feel his grin on your neck then before he kisses your pulse. He’s slowed his motions, so you think that he’s done for the night when he sheathes himself inside of you.

You keen highly, fisting the sheets as Caleb pushes in deeper.

“Gege, stop,” you moan brokenly. “It hurts.”

“Shh, it’s okay, meimei. You can take it. I know you can,” Caleb whispers sweetly as he bottoms out.

He’s never done this before.

You’ve only ever taken his fingers down there, and those are much smaller than what’s inside of you.

Why is he doing this? He promised he’d be gentle when he took your virginity He’s anything but.

“Caleb, stop. Please, gege.”

He ignores you, continuing to whisper sweet nothings against your skin as he starts to thrust in and out of you.

It hurts more than anything you’ve ever experienced, but it doesn’t take long before pleasure is interspersed with the pain.

You weep into your pillow as he uses you, and your brother, the one who could never stand your tears, the one who always wiped them away with a smile, doesn’t stop.

His strokes become clumsy, and then, he stiffens, moaning your name. You feel it when cums within you. He collapses atop you, snuggling against you, and doesn’t pull out. You stay still, tears all dried up, and turn around to face him.

His eyes are half-lidded as he stares at you.

You don’t recognize the look in them.

The silence is heavy, but you cut through it with your words.

“You could’ve just asked.”

“Maybe.”

Well, maybe this is just a dream. A nightmare that you’ll wake up from.

You close your eyes and tuck your head against his chest.

You’ll forgive him for this in the morning, but right now, you don’t.

You think that you may just hate him right now.

He knows this, and still, he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead; it feels like a slap in the face, the dichotomy of the brutality he forced you to experience and the loving nature you associate with your brother.

“Love you, meimei,” he slurs as he drifts off to sleep, as if hearing your thoughts.

“Love you,” you reply stiffly, but he doesn’t hear you.

Sleep eludes you, so you stay up, mapping the features of Caleb’s face and attempting to find a change to justify that this isn’t your kind brother. He wouldn’t have done this to you, so it must be a stranger with his face and mannerisms, but it’s not.

You must simply accept that this… is just as much Caleb’s nature as what you are familiar with. It’s your fault for not recognizing that earlier.

Maybe it would have saved you some heartache if you had.

Maybe not.

[sillyswriting]

: ̗̀➛ Doomsday's luckiest

 ���   ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ zombie apocalypse simon 'ghost' riley x reader

03 : tonight you belong to me

cw : smut, slight dubcon undressing, panic attack, dead bodies, undead creatures, chubby reader. words : 7.7k

     ㅤ  collection - prev �� next

Manchester was long gone.

It had been nearly a week since you arrived in Doncaster. The journey had taken you nine hours—seven more than it should have. The roads were a disaster. Simon had done everything he could to avoid Sheffield, afraid it would turn into another Manchester.

He’d grown wary of people. He didn’t trust anyone anymore.

For hours, you had passed desperate figures on the roadside, screaming for you to stop, shouting that you were killing them as Simon pressed harder on the gas. You had begged him to slow down, to at least hear them out. But he always said the same thing.

“No.”

It had been a really hard journey for the both of you. Simon was on the edge, always looking for danger, always ready to move to action.

You had asked him if you could stop by your own apartment, it wasn’t far from Manchester at all, but again, he had refused. He said it was too close to the city, that those monsters would be drawn to the explosions from kilometres away.

It was for your own sake, he’d told you.

Now you sat on the counter of a pharmacy, waiting for Simon to finish his sweep. He was making sure you had everything you might need for whatever journey he was taking you on : various pills, bandages, antiseptics, plasters, anything useful he would take. He’d found an empty backpack and was packing it to the brim.

You weren’t sure how he planned to carry it when the car inevitably broke down, but you didn’t doubt his strength. If he said he could manage, you weren’t going to question it.

He had sat you up on the counter once he had secured the place, locked the door and told you to sit pretty while he went on his little tour. You were still unsure about his behaviour toward others, but you couldn't do much about it. He was the only reason you were still alive, if he gave up on you, you were dead in no time.

It didn’t help that, when night fell, the former military man treated you like you were the last fragile thing left in the world. He made sure you ate, wrapped you in warm clothes, and let you rest with your head in his lap while he stayed alert in the dark. His hand would sometimes rest on your shoulder, heavy, possessive, just enough to remind you he was there.

You’d offered to keep watch so he could sleep, but he always refused. Said you needed the rest more. Said he’d learned a long time ago how to get by on almost no sleep. You weren’t sure if that was something to be proud of or something that had broken him.

Not that he could really switch off, even if he tried. Whatever was out there had dragged his mind back into soldier mode. He was all edges now : listening for footsteps that weren’t there, scanning shadows for movement, every muscle coiled tight. Even when his eyes closed for a second, he’d wake at the faintest shift of your weight, like the world outside was waiting for him to relax just once so it could take everything.

It was hard to understand the depth of Simon’s concern for you. You’d barely known each other, yet his attention was constant, unyielding.

He put your needs before his own, though you suspected he didn’t had any. The military had taught him to strip them away, replacing softness with discipline, emotion with control. The man you’d met in that bar was still there—confident, blunt, even capable of a certain rough gentleness—but something had shifted.

Something had darkened.

It was in the way his eyes tracked every shadow. In the way he always stood between you and the open space. His care felt less like kindness and more like possession, as if he were guarding something that belonged to him. Almost like a predator watching over its prey, not out of compassion. More because it wanted to make sure nothing else touched it before the moment it chose to kill.

Kicking your feet idly, you let your gaze wander around the place, lost in thought. The dynamic between you felt strange, but the idea of leaving him never truly crossed your mind. Something about him made it impossible to walk away, even in the case where you wouldn't doubt your ability to survive on your own.

Even if the world hadn’t ended that night, you knew you would have been obsessed with him all the same. He would have lodged himself under your skin, impossible to shake loose. The only difference now was that you weren’t just drawn to him, you relied on him. And in this new world, dependence felt a lot like surrender.

A sharp whistle pulled you out of your thoughts, followed by his deep voice. “Come here,” he said, tilting his head toward you.

You hopped down from the counter and approached, ready to leave, but he had other plans. Without a word, he turned back into the pharmacy, moving down the aisles with the quiet confidence of someone who always knew where he was going. You frowned and fell into step behind him.

“Take what you need,” he said, stopping and leaning casually against a shelf.

You glanced at the items in front of you : pads, tampons, menstrual cups, menstrual underwear. Oh. It clicked now, why he’d called you over to this particular section.

When you looked back at him, you found his eyes on you, hard, but not unkind. Gentle, in their way, though unflinchingly intense. They didn’t waver, not once. It was the same look he’d given you that night at the bar, like he was trying to read every layer of you at once.

“Come on,” he cooed, “don’t have all day.”

That got you moving. You reached for the pads first, then hesitated, wondering what would be the most practical in the end of the world. In the end, you took a little of everything, packs of pads and tampons, a menstrual cup you weren’t sure you’d ever have the courage to try, and about ten pairs of menstrual underwear.

Simon didn’t comment on the amount. He didn’t complain. He simply let you take whatever you wanted, carefully arranging each item in the backpack until everything fit in perfect order.

“Need anything else, sweetheart?” he asked.

“Hum…” You hesitated, unsure if you should say it. But one raised eyebrow from him was all it took. “Condoms?”

He let out a low, mocking laugh, the sound rumbling in his chest, before zipping the bag closed. “Already took care of that, love.”

You nodded at his words and fell in step behind him when he started moving again. When he passed you, his hand came down on your hip, soft at first, patting, then lingered, gripping it with a brief, possessive squeeze before letting go and heading for the door.

It wasn’t like you had had sex again since that night. Even back at the military base, Simon was always gone or too exhausted for anything beyond the barest affection. You’d lived like a couple in fragments, cuddling into sleep, stolen kisses here and there, but nothing more.

And now, on the road, there was neither time nor want for intimacy. Yet in that small, deliberate grip, something unspoken lingered, something raw, tangled between need and restraint.

After loading the bag into the trunk and double-checking the doors were locked, Simon started driving back toward the main road. He didn’t want to linger in cities longer than necessary—only when absolutely required.

“Where are you from again? Whaley Bridge, right?” he asked, easing the car out of Doncaster.

“Yeah, why?” you glanced at him from the side.

He sighed, clearly reluctant. “We need to stay low for a while. Price mentioned a huge thunderstorm heading north fast this morning.” He always checked in with his team when you slept, staying updated on the situation down south. “You said it’s a quiet town, small population?”

“Yeah…” you replied. “But it’s close to Manchester. I thought you didn’t want to go back there?” You frowned.

“I don’t,” Simon said flatly. “But you need some clothes that fit you, and the comfort of your own home might do you good.”

After a few minutes of silence, you glanced back at him.

“How long?” you broke the silence.

“Hmm?”

“How long do you want to stay there?” you asked.

“A couple of days, until the rain stops. Then we head back to Birmingham. Hopefully before winter,” he said, though he knew the chances were slim.

“And if we don’t make it before winter?” you asked back quickly.

“I’ll figure it out then,” he replied dryly, not wanting to burden you with the worst-case scenarios. “Don’t worry about this, kitten.” He shot you a quick smile before taking the Manchester exit.

You didn’t know how long the drive from Doncaster to your house would take, but you hoped it would be quick. Heavy, dark clouds stretched across the sky, casting long shadows that only made your anxiety climb higher.

You’d never liked thunderstorms, and after everything in Manchester, you weren’t sure how well you’d handle the roar of thunder now. One thing was certain, you didn’t want to be stranded on the side of the road if the storm hit while you were out there.

Almost as if he’d studied the route, Simon drove toward your home like he already knew the way. You’d grown used to catching him poring over maps lately, but you hadn’t thought it was to find his way back to your place. The way his mind worked should have scared you.

He did it all in silence, leaving you out of the decisions, keeping his thoughts to himself. Always remembering. Always watching. He’d told you, that first night at the Manchester base, how he’d been programmed this way : trained to notice details, to memorize maps and roads so he would never be lost. And that was exactly how he was now.

Terrifying, and yet… fascinating.

After a few minutes of silence, you felt the urge to speak, if only to cut through the heavy, unbroken quiet he never seemed to mind.

“Isn’t this… I mean…” You hesitated, fumbling for the right words. “Doesn’t this set us back on the way to Birmingham?”

“No,” he said simply, without even glancing at you. No explanation. No room for follow-up.

You looked at him, waiting. The seconds stretched. Nothing. Just his profile lit in the dim, shifting light, jaw set, eyes locked on the road like they could cut through the storm clouds ahead.

That was how he was, answers stripped down to the bone, leaving you to fill in the rest. Sometimes you wondered if it was a habit from the military, or if he just didn’t trust you with the whole truth. Either way, the silence pressed heavier now, his presence filling the small space more than any conversation could.

You were about to answer back, but instead you sighed, surrendering to the silence of the car.

Outside, the sky was darkening fast, clouds swollen with rain, thunder rolling in sooner than expected. You fixed your eyes on the passing road signs, trying to figure out how close you were to Whaley Bridge.

As you neared Manchester, the devastation became impossible to ignore. The lane leading out of the city was a graveyard, cars crushed into each other, windshields caved in, shards of glass scattered across the road like cruel confetti. And bodies.

So many bodies.

Your brow furrowed as you tried to make sense of it : men, women, children, burned and broken, their limbs twisted in unnatural angles. A few meters ahead, even army tanks lay abandoned, their crews sprawled lifeless beside them, uniforms torn.

Then, at the sound of the car, some of those soldiers opened their eyes.

It wasn’t a slow, natural flutter, it was sharp, wrong, like a switch being flipped. Their gaze snapped to you, glassy yet aware, the dull grey of death staring straight into you. You could see the neat, blackened hole in the side of each skull, ringed with dried blood, the unmistakable mark of a bullet. Yet they moved.

Your stomach turned cold.

“Simon…” you whispered, the fear in your voice unmistakable.

The former lieutenant flicked his gaze toward you, then back to the road, then to the soldiers who were now standing. You could see it in his eyes, the silent maths he was doing. Calculating their speed. Yours. The stretch of open road ahead. Every possible outcome measured in seconds.

One of the bodies twitched unnaturally, head lolling before it snapped upright, eyes fixed on the car. Another took a step forward, slow at first, then faster, the jerky movements making your chest tighten.

Simon’s grip tightened on the wheel. “Hold on.”

The engine roared as he pressed harder on the accelerator, the car jolting forward. In the rearview mirror, you caught a glimpse of them breaking into a run, bullet wounds and broken bones be damned. The sound of their feet hitting the pavement carried faintly through the closed windows, swallowed almost instantly by the rising growl of the approaching storm.

“Don’t look,” he ordered, his voice low but firm, catching your jaw in one hand and guiding your face toward the road ahead. The pressure was gentle, but there was no mistaking the authority behind it.

A few cars were abandoned on your side of the road, crumpled and empty, but Simon steered around them without hesitation. Every movement was precise, deliberate, almost too smooth, as if he’d driven through scenes like this before.

His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror now and then, sharp and calculating, but never for long. No panic. No wasted motion. Just quiet, controlled efficiency. It was reassuring… and yet, in a way, unnerving.

He handled the chaos outside like it was nothing new. Like it was muscle memory.

Breathing heavily, you kept your eyes on the side of his face. He was the same as he’d been since the day you met him : cold, closed off, focused. Somehow, that steadiness eased your heartbeat, even when your gaze flicked to the rearview mirror and caught sight of them, far, but closing fast.

“What did I say?” he snapped, his hand finding your jaw again, turning your head firmly back toward the road ahead.

Not daring to look back, your eyes settled on the road ahead, straight into the heart of the thunderstorm the “Price” man had warned about. The faster Simon drove, the darker the sky grew, and the heavier the air felt around you.

It was almost as if God was mocking you.

A heavy thud echoed through the building as Simon kicked your front door open.

You were both soaked to the bone, rain hammering against the side of the building while the roar of thunder crept closer and closer. It made your skin prickle, but the familiarity of your home settled your nerves, if only a little.

Driving through town had brought tears to your eyes. You’d recognized some of the bodies by the roadside, people who’d been a part of your life. The old florist who always slipped you an extra flower. The sweet old man who’d ask you to walk his dog when he felt too tired. People you had liked.

You’d barely had time to process the sight before Simon had moved. His hand gripping a knife, the blade flashing once before sinking deep into their skulls. The sound, wet and final, made you flinch and let out a strangled scream. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t explain, just pulled the blade free and moved on, leaving their bodies still at last.

It was only afterwards that he spoke, voice flat and certain: it was the only way to kill them for good. The first death didn’t matter, they always came back. You only wished he had told you before so you could have shield yourself from the sight. It almost was as if he had wanted you to see him.

Wanted you to see how far he could go.

What unsettled you most wasn’t the explanation, but how easily he did it. Each motion had been precise, practised, as if this was second nature. In that moment, you saw the man he’d described in the bar, someone far darker than the one you thought you’d met. It was terrifying… and, in a way you couldn’t quite understand, comforting. He was doing it for you. To protect you.

You felt his hand on the small of your back, guiding, pushing, you into the flat. The flat made you a little uneasy.

The air inside was stale, musty, like it hadn’t been aired out in months, which, of course, it hadn’t. Still, the sight of everything exactly where you’d left it eased something in you. The town had been small enough that no one had bothered breaking in to take what they could.

It was strange, but comforting, to know that all your belongings were still here, untouched, waiting for you, as if the world outside hadn’t fallen apart.

As you wandered further inside, a heavy scraping sound made you jump.

You turned to see Simon shoving the tall cabinet from your entry hall across the floor, wedging it firmly against the door. Kicking it open earlier had already broken the locks and bolts, not that they would have been much use anyway.

With the cabinet in place, and the storm closing in outside, Simon was clearly hoping he could relax enough tonight to finally get a full night’s sleep.

He let all the bags drop by the front door and pulled his pack of cigarettes out of one of them. Even without him saying a word, you could see the exhaustion settling into his frame, shoulders low, steps slower. Maybe that was why he’d wanted to come here, to somewhere he was almost certain was safe.

And he’d been right. Your place was exactly the way you’d left it that night.

Making your way to the kitchen, you gagged the moment the smell hit you, thick, sour, rotting. You turned on your heel, ready to shut the door, but Simon’s hand caught it before you could.

“Gotta get rid of anything expired…” he muttered, voice low. Tired, yes, but still moving with that deliberate, unshakable purpose you’d come to expect from him.

The stench rolled over you again, and you gagged harder. You’d always been particular about things like that, mold on fruit, spoiled food, anything that smelled wrong. It made your skin crawl.

“Go sit down. Do something else,” he said, a hint of command in his sigh. “I’ll handle this.”

It wasn’t just an offer, it was a quiet dismissal, the same way he handled anything he didn’t trust you to deal with. In his world, he was the one who decided what you faced, and what you didn’t.

He gave you a gentle push before closing the door. You knew you had some food that was still good, some canned things but all your fruits, vegetables and everything in your fridge was gone.

Not forcing him to let you help, you turned toward your bedroom—opening all the windows as you passed—pulling out another bag and filling it with clothes and a few personal items. Simon had said you’d be here for a couple of days, but you knew better than to trust plans in this world. Better to pack now, just in case.

About ten minutes later, a loud splash echoed from outside. You froze. Heart kicking up, you rushed to the window, scanning the street for movement. Were there still people alive in town? Or worse… had the undead monsters found you?

Your gaze locked on a large trash bag, burst open and sprawled beneath your kitchen window.

Leaning out the open frame, you spotted Simon looking out the kitchen window, eyes sharp, gun in hand. He was still as a stone, watching, waiting for anything drawn to the noise.

Nothing came. And so his body disappeared back inside, letting the window open.

You thought you’d hear the kitchen door open as he came in to settle for the night, but no. The only thing that followed was silence. Then, a softer sound, and a deep exhale, curling low like the growl of distant thunder.

He was back at the window.

