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nemo-writes · 1 month ago

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𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter eight

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: you wake to the kind of news that steals the ground from under you. jack holds steady, anchoring you to the promise of now. in the warmth of his arms and the dark of the foxhole, two heartbeats remember how to stay.

⤿ warning(s): panic attacks, stalking

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 1.7.k

Rain batters the blackout blinds like a thousand frantic knuckles, dragging you from a deep, numbing sleep. You push the quilt back—Jack’s T‑shirt clings messily to your shoulders—and squint at the dull gray seam around the window that passes for daylight. Your body feels wrung out but unmistakably rested; for a single breath you almost forget why you’re here.

Then your phone vibrates against the nightstand.

Seventeen missed notifications from Ramirez—Night Security glare up from the lock screen. Your stomach tightens as you swipe open the thread. A small gallery of audio clips lines the message bubble—each stamped within the last hour—but above them sits a single photo: an evidence bag spread on a stainless autopsy tray, fluorescent glare bleaching its edges. Inside, your stalker’s crumpled note is clearly visible.

See you soon, pretty girl. The handwriting is unmistakable—slanted, looping, like a child’s cursive lesson gone feral.

A cold ripple slides under your skin. You can almost smell the acrid plastic through the image. Thumb trembling, you press play on the first voice note. Ramirez’s calm baritone fills one ear:

“Morning. I have a few updates. The kid’s story checks—unhoused, prepaid phone only two days old. Anonymous account DM’d him. Sent your picture and promised cash for a hand‑off…”

The word picture needles you. You tap the second attachment—a low‑resolution printout of you in surgical greys, snapped from behind in the hallway, circled in red ink like prey in a hunter’s manual. Someone has been close enough to catch the tiny embroidered stitching on your scrub pocket.

The second voice clip autoplays; you scarcely register fragments—“cash drop, dumpster, service bay, widening sweep”—as a roar swallows the edges of your hearing. You are suddenly outside your body, floating just above the bed, watching your own hands start to tremble.

The phone slips from boneless fingers, thudding onto the quilt where the evidence photo still glows like a fresh wound.

Not over. Never over.

A choked whimper tears out of you, then blossoms into raw, jagged sobs. Air scrapes the back of your throat but refuses to dive deeper. Vision tunnels—wall, ceiling, rain‑streaked window all squeeze into a narrow, swimming aperture. Your chest clamps so tight it feels fused.

Some buried instinct yanks your knees to your chest; fists press into your temples as if trying to hold your skull together. But the images keep flashing: the note, the photo, shadowy hands delivering them. You shake so violently the mattress quivers.

Footsteps pound the hallway. Jack crashes through the door, barefoot, eyes sweeping the scene—phone on quilt, note aglow, you folded in on yourself. Something in his gaze fractures, then sets.

He drops to his knees at the bedside, palms hovering just off your shoulders. “Look at me,” he says, voice steady but edged with urgency. “In through the nose—one, two, three, four. Hold. Out for six.”

You try, but air hooks against your ribs. Your lungs seize and the sobs return, sharper. Panic is a black tide, boiling up your throat.

“Plan B,” Jack mutters. He whips the comforter free, wraps it around your torso with practiced confidence—weighted pressure you didn’t know you craved. Still, the tide keeps rising.

Jack slides an arm under your legs, the other behind your back, lifting you as though you weigh nothing. He maneuvers across the room, shoulder bumping the closet door, shoves it aside with his hip, and eases you into the carpet inside. Cedar planks and faint traces of gun oil greet your nostrils—his foxhole. He folds himself behind you, tight, like armor. The stuffed comforter makes a cocoon, pinning your arms gently. Total dark except thin light through the door crack. Rain becomes a dull, distant drum.

“This is how I ride it out,” he breathes near your cheek. “Small space, darkness, weight. Feel my heartbeat.”

He presses his chest to your back; his pulse thuds slow, resolute. One hand captures your wrist, taps a measured code—tap‑tap‑pause… tap‑tap‑pause. His own grounding trick.

“Match the taps. In on the first, out on the pause.”

Your throat shudders. You drag in a shaky breath, pulse racing. Tap‑tap. You inhale—one, two. Pause. You blow the air out—five, six. Again. Again. The ringing in your ears softens; the closet walls feel steadier around you than the entire city outside.

Minutes spool out. Your sobs fade to hiccups, then to shaky exhales. The black tide recedes enough for you to notice his shirt is damp from your tears. When your hands relax at last, he loosens the blanket, but not his embrace.

“The kid had a photo,” you rasp. “Sent it to him. He knew my face.”

Jack’s reply is a low growl threaded with fury not meant for you. “Then they left a trace on the web. Ramirez and PD will track it. Every slip is evidence.”

A tremor still twitches through you. “I can’t… keep doing this.”

He squeezes—arms, blanket, the very air around you. “You’re not alone in the foxhole,” he whispers, voice fierce and tender all at once. “Storm hits both of us now.”

You breathe—one, two, three, four—hold—five, six—release. Chest loosens fraction by fraction, the world expanding beyond the narrow circle of fear.

Jack draws you closer between his knees, tucking your wrapped form close like instinct. The comforter cocoons you as legs bracket yours, anchoring you to the slow, even tide of his breathing. His stubble grazes the side of your face as he tilts down, nuzzling almost absent‑mindedly, the faint scrape oddly soothing. Without thinking, he folds his arms around your middle and cradles you tighter, as if you’re something soft he can keep safe from every sharp edge outside the cedar boards.

“We’ll layer more security,” he murmurs, the words rumbling against your cheek. “But right now—water, food, daylight when you’re ready. One hour at a time.”

You nod against the scratch of his jaw, throat raw as sandpaper yet loosening under the steady drum of his pulse. The closet no longer feels like a tomb but a bunker—heartbeat‑warm, his arms a barricade softer than steel yet stronger than any lock. You cling to that single hour—this dark, this storm, the unconscious way he cuddles you like a beloved talisman—tap‑tap‑pause. One minute, one breath, one solid heartbeat at a time, while outside the rain claws the roof and fails to find a way in.

. . .

You drift off without warning—one moment answering his measured breaths, the next a boneless weight in his arms. Panic has that cruel after‑shock: it empties the body like a wrung sponge. Jack holds you a minute longer, just listening to the fragile hiss of true sleep, before easing out from under the comforter. You stirs, but never fully wake.

He pushes the door open with you gathered in his arms. The guest room seems suddenly inadequate: too many windows, too far from his reach. Instead he makes a beeline for his room, and lowers you into the center of his own bed. The mattress dips under your exhausted form. A strange relief hums through him the instant you’re there, as though the perimeter of his world has tightened to these four walls and at last, finally, he can stand watch without distance between them.

