#p: finding the truth | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

em1i2a3 · 1 month ago

Text

The Greatest Light Is The Greatest Shade

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader

Summary: You return back to the compound a week early from an initial two week-long mission, only to find Bob asleep in your bed.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because Bob and everyone else are in this story. Fluff and Smut, that’s it, that’s the tweet lol Oh and also Reader and Bob have an established friends with benefits relationship.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it before you tap it…or don’t I mean…All up to y’all lol), Biting/Marking, Praise/Worship Kinks (because sometimes we all need that), Bob gets a little dominant in this fic, Dirty Talk, Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Scratching, Choking (if you squint, it’s not extreme though, like just holding), Breast Worship.

Author's Note: This is like a combination of two requests because it made a lot of sense to just combine them in a nice little wrap. Both were from anon users so if these were your requests, thank you! (Requests were: Bob getting a confidence boost in bed, and Bob liking the act of marking the reader/biting the reader)

Word Count: 9,119

You and Yelena weren’t supposed to be back at the compound for another week.

But missions had a way of unraveling differently when the two of you were left to your own devices–strategic, relentless, and just a little bit impatient. You didn’t linger. You didn’t overcomplicate. You didn’t sleep much, either, which probably explained the record time.

You’d cleared the final objective in less than forty-eight hours, ghosted the cleanup crew, and caught the first unmarked flight back to the States before anyone could slap a new assignment on your desk.

Efficiency had its perks, and so did chronic sleep issues.

Because the truth was–if you’d stayed another night in that motel with its scratchy sheets and the whine of traffic bleeding through the windows, you might’ve clawed your skin off. You hadn’t slept more than two hours in a row the entire time you were gone. The bed was too stiff and the air was too stale. You’d tried your usual tricks–white noise, stretching, sleeping pills stolen from the med kit–but nothing worked.

Your body just didn’t settle when you weren’t home.

And it wasn’t even just about your own bed–though you missed the way the pillow fluffed perfectly around your head, the subtle citrus-and-cotton scent of your detergent lingering in the sheets, the familiar groove in the mattress where your weight naturally settled.

It was about his bed, too.

Bob’s.

Because the only real, uninterrupted sleep you’d gotten in the last few months had been tangled up in him–skin warm, limbs heavy, his breath soft against your neck as he pulled you closer and laced your fingers with his beneath the covers. You remembered the way he kissed the dip beneath your ear just before he fell asleep, how he always muttered something quiet against your bare shoulder, like he didn’t want you to know he needed this as much as you did.

But you did know. Because you needed it too.

That was the problem with the whole friends-with-benefits arrangement–it had rules, boundaries, expectations. But somewhere along the way, you stopped following the fine print. Somewhere along the way, you started looking forward to him more than the orgasm. You started memorizing the shape of his hands, the way he curled into you when he thought you were asleep, the sound he made when you ran your fingers through his hair just right. The pillow talk that both of you would have post sex, tangled up within one another–joking about another round before giving in.

You missed him.

Not just the sex, not just the heat of his mouth or the way he whispered your name when he came–you missed all of him. His nervous smiles. His soft voice. His quiet steadiness. You missed the way he looked at you like he couldn’t believe you wanted him back. The way he understood that the only reason you weren’t in a relationship with him was because you hated the pressure that it came with, and how you just wanted to be–because labels just complicated things.

And you hadn’t told anyone–at least not willingly. But Yelena knew. She always knew. The girl could sniff out repressed feelings like a bloodhound, and her raised eyebrow and pointed remarks whenever Bob entered a room had gotten more pointed with time. And Bucky…Bucky didn’t say anything, but he watched. You could feel it in the weight of his gaze when you sat next to Bob at the kitchen counter, or when you reappeared from ‘relaxing in your bedroom’ wearing a hoodie that definitely wasn’t yours.

Still. None of them had said a word. Not directly at least, and the both of you were immensely grateful for that.

The elevator doors hissed open at 2:04 a.m., depositing you and yelena into the compound’s dim, and mostly-silent common room.

The air inside was nice and cool against your burning hot skin, it was crisp with the faint scent of fresh laundry. Everything felt still, as if the whole building itself had decided to turn in for the night completely.

Except for Bucky Barnes, apparently.

He was sunk deep into the corner of the oversized grey sectional, one arm slung over the back, the other nursing a steaming mug of coffee–you could tell because of the lingering odor of the roasted beans that stuck to the air. He didn’t even flinch at the sound of your boots–just glanced up, eyes cutting over the rim of his mug as the glow of the television flickered across his face. The screen was playing something low-budget, or at least it looked like it–judging by the terrible stick on mustaches and the VHS tracking lines.

”You’re back early,” Bucky said, sipping from his mug.

“No, you’re just up late,” Yelena shot back, dropping her bag on the ground before veering toward the kitchen without missing a beat. Your suit–a cross between tactical armor and a flight suit– creaked with each step you took, the joints still tight from hours of wear. You felt grimy and stiff, a little windburned, and very much like a human shaped knot of fatigue.

”What’d they do, drop you into a war zone or the sun?” Bucky muttered, looking you over. You gave him a half-smile.

”Maybe a little bit of both, it was terrible over there.” You replied, turning your attention to the television.

Yelena yanked the fridge open, her movements sharp with leftover adrenaline. She pulled something out, and tossed one blindly at you without even checking if you were paying attention.

You caught it without turning, fingers wrapping around the chilled plastic in mid-air.

”Still got it,” Bucky said with a low chuckle, grabbing the bowl of popcorn beside him as Yelena walked around you and dropped herself onto the open space he had made for her.