From where you stood, you could see him outlined against the storm, broad shoulders hunched slightly, the faint glow of his cigarette burning in the dark. Lightning flashed, etching every freckle and scar on his face in stark white for the briefest second. He looked almost unreal like that, danger wrapped in flesh.

The way he drew on the cigarette was deliberate, unhurried. Smoke drifted from his nose in slow streams, mingling with the rain-slick air, while the cigarette bobbed faintly between his lips. You couldn’t look away.

“Like the view, kitten?” he called, voice low but cutting clean through the storm. The smirk that followed was small, dangerous, and just for you, the cigarette hanging at a reckless angle as if it might tumble at any second.

Somehow, that simple sentence, mixed with the sight of him framed in the storm’s glow and the depth of his voice, sent a sharp, electric chill straight between your legs. This was the man you had met that dreadful night. The cocky, dominant man who had rocked your world without mercy.

You shook your head quickly. You shouldn’t be thinking about that. Not now. Not with the thunder creeping closer, each roll louder than the last. It was going to be a long night.

Turning back to your half-packed bag, your gaze drifted toward the bathroom door.

“Simon?” you called, raising your voice slightly. The apartment wasn’t big, but with the kitchen door closed, you weren’t sure he’d hear you.

Seconds later, the door swung open, and you almost laughed at yourself. Of course he’d hear you, he was trained for it. He didn’t speak, just tipped his chin toward you, eyes locking on yours.

“Do you think…” You glanced at the bathroom, then back at him. “The water’s still running?”

“Yes.” His answer came without hesitation, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Just gonna be cold as fuck, is all.”

On one hand, you were soaked and freezing from the relentless rain outside, and on the other, it had been days since you’d last had a proper shower. Clutching some clothes in your hand, you gathered your courage and moved toward the bathroom.

Pausing just before the door, you glanced back at Simon. He looked so out of place in your pastel coloured bedroom, surrounded by soft posters. He, by contrast, was all black—military gear, combat boots, and that hardened mercenary build. In his hands, the big emergency light you had stored in the kitchen supplies closet.

“Want to go first?” you asked softly, feeling like he deserved the chance to relax before you.

“Yeah.” He answered simply. He slipped off his boots, then brushed past you, his hand settling quickly on your hip with a familiar, almost casual pat.

It had become a habit of his.

You quickly handed him a towel before he shut the bathroom door, leaving you alone.

Just as you were about to resume packing, you noticed the rain had picked up, wind driving droplets inside and wetting the floor. Rushing from room to room to close the windows, you ended in the kitchen last. The air still carried a faint sourness, but the counters were now neatly lined with what was salvageable, some fruits, canned goods, even a few packets of dried meat, all grouped and organized by type.

Almost as if Simon had a streak of OCD. Not that you’d put it past him.

When you stepped back into the bedroom, Simon was emerging from the bathroom, a towel slung low around his hips. His shower had been quick, military habit, you guessed.

“You can go,” he said simply, disappearing into the main room.

Grabbing an oversized t-shirt from your closet along with underwear and a pair of fluffy pants, you made your way into the bathroom. It wouldn’t be a pleasant experience, cold water and all, but you longed for the feel of clean skin and fresh clothes.

Shedding your soaked layers, you left them in the sink next to Simon’s. As you twisted the faucet, you heard your closet doors creak open in the bedroom. You frowned, guessing Simon was hunting for something to wear. You’d always kept a few men’s pieces in there, your own comfort clothes.

Large men’s clothes were the comfiest.

Thinking nothing of it, you took a deep breath, bracing yourself for the shock of the cold water. You made it quick, washing your entire body, running shampoo through your hair, and rinsing fast.

Just as you were about to step out, your gaze fell on your razor. It was silly, you knew, there were far more important things to worry about than body hair, but the intrusive thought stuck. Out of habit more than anything, you gave in. You shaved your legs, your armpits, and tidied the overgrown hair between your legs, working quickly before the cold could seep too deep into your bones.

Once out, you wrapped a towel around your hair, drying your skin in fast, brisk motions before pulling on the clothes you’d brought. The oversized shirt and fluffy pants were warm enough, but your bare arms still prickled in the chill, a sweater would help.

You lingered in the bathroom a little longer, towel still twisted around your head. One by one, you uncapped your skincare bottles, sniffing each to see if they’d gone bad. Some were brand new, untouched. The motions felt almost normal, almost like you were back in a world where this was just another night in.

Once your skin felt hydrated and your hair was more or less dry, you switched off the emergency light and stepped out of the bathroom.

You hadn’t expected the sight that greeted you.

Simon had changed your sheets, fresh ones pulled tight over the mattress. The clean scent of linen hung in the air, sharp, crisp, strangely comforting. He was sprawled across the bed, under the covers, the occasional flash of lightning casting sharp lines across his bare chest and freckled face. A notebook lay open in front of him, one hand holding a pen while the other kept a map steady. He looked good, almost too good, and you wondered how he wasn’t freezing without a shirt.

"Thought new sheets would do you—" he began, eyes still on his work. The moment he looked up, he stopped mid-sentence. His gaze dragged over you once, slow and deliberate.

"Take your clothes off," he said bluntly, eyes already dropping back to the map. His pen kept moving, like the request was nothing unusual.

"What? Why?" you asked, caught between confusion and disbelief.

"Because it’ll be warmer that way," he explained in that same calm, matter-of-fact tone. "Clothes just trick you into thinking you’re warm. Body heat works faster."

Your eyes went wide, taking in the way his pale skin stood out under the brief flashes of lightning. "Are you naked?" you asked, bewildered.

"Yes," he replied simply, still not looking up. "Nothing I haven’t seen before, kitten." He shot you a quick side glance at your hesitation, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

When you didn’t move, he added a curt, "Chop, chop," before turning back to his notebook, jotting down a few more notes.

After a few seconds and with deliberate slowness, he closed the notebook, setting it and the map on your bedside table. Both yours attention shifted to the window just as a loud crack of thunder split the air, making you jump. The wind howled, rattling the walls, each violent gust making the building groan in protest. Leaves, dust, and debris smacked against the glass, the storm’s fury unrelenting.

It was like no storm you’d ever witnessed, wild, alive, and unnerving. In that moment, you were glad you wouldn’t be sleeping alone tonight.

Another short whistle pulled your gaze from the window back to him. His eyes were locked on you, intense, unblinking, with just a hint of patronising amusement. "I’d like to have an early night, kitten, if you don’t mind."

You nodded softly and began stripping off only your pants, figuring your t-shirt and panties would be enough for the so-called “body heat” plan. Surely warmth would pass through them.

But that wouldn’t do for Simon.

The moment you slid under the covers beside him, he manhandled you into position, your back pressed firmly against his chest. Without a word, he pushed your shirt up, his hands brushing your breasts lightly before tugging the fabric over your head. Knowing you had plenty more tucked away in a drawer, he didn’t hesitate to tear your panties from your hips, pulling you flush against the heat of his semi-hard cock.

In an instant, his warmth enveloped you. You’d always known he ran hot, from that night in his bed, and all the others at the army base, but this felt different.

Better.

Maybe because you’d been freezing for hours, maybe because the heat rolling off him was such a welcome contrast to the storm raging outside. His slow breath fanned against your neck, the steady thump of his heart against your back lulling you toward sleep.

Just like that night at his flat, his bicep became your pillow, its solid weight grounding you. His other hand rested lightly on your stomach, kneading the soft flesh there for a brief moment before settling.

You could feel how relaxed his body was now, no trace of the tense soldier who kept watch while you slept, nor the stressed lieutenant from Manchester. This was the same man you’d ended up in bed with almost two months ago, on a reckless night out.

He had to be exhausted. Even a man used to short nights couldn’t outrun fatigue forever. The soft sound of his snoring told you everything you needed to know, and you finally let your own eyes drift shut.

A sharp clap of thunder tore you from sleep.

Your body tensed, confused by the surroundings, so familiar, yet distant enough to unsettle you. You were lying on your stomach, an unyielding weight pressed against your back. One large hand gripped your hip, the span of it reaching the curve of your arse, while messy hair tickled the back of your neck. The presence eased your panic, if only slightly.

Then another violent crack of lightning split the night, and your breathing quickened. The comfort of that weight was no match for the way your body was sinking back into panic.

Simon’s body, once comforting, now felt suffocating. His heat wrapped around you until you were overheating, trapped beneath both him and the sheets. Claustrophobia crept in, quick and merciless, feeding off the lingering fog of sleep.

Your mind flickered with unwanted images, civilians scattering under military fire, smoke thick in your throat, bodies pressed too close in the chaos. Each flashback made it harder to breathe. Another crack of thunder, louder than the last, rattled the walls and tightened the knot in your chest.

Wriggling beneath Simon’s weight was like trying to move under stone. He was heavy, heavier than you remembered, and for a surreal moment, you couldn’t believe this was the same man who used to wake at your smallest shift. His hand clamped harder on your hip, as if anchoring you in place. The arm beneath your head flexed, adjusting with your movements, his body moulding even closer to yours.

The storm roared outside, but all you could hear was the pounding of your own heartbeat in your ears, and the quickening pace of your breath.

“Stop,” he mumbled into your back, his voice thick with sleep, words muffled against your skin.

You could hear the fatigue in him, bone-deep, unshakable, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was escaping the heat, the weight, the noise that seemed to press in from all sides.

You wriggled forward, almost free, when his arm shot out and dragged you back. In one motion, he rolled you onto your back, looming over you. His face was a mask of irritation, jaw tight, eyes hard, until he actually saw you.

The anger dissolved instantly.

Your chest was heaving, each breath catching on a sob you couldn’t swallow. Tears streamed down your cheeks in hot, unsteady lines, your hiccuping breaths sounding too loud in the small space between you. The panic had you in its grip, and you couldn’t even speak.

“Fucking hell,” Simon sighed.

He knew this. The rapid breaths, the glassy eyes, the way the body tried to bolt without thought, it was a panic attack. He’d seen them before. Lived them before. Grew up with them. They were an old, unwelcome companion, one he’d fought in himself and seen in others more times than he could count.

You could see the confusion in his eyes, as he turned around swapping the room for any threats. A small whine left your lips at another clap of thunder, forcing his eyes back on you. His brown eyes calmed even more at the realisation of what you were afraid of.

Gently brushing the damp hair from your sweaty forehead, his hands anchored firmly on your cheeks, holding your gaze. “Breathe with me,” he murmured, guiding one of your hands to rest on his belly.

Your breath came uneven, every inhale snagging in your chest as you tracked the rise and fall of his stomach, the slow, deliberate pull of air into his lungs and the quiet release that followed.

Your other hand gripped his bicep beside your head, the same arm holding his weight suspended above you. Heat radiated from his skin into your palm, the muscle taut beneath your fingertips. He didn’t flinch at the sting of your nails, if anything, his gaze only deepened, locked on yours as though nothing else existed.

The space between you seemed to close in, the air thick and hard to pull into your lungs. Your heartbeat pounded against your ribs, too fast and too loud, until it felt like the whole world had narrowed to that frantic rhythm.

The rise and fall of his chest no longer steadied you, it only reminded you how shallow your own breaths had become.

Your grip on his bicep tightened without meaning to, fingers trembling. A prickling heat spread across your skin, followed by a cold wave that made your stomach lurch. Your vision blurred at the edges, his face still in front of you but swimming in and out of focus.

“Shh,” he cooed, voice soft but urgent now, eyes searching yours. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. It's just noises.”

But the words seemed far away, muffled beneath the heavy thumps in your ears. Your body refused to listen to reason, lungs fluttering, chest locked tight, every breath an effort you couldn’t quite win.

“It’s just noises, baby,” Simon murmured, trying to reason with you. His fingers brushed over the apple of your cheek in a tender, grounding gesture.

He guided your hand more firmly against the steady rise of his stomach, cooing soft words into your ear. You could see how much he wanted to help, the effort in his eyes, but nothing was cutting through the storm inside you.

Then, without warning, his full weight eased down onto you, pressing you gently into the mattress. Heat radiated from him, his body moulding to yours in a slow, deliberate embrace.

By all logic, it should have been too much, too close, too consuming, but it wasn’t. Strangely, it worked. The weight anchored you, pulling you out of the spiral. The edges of the room began to sharpen again, your senses slowly returning. You could feel the mattress beneath you, the rhythm of his breathing, the warmth seeping through your skin. His deep voice in your ears.

Once your breathing steadied, your eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, which lit up with each flash of thunder. The noises no longer startled you, and the heavy rain against the windows had become almost soothing.

As if sensing the slight ease in your body, Simon pushed himself back up onto his hands, hovering gently over you. He looked fully awake now, the haze of whatever sleep-induced irritation he’d carried moments before gone.

“Sorry…” you mumbled, avoiding his eyes. “Didn’t mean to wake you… just wanted to get out…” Your breath still caught unevenly at the edges.

“All good, love,” he said softly, tilting his head in an attempt to catch your gaze.

Another crack of thunder rattled the windows, and you flinched despite yourself. Simon eased down beside you again, but before he could say anything, you were already getting up. You quickly put the shirt he’d tossed aside hours ago on, clutching your pillow to your chest as you made your way toward the door.

“What are you doing?” he asked bluntly, rubbing a hand over his face, exhaustion evident in his voice.

You hesitated, throat tight. When you finally spoke, your words were quiet, frayed around the edges. “I don’t think I’ll sleep much. Don’t want to keep you up.”

“Come back here.” His tone wasn’t a request, it was an order. The hardness in his voice was unfamiliar, sharp and commanding. It was the same voice he carried at the base. His lieutenant’s voice.

“Simon—” you began, trying to reason with him.

“Don’t make me tell you again,” he said flatly, his gaze locked on yours, unwavering.

The firmness in his tone left no room for argument, the weight of command settling heavy in the space between you. For a heartbeat, you froze, pillow clutched tight against your chest, the storm outside still rumbling low through the walls.

With a resigned sigh, you made your way back to the bed. Before you could even kneel onto the mattress, you felt his hard gaze on you again. Following it downward, you realized what he was staring at. Without a word, you tossed the shirt back onto the floor and slipped under the blanket.

In an instant, Simon pulled you against him, exhaling softly as though the simple act of having you close brought him peace. He used to do this whenever he returned late to your room, it was familiar, almost comforting, but tonight, you couldn’t shake the wish that he’d simply let you go.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured, sensing how awake you still were.

Thunder rolled outside, low and mocking. His arms around you left no space to flinch, but your body went rigid for a moment all the same.

“I told you,” you whispered, your voice rough with exhaustion. “I’m not going to get much sleep.”

Groaning in your ear, he pulled you even closer. “I can get your mind to settle.”

You snorted humorlessly, rolling your eyes into the dark. “What, you gonna sing me a lullaby?”

“Nah,” he grunted behind you.

Before you could press him for details, his hand slid from your stomach and down between your thighs, cupping your cunt. One of his legs nudged between yours, parting them just enough to give him room to move.

“Simon…” you sighed, his warm hand enveloping you. “You don’t have to…”

“You want me to stop?” he asked, his hand pausing.

You should say yes. Not because you truly wanted him to, but because he needed the sleep. He’d been awake far too long for any human being, and ever since this whole mess began, he’d always put you first.

Still, you could feel the weight of your own exhaustion, and maybe, just maybe, a little distraction from the storm raging outside would help.

“No,” you whispered, your final answer.

A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Can’t believe you actually shaved…” he teased, fingers beginning to move again.

His rhythm was slow but intentional, each stroke designed to unravel you piece by piece. The rough pads of his fingers circled your clit with practised precision, teasing the bundle of nerves until your body betrayed you with little jolts of pleasure. Every so often, he slid lower, gathering the slick heat at your entrance before gliding back up to spread it over your swollen nub.

The contrast made you shiver, his touch hard, his pace steady, never faltering, never giving more than just enough to leave you aching for more.

Your thighs twitched around his leg as his steady pace wore you down, each circle pulling another shiver from deep inside you. The storm outside cracked against the windows, but all you could hear was the wet slide of his fingers and the rough drag of his breathing against your ear.

“Already so worked up,” he muttered, amusement lacing his tone as his palm pressed harder against you, fingertips circling with ruthless precision. His other hand slid upward, finding your breasts and teasing them with lazy confidence, pinching one nipple and then the other until you gasped.

The added stimulation erased the last threads of panic from your mind, replacing it with a haze of heat that left no room for anything but him, his hands, his touch, the way he pulled every response from your body without effort.

Your body arched into him, every nerve alight, and he leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear. “Look at you… so wet for me,” he murmured, his fingers slipping inside you, stretching and pressing with sudden urgency. He didn’t slow, didn’t hesitate, just kept driving, circling, teasing, until your hips began to buck uncontrollably.

The storm outside was nothing compared to the storm inside you. Your walls clenched around his fingers, your mind a dizzy haze of need, and all you could do was whimper, “Simon… please…”

He only smirked against your neck, moving faster, harder, expertly matching your mounting desperation with unrelenting precision.

His mouth trailed over your neck and shoulder, alternating between soft bites, teasing licks, and lingering kisses. Every movement of his lips whispered exhaustion, a lazy, almost sleepy devotion—but his fingers told an entirely different story. They moved with relentless precision, circling, pressing, and sliding inside you, demanding your full attention, making your body betray you despite the calm, languid cadence of his mouth.

The contradiction sent shivers through you, every nerve on fire, every gasp and tremble betraying how thoroughly he had you under his control.

His fingers worked with merciless insistence, sliding in and out, circling, pressing just right to make your knees buckle. The contrast—his seemingly tired, lazy mouth against the frantic, expert movements of his hand—drove you higher and higher, until every nerve screamed for release.

You clutched at his forearm, arching into him, gasping, whining, “Simon… I—”

He silenced you with a low, gravelly growl, fingers moving faster, harder, his hand teasing you closer and closer to the edge. Your body trembled uncontrollably, every push and flick of his fingers sending sparks straight to your core.

“Come for me,” he demanded softly, his mouth still tracing lazy patterns over your skin, the contradiction of his touch making the release inevitable.

And then it hit you, sudden, blinding, all-consuming. You came with a cry, your body folding into him, shaking, every nerve ending alight. His fingers didn’t falter, riding you through it, even as he whispered against your ear, lazy and hot, “That’s it… just like that, good girl.”