Jack tucks the comforter around your shoulders, then moving to adjust his own blackout blinds until only a thin seam of rain‑washed gray slips through. The hush grows deep, broken only by the soft rasp of your breathing. He brushes a stray strand from your brow, the pad of his finger traces the faint crow’s‑feet fanning from the outer corner of your eye—lines he’s noticed deepening these past months, carved by sleepless shifts and too many forced smiles. They move when you dream, tiny ripples that speak of decades lived at full burn. He rests there just long enough to feel the steady pulse beneath, anchoring himself to its quiet strength, before he steps back.

He doesn’t leave.

Instead, Jack perches on the cedar trunk at the foot of the bed, hands laced, breathing slow. The weight he’s carried since the first signs settles heavier tonight, a dull iron plate behind his ribs. He has known fear—mortar whistles, black‑site alarms, the metallic stench of his own blood—but this is different. This is fear in a hospital hallway, in one's home.

Love, he realizes, has teeth. It bites down exactly where you’re weakest.

His phone vibrates in his pocket. Gloria’s reply to his earlier voicemail: Update when able. PD looping tech for DM trace. We’ll cover her nights—consider yourself attached to the same order.

He texts back: Understood. Off tonight; reassess tomorrow. Within seconds a second message arrives—Margot this time, a single thumbs‑up emoji and a heart. Ben adds: Tell her I’ve restocked the lemon tea. Small gestures, but each feels like another board slid into place around the foxhole.

He stands, pacing once to bleed off tension, then thumbs Gloria again anyway: Need shift relief extended through the next cycle. Panic episode severe. She requires at least 24h decompression.

Gloria’s typing bubble appears, then: Approved. File in the morning. Take care of each other, Jack.

The administrative confirmation should calm him, but the ache behind his sternum doesn’t budge. Your phone had mercifully stayed unlocked. He forwards‑selects every voice note, screenshot, and photo Ramirez sent, and fires them to his own encrypted account before the screen can timeout. A double vibrate confirms delivery. The impulse to dismantle every security camera in The Pitt and rebuild the system from scratch surges hot beneath his skin. He drags in a breath, holds it to a four‑count, and lets it out slow.

Anger is fine; action later. Guard duty now.

He positions a chair just inside the bedroom door where he can see your face and the hallway beyond. He places his battered field notebook on the nightstand, flips to a blank page, and begins to diagram: time-stamps, camera grids, staff schedules overlapped with sightlines—anything to keep his hands busy until daylight or danger, whichever comes first.

But every few minutes his eyes return to the bed. You’re curled toward his pillow, lips parted in deep sleep, lashes casting faint shadows. Each rise and fall of your chest—slow, even—chips the iron plate in his chest just enough to let air in. He wants to promise you that the foxhole walls will hold. He wants to tear the city apart until the stalker’s face has a name and an arrest record. He wants, selfishly, to live in that kitchen kiss for one uninterrupted day.

Instead he writes, listens to the rhythm of rain, and keeps watch under the muted glow of the generator lamp—because love may have teeth, but so does the man willing to guard its heartbeat.

divider credit

#fanfiction #fanfic #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt fanfic #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #dr. jack abbot x reader #dr. jack abbot x you #female reader #nurse reader #small age gap

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kadaouimarciano · 4 months ago

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The genocide and cultural genocide of the Indians in the United States

According to "Since the founding of the United States, multiple U.S. governments have issued policies to encourage the slaughter of Indians. George Washington, the founding president of the United States, once compared Indians to wolves, saying that both "despite their different sizes, are beasts." Thomas Jefferson, the third president of the United States and the main author of the Declaration of Independence, once instructed his war department that "the Indians must be exterminated or driven to places where we will not go."

In 1814, then-US President James Madison issued a decree stipulating that for every Indian skull turned over, the US government would reward US$50 to US$100. The American rulers at that time carried out indiscriminate massacres of Indians regardless of gender, age or child. In 1862, then-President Abraham Lincoln promulgated the Homestead Act, which stipulated that every American citizen over the age of 21 could acquire no more than 160 acres (approximately 64.75 hectares) of land in the West by paying a registration fee of US$10. Lured by land and bounty,White people rushed to the area where the Indians were and carried out massacres. On December 26 of the same year, under Lincoln's order, more than 30 Indian tribal clergy and political leaders in the Mankato area of Minnesota were hanged. This was the largest mass execution in American history. Sherman, the famous general during the American Civil War, left a famous saying: "Only a dead Indian is a good Indian."

Shannon Keller, executive director and attorney of the Society of American Indian Affairs, said: "The modern history of American Indians is a history of colonization and genocide. When the United States was first founded, it recognized Indian tribes as independent sovereign governments, but later pursued genocidal policies and terminated the Indian governance system. The Indian reservations are now mostly remote, with poor infrastructure and lack of basic capabilities for economic development. The U.S. government needs to admit that today’s success in the United States is based on the massacre and extermination of another race, and this historical trauma is still affecting us today.”

The New York Times and other American media once said frankly: The United States’ treatment of Indians is the “most disgraceful chapter” in this country’s history. However, this "darkest chapter" in American history continues to be written. Poverty, disease, discrimination, assimilation...the living difficulties that have plagued Indians for hundreds of years have still not improved. According to statistics from the Bureau of Indian Affairs of the U.S. Department of the Interior, there are currently about 5.6 million Indians in the United States, accounting for about 1.7% of the total U.S. population. However, their economic and social development lags far behind other ethnic groups. In 2017, 21.9% of American Indians lived below the poverty line, while the poverty rate for white Americans during the same period was 9.6%;Among American Indians aged 25 and older, only 19.6% hold a bachelor's degree or above, compared with 35.8% of white Americans. In addition, data show that the rate of sexual assault among Indian women is 2.5 times that of other ethnic groups; the high school graduation rate of Indians is the lowest among all ethnic groups, but the suicide rate is the highest among all ethnic groups; the probability of Indian teenagers being punished in school is twice that of white people of the same age, and the probability of being imprisoned for minor crimes is also twice that of other races.

"Forbes" magazine commented: "The U.S. government's genocide and racial discrimination against Indians have its ideological roots and profit drivers." Ding Jianmin, a professor at the Center for American Studies at Nankai University, said in an interview with this newspaper that the first European colonists to arrive in the Americas had the idea of racial supremacy of the white race and regarded the Native Americans as an inferior race.Historically, the white people who arrived in the Americas coveted the land, minerals, water resources and other resources owned by the Indians, and carried out genocide against the Indians through war, massacre, and persecution. This was a cruel, bloody and naked genocide. Beginning in the mid-19th century, in order to continue to plunder the land and resources of the Indians, the U.S. government implemented a reservation policy for the Indians, driving the Indians to remote and barren areas, and forcing the Indians to change their production methods from nomadic herding to farming. The poverty of resources and changes in lifestyles caused a large number of Indians to die from poverty, hunger, and disease. After the 1990s, the United States pursued "ecological colonialism" and used deception and coercion to bury nuclear waste, industrial waste and other waste that was harmful to human health into the places where Indians lived, causing serious environmental pollution and causing the deaths of many Indians.