Your body trembled against his, every shiver from your climax mirrored in the tight hold of his arms. His fingers finally stilled, resting against you, but the warmth and pressure of him pressed you closer, grounding you in the haze of pleasure.

The storm outside raged on, lightning flashing against the windows, but inside, it was just the two of you, breathing, slick, and tangled. His lips trailed soft, lazy kisses along your shoulder and neck, whispering quiet murmurs that made your skin crawl in the best way.

It was getting harder to keep your eyes open as the rush of endorphins mixed with the past days exhaustion, finally coaxing your mind toward sleep. You tried to move slightly, or to say something, but your body wouldn’t cooperate.

“Shhh,” Simon cooed softly in your ear. His hand settled back on your stomach while the other maintained a gentle hold on your breast.

“Just be a good girl for me and close your eyes, aye?” he whispered, his voice warm and steady against your skin.

You let out a soft, reluctant sigh, your body finally losing to exhaustion. Simon’s hands were steady, grounding you, while his breath warmed your neck. The storm outside had softened just a bit, and the tension in your muscles slowly dissolved under the weight of his touch.

Your eyelids drooped, and you nuzzled into your pillow while fitting perfectly against him. He hummed low and content, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple before settling his cheek against your hair.

“That’s it… just rest now,” he murmured, voice a soothing anchor in the dark.

The rhythm of his breathing, steady and calm, matched yours, and for the first time in days, both your minds felt quiet. Sleep crept in, heavy and warm, wrapping you both in a cocoon of warmth, where the world outside didn’t exist.

As if just tonight, you both belonged to each other.

©sillyswriting 2025

i know it's been forever since the last chapter... my bad. hope you enjoy this one !

[skzficdump]

Off Limits

paring: lee know x femreader

gender: smut

word count: 1.8k (1826)

warnings: reader little sister of minho best friend, oral sex (men reciving), sex without protection (dont), sligh public sex, overstimulation, dirty talk, degradation, creampie, geting caught

KARMA Serie

The living room was dim, lit only by the glow of the television. It was one of those nights when your brother had insisted they all stay overnight after practice, because the group was exhausted and no one felt like returning to the dorms.

You, however, had been enjoying the juiciest detail of it all: Lee Know was in your living room. He, as always, sat upright, silent, with that serious face that never showed too much emotion. So proper, so difficult to read, so impossible to reach. And, precisely because of that, you were unable to resist the temptation to bother him.

You knew what you were doing. You'd been doing it for months. You looked at him more than necessary, you got too close when your brother wasn't around, you made comments that bordered on the innocent. Because Minho was the kind of man who would never cross that line, right? Your brother's best friend, the one who always kept control, the one who barely spoke to you except for a curt "hello."

That night, you decided to up the ante.

When your brother fell asleep in his room, you found him in the kitchen, pouring himself some water. You were wearing a loose T-shirt that surely once belonged to your brother, and shorts that were too short. You leaned against the door, watching him drink, and smiled cheekily.

"Always so serious, Minho?" you asked, letting your voice sound softer than usual, more charged with meaning.

He didn't even turn around; he just placed the glass in the sink. "You should be sleeping."

"And miss the chance to be a little bored?" You took a few steps forward until you were beside him, leaning in close enough for him to feel your closeness. "You always act like nothing's happening… but I know it is."

Minho clenched his jaw. His silence was what amused you the most, because you knew that behind that calm was a contained storm. He glanced at you quickly, as if that second had lasted too long.

"Don't start." His voice came out low, sharp.

You, of course, started it. You leaned against the counter, so close that your arm brushed his. You stared at him, with that innocent smile that fooled no one. "What's wrong? Do I have to remind you that I'm 'untouchable' just because I'm your best friend's sister?"

The silence that followed was thick, dangerous. He looked away, as if that would help him ignore the poison in your words. You knew you were pushing him right to the limit, and you were enjoying it too much.

"You don't know what you're talking about." His voice was harsher now.

"Of course I know." You leaned in, close enough so that your lips brushed the edge of his jaw without actually kissing it. "I see you. I know how you look at me when you think I'm not noticing."

The air grew heavy. You could feel his breathing quicken, though he tried to hide it. The cold, distant, disciplined Minho… was wavering.

That's when you tried to pull back, as if you wanted to win this little game with an "I was in charge here" smile. But he held your wrist tightly, preventing you from taking another step. His eyes met yours, dark, without that imperturbable mask.

"You don't understand what you're doing." His voice was a low, almost broken growl.

"Yes, I understand," you whispered, challenging him, with a hint of provocation in your eyes. "That's why I'm doing it."

That was the line that broke. In a second, Minho pushed you against the counter, trapping you in his arms. The coldness disappeared; what looked at you now was pure, suppressed desire, dangerous, forbidden.

"You're unbearable." His breath crashed against your mouth, his lips brushing yours without fully yielding. "I should get away from you."

"Then do it," you whispered brazenly. "Get away."

He didn't. His lips finally fell on yours with suppressed fury, a kiss that burned and hurt from how desperate it was. The seriousness that defined him had shattered into a thousand pieces; what remained was a man who had been holding back for too long.

Your hands sought him urgently, pulling at his shirt, pulling him closer. The kiss was chaotic, desperate, as if you both knew you shouldn't be doing this, and that in itself made it all the more irresistible.

"This is wrong," he panted against your mouth, but didn't let go. His hands had gripped your waist, pulling you against him as if he couldn't stop.

"So…" you kissed him back with the same hunger, biting his lower lip. "Let's make it even worse."

And in that instant, you knew there was no turning back.

Lee Know let go of you for just a second, long enough to turn you around and push you harder against the counter. His hands slid under your shirt, grazing your skin with an intensity that made you gasp. He lifted you easily, sitting you on the counter, and positioned himself between your legs, pressing his body against yours. You could feel every contour of his body, hard and firm, against yours.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered against your neck, his voice a low growl that vibrated through your skin.

You tilted your head back, giving him full access, and smiled wickedly. "No," you replied, your voice barely a whisper, but thick with defiance.

Lee Know gently bit your neck, and you moaned, arching your body toward him. His hands moved urgently, lifting your shirt and removing it completely. He left you in your bra, and his eyes darkened as he looked at you, as if he wanted to devour you. He gently pushed you, forcing you to lie back on the counter, and leaned over you, his body covering yours.

"You're mine," he growled, his voice full of possessiveness.

You laughed, a husky sound filled with desire. "What if I don't want to be yours?"

Lee Know looked at you, his eyes burning with lust and something else, something deeper and more dangerous. "Too late," he murmured, and his mouth found yours again, in a kiss that stole all the air from your lungs.

His hands moved to your back, unclasping your bra with a skill that made you moan. He removed it, and his hands found your breasts, fondling them, squeezing them, making your nipples harden beneath his touch. You arched into him, needing more, wanting more.

Minho pulled back slightly, his lips trailing kisses down your neck, your collarbone, until his mouth found your breast. He licked you, bit you gently, and you cried out, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

"Minho, please," you begged, your voice filled with need.

He lifted his head, his eyes dark and full of desire. "Tell me what you want," he demanded, his voice hard and commanding.

You bit your lip, your eyes defiant. "I want you. All of you."

Minho smiled, a dangerous smile full of promise. "Then take me," he murmured, and lifted you up, pulling your shorts and panties off in one motion.

He laid you completely naked on the counter and looked down at you, his eyes scanning every inch of your body. He removed his own shirt, revealing a firm, muscular torso, and then unbuttoned his pants, pulling out his erection.

"You're perfect," he murmured, his voice full of admiration.

You reached out, stroking his length, feeling him harden even further beneath your touch. Minho moaned, his head falling back, and you took the opportunity to slide off the counter, kneeling in front of him.

"Let me," you whispered, and leaned down, taking his length into your mouth.

Minho yelled, his hands tangling in your hair, guiding you, controlling you. You moved over him, licking, sucking, tasting, until you felt him tense, his muscles trembling.

"Stop," he growled, pulling you up.

He stood you up, turning you around and pushing you against the counter again. He positioned himself behind you, and you felt his erection pressing against your entrance.

"Tell me to stop," he repeated, his voice a low growl.

You leaned forward, pushing your ass against him, inviting him. "No." "Your voice was firm and full of desire."

Minho entered you in one thrust, filling you completely. You cried out, your hands gripping the edge of the counter as he began to move, his thrusts deep and fast, filled with desperate urgency.

"Mine," he growled, his hands gripping your hips, holding you in place as he fucked you mercilessly.

You moved with him, pushing back, meeting him thrust for thrust, as the pleasure built inside you, threatening to spill over.

"Minho, more," you begged, your voice filled with need.

He obeyed, his thrusts becoming faster, harder, deeper.

"What would your brother think if he saw his little sister moaning like a whore over his best friend's cock?" His words felt like poison, poison that only drove you further to the edge. You couldn't respond to his words because the overstimulation was too much.

"Minho, please," those were the only words that came out of your mouth other than moans.

"Do you want to cum on my cock?" he asked, bringing his thumb to your clit, applying some pressure, but not enough.

"Yes," you replied in a whisper filled with desire.

"Then do it, cum on my cock like the slut you are." Lee know began to move his thumb in circles over your sensitive clit.

Because of the feeling of his cock filling you and his thumb stimulating your clit, it didn't take long for you to begin to feel your orgasm approaching, and you weren't the only one feeling it.

“You're about to cum, aren't you,” Minho said as his thrusts accelerated and his tumb kept stimulating your clit. “Fuck, you feel so fucking tight when you're about to cum.”

And when you came, all you could moan was his name. You could also feel him about to cum too. His cock twitching inside you and his mouth opening in pleasure were telling you that.

“Too much—” the feeling of his cock thrusting in and his thumb still adding pressure was too much.

“Wait a minute, almost there.” And as if those words were a key to his orgasm, you felt him filling you. “Shit, I'm so sorry, I didn't want to cum inside me.”

“It's okay, actually… I liked it.” And you weren't lying. You loved the feeling of your brother's best friend, so forbidden, painting your walls white.

“Hey, Minho, what's taking you so long? You said you were just going for a glass of water." You heard your brother come in, and Minho tried to get out of you, but it was too late, because when he came in, he saw his best friend inside his little sister while his semen was still coming out of your entrance.

"What the fuck?

[woundsandwisteria]

My Wife Wouldn’t Like That

You’d told him not to go alone.

Sanemi never listened. The Wind Hashira never listened. And now you were standing in the Butterfly Estate courtyard with his blood tacky on your hands, watching them carry him past in a mess of ruined uniform and shredded skin.

The demon had been a tough one — fast, smart, and with claws that cut deeper than steel. He’d killed it, of course. Sanemi Shinazugawa didn’t lose. But the fight had cost him: a deep, jagged slash straight across his ribs, the kind of wound that would keep him grounded for weeks if you could somehow tie him to a futon.

You trailed the medics right up to the sliding doors before they stopped you.

“Miss, you’ll need to wait outside.”

You clenched your fists. “Is he—?”

“He’s alive,” the medic said quickly. “But he’s lost a lot of blood. We’ll have to put him under to close this properly. He’s… not exactly cooperative when it comes to holding still.”

That was putting it mildly. You’d once seen Sanemi nearly break a medic’s wrist for trying to disinfect a cut without warning him first. So you waited. And paced. And waited some more. By the time the shoji doors slid open again, the moon was high over the Estate’s garden walls.

“He’s awake,” a nurse told you, lips twitching like she was holding back a laugh. “Still groggy.”

You slipped inside.

Sanemi lay half-reclined against clean futons, chest bare except for the fresh white bandages wrapping his ribs. His hair was an unholy mess, and his storm-grey eyes were barely open — glazed, unfocused, but still scanning the room like he was on watch.

You dropped to your knees beside him. “Hey. How do you feel?”

It took a long moment for him to actually focus on you. And then—

“Oi.” His voice was slow, slurred. “Don’t… touch me.”

You blinked. “…What?”

“My wife… wouldn’t like that.”

You stared. “…Your what?”

“My wife,” he repeated with absolute certainty. “She’s… real pretty. Mean as hell. Would beat the shit outta me if she saw some woman hangin’ all over me.”

It was so absurd you almost laughed. “Sanemi. I’m your girlfriend.”

He squinted, suspicion creasing his brow. “…Nah. My wife’s prettier.”

From somewhere behind you, a nurse coughed into her sleeve — and you’d swear it was to hide a laugh. You opened your mouth, then shut it again. “…Uh-huh. And what’s your wife’s name?”

“Y/N,” he muttered instantly.

You froze. “That’s my name.”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes already starting to droop again. “That’s her. My wife.”

You stared at him, not sure whether to be touched or offended. “You just said I’m not her.”

Sanemi’s gaze drifted lazily back to your face. His eyes stayed there this time. For a long, quiet moment, his expression softened — like something in his foggy brain had finally clicked into place.

And then he smiled.

It wasn’t his usual sharp, cocky grin. It was small, almost sheepish, and so warm it made your chest ache.

“...Told you she’s pretty,” he murmured.

You didn’t even have time to reply before he kept going — his voice dropping to a lazy rumble.

“Best damn cook, too… makes this stew that’s… better than anythin’ Shinobu’s kitchen’s got.”

You blinked. “Are you… making a list?”

“Mhm… laughs too loud,” he continued, eyelids fluttering. “Gets this crinkle right here—” He weakly tapped the corner of his own eye. “—when she smiles. Drives me nuts.”

Your face went hot. “…Sanemi.”

“She’s stubborn. Always tryna boss me around.” He gave the faintest smirk. “Love her for it.”

Your throat tightened, but before you could say anything, his head lolled to the side and he was snoring softly. Behind you, the nurse had her hands over her mouth, eyes wide with barely contained laughter. You pointed a finger at her. “You tell no one.”

She only grinned. “No promises.”

By the next afternoon, Sanemi was sitting up, grumbling about “not needin’ this much damn fuss” while trying (and failing) to peel his own bandages off.

“Don’t you dare,” you warned from the doorway.

He looked over, narrowing his eyes at your smirk. “…What?”

“Nothing,” you said sweetly, crossing the room. “Just wondering if your wife’s prettier than me.”

He went still. “…The hell did you just say?”

“You heard me.” You perched at the edge of his futon. “Last night, you told me not to touch you because your wife wouldn’t like it. Then you said I wasn’t her, because she’s prettier. Then you told me her name was Y/N. And then you…” You leaned in, grin widening. “…started listing all the reasons you love her.”

A flush crept up the side of his neck. “I said what?”

“Exactly that. In front of a nurse.”

“I was drugged outta my skull,” he muttered.

“Mm-hm. And apparently married.”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re never gonna let this go, are you?”

“Not in a million years. I’m telling the other Hashira. Maybe I’ll have Shinobu embroider it on your haori.”

Sanemi shot you a look like he was already plotting your murder — but there was no real heat behind it.

You reached out to straighten the blanket over his lap. “Don’t worry. Your wife will keep you safe.”

For a second, his eyes softened. “…Guess I wasn’t that wrong,” he muttered.

You tilted your head. “Oh?”

“Yeah. You’re mean enough. And you are prettier.”

Your smile widened. “I’ll take that as an official proposal.”

He choked on his tea.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Just a little thing we came up with during final’s week (summer).

[moviecritc]

✦ ˚ : · TROUBLE, DICKIE BIRD AND GINGER SNAP · : ˚✦

pairing ☆ roy harper x fem!reader x dick grayson

summary ☆ you hate roy and dick so much, so so deeply that you don't hate them at all.

warnings ☆ hurt/comfort

a/n ☆ i don't really like this, but i know we are all starving on dickroy content so this was very necessary

main masterlist | letterboxd

The Tower feels like it’s holding its breath.

Everyone else is out, off on a mission or just avoiding each other with quiet coordination. You’d thought you’d have the place to yourself for once. Maybe catch up on your backlog of case files or finally fix the stupid glitch in the comms system. Instead, you’re stuck here. With them.

Dick Grayson and Roy Harper. Two people you wouldn’t trust to be in the same room without supervision, let alone with you in it.

The silence isn’t peaceful. It’s heavy. The kind that comes with too many unsaid things and too much history no one wants to sort through. You feel it like static, buzzing under your skin as you pad barefoot into the kitchen, still wearing the tank top you slept in.

And of course, Roy’s already there.

Shirtless, leaning against the counter like it belongs to him, chewing lazily on an apple with that half-smile he always wears when he’s about to say something that’ll make you want to hit him. His hair is messy from the bed, but still falling around his forehead and sides perfectly.

You stop in the doorway and stare. “Oh. Fantastic. I was hoping the pest problem had cleared up.”

He grins around the bite. “Morning to you too, Trouble.” His eyes drag down, slow and deliberate. “Didn’t know gremlins needed caffeine.”

You cross to the coffee maker, ignoring him. “Didn’t know strays were allowed in the kitchen.”

He chuckles, stepping aside just enough to let you pass. “Only the house-trained ones. Figured you’d still be brooding in your room. Blüdhaven finally spit you out?”

“Don’t worry,” you mutter, opening the fridge with more force than necessary. “I’ll be gone before you get the urge to pick a fight or accidentally shoot someone in the ass again.”

Before he can answer, another voice cuts through.

“Wow. You two flirting already?” Dick strolls in, towel draped around his neck, hair damp from training. “Didn’t think I’d be walking into a soap opera at eight in the morning.”

You don’t look at him, just wondered how many hours he has been training those stupid backflips. “Oh look. The emotionally constipated bird has landed.”

Roy snorts. “Dickie Bird, you’re looking extra uptight today. That stick in your ass must’ve gotten stuck overnight.”

Dick doesn’t even blink. “Still working through your abandonment issues out loud, Harper?”

"Bold of you to say that, Wingy-"

You sigh loudly, finally pouring your coffee in a mug with a stupid slogan. “Do you two ever stop talking like background characters from a CW show?”

Dick raises an eyebrow. “And here I thought you’d be halfway through a monologue by now. Or are you saving that for your next emotional breakdown?”

Roy barks a laugh, but you cut him a sharp look.

“Don’t get comfortable, Ginger Snap. You’re not off the list.”

He leans against the table, unbothered. “Ginger Snap? That’s cute. You spend all night coming up with that one, thinking about me?”

Your jaw tenses. You hated how calm Roy is always, how he doesn't give a fuck about literally anything. And how close he always gets to you when fighting.

“I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot tranquilizer dart,” you shoot back. “But it’s sweet how you think I’m tempted.”

Dick folds his arms, already tired of the whole thing. “Why are you both even here? Don’t you have lives? Or better targets?”

The brunette thought of himself as the mature of the situation. You and Roy acted like reckless teenagers even past the young age. You fight loudly in the comms, shouting each other's names like your secret identities were a mere choice to be comfortable. He had saved both of your asses more times that you like to admit and he was so tired of acting like a goddamn babysitter.

You shrug. “If I wanted intelligent conversation, I wouldn’t be in this room.”

Roy grins, stepping closer. “And yet here you are. Drawn to danger like a moth to a dumpster fire.”

You shoot him a warning glare. “Careful. I still have access to the armory.”

Dick exhales through his nose, rubbing his temple like he’s already gotten a migraine. “Do you two ever take a break?”

“No,” you and Roy say in unison.

Your eyes meet across the kitchen. Neither of you looks away. Not immediately.

Dick throws his hands up. “This place is hell. And you’re both the reason.”

“Oh, Dickie,” Roy says, mock-affectionate. “Don’t pout. It’s embarrassing.”

You glance at Dick, grinning. “He’s just mad we’re not bowing to his natural leadership. Poor baby.”

Dick levels you with a flat look. “You’re acting like you’re not desperate for attention.”

You laugh once, dry. If any other had said that to you, it would've affect you someway. But fucking Dick Grayson? Saying that you wanted attention? It felt like a very bad joke. “This coming from the man who does backflips off rooftops just to be seen.”

Roy nods, impressed. “She has a point.”

Dick glares at him. “Don’t fucking agree with her. It’s weird.”

You lean back against the counter, arms folded. “I can’t believe I’m stuck in the same building as the two of you. What did I do in a past life to deserve this?”

“Same,” Roy says, stretching like he owns the place. “I thought I’d paid my dues with moody vigilantes and emotionally repressed archers, but here we are.”

Dick squints. “Wait, which one of us is which?”

Roy shrugs. “Depends on the day.”

You roll your eyes. “You two fight like you used to date.”

“And you fight like you want to be choked,” Dick says before he can stop himself.

The silence that follows is immediate.

You blink. Roy actually stills. Dick realizes a beat too late what he said, and his jaw tenses like he wants to rewind time.

“…Wow,” you say slowly. “That escalated.”

Roy bursts out laughing. “Jesus, Dickie Bird, didn’t know you were into breathplay.”

Dick groans, already walking away. “I’m going to the gym. One of you breaks something, I break your spine.”

He disappears down the hall, tension trailing in his wake like smoke.

You stare after him, then glance at Roy.

“I’m going to punch both of you one day.”

He smiles like he’d pay to watch it happen. “Just make sure I’m looking when you do.”

You shake your head.

“You’re the worst person I’ve ever met.”

“And yet,” he says, tossing the apple core into the trash, “here you are.”

You don’t respond. You just walk out, your coffee forgotten on the counter.

✶✶✶

Some hours passed with no interactions between each other, everyone locked in their rooms. But your feels too quiet.

No messages, no new intel, no alerts on the comms. Not even a sparring match scheduled to blow off the kind of frustration that’s been coiling tight in your spine for the last few days.

The Tower’s too big when it’s silent. You try music. Doesn’t help. Try pacing. That’s worse. Every wall echoes like it’s taunting you. So eventually, grudgingly, you grab a water bottle and head to the gym. Worst-case scenario, you punch a dummy until your knuckles go numb. Best-case? Maybe someone from the team comes back, someone who won’t drive you to homicide.

You throw your phone on the bed. Nothing. Not even memes.

You’re officially losing your mind.

But as you get closer, there’s noise. A lot of it.

Grunting, thuds, the creak of the weight rack, shouting, maybe? You can’t tell. It sounds rough, like a fight already in progress.

Your heart kicks up. You roll your eyes.

Because of course. Of course. Only they would be too emotionally constipated to have a normal conversation.

You push the gym door open, expecting flying fists, maybe Roy's nose broken (that would cheer you up so much), maybe Dick’s escrima sticks already out. You even rehearse a “For fucks sake, are you twelve?” under your breath.

But what you find is not that.

Not that at all.

Dick is pinned against the mirror, shirt bunched up, legs around Roy's waist like he weights nothing and muscles tense. Roy’s got one hand fisted in his hair, the other gripping the curve from Dick's hip to his ass so tightly it has to leave a bruise.

And they’re kissing.

Not soft. Not sweet. Aggressive.

Teeth. Tongues. Hands moving like they’ve been holding back years.

You freeze. Wide-eyed. Paralyzed.

Your brain refuses to process for a second. It’s like walking in on a fight and realizing the weapons are moaning.

“What the actual fuck,” you blurt.

Roy jerks back first, lips swollen, pupils blown wide. He looks like he might say something clever, but then he recognizes you. His eyes narrow, rolling a little.

“Of course,” he mutters. “Trouble always shows up at the best part.”

Dick’s still breathing heavy, chest rising and falling under Roy’s grip. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at you like you’re the intruder.

“You two are—” You gesture between them, then to the air, then back. “You literally hate each other!”

Roy shrugs, still with his hands all over Dick. “Yeah. That’s kind of the point.”

“You’ve spent months calling him ‘Dickie Bird’ like it’s a slur.”

“I have slurs for people I like,” he smirks, he looks at Dick once with a stupid expression.

Dick finally speaks, voice low, a little rasped: “Get out.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He frees himself from Roy's hands, taking a step forward and wiping at his mouth like he can erase what you saw. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“Oh, it absolutely concerns me. You two make me suffer through your constant dick-measuring contests, screaming at me and at each other, and now what, you’re just making out in the gym like we don’t all live here?!” You make a disgusted expression.

Roy lifts an eyebrow. “Jealous?”

Your jaw tightens. “Of what exactly? The sheer amount of unresolved tension or the fact that I now need bleach for my brain?”

Dick looks like he wants to murder something. “You weren’t supposed to see this.”

“Oh please. Like you weren’t being loud on purpose.”

Roy’s smirk grows. “I dunno. Maybe a part of us wanted to be caught.” His gaze slides over you now, slow. Calculating. “Maybe we were hoping you'd walk in.”

You blink. Hard. “What the hell are you implying?”

Dick lets out a slow breath, fisting his hands, stepping back from Roy like he’s grounding himself. “Don’t.”

But Roy doesn’t listen. He never does.

He steps toward you, shirt still wrinkled, mouth red. “Tell me, Trouble,” he says. “You ever think maybe the reason we fight so much is because all three of us can’t stand not touching each other?”

You open your mouth. No sound comes out. Because your stomach just did something terrible. Like it agreed.

Dick sees it.

“Stop talking, Roy,” he says, voice tight.

“Why?” Roy asks, eyes still locked on you. “She’s not leaving. Look at her.”

“You’re both insufferable,” you say, but it doesn’t sound as biting as it should.

You hate that he’s right. You hate that your feet won’t move. You hate that your fingers twitch like they want to grab something.

Someone.

Roy grins like the devil. “So are you.”

And then he takes another step.

“So,” he murmurs, “you gonna keep pretending you didn’t want in on this, or are we finally gonna stop playing dumb?”

Dick groans. “Roy—”

But you interrupt, extending a finger to them. “Shut up. Both of you.”

You blink, your gaze dancing between them, Roy even had the time to leave some marks in Dick's neck, glistening and laughing at your face. You felt a bit idiotic, thinking about how many times have they laugh about you mid-kisses, tangled between each other while they talk about how stupid you looked screaming at them.

You take a step back, then another. Shameful, jaw tense and hands fisted. Dick isn't even looking at you anymore, Roy is waiting for you to join them like a slut.

You leave the gym without another word, still barefoot, the door closing behind you with a dull, final click. The hallway feels colder than it should. The echo of your steps is swallowed up by the thick quiet that follows you, but your heartbeat still pounds, loud and disoriented.

Your fingers are curled tight, knuckles white.

The image is burned into your brain, Dick with his legs around Roy’s hips, Roy holding him like he knew every inch of him already, like he had every right. The kind of kiss that didn’t come from nowhere. It came from history. From tension. From the kind of feelings that don’t just show up one day. They build. Slowly. Painfully.

They were lying. To everyone. Including themselves.

You don’t even make it halfway back to your room before you stop walking. You just stand in the middle of the hallway, stunned and furious and something else you don’t want to name.

Back in the gym, the silence has settled in again but it’s not the same as before. It’s tight. Breathing heavy. Raw.

Dick exhales slowly, the sound shaky. He steps away from Roy fully now, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand while the other hovers awkwardly in the air, unsure what to do.

Roy watches him, arms crossed, lips still red. “You gonna say something, or should I just assume we’re back to pretending this didn’t happen?”

Dick avoids his gaze. He focuses instead on the scuffed floor or the way his own hands won’t stop shaking. “You shouldn’t have said that to her.”

“She was going to figure it out eventually.”

“She wasn’t supposed to see us like that.”

Roy scoffs. “You say that like what we’re doing is something to be ashamed of.”

Dick’s jaw tightens. He finally looks up, eyes narrowed. “It’s not about shame.”

“Then what is it, Grayson?” Roy says, stepping forward again, not as close as before, but close enough that Dick flinches. “You let me pin you against a mirror five minutes ago. You’ve been letting me. So what is it now?”

Dick takes a breath like he’s trying to steady himself and failing. “It’s not just about you and me anymore. It hasn’t been for a while.”

Roy doesn’t blink. “You mean her.”

Dick swallows hard. Doesn’t answer.

Roy sighs. “God, you’re terrified.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Roy cuts in, voice quieter this time, not cruel. Just observant. “You’re scared because this is messy.”

Dick looks away again. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Roy huffs a laugh. “It’s not supposed to.”

“You and I, we barely function. And she—she hates both of us half the time. The three of us in one room is like lighting a match in a gas leak.”

“And yet you kissed me like you wanted to burn down the whole place,” Roy says, not flinching, not raising his voice. “So maybe stop pretending this was just about tension. Or anger. Or boredom.”

Dick doesn’t speak.

He looks like he wants to argue. Or run. Maybe both. But instead he just folds in on himself a little, his voice quiet:

“She looked hurt.”

Roy’s expression shifts. His grin fades into something more serious. “Yeah. Because you looked at her like she wasn’t supposed to matter.”

“She wasn’t supposed to walk in.”

Roy shrugs. “Maybe she was.”

Dick finally meets his eyes again, the weight of it like gravity. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Roy’s answer comes without hesitation. “Neither do I. But you were fucking mean to her, Grayson.”

They stand there for a long moment. Not kissing. Not fighting. Just breathing.

Roy finally breaks the silence. “Are you going after her?”

Dick hesitates.

“I don’t know if I should.”

“Then I will.”

Dick grabs his wrist before he can move.

Roy stops. Raises an eyebrow. “You gonna tell me not to?”

Dick shakes his head slowly. “No. I just… can I come with you? Should I...?”

Roy blinks, and for a second, something almost soft slips through the cracks in his usual sharp expression. The smug edge fades. He looks at Dick like he’s seeing something honest for the first time in a long time.

“You’re asking me?” he says, quiet. “Since when do you ask permission?”

Dick looks exhausted. Not physically, emotionally. Like this whole thing has drained something from him he hadn’t realized was even still there. He releases Roy’s wrist, but doesn’t step back. “Since this stopped being just about you and me screwing around behind closed doors.”

Roy tilts his head. “You think it ever was?”

Dick breathes out through his nose, short and uneven. “I think I was pretending it was.”

They stare at each other again, and for once, there’s no tension crackling like wires about to short. Just… quiet. That strange, unspoken kind. The kind that only happens when both people are finally tired of lying to themselves.

Roy nods, like something inside him settles. “Alright,” he says, rubbing a hand down his face. “Then yeah. You can come.”

Dick’s shoulders lower, fractionally. He still looks hesitant, like the words taste strange in his mouth. “We should… talk to her.”

Roy gives him a look. “You think she wants to talk right now?”

Dick runs a hand through his hair, eyes unfocused. “I don’t know what she wants.”

Roy laughs once, dry and tired. “Join the club.”

They leave the gym side by side, but with too much space between them to be casual. Neither says a word as they cross the hall, the silence now buzzing with quiet tension.

They stop outside your door.

Roy knocks once. Sharp.

No answer.

He knocks again. Nothing.

Dick shifts his weight. “Maybe she left.”

“She didn’t,” Roy says, eyes on the door like he can see through it. “She’s still here. Just pissed.”

“Then maybe we should give her space.”

Roy turns to him. “Or maybe you should stop acting like hiding is a solution.”

Before Dick can say anything, the door opens.

You stand there, arms crossed, face unreadable.

You’ve changed clothes. You’re still barefoot, but the tank top’s gone, now replaced with an oversized hoodie you must’ve found just to feel less exposed. There’s a twitch in your jaw, and your gaze flicks between them like you’re bracing for impact.

Roy opens his mouth first.

“You left your water bottle,” he says, holding up the bottle he somehow remembered to grab from the gym.

You don’t smile. But your eyes linger on the bottle longer than they should.

Dick takes a small step forward, hands behind his back and scared to meet your eyes.

“Can we come in?” he asks.

You stare at them, say nothing for a moment too long, and then shift aside without a word.

They step inside awkwardly, like they’ve never seen the room before, like it’s sacred ground now just because you look like you might actually murder one of them if they say the wrong thing.

Dick stays near the door. Roy flops on the edge of your bed like it’s his goddamn right, tossing your water bottle onto the sheets like it belongs there. You stay standing, arms still crossed, keeping distance like a wall you built fast and high.

Nobody speaks.

It’s Roy who breaks first, of course.

“You’re pissed,” he says. “Obvious.”

You shoot him a flat look. “Glad you still have basic pattern recognition.”

“Okay,” Roy says, holding up his hands. “I deserve that.”

Dick clears his throat, like he’s been waiting for Roy to shut up long enough to get a word in. “We weren’t… trying to keep it from you.”

You lift your eyebrows. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He shifts uncomfortably. “It’s complicated.”

“No,” you snap. “It’s not. You just didn’t say anything. For months, the two of you have made my life hell. Snapping at each other in front of everyone, dragging me into your weird pissing contests, acting like I’m the only adult here and the whole time, you’ve been… doing that?”

You don’t mean to sound hurt. But you do.

Roy sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “We weren’t doing that the whole time. It’s not like that.”

You shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Then what is it like, Harper? Enlighten me.”

Roy glances at Dick, and for once, the smugness drops entirely. “It’s not about you being out of the loop. Or us laughing at you, or keeping you on the sidelines. It’s just…” He trails off, frustrated. “We didn’t know what the fuck we were doing, alright? Still don’t.”

Dick finally steps forward. His voice is low. Careful. “We didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Well, you did.” You look at Dick in the eye. "Especially you."

Dick lifts his gaze to meet yours, like he has betrayed one of the only two persons he would let them see him.

Roy leans forward on your bed, elbows on his knees, head lowered. “We’ve been idiots. You’re right about that. But don’t act like you haven’t been part of the mess, too.”

You stare at him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Roy says, eyes lifting to meet yours, “you give as good as you get. You fight with us. You bait us. You put yourself in the middle even when you don’t have to.”

“That doesn’t mean I deserved to be lied to,” you say, voice quiet but biting. “You two made me feel crazy. Like I was imagining things. Like I didn’t matter.”

Dick steps closer, hands open at his sides, trying not to make the wrong move. “You do matter.”

“Then why did it feel like I was the punchline to some inside joke?”

Roy shakes his head. “You weren’t.”

You cross your arms tighter over your chest. “You made me feel like I was. The arguing, the games, the constant pushing and pulling. I didn’t know where I stood with either of you. One day you’re glaring at me like I ruined your lives, the next you’re joking like we’re friends. Then I walk in and find that, and you even have the audacity to tell me to join you?.”

Your voice cracks on the last word. You hate that.

Dick’s jaw tightens. He takes a slow breath. “We didn’t handle it right. We got caught up in it. And you’re right to be angry. You deserve better.”

That stops you. You blink.

Roy looks up at you, more serious than you’ve maybe ever seen him. “You deserve more than two emotionally repressed assholes who never grew out of playground insults.”

You snort, despite yourself. “You said it, not me.”

“I mean it,” Roy says. “We’ve been assholes. And we’ve been idiots. But we’re not trying to shut you out.”

You shift your weight, eyes flicking between them. “Then what are you trying to do?”

They both go still at that.

Dick opens his mouth, closes it again. Then, finally, he says, “Figure out how to not screw this up more than we already have.”

You narrow your eyes. “By ‘this,’ you mean what? You and Roy? Or me?”

His eyes lock on yours. “All of it.”

You suck in a slow breath. The room feels hot all of a sudden.

Roy stands from the bed, moving slower this time. “We’re not good at this. Any of it. Not with each other, and definitely not with you. But we’re not trying to play with you. Or push you away.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you mutter again, but softer this time.

Roy glances at Dick again before continuing. “We didn’t say anything because we didn’t know how. You walk into a room and everything shifts. You get under our skin and we didn’t know what the hell to do with that.”

You stay quiet, but your fingers loosen where they’re tucked under your arms.

Dick finally steps in closer. His voice is quiet, sincere. “You scare the hell out of me. You always have.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Excuse me?”

He looks up at you, eyes clearer than you’ve seen them in weeks. “You’re not like anyone else on this team. You’re sharp and loud and real. And you call me on my bullshit, which no one does. And the worst part is I like it. I like you. And that scared me. I disguised my fear with hate.”

You blink. “You’re seriously using ‘I was scared’ as an excuse?”

“No,” he says, fast. “I’m using it as an explanation. Not an excuse. I still fucked up.”