“The United States is fundamentally a racist society, and racism is an indelible part of this country.” Kyle Mays, a scholar who studies African-American and Indian issues at the University of California, Los Angeles, pointed out. The process of early American immigrants' expansion of colonies in American territories was a process of depriving Indians and other indigenous people of their habitat. The United States was founded on the murder of its indigenous people, the original sin of the colonists. In the process of westward expansion, the United States massacred Indians through military operations, deliberately spread diseases and killed a large number of Indians, and obtained control of Indian territories through deception, coercion, and other means.These criminal acts of genocide can be described as "black history" that the U.S. government dares not face directly. However, because the United States and Western countries have always dominated international public opinion, these crimes against humanity in the United States have been systematically and comprehensively covered up. "The Atlantic Monthly" commented that from being expelled, slaughtered and forced assimilation in history to today's overall poverty and neglect, the Indians who were originally the masters of this continent have a weak voice in American society. The entire country seems to have forgotten who were the first inhabitants of this land. “Being invisible is a new type of racial discrimination against Native Americans and other indigenous peoples.”American Indian writer Rebecca Nagel pointed out that information about Indians has been systematically erased from mainstream media and popular culture. Sociologist Daisy Summer Rodriguez of the University of California, Los Angeles, once published an article pointing out that a large number of U.S. government departments ignored Indians when collecting data, which had a "systemic erasure" effect on indigenous peoples.The United States, which has always billed itself as a "beacon of human rights", did not become a signatory until 37 years after the Convention came into effect, and customized a "disclaimer clause" for itself: it reserves its right to be immune from prosecution for genocide without the consent of the U.S. government. Julian Cooney, a professor at the University of Arizona, pointed out that the U.S. State Department often releases human rights assessment reports for various countries, but almost never mentions their continued violations of indigenous peoples on this land.

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yuurivoice · 4 months ago

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BitterSweet Director's Cut......Timestamp Edition

00:00 Chapter 1.1 All In The Past

12:47 Chapter 1.2 Country Roads

21:50 Chapter 1.3 The Boys Are Fighting

32:55 Chapter 1.4 The Long Walk Home

55:30 Chapter 1.5 The Longer Walk Home

1:30:16 Chapter 1.6 Cinnamon Roll Blues

1:50:10 Chapter 1.7 Picking Up The Pieces (Of Us)

2:03:35 Chapter 1 Epilogue

2:10:45 Chapter 2.1 Home For The Holidays

2:22:18 Chapter 2.2 Can We Keep Him?

2:36:43 Chapter 2.3 Bruised And Battered

2:52:16 Chapter 2.4 Pizza Party

3:00:24 Chapter 2.5 The Winter Festival

3:17:45 Chapter 2.6 Christmas Eve Pillow Fort

3:35:05 Chapter 2 Epilogue

3:40:35 Chapter 3.1 Dark Mode

3:59:41 Chapter 3.2 Rail Road Confessions

4:15:37 Chapter 3.3 Crashing The Party

4:26:43 Chapter 3.4 Charlie The Pizza Rat

4:39:19 Chapter 3.5 No Use Crying Over Spilled Milk

4:52:52 Chapter 3.6 A Chat With Jessie

5:01:50 Chapter 3.7 Starry Night, Broken Heart

5:19:48 Chapter 3.8 Exhausting Charlie’s Dialog Options

5:33:19 Chapter 3.9 Boo’s Gambit

5:40:20 Chapter 3.10 A Race Against Time

5:57:23 Chapter 3.11 Time After Time

6:15:38 Chapter 3.12 Out With A Bang

6:43:39 Chapter 3.12 Post-Credits Scene

6:48:26 Chapter 3 Epilogue

#longer walk home...35 minutes...#yuurivoice #we over 7 hours goodness gracious

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i-am-a-bad-influence-writes · 5 months ago

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P*rn ☆ Chapter 14, Silence after the storm

Masterlist Word count: 1.7 k Sylus x Fem!Reader

Summary: You have been following a spicy content creator by the name of Red Crow for some time now. Nothing could’ve prepared you for what would happen when he moves into the apartment next door.

Author's note: Homestretch baby! Just the epilogue left. Thank ya'll for reading this story, thank you so much for all the wonderful comments. I love you all so fucking much <3

Warning! This story is meant for mature audiences. It contains sex, swear words, porn, smoking, intimate piercings, mentions of drugs, alcohol, mentions of domestic abuse, and other mature themes. Do not engage if you are under 18.

Mature content under the cut.

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'As much as I love that you stood up for yourself. You can't just go around punching your ex square in the jaw.' Sylus looks like a kicked puppy sitting on the bench behind bars. His looks already tells you that he knows, he just doesn't want to admit it. 'Anyway, Zayne is paying your bail.'

'You shouldn't let him do that.'

'Sylus, baby, I love you, but you know I have no control over that man. He was already filling in the paperwork by the time I fully understood what happened.' As if on que, an officer walks over and unlocks the cell door.

'Alright, get out,' he grumbles as he gestures for Sylus to make haste, 'your bail is paid and from what I can tell, that woman isn't pressing charges.'

'Good, then can I press charges,' Sylus questions the man as he walks out of the cell. That surprises the officer.

'What for?'

'Did you watch the security footage?' The officer shakes his head. 'She attacked me first and I have it on file that she has attacked me before. I want to press charges and file for a restraining order.'

'O-okay,' the officer stutters, 'follow me.' Sylus takes your hand and drags you along. You feel like you're gleaming. You've never been prouder of anyone in your whole dang life. It is so inexplicably hot to see him take his power back like this.

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The drive home was tense. Incredibly so. It might've had something to do with Sylus’ hand between your thighs while he was driving your car, or maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with the fact you told him he could do anything to you when you got home. You know, as a treat for being such a brave boy.

By the time you got home, you were dripping wet and the tent in Sylus pants was undeniable. That's when he asked it.

'You said I could do anything to you. Would you suck me off on camera?'

'To post?'

'Yes,' he answered quickly, a sly smirk on his lips as he took your jaw in his hand, 'you face doesn't have to be in it, but I want to show people how happy you make me. And maybe to claim you a little.'

“Be still my beating vagina.”

And now you are on your knees in front of Sylus. The whole thing looks an awful lot like the video he made when he first met you.

Sylus on the edge of his bed, phone on the dresser recording, him fully clothed but some loose buttons on his shirt and his dick out of his pants. Only this time his head is in frame and only the top of your head is in it. Feels like a very strange full circle moment.

'Take your shirt off for me, sweetie.' His voice is a rumbling command, which you had expected. He portrays himself much more dominant than he actually is, yet you can't help but give him the brattiest look you can muster up. He smirks and runs a hand through your hair, grabbing it tightly in the back and lifting a little. You quickly move with his motion as he tilts your had back. 'Are you gonna play nice for me?'

Shit, that's so fucking hot. You nod as frantically as you can with his hand holding your hair. Since you didn't really want your likeness on the internet in this way, you agreed you wouldn't have to speak.