Roy’s voice comes next, quieter. “We both did.”

You run out of words for a moment, focusing on how Dick fidgets with his fingers.

You look between them. “Why now?”

That seems to catch them both.

Roy tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“Why are you here now?” you ask, arms dropping to your sides, finally. “Because I caught you? Because you didn’t want to deal with the fallout? Or because suddenly you care?”

Dick takes a step closer. “Because we do care.”

You don’t look away. “Then say it.”

Dick swallows. “You matter to me.”

Roy nods beside him. “To both of us.”

You narrow your eyes. “No jokes?”

“None,” Roy says. His voice is flat. Honest. Bare. “I’m not playing anymore. We played too long.”

There’s something heavy behind that. Maybe even regret.

You stare at them. You wait for the punchline. The snide comment. The self-sabotage you’re used to from the both of them. But it doesn’t come.

“I don’t trust either of you,” you say, and the words come like a truth you’ve been choking on for weeks. “Not yet.”

They both nod.

Dick clears his throat. “I wouldn’t, either.”

"You made me feel stupid, did I mention that?" you say, arching your eyebrows.

"You did," Roy nods slowly. "A couple of times."

"Okay, fine." You finally say, shrugging with a tired look. "I guess that between all the insults and hatred we never really knew each other, don't you think?"

Dick leans back slightly at that, like your words hit a little deeper than he expected. His mouth opens, then closes again. His fingers twitch at his sides.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “We were so busy pushing each other, and pushing you, we never really asked who the hell we were actually dealing with.”

Roy exhales through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’d think a couple of detectives would’ve figured that out sooner.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a little less venom behind it now. Just exhaustion. “You two made me feel like I had to earn my place every damn day. Like I had to prove I belonged here.”

Roy looks at you, serious. “That wasn’t on you. That was us not dealing with our shit.”

Dick nods, swallowing. “We made you the referee in a game you never agreed to play.”

You snort softly. “More like the emotional punching bag.”

“Fair,” Roy mutters.

There’s a beat. Then another. Long enough for silence to start creeping in again. But you’re not ready for silence. Not yet.

You glance toward your desk. Then under it.

A beat of hesitation. Then:

“I have beers,” you announce.

Both of them blink.

You cross the room, drop to one knee, and slide out the little duffel bag from under your desk with a rustle. You unzip it, pull out three slightly warm cans of cheap lager, and hold them up like an offering. “For, you know, team apocalypse or emotional disasters.”

Dick arches a brow. “As team leader, I should probably disapprove of this.”

Roy grins, catching the can you toss at him. “As someone who’s had his tongue in the team leader's throat, I think you should shut up.”

Dick groans. “Jesus, Roy.”

You finally crack a smile. A real one this time.

“You’re both so fucking stupid,” you mutter, handing Dick his can.

He accepts it with the air of someone who’s not sure he deserves it.

You all sit down on the floor instead of the bed, like it’s neutral ground. Roy sprawls as usual, long legs crossed lazily in front of him. Dick sits tighter, posture neat even when slouching. You plant yourself between them but not too close, popping your can open with a hiss that echoes faintly in the room.

None of you talk for a bit. Just the occasional sip. The faint fizz of carbonation.

Then you say it, because someone has to.

“So you never actually hated me? 'Cause I very much despised you two.”

Roy tilts his head. “We kind of did too.”

Dick glares at him. “Roy.”

“No, I mean—we didn’t hate you. We just… didn’t know what to do with you. You were chaos. Smart, sharp-tongued, no-bullshit chaos, and we were both already flammable.”

You huff a laugh, despite yourself. “So your solution was to light the whole tower on fire with tension?”

Dick winces. “That part wasn’t exactly intentional.”

You look at him. “And you? What was your excuse?”

He looks at the can in his hands like it might give him an answer. Then he says, very quietly, “You reminded me of me. But… less broken. And more honest. It scared the hell out of me. Still does.”

Roy whistles low under his breath. “Wow. That’s… the most emotionally articulate thing you’ve said in a decade.”

“Shut up.”

You sip your beer and sigh. “You know what’s fucked up?”

Both of them glance at you.

“I think I liked it. The fighting. The tension. I think I started expecting it. Needing it.”

Roy raises his can slightly. “It's addicting.”

Dick doesn’t argue.

You lean your head back against the wall, eyes closed for a second. “I thought I was just the one getting caught in the crossfire. But I was playing too.”

“You still are,” Roy says. “We all are.”

You open your eyes. “Then what the hell do we do about it?”

They both fall quiet.

Then Dick says, slowly, “We try not to screw it up again.”

Roy adds, “We learn how to talk without throwing punches.”

“And maybe,” you say, voice soft, “we figure out who we are to each other.”

That makes them both look at you again. Dick licks his lips slowly.

"I don't want this to be only sex, by the way," he says, almost whispering. "Like, yeah, Roy kisses just fine and I've been wanting to kiss you since our fight in the morning. But I don't think I can only do physical, I-"

"Just fine?!" Roy repeats. "I'm sorry, did you forget the part when you were whining-"

"Roy!" Dick calls out, almost blushed.

You grin around the rim of your beer can, warmth prickling up your chest: part adrenaline, part the way Dick’s words hit like a sucker punch dressed in vulnerability.

“Wait,” you say, eyes narrowing, teasing flickering back into your voice. “You’ve been wanting to kiss me since our fight this morning?”

Dick turns scarlet. Full-body blush. Shoulders curling like he could fold in on himself and disappear entirely. “I— That’s not— I didn’t mean—Can we please go back at the part when I tell you that I want a relationship, not just two fuck buddies??”

Roy lets out a wheeze of laughter, almost choking on his beer. “Oh my god,” he manages between breaths. “You’re so bad at this. It's honestly adorable.”

Dick looks like he’s debating whether to fling his can across the room or crawl under the bed and live there permanently. “You two are insufferable,” he mutters, staring at the floor like it might offer him a manual for social interaction. “This is why I don’t talk.”

“No, this is why you should talk,” you counter, pointing your beer at him. “That was the most honest thing you’ve said to me since I met you. And I liked it.”

Dick peeks up through his lashes. “You did?”

You smile. Not a smirk. Not the tight-lipped, careful grin you’ve given them both a thousand times to keep your cards close. Just a small, real smile. “Yeah. I did.”

There’s a beat. Then Roy leans forward, elbows on his knees again, studying you with a different kind of intensity. “You’ve been quiet. Like, really quiet for someone who normally tells us exactly where to shove it.”

You arch a brow. “What do you want me to say? That I’m thrilled to be part of your sudden epiphany?”

“I want to know what you want,” Roy says, no teasing this time. Just low and direct. “Because I’m not gonna lie, I want it. Both of you. Even if it’s complicated. Even if it’s stupid. I don’t want to pretend anymore. But you—if you don’t want it, I need to hear it.”

Dick goes very still beside you, like he’s holding his breath.

You stare at Roy for a long second. Then glance at Dick. His eyes are on you, wide and careful and scared.

Your pulse kicks up a notch. This could blow everything up. Or settle it, finally.

“I think I do want it,” you say. “I’m just... scared too. Like, how the hell does this even work? We can barely be in the same room without sarcasm or tension.”

“Yeah,” Dick says, voice rough. “But I’d rather try and fail than keep pretending I don’t want you.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

Roy watches you like he already knows what’s coming. Like he’s just waiting for you to catch up.

“I wanted to kiss you too,” you say finally, turning to Dick.

His eyes flick to yours. His lips part.

“I wanted to hit you this morning,” you add. “But I also wanted to kiss you. And maybe that says something fucked up about me, but it’s true.”

“It says you’re as messed up as us,” Roy says. “Which is kind of perfect.”

You turn to him, giving him a slow once-over. “And you. I wanted to hate you. You made it so easy. But then you were there, when I didn’t even realize I needed someone to be.”

Roy shrugs, casual but not smug. “You looked like you needed backup. Even if it was the annoying kind.”

You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Then you put your beer down.

Dick tenses immediately, watching you like you might lunge or bolt. “Are you—”

You cup his jaw and kiss him.

It’s soft. Surprisingly soft. Gentle, even. Like you’re tasting the possibility of something not built on tension or mutual scarring, but something real. Dick melts into it like a man who’s been starving for this and never thought he’d get to try.

When you pull back, his eyes are wide and dazed. “Holy shit,” he breathes.

You smile, putting your hand on top of his. “You really are bad at talking.”

He laughs. And it sounds like relief.

Then you turn to Roy.

He raises his eyebrows, a grin twitching on his lips. “That an open invitation, or…?”

You roll your eyes, but you grab the front of his shirt and pull him in.

This kiss is different. Hotter. Messier. Familiar in a way that makes your heart lurch, because of course Roy Harper kisses like he fights, like he’s already memorized every weak spot you have. His hands hover like he wants to grab your waist and never let go, but he doesn’t. He waits.

You keep your hand in Dick's the whole time you kiss and you took a moment to separate yourself from Roy because he didn't seem to let you go.

"God..." you muttered, resting your head against the wall and you squeeze Dick's hand slightly. "You were right, Dickie Bird. He kisses just fine."

Dick cracks a laugh and Roy lifts his whole body when he hears you.

"HEY-"

[reysdriver]

Hey dear, I wanted to ask you if you could write something about Eddie and Hopper!Reader. Where maybe Eddie and Reader are about to have sex and almost get caught by Hopper🤭

Bye! Have a great day!

-<3

Your attempt at giving Eddie a blowjob while he's driving gets interrupted by a familiar face behind the wheel of a cop car pulling you over — eddie x fem!hopper!reader smut

warnings: 18+, Minors DNI - smut, oral sex (male receiving), road head, gagging, semi-public sex, almost getting caught, and reckless driving

words: 1.1k

a/n: I hope you like this fic, anon!! I hope you have a great day too!! :)

“Can I give you road head?”

Eddie was so stunned by the question that he almost ran the red light ahead of you. The answer was an obvious yes, but he still wanted to play it cool. 

“Um, right now?”

You grinned. “Well, yeah. I would offer it for the ride home but then I know you’d rush me while I’m shopping.”

“Are you sure?” He asked, stepping on the gas now that the light had turned green. 

“Yeah. As long as you want it.” You told him. “It’s okay if you don’t, I just—”

“I want it!” Eddie assured you. “I really want it.”

“Okay. Then I’ll do it.”

You unbuckled your seatbelt and leaned over, starting by pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

“You’re so sweet to me, you know that?”

“You deserve it.”

And you were being completely honest. Eddie had been so good to you for so long. Yes, he could be annoying at times. He was always getting into trouble and trying to bring you down with him, and he only recently stopped being your dad’s mortal enemy, but he was a great boyfriend. 

It was about time you rewarded him by trying something new and dangerous. 

You carefully unbuckled his belt and then slowly unzipped his jeans, hoping to build anticipation. 

He didn’t bother fully taking off his boxers. Instead, he just helped you by pulling them down enough so you could do what you wanted to do to him. 

You took his cock and started stroking, watching him to see how much he was enjoying it. From the heavy breathing and the way he was fighting to keep his attention on the road, you assumed it was a positive experience. 

“Better hurry up, sweetheart. Or else I’m gonna have to do laps around the mall parking lot just so I can finish.”

 A giggle escaped your lips. “You couldn’t even last one lap around the parking lot.”

“Wanna bet?” He teased. “Keep the time while you go down on me.”

That little challenge he proposed sounded fun, so you went along with it, even if there was nothing less sexy than counting while you’re giving a blowjob.

You repositioned yourself in the seat, and brought your mouth down to him. Once you put his tip into your mouth and pressed your tongue down to get a proper taste, the car swerved a little to the left. 

“If you crash the car, I’ll bite you.” You warned, then brought his cock back to your mouth. 

He nodded, and tried his best to keep the car steady as you sucked him off. You bobbed your head, tasting every square inch of him. Eddie was groaning and breathing heavily, but still, the loudest thing in the van was the pop radio station that he only tolerated for you.

Eddie pushed your head down slightly and you gagged quietly around him. He let out a breathless chuckle, but that was interrupted by a police siren going off behind you. The lights told you it was close by, so Eddie took a look in the mirror and saw that the cop car was right behind him. 

“Shit.” Eddie grumbled. 

You sat up immediately and tried to compose yourself. “What did you do?” Taking a look in the rearview mirror, your eyes widened once you saw who was behind the wheel of the police car. “Eddie, it’s my dad!”

“I thought you said he was at home!”

“Well, I thought so! Now pull over and pull your pants back up!” 

Eddie did as you told him and pulled over to the side of the road, then covered himself up as your dad got out of his car. 

Your dad and Eddie have had more run-ins with each other than either of them could count, so this situation was like clockwork to them. Eddie rolled the window down and flashed an arrogant smile once Hopper came into view. 

“Hop, to what do we owe the pleasure today? Your daughter said you’d be at home all night, did you make the journey out just to scold me?”

“I had to go out and grab some milk. Then I saw your dumb van and noticed you were swerving, plus you just missed a stop sign.”

That was news to Eddie, but he knew he wasn’t doing a great job at focusing while you were going down on him. 

“You’ve been drinking?” Hopper asked him. 

“Not a drop.” Eddie responded. “Precious cargo over here, you get it.”

The way Eddie spoke to your dad was simultaneously terrifying and hilarious. But you supposed this type of interaction was normal for them, so you weren’t worried that Eddie was going to get you both detained for spitting some sass. 

“Y’know, when I first found out you were dating my daughter, I thought she might be a good influence on you. Turns out I guessed wrong.”

“Sorry, Dad.” You piped up from your side of the van. 

“Too late for ‘sorry’.” 

Eddie sighed. “Look, Hop, we’re not getting up to trouble. We’re just going to the mall. I’m gonna get her whatever she wants, buy her dinner, and then bring her home. I didn’t mean to do anything bad.”

Your dad stood by the window, thinking about what punishment he should dole out to Eddie. He exhaled, and you both braced yourself for whatever was coming your way. 

“Here’s what we’ll do, alright? You keep your eyes on the road more, get her home by ten, and I’ll let you off with a verbal warning for reckless driving. That work for you?”

“Absolutely, sir.” Eddie said, truly appreciative behind the hint of sarcasm. 

“Thank you, Dad!” You smiled. 

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you were doing to distract this punk, cut it out!” He called out as he walked back to his car.

You didn’t say anything in response to that. You just bit your lip and gave Eddie a knowing look until the cop car pulled away, and then you both laughed about the whole situation. 

“Maybe we should have waited until the mall parking lot, huh?” Eddie asked. 

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Eddie shook his head, then put the van in drive and started heading back towards your destination.

“By the way, you didn’t finish, but we lasted forty nine seconds.”

[artisticestheticreads]

Under Their Roof | Nine

POV: You are a young lady in the 1930's who was hired by the Moore family to help around the house and be a nanny...but to your surprise, you may have to do more.

A/N: Okaaaaay, so this was gonna to be a small series that was inspired by a dream I had BUT this maybe a tad bit longer than planned.

Warning: Time Skip, Angst, Fighting, Alcohol, Some Slight Stalking, NWord Use,SOME NASTY ORAL SEX SMUT

Word Count: 8426

Pairing: Tehehe

Friday morning found her in the yard, hanging sheets on the line, the breeze snapping them sharply against her hands. She tried to focus on the rhythm, the sun on her back—but all she could hear was his voice, low and certain: 

You’re somethin’ more to me.

The words played in her head over and over. She couldn’t help it. The way he touches her so gently. The breeze carried the scent of the river and fresh grass, but beneath it, she swore she caught the faintest trace of tobacco and whiskey—his scent, sharp in her memory. 

She pressed the last clothespin into place, but her fingers lingered on the fabric, her chest tight. The sheets swayed in the wind, but all she felt was the weight of his hand on her cheek, the heat of his body too close. She hated how much she wanted to feel it again.

As she gathered each piece of dry clothing, she began folding each carefully, placing them into the basket, and heading up the porch stairs when she heard it.

Ring. Ring.

Y/N took a deep breath as she set the basket down in the living space, but the quiet sip from the kitchen made her pause. There, Miss Annie sat at the table, cradling Angelina in her arms as she fed her. Relief flooded Y/N.

“Good afternoon, Miss Annie. Did you need anything?” she asked.

“Darlin’, I just wanted you to join me for tea.”

Y/N hesitated, then noticed the mugs set across from each other. She smoothed her apron and moved to sit, reaching for the kettle, but Annie stopped her with a gentle hand. “Allow me, sugar.” She poured the tea, dropping a sugar cube into each cup with careful grace.

As Y/N lifted her mug to her lips, Annie’s eyes met hers—warm, steady, and somehow searching. “Miss Carter… how do you do it?” Her voice was soft, but carried weight. “Don’t think I don’t see how they circle you, sugar. Men act like fools around a woman who doesn’t even realize she’s the prize.”

A blush crept across Y/N’s cheeks. Annie leaned back, the weight of her gaze encouraging honesty. “If I’m bein’ truthful, I wish I could be like you sometimes.”

Y/N sipped her tea, listening intently. “I wish I could be young again. At your age, I didn’t know Elijah yet. I was just yellin’ spells, healing, workin’ with my mother before she passed. I thought I had all the time in the world. But in a blink… I was married, with a child. Younger me didn’t even know life could move that fast. And then I met Elijah. He wasn’t always so hard… he had the same eyes he does now, but softer. Until one night, their father got drunk and beat Elias for not finishing his chores. Knocked him out cold. By the time he woke, Elijah was in the woods, burying their father.”

Y/N froze, the warm mug heavy in her hands. “Mr. Moore… killed their father?”

Annie nodded solemnly. “That’s when innocence left him. Then he and Elias ran off with no word. Folks said they’d gone to Chicago. Broke my heart, and others’. Thought we’d never see them again—until a few years back, when talks of the juke joint started. And now… here we are.”

Y/N stirred her tea slowly, mind racing. “And you… forgave him?”

“Because, darlin’, I loved him. I prayed for him. I wished for him. I hoped for him. I couldn’t get over him.”

Annie’s gaze softened, leaning in slightly. “Y’know, sugar… I see the power in you. I see it deep down. But you hold back. Too scared, maybe. And I don’t mean just in… certain matters. If somethin’ feels right in your gut, trust it. That’s the Lord speakin’, not nerves. Don’t let anyone tell you different. That strength—it’s always been there, sittin’ in your chest, waitin’ for you to claim it.”

Angelina yawned, and Annie smiled down at her before looking back at Y/N. “I’m gonna put her down for her nap.”

Y/N nodded, lost in thought, as Annie stood, cradling Angelina, but made Y/N meet her eyes. “Baby, your years are still soft. This is the time to stretch, to reach, to stumble if you must. Hold back now, and you’ll carry the weight later. Regret… sugar, it’s heavier than any mistake you could make.”

Annie left the room, but her words lingered, settling over Y/N like a quiet fire, warming and unsettling all at once.

The quiet hum of the house was broken by the sharp knock at the door. Y/N set her mug down and wiped her hands on her apron, peering through the window to see Sammie standing there, a grin on his face and a neatly folded dress in his arms.

“Hey, Y/N,” Sammie called, tipping his hat with that easy grin of his. “Figured I’d come get you ‘fore the afternoon slips away. Pearline said your dresses are ready.”

Y/N glanced over her shoulder at him, a little surprised. “That’s early. Alright then—let me go change right quick.”

Upstairs, she slipped out of her nanny uniform and into a powder-blue sundress, matching heels clicking against the floor as she adjusted the hat that crowned her curls. Her mother’s handbag swung lightly from her wrist as she came back down the steps.

Sammie let out a low whistle. “Now, why is it every time you step out the house, you gotta make the rest of us look plain?”

She laughed softly, smoothing the skirt. “Momma always told me—you never know when you’ll meet your future husband. Best to look your best.”

That had Sammie chuckling, shaking his head as the two of them headed out together.

Pearline’s shop was buzzing when they arrived, the whir of sewing machines and chatter filling the air. The moment the bell over the door jingled, a chorus of voices rang out—“Hiiiiii, Sammieeee”—every seamstress sounding like a schoolgirl at recess. Sammie tipped his hat, grinning at their attention before sauntering further inside.

Y/N gave him a look, raising a brow.

He only shrugged, mischief dancing in his eyes. “What? Told you—the ladies can’t help themselves.” He gestured toward the racks of dresses. “Go on, look around, see what else you like. I’ll fetch Pearline. She can pin it up for you. You can pay me back later.”

Y/N smoothed her hands over her dress as she wandered between the racks, fingers brushing over lace collars and pearl buttons. The business of the store made for a good background noise.

Then it came—the prickling on the back of her neck.

Her hand stilled on a dress sleeve. Slowly, she lifted her head, her gaze sweeping toward the window. For the barest second, she thought she saw a shadow move, a figure too still to be just a passerby.

Her chest tightened.

Y/N turned, scanning the corners of the shop, the space between the racks, the length of the counter. Nothing. Only the whisper of fabric brushing as she moved.

Y/N.”

The voice cracked through the quiet behind her, and she nearly dropped her bag. Her head whipped around, pulse racing—but it wasn’t the shadow she thought she saw slipping past the racks. It was Pearline, radiant as ever in a navy-blue dress that hugged her figure, heels clicking against the wood floor.

“Hello, beautiful,” Pearline said with a smile, her tone as light as sunshine. “Here to pick up your dresses?”

Y/N’s breath caught in her chest. She nodded quickly, though her eyes darted back toward the mirror near the fitting rooms. For half a heartbeat, she could’ve sworn someone’s reflection had been there—someone tall, dark—but now there was nothing but dresses swaying lightly, as if stirred by an unseen hand.

“Sure am,” Y/N managed, her voice thinner than she liked. “I’m really excited.”

“You should be, honey. It’s a Pearline original.” Pearline giggled, skipping closer and hooking their arms together with a playful squeeze. Her warmth was grounding, steady—but Y/N couldn’t stop glancing over Pearline’s shoulder, her smile faltering every time she caught the faintest flicker of movement between the racks.

Inside the fitting room, Y/N smoothed the mauve satin against her skin, the cool fabric sliding like water over her curves. Outside, she could hear Pearline’s voice floating through, playful as always, while Sammie sat sprawled beside her, his head in her lap.

“Y’know, Y/N,” Pearline called, fingers idly toying with the button of Sammie’s coat, “you gon’ be the talk of the town when folks see you in this dress, girl.”

Sammie chuckled, catching her hand and brushing his lips across her knuckles. “Mhm. You ‘bout to have every man in there starin’, wishin’ they could reach out and snatch ya.”

Pearline gave him a sly grin, tapping his chin. “A little lookin’—a little touchin’—ain’t never hurt nobody. Right, Sammie baby?”

He laughed, blushing, and leaned up to kiss her cheek. “Lord, you gon’ get me in trouble.”

“Alright now, beautiful,” Pearline called toward the fitting room, eyes sparkling. “Come on out and let us see.”

The curtain whispered aside, and Y/N stepped out. The room seemed to pause. The mauve satin clung to her like it had been poured straight onto her body, the sheen catching the light with every movement. Her matching leather heels clicked softly against the floor, her chin lifted with hesitation and grace.

Sammie blinked once, twice, before standing with Pearline.

Pearline’s hand flew to her chest, lips parting in a proud smile. “Well, I’ll be… I did it again. Miss Y/N, you are bound to turn heads.”

Y/N twirled, the dress hugging her waist, then flaring just so. “Y’all really don’t think I’m showin’ too much skin?” she asked shyly.

“Honey,” Pearline said with a wicked grin, reaching for a shawl the same hue as the dress, “ain’t nothin’ wrong with showin’ what the Lord done blessed you with. But—” she draped the shawl over Y/N’s shoulders, tying it loose at the front—“if you wear this at the juke joint, we’re gon’ be rakin’ in money. Trust me.”

She stepped back to admire her work, hands on her hips. “Oh, Y/N… the boys are gonna be droolin’ all over you. Let me go ring you up before I change my mind and keep this masterpiece for myself.”

Y/N slipped back into her powder-blue dress, smoothing the skirt as Pearline gathered her purchases. Sammie leaned against the counter, tapping his hat brim, his eyes drifting across the busy shop. A prickle crawled up the back of his neck—someone was watching.

He straightened, scanning the room, and his gaze snagged on a figure that didn’t belong. “Hmmm… is that her?” he muttered.

Y/N turned, brow furrowed. “Who, Sammie?”

“That white woman over there.”

It wasn’t hard to spot her. In a shop crowded with Negro women bustling between racks of satin and lace, she was the lone pale face, moving slow, deliberate, her fingers lingering over the fabrics.

Pearline looked up from behind the counter, her smile faltering. Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. Mary.

Quickly, she turned her back, drawing in a steadying breath, willing her heartbeat to slow.

Pearline handed over Y/N’s bundles, her sharp eyes never straying far from the stranger. Sammie took the packages, and Pearline walked them to the door. She pressed a kiss to Sammie’s lips, but her gaze slid past him, watching as Mary stood with a dress draped over her arm, eyes fixed not on the garment but on Y/N.

Even as Y/N and Sammie loaded the car, she felt the weight of Mary’s stare, cold as a hand pressed between her shoulder blades.

Pearline turned back into the shop, her smile returning, practiced and polite. “Hello, ma’am. Welcome to Pearline’s. I’m Pearline. How can I help you?”

Mary’s lips curved into a pleasant smile. “Hello. I’m looking for a party dress. Something in satin.”

Pearline’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, her own smile cool and steady.

In the car, Y/N sat quiet, staring out the window as the town rolled past. Something gnawed at her chest, and Sammie didn’t miss it.

“You thinkin’ awful hard over there,” he said, glancing at her.

Her hands twisted in her lap. “Sammie… were we bein’ watched?”

He frowned. “Watched? What you mean?”

“That woman. In the shop.” She hesitated, then pressed on. “When you was in the back with Pearline, I swear I felt eyes on me. And then, just like that, she pops up. A white woman. In a ‘Colored Only’ store.”

Sammie’s knuckles tightened on the wheel. “Yeah… I saw her too. Looked familiar.”

Her head turned sharply. “Who is she?”

He sighed. “She’s the one used to chase after Stack when we was kids. Wouldn’t leave him alone. She was my babysitter when you left.”

Y/N’s chest tightened. “Babysitter? She took care of you when I left?”

“Mmhm.” Sammie’s jaw worked, his tone flat. “After you left, she took your place. And later… she’s the one who help give birth to the twins.”

Y/N sucked in a breath, staring hard at the road ahead. All that history—woven through the Moore family like a stain—and Stack had said almost nothing. Why?

“Don’t look like that,” Sammie said gently, easing his voice. “He hated her, Y/N. Still does. Ain’t nothin’ good in his heart when it come to her. And you…” he gave her a sidelong smile, “you already know where his eyes sit now.”

Her throat went tight. She wanted to believe him. Lord, she wanted to.

It was the day Y/N had been both dreading and secretly waiting for. The morning air felt heavier somehow, thick with nerves. She must have opened her closet ten times, peeking at the mauve satin dress, side-eyeing it like it might leap out at her, then shutting the door again with a huff. Back and forth she paced the floor, wringing her hands, her stomach twisting tighter with each step—until her private phone rang from the nightstand.

She snatched it up. “Hello, thank you for callin’ the Moore home.”

“Hello, is Doll there?” His tone carried a smile, easy and warm.

Her heart fluttered. “Hello, Stack.”

“How are you, Miss Y/N?” His voice dropped into that velvet drawl. “I hope you ready for tonight. I finally get to see you have fun for once.”

“Workin’ is fun?” she teased, sinking onto the bed.

He chuckled, deep and rich. “When you with me, of course, Doll. Good folks, good food, good music… and me.”

The laugh slipped from her before she could hold it back.

“So,” he pressed, “did you find a dress for tonight, Doll?”

“I did. It’s very nice. Actually… very pretty.”

“I already know, beautiful. Anything you slip on turns heads. But nothin’ ever gonna look half as fine as you do.”

Her breath caught, a slow blush rising in her cheeks.

“That made you blush, huh, Doll?” he teased, as if he could see right through the line.

She hid her face in her hands, laughing. “Y’know everythin’, don’t you, Mr. Elias?”

“No,” he said smoothly, “but I am always right.”

Her teeth tugged at her lip before he went on, “I gotta go, but I’ll see you tonight. Sammie’s gonna come get you, Slim, and Cornbread. I gotta be there early with Ann and Smoke. But I’ll see you then, Doll.”

The line clicked off, leaving the room in silence. Relief—and something warmer—settled in her chest. She straightened, squaring her shoulders, the dress still waiting behind the closet door.

After her shower, Y/N moved with a kind of nervous purpose. She wanted tonight to feel different—special. She styled her hair into soft pin curls, a few strands left to frame her face. A touch of liner, a sweep of rouge across her lips, and finally the dress. Before stepping away from the mirror, she fastened her grandmother’s diamond earrings, their subtle sparkle catching in the light.

She gave herself one last look—pleased, if not a little shy at her own reflection—when a knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.

Outside, Slim was shuffling back toward the car, his gait more of a lazy jog.

“Slim, get ya drunk ass in the car,” Cornbread called from the backseat.

“Nigga, don’t you gyat damn rush me,” Slim shot back. “Y’all got the oldest nigga goin’ to fetch the girl.”

The men’s laughter cut short when Slim turned. Their eyes locked on the porch.

There she was.

Y/N stood in the glow of the porch light, shawl draped across her shoulders. Her hair, pinned and curled, gleamed with every tilt of her head. The loose curls by her ears softened her face, while the diamonds at her ears flickered like tiny stars. Slowly, she descended the steps, each movement elegant, unhurried.

Slim swallowed, tugged his hat off, and breathed, “My God… I didn’t know angels came in different colors.”

He cast a side glance at the men, then stepped forward, extending his arm with exaggerated gallantry.

Y/N smiled, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Thank you, Mr. Slim.”

“Of course, Angel Face.” Slim straightened his back with mock pride. “Fellas, let’s hit the road.”

Cornbread hollered as Slim quickened his steps toward the car, “Oh, now you wanna move faster.”

“How ‘bout you shut yo’ big ass up,” Slim fired back, still grinning as the crew piled in.

Stack stood outside the juke joint, the night air thick with smoke and laughter spilling from the doors. He glanced at his pocket watch for the third time, thumb brushing over the brass casing, impatience simmering beneath his calm exterior. The gaslight above caught on his new maroon three-piece suit, plaid print sharp against the glow. His tie and handkerchief matched perfectly, and the brim of his maroon hat cast a shadow over eyes that hadn’t left the road since he stepped outside.

But the car still hadn’t come.

With a low breath through his nose, he adjusted his hat, jaw tight, and turned back inside.

The juke joint was alive now—bodies swaying, glasses clinking, and Pearline’s sultry voice weaving through the horns and piano as the band played to warm up the crowd. Patrons had started filling every corner, the hum of anticipation rising with the music.

Smoke was leaned back against the bar, a cigar resting between two fingers, Bo beside him talking easy, Annie perched nearby with Grace laughing soft at something said. Smoke caught sight of his brother before Stack even reached the bar. He noticed how Stack’s eyes didn’t drift toward the crowd, the music, or the drinks—just the entrance. Always the entrance.

A scoff rolled out of him, half a laugh, half a bite. “You actin’ like you waitin’ on a miracle to walk in here, boy.”

Stack slid into the empty space beside him, resting his hands on the bar but never turning his head. “I am.” His voice was low, certain, steady. Then, with a quick flick of his gaze at the clock above the stage, he muttered, “Where they at? We gettin’ busy already.”

Smoke smirked around his cigar, knowing damn well what miracle his brother was waitin’ on—but he let the thought die on his tongue, watching the way Stack’s jaw ticked with every second that passed.

Stack lifted the Scottish beer to his lips, the glass still cool in his hand, when Bo’s low whistle cut through the chatter. “Whoa…”

The twins followed his gaze, and the whole juke joint seemed to pause. Cornbread stiffened at his post near the door as Slim and Sammie strode in, proud as ever. But it was the woman behind them that turned the room to smoke and static.

Y/N.

The light from the streetlamp outside clung to her as she stepped in, catching the shimmer of her dress—silk the color of deep wine, hugging her in all the right places, with a hem that kissed her calves and a slit that teased her stride. Her hair was waved soft, framing her face, lips painted like sin and promise, and Lord, the way she carried herself…like every eye in the place belonged to her, and she didn’t need to lift a finger to claim them.

Smoke’s cigar tumbled from his mouth, hissing into the ice bucket. Stack froze mid-sip, the beer slipping past his lips and spilling down his chin, forgotten. His heart stumbled in his chest, like it was trying to climb out just to reach her.

She didn’t just look beautiful. She looked like temptation wrapped in silk and fire, the kind of vision a man might ruin himself chasing.

And in that breathless silence, both brothers knew it—Stack was falling harder than he meant to. And Smoke…was falling right beside him.

Slim and Sammie made their way to the stage, the crowd’s cheers swelling as they prepared to play. Y/N glided toward the bar, every step measured, the fabric of her dress whispering against her legs.

“Hi, everyone,” she said softly, her voice like honey over the hum of conversation.

“Darlin’, you look amazin’,” someone called out. “That Pearline’s dress?”

Y/N’s eyes flicked to her, a polite nod following. “Yes, ma’am. Altered and everythin’. Fits like a glove.”

Bo’s gaze lingered a little too long. “Yeah… it does,” he murmured, earning a sharp smack to the chest from Grace. He winced, rubbing the soreness away, and Y/N couldn’t help but bite back a small smile at their antics.

Stack circled the bar, his eyes locked on her. “Miss Carter… this dress was made for you. And that color—it’s… it’s perfect.”

Her cheeks warmed at his words, and when their eyes met, the heat between them was unmistakable. Stack’s smile was slow, deliberate, filled with something unspoken that made her pulse quicken.

Smoke’s clearing of his throat cut through the moment like ice water. “Miss Carter, you’ll be behind the bar with the ladies. We got a lot of food and liquor to sell. But first… Annie, I need you in the back. Now.”

He took his wife’s hand, firm and unyielding, and Y/N already knew the unspoken truth—they were about to vanish into the private world Smoke had carved for himself and Annie.

As the juke joint filled with the hum of conversation and clinking glasses, Stack and Smoke moved through the crowd, greeting patrons with practiced ease. But no matter how many hands he shook or how many laughs he shared, Stack’s eyes kept drifting back to the bar. There she was—Y/N—smiling, helping customers, her presence somehow brightening the dim, smoke-filled room.

Every laugh that slipped from her lips made the shadows around her fade just a little, and Stack felt it tug at him, a warmth he hadn’t expected. Even Smoke, ever watchful and composed, couldn’t help but notice the way she carried herself, graceful and sure, drawing attention without even trying.

Stack allowed himself a slow grin, leaning slightly against the room’s post, drinking in the sight. “Damn, doll,” he muttered under his breath, almost to himself, “you doin’ this on purpose, ain’t ya?”

Stack kept one hand on the bar, the other resting casually at his side, but his gaze never left her. Y/N laughed at something a young couple said, pouring them another round of drinks, and the way her eyes crinkled at the corners made his chest tighten. He shook his head, trying to focus, but every time she turned, even to wipe down the counter, his pulse jumped.

Smoke, moving beside him, caught the look Stack couldn’t hide. The twin’s jaw clenched slightly, his hand brushing the edge of the bar like he was considering reaching across the room. But he didn’t. Not yet. Smoke knew the tension simmering between Stack and Y/N, and though he wanted to scold her for the way she drew men’s eyes—especially his brother’s—he also couldn’t deny the pull he felt himself.

Meanwhile, Y/N, unaware of the storm behind her, moved with ease. She chatted with the patrons, refilled drinks, and offered smiles that felt warm enough to chase away the heavy haze of tobacco smoke. Every time she caught a glance from Stack, her cheeks warmed, and she felt the invisible weight of his stare settle on her shoulders like a cloak. She tried to focus on her work, but the way he lingered at the bar, like a sentinel, made it impossible to ignore.