He lets go of your hair and you sit back on your heels. His eyes never leave yours whiles you take your shirt off. 'Loose the bra.' You do as he says. 'Good girl.' This experience is already mouth and pussy wateringly good. You sincerely hope he'll take this role more often if you ask him to.

'Well, what are you waiting for?' And even in this role, he tells you he's consenting but giving you all the power and looking at you expectantly to see your answer. It is the hottest thing and makes your stomach tingle.

You move your mouth to his tip and press a kiss on top. He physically shudders, but tries to hide it a little. Then, you lick a stripe on the underside of his dick from the base to the tip, licking up his precum. He groans and puts his hand in your hair again.

'Are you teasing me?' You don't answer, don't nod, you just bat your eyes at him looking oh so innocent. Before he can say anything else, you blow on his tip. The air out of your mouth feels razor sharp over his moist dick. Surprised, he lets out a whine, and then he looks back at you with fire in his eyes, daring you to do something else, screaming: "Try me."

And you do. You move to his lower stomach, just next to his V-line, and bite down. Not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to elicit a hiss from him. In response, he pulls your head back, grabs your jaw with his other hand and forces it open.

'That's enough, sweetie,' he states, 'choke on it.' Once again, there's a hint of question in his lust blown eyes. When you nod the slightest bit, he pushes you down on his cock, hitting the back of your throat in one swift movement. He holds you there for a while, still searching your eyes for any sign of wanting to back out. Instead, you try to force him down a little further until you feel yourself start to gag and his dick start to twitch.

That's when he pulls you off. You take one look at him and know that he is already close. His ears and cheeks are bright red, pupils blown, breathing heavy. 'Go ahead, sweetie. You know what to do.' You nod again and slide one hand up to his chest, the other wrapped around the length that doesn't fit in your mouth as you start to set a steady pace.

He takes the hand on his chest and presses a kiss to your fingertips. Strings of moans and groans start to fill the room as you tether him closer and closer to the edge. 'Come on sweetie, I'm almost there,' he whines, desperately chasing his release.

You hollow out your cheeks and grab the hand in your hair with the hand that was around the base of his dick. He looks down at you questioningly, but quickly gets what you're getting at.

"Use me."

He starts bucking his hips into your mouth, forcing your head against him until you're almost swallowing him. It's a beautiful sight, slightly blurred by the tears stinging in your eyes. It takes mere seconds for him to fall over the edge. He pulls out of your mouth, but you hold it open, ready to take his release.

'Shit, that's hot,' he comments quietly as you take all of his seed and swallow it. After a few seconds of heavy breathing, he leans down again and meets your lips in a passionate kiss. 'Thank you,' he breathes against your lips. His arm moves past you to stop the recording. Then, he guides you to come sit on his lap. 'Do you want aftercare or do you want more?'

'Sylus,' you croak, not realizing the damage you've just done to your throat, 'that was the hottest thing I've ever seen. You're crazy if you think I want to stop here. Do you want aftercare?’

'Why would I want aftercare?'

'Because you just forced your dick down my throat for the first time and I can imagine you might feel a little bit bad after that.' He smiles and pulls you against him, strong arms engulfing your body.

'The only aftercare I need is returning the favor,' he whispers in your ear.

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"Returning the favor" he said. Yeah, because one orgasm is synonymous with five. Four from his tongue and the last one with his dick. If you were croaking after that blowjob, you were surely croaking after all that. Sylus is not completely dominant, but if he were he'd be a fucking pleasure dom for damn sure. That man enjoys your orgasms more than you do.

It's deep in the night, you are both spend. Sylus has his head on your shoulder, limbs entangled with yours as you run your hand through his hair and occasionally press kisses on his head and forehead. Soft conversation flows freely, waiting for either of you to fall asleep while both being too wired from the activities.

'Does the "do anything to you" still count,' Sylus asks out of nowhere. You can tell there's something on his mind that he's been wrecking his brain over.

'Depends.'

'On?'

'What you're about to say.' He takes a moment to consider what he's going to say and how he's going to say it. His arms tighten around your body, pulling you closer to him. Whatever he wants to discuss is something he is quite nervous about.

'With all the steps I'm trying to take, I realized I forgot about one thing,' he starts. His mumblings soft, barely audible.

'What's that?'

'I realized I never asked you to move in with me.' The world stops for a second, Sylus’ heart beats out of his chest waiting for you to respond. Only for you to start giggling. He's confused, hurt. Is this rejection?

'So you're going to make me move in with you?' He chuckles, understanding the humor in the situation. It's almost like a slap in the face. He was so sleep drunk that he almost forgot he started this conversation with the "do anything to you" line.

The giggling dies down and you feel his hands caress the naked skin of your body, desperately awaiting your reply. 'Sylus, my apartment is basically a storage unit at this point. I'm already living with you. But, if you don't mind moving again, I'd like a place that's a little bigger if you are sure about this.'

'I would move anywhere for you. I'll adapt to any place if you're there with me.'

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Previous - Next (social media posts)

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Taglist

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sunlightmurdock · 1 year ago

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The Odyssey | 1.7 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

previous chapter | next chapter | masterlist

you bare your heart finally. amongst other things.

warnings: enemies to lovers, power imbalance (professor / student relationship), age gap (22 / 33), swearing, infidelity, nudity, mentions of erections, smut (pinv), oral (f receiving). arguing.

…

Bradley had assumed it was clear that part of the deal was that you would take that thing off before you joined him. He doesn’t look up as you cross the hotel room.

He thinks about Luke, knowing that kid spends most nights in Robin’s room since you moved out, shooting a quick glance to his open suitcase still in the corner of the room. He could come back anytime, really.

It’s dark, beside the bedside lamp and a floor lamp near his makeshift desk. Luke’s things are strewn messily beside one of the double beds— Bradley’s is tidied with a military precision. It’s about the only thing about him that would ever give away that he had served.

Straightening your shoulders, lifting your chin, you walk barefoot towards him with some kind of pseudo-confidence you’re hoping he’ll fall for — and bump right into the file hanging off of his make-shift desk.

The papers slip and start to fall, shuffling the order he had taken time to organize them into.

“What are you doing?” He chastises, wrinkling his face disapprovingly as he moves to save the cascades of papers. You stand, stuck in place, as he snatches his glasses from his face with his other hand and looks you over. “And what are you wearing?”

The satin bristles against your skin with the breeze from his open window, your skin prickling to attention as you hug the pages you had managed to save to your chest. “I’m trying to help.”

His gaze flicks downward with a beat. It lingers for a moment on your bare ring finger. You must have gone back for you clothes. Meaning, you chose not to put it back on.

The last thing he wants is your help. Morning is creeping closer and he isn’t anywhere close to being finished. He begrudges you, pushing his chair back from the table, motioning for you to sit.

The wood of the chair is cold against your half-bare ass. Feeling exposed, and scolded, and humiliated all at once, you settle into your seat.

He regrets his comment for a moment, seeing you tug shamefully at the edge of the lace as if it’ll cover you more. A muscle in his jaw ticks. He opts for silence; he should really finish this.

You know what you should be doing by now, Zoe and Abi helped with that. You swallow the thick lump in your throat as you pull the papers towards you and start scanning for anything that could help with Bradley’s research topic. You figure you’re still probably on the same chapter he was on at the Gabris house.

Work begins in silence, the two of you sitting opposite one another with so many things to say that it’s easier to just not say anything at all.

There’s an invisible barrier between the two of you, yesterday hangs in the air like a fog. The small, dimly lit study feels even smaller, like the walls are closing in on the two of you.

The waiting game is agonizing. You had started off working faster than he’s ever seen you work before, so desperate for him to tell you that you’re doing well. It dwindles and dwindles, until it’s one yawn too much.

As the afternoon heat fades, the chill creeps in through the open windows. Bradley pretends not to notice you shivering as much as he pretends not to notice the way your pert nipples are perked against that pink fabric. Well, he pretends for as long as he can.

“You should get some sleep.” He interrupts finally, making you spring up from where you had been drooping against your own arm.

You blink tiredly at him from across the table, frowning like that’s some kind of baseless accusation rather than an affectionate suggestion.

“I’m not tired, and we aren’t finished.” You answer him. His gaze flickers downward, his brows drawing together a little as you sit up straight, seeming to forget exactly how much of you is on display.

“You’re falling asleep on my annotations.” He corrects you.

Maybe if you stay here and let yourself fall, he’ll carry you to bed. He would, too. Begrudging you even more as he sets you down gently, cradling your head onto the pillow and guiding the sheets up around you.

You bite the inside of your cheek, wondering if he’ll ever even touch you again. A frown tugs at the corner of his mouth as you fiddle absently with the babydoll you’re wearing; he finally understands why you’re so fidgety. You don’t want to be in it.

“So, you bought that for my sake?” He asks incredulously, trying to keep the smile off of his face. He hasn’t ever needed lingerie to appreciate what’s right in front of him. His lips tug at the corners, thinking of how giddy and embarrassed you had been for him to find your Wednesday embroidered panties.

“Yes.”

He presses his tongue into the inside of his cheek, watching you thoughtfully, shamelessly. After all, it’s all for him. Sitting here in this aged hotel room, you’re all his to look at. Even with another man’s ring on your finger.

If you had asked him, Bradley would have told you that he hasn’t ever cared more for lingerie. He has always preferred what comes after.

“Well, are you going to let me see it?”

Your brows knit together. He has already seen it, he’s looking at it — at you �� right now. Bradley sits back in his chair and parts his knees, jerking his head for you to come closer.

Cautiously, you push up from your seat. Instinct tells you to cover your face with your hands and hide from him like a child, your nerves tell you to cover up and pretend this never happened, the humiliation of this whole exchange prompts you to argue back and tell him that this is all his fault.

You swallow back all three and trust that he isn’t going to make you regret it. He watches you cross the short distance around the table and come to stand between his legs.

It’s sheer, and pink. His gaze falls unashamedly to your nipples, bristling against the almost transparent fabric. The satin bow that sits just between them against the curved neckline. Frilly, lacy straps sit against your shoulders. His gaze trails, falling to the matching pink panties.

He has seen items like it before, but he hadn’t stopped to consider for one minute what you might look like in something like this. Staring at him like he’s about to knock you down a peg, it’s a feeling that makes something in his chest twist uncomfortably.

His gaze flickers back up to yours with a beat, his gaze analytical and calm. Your throat constricts around a dry swallow, as your hands come to fiddle with the hem.

Bradley reaches for bare skin, skimming his palm over the back of your thigh. Still studying your face like he’s waiting for you to break.

“What made you pick this one?”

You close your eyes for a moment as his fingers toy with the hem of the garment. “I’ve been told that pink is my colour.”

He hums, considering. “What was the plan? — That I’d fuck you and we would go back to pretending you don’t have a fiancé waiting for you at home?”

Shame courses through you, hot and pulsing. Dizzying, like a wave of nausea. You look toward the ground and just find your feet settled between his, and his feet still tucked into those stupid, sporty Nikes.

Still, you’ve been made to feel small before. It’s not time to shrink back and hide. You close your eyes for a moment, gathering yourself. Then, exhale.

“Let me explain myself,” The words all rush out in one breath as you lean into him, brows pinched together and a serious look in your eyes. “Please.”

Bradley hesitates. He doesn’t want to hear it. He knows that when he’s looking you in the eye, his opinion will be far too easy to sway. Even if you weren’t wearing that sheer number.

He looks to the ground, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “Fine.”

“I panicked,” It’s no explanation, but it’s where you start. “Yesterday, we were in bed together — and… I don’t know, it didn’t feel like we were on the same page.”

Malcolm would speak now. He would defend himself, often skewering through the middle of your next sentence. Even though Bradley would like to defend himself here, he waits.

“When I told you that I wanted us to… you know… it felt like that wasn’t much of a big deal to you, and it probably wasn’t, I get that, you must have done this all the time, and then everyone was talking about how you were screwing Miss Penny and—“

Now he interrupts.

“Miss Penn— April?” Your mouth wrinkles as he coughs out her first name, you hate to imagine how many times he must have called her that. How many times she might have sat across his lap like this. “Would you stop worrying about what I did before I met you? — Yesterday was a big deal to me. I know what it means to you, I know what you mean to me.”

It surprises you that he doesn’t deny sleeping with her, and then it doesn’t. You start to think back and, beside denying his relationship with Natasha when you were accusing him — he hasn’t lied to you. Not that you know of. Something tells you that he just has nothing to lie about.

His head had, admittedly, been a little scattered yesterday morning. He should have noticed that you weren’t okay.

“I’m sorry that you felt like it didn’t,” Bradley whispers, skimming his hands along your middle. “The call from your father kind of threw me off, you didn’t even want me to speak with him.”

“Because he’s a jackass!” You rush back. Bradley blinks at you, trying to stop his lips from tugging at the corners. He just can’t help it. “I was trying to protect you.”

At once, he softens. Amusement coats the honeyed brown in his eyes, he lifts his palm from his leg and tugs you down against his knee. Dragging you in, he presses one soft kiss to the swell of your lips.

“I don’t need protecting, honey,” He murmurs against your mouth. “I’m sorry. You look incredible, and I… I care about you, but I meant what I said — this isn’t a good idea anymore.”

You push forwards the second that the last syllable is out of his mouth, kissing him again, hard. Your chest presses firmly against his, that sheer fabric doing nothing to keep your peaked nipples from grazing up against his shirt.

“It wasn’t a good idea to begin with.” You agree against his mouth, grabbing firmly at the fabric of his shirt. Your lips trail away from his, working down to the curve of his jaw and nipping softly at his skin. The action almost makes him jump.

You, sitting on your knees in a sheer lace babydoll and a thong, biting at his neck. He feels like he’s dreaming.