Bo, leaning in to grab another bottle, nudged Smoke with an elbow. “Look at him,” he muttered under his breath, nodding toward Stack. “Boy done got himself in deep.”

Smoke just exhaled slowly, his eyes still on Y/N. “He ain’t the only one,” he said, voice low.

The night pressed on, music blaring from the stage, boots stomping on the wooden floor, and yet for Stack, all else faded to shadows. Only Y/N remained in the sharp light of his attention, a living, breathing flame that he couldn’t—and wouldn’t—look away from.

The last note of the song hung in the smoky air, vibrating off the walls and fading into the low murmur of the crowd. Sammie stepped up to the mic, adjusting it just so, his fingers tapping lightly against the stand. “Thank y’all for comin’ out tonight,” he said, his voice warm and commanding, rolling through the room like honey. “But I got somethin’ special for y’all.”

A murmur of curiosity ran through the crowd, the brass and wood of instruments catching the dim stage light, as Sammie gestured to the side. “A good childhood friend of mine’s joinin’ me for a song… y’all might know her… she’s singin’ ‘Sugar in My Tea’. I know this song mean a lot to her because her parents always played it for her and her sister.”

Y/N’s chest hitched at the mention of her name. She looked up, startled, as Sammie’s grin stretched wide. “Miss Y/N Carter.”

The crowd erupted, clapping and cheering, the energy bouncing off the walls like electricity. Pearline, moving with quiet confidence, left the bar behind and reached for Y/N, guiding her toward the stage with a reassuring squeeze of her hand. The lights warmed her skin as she stepped into the center, the microphone stand waiting like an old friend.

Her stomach fluttered with nerves as she scanned the crowd, each face a blur of excitement and expectation. Her fingers brushed against the mic, white-knuckled for a moment, until her gaze landed on Elias. There he was, leaning against the bar with that calm, unwavering smile, watching her like he knew every note before it even left her lips.

A slow, steady warmth spread through her chest. The nerves that had been twisting in her stomach began to loosen, her shoulders relaxing, her breath finding a rhythm. In that instant, the stage didn’t feel so big, the crowd didn’t feel so intimidating—she only saw him.

The hum of the instruments faded into a quiet anticipation. She felt the pulse of the floor beneath her feet, the gentle sway of the stage, and the heat of the lights warming her skin. Everything else—the whispers, the clinking glasses, the expectant eyes—melted away.

She was ready.

As Sammie’s fingers danced across the guitar strings, Pearline harmonizing softly behind him and Slim’s piano filling the room with a smooth rhythm, Y/N took a slow, steadying breath. 

Well, I woooooke up this mo-o-o-ornin’… 

Baa-aaaby… sun peekin’ through my bli-i-i-i-iind

She let her eyes sweep over the crowd, feeling the warmth of the stage lights on her face, the hum of anticipation vibrating through the floorboards beneath her.

Yeah, I woooooke up this mo-o-o-ornin’…

Baaaby… you was heavy on my miiiiiind

Stack stood there, leaning against the bar, completely captivated. 

If lovin’ you’s a crime, baby… they gon’ have to take my tiiiiime…

Every subtle movement she made—the gentle sway of her hips, the way her fingers traced the edge of the mic stand—made it feel as though she were performing only for him.

You my su-u-ugar in my tea… hoooney, you my cream in my cuuuup

The crowd around him melted into a blur, their claps and murmurs fading into the background.

Ohhh, sugar in my tea… baaaby, you my cream in my cuuuup

Her gaze swept across the room, then found his. Time seemed to slow for a heartbeat. Their eyes locked, and he could swear he saw the faintest, teasing wink in return.

Mmm… you my midnight dreeeeam… and my mornin’ liiiiight

A rush of warmth shot through his chest, leaving him momentarily breathless, caught between awe and something deeper he couldn’t—or didn’t want to—name.

Yes, you my midnight dreeeeam, baaaaby… and my mornin’ liiiiight

Hold me close, don’t let me go… we gon’ be alriiiiight…

The song flowed through her effortlessly, each note lilting and sweet, carrying both confidence and the soft vulnerability he had come to adore. Stack’s hands curled slightly around the edge of the bar, knuckles white, as he leaned in, unwilling to blink or look away, lost in the music—and in her.

Now the ra-a-aain might be fallin’… hoooney, but you keep me warm inside 

Yes, the ra-a-aain keeps on fallin’… hoooney, but you keep me warm inside 

She smiled to crowd, holding her arms out until her eyes were back on Stack’s Long as I’m in your arms… ain’t no need for me to hiiiiide…

Smoke leaned against the bar, cigar tucked loosely between his fingers, eyes narrowed as they tracked the scene on stage. He could see Stack, all intensity and admiration, fixed on Y/N like she was the only person in the room. His jaw tightened slightly, a low hum of something dangerous curling in his chest.

He watched her sway gently with the music, fingers caressing the mic, and noticed the brief, electric moment when her eyes met Stack’s. Smoke’s lips pressed into a thin line. That same look—soft, teasing, intimate—had always carried weight, and now it was directed at his brother.

A surge of protectiveness, sharp and unyielding, ran through him. He clenched the counter under his hands, nails biting into the wood. He wanted to step forward, to remind both of them of the boundaries that existed… but he didn’t. Not yet. Not while the crowd cheered and the music pulsed like a heartbeat through the room.

Instead, he let his gaze linger on her, watching her smile at Stack, noting every tilt of her head, every sway, every nuance that made her utterly magnetic. Smoke’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a scowl—but something in him shifted. Possessive, wary, and undeniably drawn in all at once.

The song flowed to its final chords, and Smoke exhaled a long plume of cigar smoke, forcing himself to look away—but even then, the image of Y/N standing there, radiant and unbothered by the tension crackling around her, stayed seared into his mind.

Smoke’s eyes drifted from the stage, cutting through the haze of cigar smoke and chatter, until they landed on a familiar face lingering at the door. She stood there with Cornbread, arguing her case. Smoke pushed off the bar, sliding his hands into his pockets as he made his way over, calm but deliberate.

“What seems to be the issue?” his voice low, measured.

Cornbread straightened. “She wants to get in, but I told her—”

“Let her in.”

Cornbread blinked, thrown off. “Boss, I—”

Smoke’s gaze sharpened, his words coming cool and clipped. “Did I stutter? Let her in. And get yourself a drink. On me.”

Cornbread stepped aside reluctantly, and the woman slipped past him with a slow smile. She scanned the crowd, her eyes flicking first toward the bar before catching sight of the woman on stage. But then—her gaze halted. Locked. On Stack.

And Stack, oblivious to anything but the song and the singer, didn’t notice her… not yet.

Y/N had Stack’s full attention. Her voice poured out like honey, smooth and golden, seeping into every corner of him until it was all he could taste. Nothing else mattered. Not the chatter of the crowd, not the smoke curling from half-burnt cigars—just her. He leaned forward, ready to move closer, to catch more of her warmth, when a sudden hand slipped over his arm and pulled him back.

“Hello, Elias,” a voice purred behind him. “I missed you so much.”

Stack stiffened, turning to find Mary standing there, her smile bright but edged with something sly. For a moment, his chest tightened—until his eyes dropped lower. She was wearing it. The same cut, the same silk drape as Y/N’s dress. But in a muted blush-pink.

Mary caught the flicker in his gaze and twirled a little, giggling softly, heat glimmering in her eyes. “Like my dress?” she asked, leaning closer, her perfume cloying compared to the sweetness on stage. “I think it looks better on me, don’t you think, baby?”

Stack’s jaw tightened, torn between the song that pulled him like a tide and the woman now trying to anchor him with a too-familiar grip.

To keep from causing a scene, Stack slipped his arm free of Mary’s grip and leaned in close, his words low and rough. “The fuck you doin’ here—and how the hell did your crazy ass get in?”

Mary’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it widened. “They let me in. Doesn’t matter how… what matters is I missed you.”

Stack’s eyes narrowed, his jaw flexing as he tried to keep one ear tuned to the voice still singing onstage. “Girl, you ain’t missed me. Don’t start that.” He angled his head toward the door. “Now, leave.”

Mary’s gaze sharpened, stubborn fire flickering in her eyes. She shook her head slowly. “No. Not until I say what I gotta say.”

“You ain’t gotta say a fuckin’ thing,” Stack muttered, stone-faced, carrying the same hard edge his twin wore when he was angry. His eyes flicked back toward Y/N onstage, hoping to ground himself in her voice, her presence—anything to steady him.

But Mary’s words cut through. “You lookin’ at her the way you used to look at me.”

Stack kissed his teeth, the sound sharp, dismissive. “I never looked at you like that. So stop fuckin’ lyin’.”

He turned to walk away just as the last notes of the song died, the crowd erupting in applause. But before he could step clear, Mary yanked him back and pressed her mouth to his.

From the door, Smoke leaned against the frame, a sly grin tugging at his lips as he watched his brother caught. Pearline, scanning the room from her place on stage, froze when her eyes found them. Her gasp cut through the noise. “Lord… is that Stack—with the girl from my store?”

Slim and Sammie both turned their heads, confusion etched across their faces, and Y/N followed their gaze. The sight hit her like a knife to the ribs. Her chest hollowed out. After everything Stack had told her… had it all been a lie?

She didn’t wait to find out. Y/N fled the stage, slipping through the crowd with tears stinging her eyes.

Stack snapped out of Mary’s grip, his focus only on chasing after Y/N—but Smoke was faster. He moved with ease, cutting through the crowd to the back, throwing his brother a victorious smile over his shoulder.

Stack’s face hardened, fury burning in his chest. He jerked his chin toward Cornbread. “Remove her. Now. And if she so much as tries to sneak back in—” his voice dropped, sharp as a blade—“I’ll kill her myself.”

Stack stormed down the narrow hall, jaw tight, boots striking the floor with purpose. He found Smoke leaning casual outside the women’s bathroom, puffing slow from his pipe like he hadn’t a care in the world.

Stack leaned in close, voice sharp as a knife’s edge. “Why the fuck you let that crazy white bitch in here?”

Smoke didn’t blink. He drew another drag, eyes cool, and blew smoke out the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know what you talkin’ about, Elias.”

In a flash, Stack snatched the pipe from his brother’s hand and hissed low, “Don’t play with me. You brought her in here knowin’ what she was finna do. Now Y/N thinks—”

“Thinks what?” Smoke cut him off, brow arched in mock curiosity.

Stack rolled his neck, fighting the urge to put hands on him. “Why you brung Mary in here, huh? You know damn well she the reason we left in the first place.”

For the first time, a flicker of something passed over Smoke’s face, but before he could answer, the bathroom door creaked open. Annie stepped out, smoothing her dress, her eyes moving from one brother to the other.

“She needs a moment,” Annie said softly, glancing back toward the door. “She says she believes Mary been followin’ her. Also, she was at the grocery store before family dinner—asking for Elias.” Her gaze locked on her husband, then slid to Stack. “Honey, I need to dance. Please.”

Smoke’s expression softened instantly, as if the tension with his brother had never existed. “Of course, sweetheart.” He bumped Stack’s shoulder deliberately as he passed, slipping his arm around Annie and leading her back toward the dance floor, leaving Stack seething in the hall.

Stack pressed his back against the wall, running a hand down his face. That’s when Sammie appeared, eyes narrowed. “The fuck you kiss Mary for, dummy?”

Stack’s head shot up. “I didn’t. She kissed me.”

Sammie folded his arms, unconvinced. “What the hell you mean by that?”

Before Stack could answer, Pearline came up behind Sammie, her eyes sharp as she listened.

“Exactly what I said,” Stack bit out. Then, slower, like the weight of it was settling in: “I think she’s tryin’ to be Y/N.”

Pearline frowned. “Why you say that?”

“Because she came in wearin’ the same damn dress—in another color. Did you sell her that dress?”

Pearline shook her head quick. “No, I didn’t. She saw the one Y/N picked and wanted the same, but I told her it was custom, somethin’ special so Y/N would stand out. I guess when I turned my back, one of my girls sold her the same thing.”

The guilt hit her hard, shoulders sagging as she realized the part she’d unknowingly played.

Stack pushed off the wall, voice low, determined. “Go on, then. I gotta tell Y/N the truth.”

Sammie nodded as he and Pearline drifted off toward the dance floor, leaving Stack rooted in place. He straightened his shoulders, drawing a long breath to steel himself, then rapped lightly on the bathroom door.

“Doll, I—”

Her voice came sharp, muffled through the wood. “Go away, Elias. I don’t wanna see your face.”

He pressed his forehead against the door, closing his eyes. “Doll, please. I can explain everythin’. Just—just come out.”

“Why? So you can lie again?”

Stack’s jaw tightened. He dragged in another breath, steadying the storm in his chest. “No. So you won’t be in the dark anymore.”

Silence. Heavy, expectant. The muffled thump of bass and the laughter of the crowd spilled from the dance floor, but here in the hallway, everything held still. He waited. And waited.

Finally, the lock clicked. The door eased open.

Y/N stepped out slow, her arms folded like a shield across her chest, her eyes cutting into him with all the hurt she carried. “I wanna know everythin’, Stack,” she said, her voice low but fierce.

He glanced over his shoulder toward the dance floor, where couples swayed in the dim light, and then back at her. Extending his hand, his voice softened, almost pleading. “C’mon, Doll. Just one dance.”

The weight of his palm hovered open between them, waiting for her choice—an offering, or a last chance. 

The lights were dim over the dance floor, golden and smoky, the kind that made the room feel like it was moving through honey. The band eased into a slow number, saxophone crooning soft, bass steady like a heartbeat.

Stack guided Y/N out, his hand tentative at her back. She allowed it, but her arms stayed stiff, guarded as he drew her into the sway of the crowd. Couples spun and swayed around them, laughter and whispers blending into the music, but between them was only the thrum of something raw and fragile.

“Then what was that?!” Y/N’s voice cracked, sharp against the softness of the music. Her eyes glistened under the dim light. “She had her hands all over you and everythin’. I heard you play with women a lot but—”

“What?” His voice rose before he caught himself, pulling back just enough to search her face. “Who heard that from—” He stopped mid-sentence, jaw clenching, already knowing. He exhaled, low and tired, as though it cost him something just to breathe.

He slid his hands into his pockets, his gaze dropping before lifting to meet hers again, this time steady, vulnerable. “Do you wanna know the truth about Mary?”

“You owe me that, Elias.”

For a moment, he only held her eyes, then let out a long breath, like it had been caged inside him for years. The sway of the music carried them, but his words came heavy.

“I gotta tell you somethin’, and it ain’t easy… but you deserve the truth.”

Her lips pressed tight, but she didn’t look away. She could feel it in the tremble of his voice, the weight sitting on his chest.

“Mary… she… she was neverhin’ but trouble,” he said, voice dropping low, almost shaking. “We… we were close once. But it wasn’t love, not real love. She… she threatened to drag her father and his boys down on Smoke for somethin’ he didn’t even do. I… I went along with her, only to protect him. Only to keep her from hurtin’ him.”

His hands curled into fists in his pockets, shoulders tense, as though even remembering burned him.

“I never wanted her, not the way she wanted me. She only cared about lust, power, what she could take. That’s why we left… why we had to go to Chicago. To stop her from ruin’ more than she already had.”

The words hung between them, thick as smoke. Y/N’s breath caught, her eyes softening though her arms stayed folded between them like a barrier.

He swallowed, eyes flickering over her face before locking with hers fully, stripped of his usual bravado. “I ain’t proud of that moment, sugar, but I want you to know this—what I feel for you? That’s real. I was never hers. I never will be. You… you’re the only one I want, and I… I needed you to know everythin’, so there’s nothin’ in the shadows between us.”

The saxophone wailed sweet and aching in the background, and for a moment, the world seemed to stand still—just her heartbeat against his, and the question of whether she could let his truth be enough.

Her throat tightened, her body torn between pushing him away and melting into him.

But Stack wasn’t finished. He dipped his head lower, lips at her ear, pulling her in until his words vibrated straight through her chest.

“Miss Y/N Doll Carter, I gotta set somethin’ straight, ‘cause I been watchin’ how you look at me, and I know what you may have hear. You think I’m just here for the surface — just the way you move, the way you make my blood run hot. But that ain’t all there is. Hell, that’s just the start.

“It’s your fire, the way you hold your head high when the world tries to knock you down. It’s the softness in your voice when you talk ‘bout your kin, the way your eyes light up when you smile — like you’re carryin’ a whole world of dreams right inside you. That’s the part I’m hooked on, the part I wanna know every day.

“I ain’t just wantin’ a touch or a night with you. I want the quiet mornings where you’re still half asleep and I’m watchin’ you breathe, the late nights when you lean on me after the day’s done, and the storms we’ll weather ‘cause together, we’ll be stronger.

“I want to be the man you come home to — the one who keeps you safe when life gets rough, the one who fights to make sure you never doubt you’re loved. You got my heart tangled up, Miss Doll, and if you let me, I’ll show you what real feels like. Ain’t just about the heat of the moment — it’s ‘bout buildin’ somethin’ that lasts.”

The music swelled around them, horns sighing, the drum brushed soft like a heartbeat.

Y/N’s chest rose and fell, eyes glistening as she searched his. She had no idea if his words were true, or just another story spun from that silver tongue of his — but Lord, the way he said them, like each syllable was cut straight from his soul, made it hard to breathe.

She stood there, still in his arms, caught between doubt and longing, with his truth pressed close against her skin.

Y/N looked up into his eyes and that’s when she knew — he was telling the truth. Stack’s gaze held hers steady, unwavering, like a lighthouse cutting through a storm. One hand slid to her waist, the other lifted slowly to cradle her jaw, careful as if she were fine china.

“C’mere, doll,” he murmured, voice low and warm, curling around her spine like fire.

He dipped his head, letting his thumb trace the curve of her lips, memorizing them before his mouth met hers. The kiss started slow, testing, savoring, like a man easing into a tune he already knew by heart. His fedora brim shadowed their faces, making the world around them fade — the room, the music, even the other people melted into the background.