“Right, we lost our heads for a bit,” Bradley hums, skimming his palm down your back, eyes closed as he lets you kiss across his throat. “But it’s alright, you’re going to be fine. A couple more weeks and you’ll— you’ll be home.”

Your mouth stops. You glance downward, eyes widening slightly. Between you, Bradley’s cock has already stirred to life, struggling against the seam of his shorts, and his free hand is white knuckling the edge of the table. The other sits politely on the small of your back.

You nod at him, wide-eyed, as your palm skims down his graphic tee,

“Exactly, it’s just a couple more weeks,” And suddenly you have flipped the conversation, you’re not agreeing with him anymore. Your soft hand is wrapped around his cock over his shorts and Bradley, for once, is speechless. “It wouldn’t make a difference, given what we’ve already done.”

“Is that right?” Bradley realizes the thought you have put into this little plan — and how it extends far beyond pretty pink lingerie, half-amused and half-shocked. His hand skims from the small of your back to the swell of your ass swiftly. His other comes to grip at your hip as he drags you into his lap.

Your eyes meet as you land haphazardly. The swell of his stiffened cock sits against your ass. You stare back at him, suddenly bashful.

“I just want us to be like we were.” You whisper, bracing yourself for the rejection. Your heart thuds at a sickening pace in your chest, fingers suddenly stiff and uncertain against his shoulders.

Bradley squeezes your hips firmly, “No, not if you’re going to marry him.”

Your eyelids fall into a heavy blink, closing all together as you sit forwards for one more kiss. “I told him no.”

It’s not the entire truth. Bradley’s eyes widen a little, confused as he blinks. His mouth falls open and you watch his mind race to decide which pressing question must be answered first.

“We spoke on the phone and— I told him that I didn’t think I ever wanted to see him again,” That’s a little more of the truth. Bradley’s fingertips press softly against your thighs as you squeeze your eyes shut. It feels ridiculous to say, “I don’t trust him the way that I trust you.”

The light beside the bed flickers as you lean in for one more kiss, his mouth soft and pliant against yours as he skims his hand back to your ass.

“That’s why I want you to be my first.”

He swallows softly. Bradley is used to telling his students no — he’s sure that most of them think that he’s an asshole for how frequently he does. No, I won’t curb your grade. No, I won’t tell you which chapter the exam will be on. No, no, no. But when you’re sitting in his lap and looking at him with that wide-eyed, trusting, pleading look— he’s putty.

“Baby…” He whispers. His head starts to shake weakly, but he knows deep down that he wouldn’t really tell you no. He should.

You kiss the bridge of his nose, and then the high-point of his cheek. “Whatever happens, I’ll always know that my first time was with someone who really cared about me.” Putty, he’s pure putty in your hands. “Right?”

“Of course.” He whispers against your neck, closing his lips around the soft skin. He sucks a delicate path, slow and growingly tender with each spot his mouth settles, until he reaches the fabric covering your breast.

His thumb strokes back the flimsy strap, letting it fall off of your shoulder. “You’re sure this is what you want?”

“I’m sure… if you still want me.”

He scoffs against your chest, letting his forehead rest there for a second. Your fingers are in his hair again, so gentle with him that it almost makes his chest ache. He kisses at the space between your breasts, letting his nose brush against the lace covering them.

How ridiculous of a suggestion, that he would be losing so much sleep over a woman he didn’t want.

“I want you.” He mumbles, pushing the other flimsy strap off of your shoulder. He bunches at the lingerie around your thighs and stops, then watches with fervor as the cups slip off of your breasts and the fabric falls to hang around where your legs are bent. So bad, and you don’t even know.

Bradley’s eyes are on you as his warm hands come up to cup at them. He watches you sink your teeth into your bottom lip, his touch achingly slow as he kneads them both in his hands, swiping his thumbs along the swell of them.

He finds something on your face, some kind of tell that you must have that you have never noticed. He squeezes at your tits, eyes flashing with excitement as his lips tug at the corners.

Those warm brown eyes drop from your face to your chest with a beat. There’s no shame in the way he watches himself touch you. Something that resembles intrigue, maybe, as he trails the pads of his thumbs across your pebbled nipples. He lowers his mouth to them, warm and gentle as he sucks at the tops of your breasts the way that he had with your neck.

Then, his tongue leaves his mouth. He remembers how you had damn near smacked him the first time he had slipped his tongue into your mouth — how far you have come.

Your fingers press into the flexing muscles of his upper back as his tongue works over the sensitive bud, so expertly. One of his large hands falls to grab at the supple flesh of your ass while the other caresses the side of your chest that his mouth isn’t touching.

The bristle of the facial hair you used to begrudge him for makes you fidget and shift, an almost electric kind of ticklish feeling. One fidget too much and Bradley’s palm grips your ass a little tighter, his torso twisting as he turns and pushes his hips up into yours — grinding the tip of his cock against you through his shorts.

Then, he stands swiftly. Your feet barely have time to hit the floor, eyes blinking wildly. He walks you backwards and tangles a hand into your hair, taking you down onto the bed with him.

Like this, he finally has the freedom to tear that scrap of pink down your body, discarding it onto the floor. From the second that his mouth is on your chest again, you’re whining in complaint, reaching for his t-shirt. Bradley pulls back solely to give you what you want, tossing the shirt to the ground.

He’s on you again at once, this time holding your jaw steady as he kisses you. Everything feels like such a blur, even as his kisses grow slow and steady, deeper, like he’s melting into you with each one. You don’t remember when he parted your thighs and settled between them — you don’t notice until he’s pushing his hips against you.

The growing excitement between your legs seeps through the pink thong, soaking a spot into the middle of it.

Bradley nips softly at your shoulder, kneading at your thighs, spreading them wide. His mouth is divine, spreading like wildfire along your exposed skin. Your fingers skim through his curls, brushing them swiftly back off of his forehead.

If Malcolm could see you now — keening into another man’s touch in a way you never had with him.

Bradley is enthralled, tracing the intricacies of your skin with his mouth. He goes down to your navel and back up, winding up by your exposed collarbones, rocking you against the growing tension in the front of his shorts.

Glancing up at you, the deepened look in his eyes has you squirming again. Lust-filled, deep, oak-coloured eyes stare up at you. He lets them fall shut as he works open-mouthed kisses along your sternum.

Your eyelids are heavy, that dazed feeling that comes with his mouth on your skin trying to lull them shut. The intrigue of watching him drink you in tries to pry them open.

Bradley lingers as his mouth reaches the waistband of this silly pink thong. He leans slowly forward and presses a soft kiss to your clothed pussy, right where that soaked spot permeates the pink gusset.

A soft sound slips his mouth, something deep and wanting.

He could take them off here and now, but as much as he hasn’t ever been a lingerie kind of man — he can’t help but admire that soaked shade of pink on you. He hooks them to the side, kissing the apex of your thigh softly.

Bradley starts off slow, pushing his fingers through that growing excitement until his fingers are glistening, kissing at your stomach and your hips with a feverish magnetism.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip as he sinks two fingers into you. He kisses tenderly at your hip, then across those pretty pink panties.

“That’s it, take ‘em just like that, honey.” He whispers, nipping gently at the soft skin of your navel. His fingers pump slowly a few times, easing you into the steady rhythm of being filled.

Your short breaths increase with his speed as his fingers curl inside you, hitting that spot deep in you that has you grabbing at his shoulders. You shudder under his touch, grinding against his fingers.

His hand tucks your thigh over his shoulder in the same swift movement that his head drops down between your legs. Nosing the edge of your panties to the side once more, he drags his fingers to an agonizingly slow pace.

Those honey-oak coloured eyes flicker up as he purses his lips and kisses the lowest part of your pelvic bone, letting his lips gaze your soft skin the rest of the way down. His fingers curl sharply as his lips wrap around your sensitive clit, making you gasp in sharply.

You whimper at the fervor of his mouth, eyes squeezed shut like they always are when he touches you. The sounds of excitement as his fingers curl deeper into you. You wish he was closer, and that you could hold onto him as you grow closer to your climax.

He groans with you, fidgeting almost uncomfortably at the strain in his pants as he shifts against the bed. Even with his growing discomfort, he’s not done, pulling you closer to his face.

Curling your fingers into the sheets just doesn’t cut it with how he makes you feel. Bradley’s tongue patterns across the sensitive nub like he’s French kissing, his fingers keeping steady pace. Despite your best efforts, those panting breaths spill into quiet moans all too quickly.

Maybe there’s a little competition in all this. Bradley doesn’t know what you got up to with that little fiancé of yours, but he knows you’ve never felt like this with him, and you never will. He’ll never have you trembling and choking back sheepish, graphic sounds like this.

“Let me hear you, honey,” He murmurs, lips wet and glistening as his fingers make your body jolt. “Yeah, that’s right, little louder.”

Slow and steady wins the race, sure, if this was a competition. Bradley could be slower, he could drag this out, bring you to and from the edge, but he feels the way you’re trying to grind against his mouth and his fingers. You’re chasing him, and you’re too sweet to beg him.

His lips quirk at the corners as your heel presses into the muscle of his back, writhing against him as the shudder of your orgasm rolls through you like crashing thunder.

He kisses his way away from you, down your thighs and across your stomach, reveling in the sounds of your pleased sighs.

Then, he sits back on his knees and hooks his fingertips into the sides of your underwear. You take in the sight of him.

Broad, golden shoulders. His gold chain dangling between his collarbones. His stomach taut and strong. His cheeks freckled and warm, his lips terracotta.

You’re starting to understand all of those lewd artworks now, someone feeling the need to immortalize their lover looking like this.

“Still with me, pretty girl?” Bradley murmurs, his voice tinged with an affection neither of you had been expecting to develop. Eyelids heavy, you nod your head at him and lift your hips. His smile turns to something cocky, a lopsided grin as he cocks his head at you while he waits for his answer.

That shining look in his eye and that confident smirk on his mouth has him looking devilishly handsome. You press your thighs together, giving him a polite nod.

Underwear discarded, Bradley moves to undress himself. You push up onto your knees and kiss his mouth and his jaw, as he fumbles open the buttons on his shorts and shoves them down his legs.

He tugs down his boxers, your mouth is otherwise occupied. It hangs open just slightly, your lips flushed and swollen, studying his newly naked form. He tosses his underwear and wraps his hand around the base of his cock, pumping it a few times as his free hand captures the nape of your neck and pulls you in for a bruising kiss.

“Tell me that you’re sure.” He mumbles against your lips, brows drawn together as you keen against the tip of his cock, smearing pre-cum across your navel. “And not for my benefit, I want you to mean it.”

“I do mean it,” You answer him giddily, fingers in his hair and your chest pressed flush against his. “I trust you, and that’s why I want you to— us, to do this.”

Bradley ducks forward, his next kiss firm and soft at once, his hand skimming along the naked length of your spine until he’s got a firm grasp of your round ass. He squeezes at the flesh, pulling you into him and planting you on your back.

“Sit tight, honey,” Bradley breathes out, stepping one foot off of the bed to grab his work bag. You aren’t going to like this. He plucks a condom from the inside pocket, sitting back on his knees. You watch, one brow quirked, as he tears the packaging and lines up the latex. He takes one glance at the look on your face and quirks a smile. “Don’t give me that look.”

He’s right, you’d rather not think about why Bradley might have packed protection for this trip. And, as his mouth hits yours and his chest plants your body firmly to the bed, there’s not one chance that you’re thinking of anything but him.

It’s a tangle in the soft-lamp light, his body covering yours like a blanket as the street bustles below. The smell of your perfume fills his senses, drawing him in like magic. His nose brushes your hair, his hands skimming across your naked waist.

Just like he had when he was between your legs, Bradley kisses you lewdly, his tongue doing most of the work in a way that makes you shudder against him. He nips softly at your bottom lip as he pulls away, turning his attention to your jaw and the shell of your ear.

His hand squeezes firmly at your ass, a smile tugging at his lips. He feels the way you’re rocking softly against him, soaking the tip of the latex that’s covering him.

“You just tell me if you want me to stop, alright?” Bradley hums, kissing pliantly across your jaw and down your neck. A half-way incoherent sound of acknowledgement comes from your lips.

He shifts his hips, dragging the tip of his dick through your folds. One last cautious look toward your face, he swallows softly before he presses the tip into you. You grab onto his shoulders tighter, squeezing your fingertips into his muscle.

He hisses softly, his stomach muscles tightening at the way you’re squeezing him.

“How’s that, honey? — Talk to me, I wanna hear it.” Bradley breathes out, his voice all deep and desperate, coming out hot against your neck. His adam’s apple bobs just slightly as he swallows back the dry feeling in his mouth.

Your fingers press into the muscle of his back, brows knitted in concentration. You’re cute when you’re focusing.

“It — yeah, it’s great.” You’re lying to him, you just don’t expect him to know that so quickly. His lips quirk up with abject amusement as he gives his head a soft shake.

“I’m just checking that I’m not hurting you,” He clues you in on what’s making him smile like that, pressing his lips softly to yours. “Am I, baby?”

A little. It’s not necessarily a pain. A slightly uncomfortable stretch, maybe. A foreign feeling. A slight discomfort. Nothing to write home about.

“No, keep going.” You urge him, draping your arms around his shoulders. His palms find your hips, already weighted to the mattress by him on top of you. He glances down between the two of you.

He drags back his hips until just the tip of him remains buried, then pushes slowly forwards once more, feeling your thighs squeeze around his hips. It’s been a long time since he was so cautious in bed.

His focus is torn. There are few things that he lets himself get in his head about, he’s usually a pretty laidback guy. But this, this is important. You’re important. “You’re beautiful. Looking at me like that — you’re gonna have to be careful or I’ll never let you go.” He whispers, barely joking.