The kiss deepened, coaxing her lips to move with his, not demanding but guiding. She tasted spearmint and the ghost of his last cigarette, felt the rough warmth of his palm against her cheek, and the solid press of his chest against hers. Every motion was reassurance: she was safe, wanted, held.

Her knees weakened, and Stack’s grip only tightened, his thumb brushing against her skin like a promise. When he finally eased back slightly, it wasn’t to release her — his forehead rested against hers, their breaths mingling.

“Now, ain��t that better than daydreamin’, sweetheart?” he murmured, slow grin tugging at his lips.

She returned a soft, shaky smile. “It’s… better than I ever pictured, Stack.”

His eyes darkened — not with danger, but a hunger that made him want to outdo even a woman’s sweetest dream. His hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, drawing her in again. This time, there was no hesitation.

His mouth claimed hers once more, deeper, more certain. She felt him breathe her in, as if her scent alone anchored him. The tip of his nose brushed hers, tilting her head to deepen the connection, and the rest of the world ceased to exist.

One broad palm splayed across the small of her back, pulling her flush against him, thumb tracing lazy circles over her dress. The other threaded into her hair, loosening a pin so strands tumbled free. Her fingers clutched his jacket lapels like an anchor, holding herself close as his lips moved with hers — each kiss a promise: she was wanted, safe, and his.

When he finally parted, it wasn’t to let go. He stayed close, lips grazing her jaw, her ear, voice low enough to vibrate against her skin. “I ain’t done with you yet, doll. Not by a long shot.”

He didn’t pull back completely — their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling, lips brushing whenever she exhaled. His thumb swept along her jaw before drifting lower, curling around her waist. He shifted her just enough to press their bodies closer, a gentle, rocking sway like a dance without music.

“Y’know, doll,” he murmured, warm as molasses, “a man could lose himself right here and never once miss the rest of the world.”

She felt the steady beat of his heart against hers, grounding her, the press of his fingertips at her back keeping her tethered. His lips brushed beneath her ear, slow, teasing, letting her know he could take his time. When she shivered, he smiled, the kind of smile that meant he’d found his place inside her.

His other hand traced her arm until their fingers laced together, squeezing gently: You’re safe with me.

Then, as if the moment itself demanded a seal, he lifted her chin, holding her gaze in a long, unbroken beat — ensuring she was ready — before leaning in again, slower, deeper, as if the rest of the night belonged entirely to them. That was until she came and pulled them apart.

Mary’s shrill voice cut through the warm hum of the juke joint, yanking Stack and Y/N apart mid-embrace. “You think you can just keep her, Stack? You taught me how to fight! I’ll fight every bitch in here, and you know that!”

Stack opened his mouth, but Y/N’s hand on his chest stopped him. She stepped forward, her own heat rising, eyes locked on Mary. “I would love to see you try,” she said, voice calm but lethal.

Mary laughed nervously, smirking like she’d already won.

Y/N closed the space between them, eyes hard and unyielding. “Listen to me real good,” she said, voice low but cutting, each word deliberate. “You don’t leave this place… you’ll leave in a casket.”

Mary scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Oh, come on, you think you can scare me, little girl?”

Y/N leaned in closer, her tone a razor. “Little girl? Honey, I’ve been fighting since before you could spell your own name.”

Mary’s bravado faltered for a heartbeat. “You’re bluffing.”

Y/N tilted her head, letting a sly smirk creep across her lips. “Bluffing? Sweetheart, I never bluff. You want me to spell it out? I’ll do it slow so you don’t get confused: you keep talkin’, I’ll make sure you hit the ground before you even know what hit you.”

Mary’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. “You’re… crazy.”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed, voice like steel. “Crazy? Nah. I’m just done lettin’ people test me. Step one: back the hell up. Step two: leave the club. Step three: consider yourself lucky if you walk away at all.”

Mary laughed nervously. “Is that a threat?”

Y/N’s lips curled into a faint, chilling smile. “Doesn’t have to be more than that,” she said, eyes sweeping Mary from head to toe like she was marking every inch.

Mary’s bravado faltered as Y/N’s intensity pressed against her. She took a step back, then another, until finally she turned to leave. But as she strode past, she spat the words with venom: “Nigger bitch.”

The insult sparked something deep in Y/N. She followed her outside, heart steady, hands ready. As Mary stepped out of the archway of the entry, Y/N tapped her shoulder once — hard enough that Mary spun. Before she could react, Y/N delivered a sharp, perfectly timed slap, sending Mary stumbling back, unconscious before she even hit the ground, blood leaking from her mouth.

Y/N took a deep breath, smoothing the folds of her dress, and stepped back into the club. The room had gone quiet, every eye on her. Slowly, murmurs of admiration rose. Heads nodded, men and women alike recognizing the strength she carried — unshaken, untouchable, as the music still played. Stack’s jaw slackened, pride and awe burning in his eyes, while Smoke’s expression betrayed the respect he rarely showed aloud.

Y/N’s lips curved into a subtle, victorious smile. She had made her mark.

Something flickered in Stack, a sharp tug at his chest he couldn’t ignore. He glanced at Bo. “Where’s Smoke?”

Bo shrugged. “In the office with Annie.”

Stack rolled his eyes, a half-smile tugging at his lips. Without another word, he reached for Y/N’s hand, his grip gentle but firm. “Come with me for a sec. I need a word.”

Before she could respond, he was already leading her through the dimly lit hall, weaving past tables and chairs, until they reached the stock room. The air smelled faintly of wood polish and paper, and massive wooden crates loomed like silent sentinels. A wide, sturdy table sat in the center, giving the room a secret, private feel.

“What are we doing in here? Am I in trouble?” Y/N asked, a nervous laugh in her voice.

Stack didn’t answer with words. Instead, he locked the door behind them, closed the distance, cupping her face in his hands, and kissed her—slow at first, testing, then deepening with that raw hunger that had been simmering between them all night.

Stack’s hand slid to the small of Y/N’s back, pulling her flush against him. Their breaths mingled, heavy and uneven, as he leaned in, lips brushing hers in the faintest whisper of a touch. It started slow, tentative, but hunger flickered in his gaze, and the brush became a claim.

Y/N’s fingers threaded through the nape of his neck, tugging him closer, needing the warmth and the certainty of him. His mouth captured hers in a sudden surge—no hesitation, no teasing, just pure need. Every second was sharp and electric, a friction of want that made her knees weak and her heartbeat thunder in her chest.

He pressed closer, deepening the kiss, and she responded with equal fervor, lips moving against his like a spark chasing flame. His hand moved up, cradling her jaw, tilting her head, while the other pressed firmly against her back, anchoring her to him as if letting go wasn’t an option.

The world around them faded: the music, the chatter, the dim lights—all replaced by the heat between them, the sharp inhale of air when they parted just enough to catch their breaths, then dove back in, breathless and needing more. The kiss wasn’t gentle—it was desperate, claiming, and insistent, a silent promise of what their hearts already knew.

When they finally pulled back, just barely, foreheads resting together, he whispered against her lips, “Doll… I can’t get enough of you.”

Y/N’s chest rose and fell, matching his rhythm, a small, breathy laugh escaping. “Neither can I,” she admitted, and the spark lingered in the air, unbroken, a promise that this hunger wasn’t nearly sated.

He lifted her effortlessly, settling her gently onto the table. His palms braced lightly on either side of her, grounding her in the moment. “Now, I ain’t like my brother,” he said, voice smooth as aged whiskey, low and deliberate, slipping out of his jacket and hat.“I wanna ask you… permission to make you feel better than you ever have. I wanna make you feel like a brand-new woman. Can I do that for you, doll? Can I make you feel real good, baby?”

Her breath hitched, mouth slightly agape, and she nodded, but Stack shook his head, leaning closer. “No, Doll. I wanna hear it. Please… let me hear you say it.”

Her arms curled around his neck, pressing into him, and she whispered against his lips, “Yes, baby. Yes, you can.”

A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face as he kissed her deeply, guiding her down so she lay back on the table. His hands traced her curves with a mix of reverence and hunger, each touch deliberate, each motion promising what was to come.

He gave her a few more kisses on her sweet lips, pulling her dress over her rear. He stood at the end of the table, between her legs, and slowly pulled down her underwear, gently as he kissed each calf, one by one. “Now, I want you to look at me while I make you feel good, every fuckin’ time. I wanna see the faces you make. Understood?”

“Yes, baby”, she said before biting her lip, making him chuckle before he said, “Good girl, baby. Good fuckin’ girl.” He began to kiss her on her right inner thigh as he sat on the chair in front of her. His eyes were fixed on her to see her, to see her reactions. Seeing what she liked and didn’t like. He began to lick her inner thighs, still watching her chest rise. He chuckled against her thighs before biting into the skin, leaving love bites up her thigh and kissing each one after. 

Y/N looked into his soft eyes when she felt him getting closer to her pussy. He looked down at her and said “shiiiiiiit, ouuuu shit and your pussy is pretty too, baby. Want me to show her how pretty she is?”

“Yes, baby, please.” He smirked as he began to softly and slowly tongue kiss her clitoris, her breath caught in her chest, and he raised his head, licking his lips. “I love takin’ my time. Don’t wanna miss a thing. I hope you don’t mind.” She shook her head, saying, “Not at all. I love it.”

“Say it again.”

“I love it.” His mouth found her clit again, slowly sucking it. Y/N tried to grab the surface below her, but only found his hand. Grabbing it, but instead of pulling away, his fingers automatically intertwined with hers. His eyes stayed on hers the entire time, her moans slowly filling the room, and he felt it was time to pick up the pace. Her face was in awe, gasping for air and silently praying. “Baby, that feels so good. Please don’t stop. Pretty please.” Her grip on his hand had gotten tighter, but he didn’t mind; it just meant he was making her feel oh so right. 

She began to feel the knot in her stomach, and Stack could tell by the way she looked into his eyes. “Is my Doll gonna come for me, hm? Go ahead and tell Daddy you coming. Are you gonna come for me?”

“Yesss…”

“Yes?”

“Yessss.”

“Come on, doll. I don’t hear you.” She couldn’t hold it anymore once she felt his tongue swirl around her clit. “Yesssssssss. Fuuuuuuck. Yessssssssssssss”, she moaned loudly in the room, music to his ears. As she came in his mouth, he groaned, enjoying the sweet taste of her, honey and strawberries. He hurried, grabbing her neck gently and sitting her up, saying, “Open wide, baby”. Once she did, he let a string of his saliva and her juices mixed fall into her mouth as he softly choked her, and before he deeply tongue kissed her, making them both moan and groan. 

“You taste like you belong here,” he’d whisper when he pulls back, resting his forehead to hers. His voice dropped even lower as he said, “And I ain’t lettin’ go until I’m sure you know that.” She smiled into the kiss, and so did he, but on the other side of the locked door stood someone who had a storm brewing inside of him.

-Sweet Babies-

@muse-of-mbaku @im5ftbutmythroat66 @chaneajoyyy @melanin-samii @theunsweetenedtruth @doux-ciel @unicornluvin8765 @vikkidc @wakandantings @thadelightfulone @mzamethystp @simbiann @tropicalsun10 @babydoll756 @notoriouslynay @vminax @quinsly @pinkdemolition @quietstorm-73 @chaoticcashfancroissant @bugngiz @chocolatedippedinhoney @yafavcocoa @lostgalaxies @mbakuwife @youreadthatright @babygotl01292003 @acceptyourselfloveyourself @madamslayyy @yoyolovesbucky @theogbadbitch @wakanda-inspired @bitchacho25 @toniilaney @wakandascrystal @girlsneedlovingfanfics @raysunshine78 @melodyofmbaku @hearteyes-for-killmonger @silenceisplatinum @thickemadame @shookmcgookqueen @heykillmongerluhme @fonville-designs @cutewylie @allhailqueennel @10bsatatime @nickidub718 @lildashofmelanin @allhailqueennel @amirra88 @hakunalive4eva @thickemadame @ghostfacekill-mongerv @girlsneedlovingfanfics @desire4ella @mogul93 @d1gitalb4rbie @underated345-blog @woahthatshitfat @fiercedeception @gold-3 @empressdede @harleycativy @adultinginheels @heartgirllover @transparentphantomface @cchampangemammii @brownskincheyenne @zunibugsiren @mimi2618 @amor33 @swatson06 @lovesbysblog @dollys-world224 @mbjswife @l-u-xwrites @itsspixiedusst56 @loveabledovee

[yeehawd]

how was he not supposed to overthink this? garam had to be careful and intentional with every movement made as to not risk more than the slight accidental brush of his hand against angel's skin. even if angel had taken garam's touch as axel's because of the nightmare he had, just hearing himself being referred to as someone he'd considered so horrid more and more with each passing day really hurt. simply put, garam didn't want to give angel the opportunity to mistake him for axel again. but all he did was offer a small smile and nodded his head as he finished dressing the other. his eyes scanned over angel now wearing pajamas to match the ones he was wearing, his smile almost instantly becoming more genuine. this would have been the perfect moment to take pictures if only angel hadn't have had his nightmares, if neither of their faces were red for their own respective reasons. but it wasn't like garam could post them, not while they were actively staying in the hotel. he just didn't want to give axel any clues as to where they were hiding out. his gaze diverted when angel brought up darius, a soft sigh leaving his lips. he really didn't want to be talking about a fourth man, now. especially when they both knew how this man felt about the both of them. it didn't matter how many times angel would tell him that it wasn't garam's fault, he just couldn't believe it. and now adding in that darius and angel grew close because of what happened to angel, it was like garam was to blame for their relationship developing, too. but the moment angel acknowledged the fact that he knew garam didn't want to talk about darius, the corners of his lips twitched upward but only momentarily. "i know you wouldn't lie to me, angel. i didn't think you were lying when you told me, i just— i didn't want to believe he'd hurt somebody else like that. i didn't want to believe he was capable of doing that to anybody, especially someone as important to me as you are. i don't put any blame on you, i was just... mad and hurt. you didn't make him do anything. he was with me, we were in a relationship," albeit a toxic one, "it doesn't matter how much any of us had been drinking. he is one hundred percent responsible for the choices he made. he should have said no, he should have pushed you away when you advanced, he should have left you in the living room and come to bed with me. you aren't responsible for what he decided to do." even if angel trusted him, garam was still weary about making physical contact. he was already dying at the idea of not touching angel again until he either made the first move or gave him complete assurance that being touched by garam wouldn't send him spiraling. still, he wanted to test the waters just to see how much he could get away with. a hand lifted to carefully rest against the other's cheek, thumb slowly caressing over his cheekbone. "i want you to trust me with everything, i don't want you to doubt that i'll believe you. i know you wouldn't lie to me, angel." he repeated before pulling away from angel but only so he could move their food closer because he really was hungry and he didn't want to let more food go to waste. it was just sitting there, mocking him. garam picked at that same pancake, tearing off a small piece and popping into his mouth, then proceeded to climb up onto the bed. "so," he huffed, letting himself fall onto his back, only wincing visibly as he laid down. "was it everything you expected it to be last night? is there anything i could do better for whenever next time happens? how many stars would you give me? personally, i'd give it five out of five but i know there's always room for improvement." he rambled, almost as if he were nervous.

Angel let Garam’s chatter wash over him, the words settling like a soft blanket in the background. He wasn’t used to anyone being this careful with him—this patient without making it feel like pity or alterer motives. Each motion Garam made, from crouching on the floor to sliding the shorts up without rushing, felt intentional in a way that made Angel’s throat ache. He let Garam guide him through the motions, his own hands taking over where Garam’s stopped, tugging the waistband into place. When Garam held the shirt open, Angel hesitated for only a second before shifting forward, letting his arms slip through the sleeves. The fabric was cool against his skin, smelling faintly like Garam. Garam’s fingertips hovered just shy of touching him as they straightened the collar, and Angel caught the flicker of restraint in his expression. That same ridiculous warmth from earlier swelled in Angel’s chest. “Garam…don’t overthinking it,” he murmured, voice low but steady now. “I trust you.” The words seemed to land heavier than he expected. Angel didn’t bother hiding the faint smile tugging at his lips, watching the way Garam’s brows knit in concentration over such a simple task. He could’ve done it himself, but… letting Garam do it felt right. Like giving him a piece of the closeness they both clearly wanted but were too careful to rush. When the last button was in place, Angel adjusted the hem and glanced at the matching fabric on Garam’s frame. “Okay, now we really do look cute,” he said, the tiniest spark of playfulness slipping in. Garam laughed—bright, unguarded—and it stirred something lighter in Angel’s chest than he’d felt all day. The fear was still there, tucked deep in the corner of his mind, but it wasn’t running the show anymore. Not with Garam kneeling there in matching pajamas, cheeks flushed from excitement, eyes crinkled from smiling too hard. Angel reached up, brushing a curl back from his own face. “Let’s order some,” he said, tone soft but certain, “we’re getting those face masks. And maybe… silk pajamas. Just to prove you could pull them off.” Angel cleared his throat as he sat back down, realizing how tired his mussels were. He looked up at Garam, the faint smile still on his lips, “I want to be clear with you Garam. None of this is your fault. I-the panic attacks have been happening…well since that night. That’s how Darius and I got so close. I know you don’t want to hear his name but it’s the truth. I-I couldn’t come to you. You were my best friend but he was your boyfriend. I truly thought you wouldn’t believe me. When I sleep alone it happens so…for a while I stopped sleeping.” Angel let out a sigh looking down at his palms that were now fist. He released the tension in them showing the small marks in the shape of crescents. Some healed, some from this morning. “I kept it from you because I see the guilt and when you said I needed to take responsibility for the role I played in what happen…Shit I know you didn’t mean it but it hurt. Fuck it hurt like hell because that’s how I feel all the time. It’s my fault. So I didn’t tell you. I buried because that’s what I’ve always done. Pretend. But I don’t want to pretend if it means losing you. I’m sorry for being such a mess” Angel laid it all out, he swallowed the tears that threatened to come out. He was so tired of crying. “I want to enjoy today with you. No fighting or worrying. Just us and movies, and ordering food. Okay?”