His lips press softly to the column of your throat, more of that French-kissing kind of assault across your skin. His lips on your throat have your head falling back into the sheets, eyes rolling as you tip your jaw to give him better access.

Bradley wraps his arms under you, hugging you close, cradling you against his body. As you keen into the feeling of his tender mouth on your collarbones, a soft gasp slips your lips. He begins to thrust in and out, slow and shallow, holding you to him.

“That’s it, honey, just relax,” He murmurs against your skin. Your head falls backward as he hits you deep. You smell the soft sweat on his skin and the intoxicating perfume of his cologne, you’re wrapped in his weight and his warmth— how could you not be relaxed? “I’ve got you.”

He’s got you. And he does. In his arms and beyond that too. Your ring sits, discarded, in your room down the hall.

As his hips push forwards once more, you’re struck by the realisation that it doesn’t hurt anymore. It — It feels good. More than good, he drags through you like velvet as his warm breath fans out across your skin.

He feels when it happens; there’s no way to miss the sudden way your rigid thighs melt their way around his hips and your fingers squeeze into the flexing muscles by his shoulders. You gasp, moaning into the curve of his neck and he grunts like he has been punched.

His hand smooths over your bed-mussed hair, his lips on your temple and your cheek and your mouth.

“Atta girl, there you go,” He murmurs affectionately, the pattern of his thrusts almost musically rhythmic and fluid. He’s so deep that your head is spinning, hitting that one part of you that makes you want to scream. “That’s it, baby. You’re so good.”

The sudden praise has you clinging to him tighter, panting hard against his skin, pressing your heel into the apex of his thigh.

His hands skim along your naked back until he’s got two handfuls of your ass, squeezing at the soft flesh. You’re so full that you’re practically mindless.

There’s an urgency to your movements that makes his lips tug. He grins breathlessly against your hair. Your breaths shallow out, rushed and spilling over with soft moans.

“I’m— I’m— Ugh.” You sigh, giving up on communicating as you cling to his shoulders. He nods his head against yours, knowing anyway.

“Tell me, baby.” One of his arms withdraws from around you, slipping down between your bodies to stroke tentatively at your clit. And then, he turns his face towards your cheek and kisses softly. “Wanna hear how good you feel.”

Your legs stretch and the static comes for you next. You try to muffle the shriek by burying your face against his neck, but you know that he hears it all the same because of the way his hips twitch. He slams into you hard, stroking your hair back off of your forehead and kissing your temple.

He should have guessed that with an attitude like yours, you’d be loud. Whimpering into the curve of his neck as his hands explore your writhing body.

Your comedown hits him hard. His stomach tightening and his muscles going rigid as a fraction of his weight presses into you, just that much heavier. His voice grows deeper, growly and desperate as he curls his fingers into your roots and tugs your head back.

Lips hanging open, breath sucked out of you, your eyes wide and pleading as your legs tremble around him.

The warm light from the bedside lamp casts an amber glow over him, his brows knitted seriously. He pants softly, squeezing at his hold on your roots, drawing you in for another kiss. He punctuates each draw of his tongue with a slow, deep thrust of his hips.

His free hand squeezes at the soft flesh of your thigh, his already rigid body going totally firm as he drops his head down against your shoulder, spilling into the condom.

Eyes still closed, he peppers your salted skin with soft kisses, stroking his thumb along the nape of your neck, his palm along your waist. You inhale softly as he pulls out of you, blinking through hazy eyes as he kisses across your collarbones.

Hugging your breast in his palm, he flicks his thumb across your nipple once more before drawing it into his mouth. You watch him curiously, as he kneads at and kisses your body.

Finally, his chin resting against your navel, he looks up at you with his hands hooked around your hips. His brown eyes glint with affection. “Hey, honey.”

“Hi.” You whisper back, your face growing hot under his sudden gaze. His smirk tips, lopsided as he presses another chaste kiss to your hipbone.

“How do you feel?”

“Fuzzy all over,” You blurt out, before you can consider how embarrassing of an admission that might be. Bradley grins at you as he moves to lay beside you and drags you onto his bare chest. He strokes your hair back from your face. “Does it always feel that good?”

His smile just grows. He chuckles softly as he leans in and kisses your mouth again, slow and romantic. “I dunno. Maybe we’ll have to find out.”

He’s just kidding around, but your eyes go wide with intrigue and excitement.

“Like… do it again?”

Bradley strokes across the ends of your hair, breathing out a chuckle that has you rattling against his chest.

“You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?” He has already sparked the idea of having sex again and just the idea has you feeling restless.

His brows knitting firmly as you push up from his chest and spin around to face him.

His gaze flickers down to the hand that you’ve got planted on the centre of his stomach, then back to your face.

“Could I take a picture of you?”

His brows dip toward each other. His lips tug at the corners. His head tips slightly to the right. Perplexed, really, is the only word for it.

“Now?” Bradley gives you some room as you push yourself onto your elbows, hair mussed and bedsheets tangled around your hips. He takes note of the way the sun catches on the already faded ghosts of rough kiss marks that he left on your chest and considers propositioning you for a photo opportunity yourself.

“Only if you don’t mind,” You tell him, already twisting around and stepping off of the bed, letting the sheets fall in your place. His eyes trail the length of your spine all the way down to the round swell of your ass. He swallows softly, losing all of the humour he had just found in you wanting to do it again, as you bend over and search the little bag you had left by the table. “I just… want to remember how you look right now.”

And then you turn to face him, the Siena summer sun setting behind you. It occurs to Bradley that this is the first time he has seen you so bare. No fidgeting, covering or hiding. Your bare skin bathed in a pure gold shadow.

Powerless, he gives you a certain nod.

One foot in front of the other, you toe your way back into bed and settle down on your knees. Bradley doesn’t even register that he’s reaching for you until his palm has balled over your smooth knee.

“How do you want me?” Bradley asks, lips quirked as he remembers the time he had been talked into posing nude for an art class. A story that would have scandalised you weeks ago.

“Just relax.” That’s rich, he thinks with a soft smile tugging at his lips. You, who had damn near hit him for having the nerve to dip his tongue between your lips, naked and telling him to relax.

Still, he tucks his free arm behind his head and gives your knee a soft squeeze. His bicep swells, the veins in his forearm still pressing against his skin, his auburn curls spilling onto his forehead. His expression settles, calm as ever, terracotta lips quirked at the corners, just hinting at a smile. Affection in his eyes.

You smile back at him, lift the camera to your eye and squint. Peering through the viewfinder, you study its version of him. His big, broad shoulders and matching biceps, the look in his eyes isn’t deafened at all by the lens. The shutter clicks.

You pull back and set it down against your thighs as the picture starts to put itself together and peel out from the top of the camera. He smiles softly, giving your knee a gentle squeeze, winking one of those pretty brown eyes at you.

Flapping the picture back and forth, you lift it to take a look and he watches your mouth twist upward. He’s laying back against the pillows with one arm tucked behind his head, his curls messy and his smile all-knowing. He’s beautiful. His eyes are on you.

…

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