”I never lost it Barnes.” You replied, cracking open the cherry flavoured electrolyte drink, hearing it fizzle. Yelena chugged half of it in one go, before reaching for the remote that was on the armrest.

”What is this?” She asked, pressing a few buttons absentmindedly, flipping through the menu with obvious disdain, “This is what you stay up late watching? Are you eighty-five?”

”No, I’m a hundred and ten thank you.” Bucky shot back, yanking the remote from her hands, “It’s also a classic.” He mumbled.

”It had bad editing and worse acting,” She retorted, lunging across him to snatch the remote again.

You smirked, shaking your head as they dissolved into bickering over how insufferable Yelena is when she hasn’t gotten enough sleep. The whole room felt hazy, soft-edged in that post-mission, too-tired-to-function way, but it also was safe and familiar, and you were grateful to be home.

You adjusted your bag over your shoulder, taking a sip from your bottle, before turning toward the hall.

”Where you headed?” Bucky called after you, half-distracted by Yelena’s attempt to reach his outstretched hand that had the remote in it.

”Shower, and sleep. Maybe pretend to be dead for a few hours.”

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Yelena chirped, before throwing herself over Bucky who let out a yelp, as you left him to his own demise.

Your mind was already elsewhere. You were thinking about Bob.

Mulling over the fact that this was the longest you’d been apart–almost a full week without seeing him, touching him, or hearing him. Without the little comforts you weren’t supposed to be attached to. His voice low in the dark, his fingers tracing letters into your stomach and asking what he was spelling. The stupid way he whispered your name before nuzzling himself into your neck and peppering kisses along your skin.

You had planned on surprising him in the morning. Maybe knock once on his door, and slip inside without saying anything. Maybe you’d crawl into his bed beside him and wake him up with your mouth on his neck just to see if he’d pull you in close and wrap those long muscular arms around you like he always did.

Because a week was just too long, and you’d missed him more than you were ready to admit.

You padded softly down the hall, the compound’s hush closing in behind you like a slow exhale. Even the low chatter of Yelena and Bucky was swallowed by the distance, replaced by the click of your boots and the faint buzz of the overhead fluorescents.

Your hand grazed the cool metal of your doorknob.

You were still smiling to yourself, still replaying the plan in your head—how you’d toss your gear on the floor, shower off the grime of the last two days, slip into something barely-there, and sneak into Bob’s room just after sunrise. You’d press your lips to the warm edge of his jaw and whisper something teasing just to feel the way he twitched beneath you, sleepy and flustered and already halfway gone before he could even open his eyes.

You turned the knob and pushed the door open, and froze dead in your tracks.

The first thing that hit you was the heat. Your room always ran a few degrees warmer than the rest of the compound–partly because of the old HVAC in this wing, and partly because you liked it that way. It was cozy.

The second thing that got you was the sight of Bob.

He was asleep on his stomach, sprawled across the middle of your bed like he had slowly melted into it. His broad shoulders stretched across the mattress one arm tucked under your pillow, the other draped loosely across it like he had purposely fallen asleep like this–with his face smushed into the corner of it. The sheets had twisted around his hips–barely clinging to the edge of the dark grey boxer briefs he was wearing, the elastic just visible beneath the soft crease of his lower back. His hair was a mess of light brown, mussed-up locks, pointing out every which way like he had run his fingers through them a few times.

The soft glow of your bedside lamp–the kind that automatically flicked on to its lowest setting when you entered–cast him in warm amber. His skin looked almost sun-kissed in it, flushed faintly at the back of his neck and the slope of his spine. He was breathing slow and deep, so still and peaceful it almost felt wrong to look at him too long.

Your hand was still curled around the doorknob, but your heart had already stepped into the room.

Bob was here. Asleep in your bed, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And something about that–about the ease of it–unraveled you more than anything else had all week.

You slowly eased the door shut behind you, careful not to let the latch click too loudly, and took one silent step inside. The scent hit you next. Not just the familiar blend of your detergent and body wash–but something softer, earthier.

Sage.

You turned your head slightly, and there it was–your little ceramic humidifier, the one shaped like a curled-up fox, softly misting by the dresser. The blue glow around its base was steady and calm, casting soft shadows across the wall behind it. You hadn’t used it in weeks. But now it was on. Filled. Set to the exact setting you always used when you had a headache or couldn’t sleep.

Your brows knit gently together.

Your gaze drifted lower–to the corner of the room where you normally threw your clean laundry in a pile you meant to fold but never did. But the pile looked…Different. Smaller. Neater. Not folded, exactly, but gathered. Arranged in the exact order you usually pulled from. Undergarments on top. Tanks and sleep shorts just beneath. Even your favorite oversized tee–the threadbare Stark Expo 2019 one–was sitting on top, freshly laundered and smelling faintly of lavender-softener.

”Well…I’ll be damned.” You whispered to yourself, because you didn’t remember doing all of that before you left. You slowly shrugged your bag from your shoulder and set it down near the desk, careful not to make a sound. Your eyes lingered on the little details around the room–how the cord for your phone charger had been looped up neatly instead of left in a nest on the floor, how your glass of water had been refilled with ice and placed beside your nightstand book, how even the trash can had been emptied.

He hadn’t just been waiting for you.

He’d been looking after you.

You toed off your boots and unzipped your suit with aching, quiet fingers, each movement deliberate. You peeled it off your body, layer by layer, until you were left in just a sports bra and a thin pair of cotton briefs. You crossed the room slowly, the floor cool under your bare feet, and slipped into the en suite with a practiced ease, fingers grazing the wall as you flicked on the light.

You immediately noticed the warmth–thick and faintly humid, clinging to the corners of the tile like the room had been wrapped in a blanket not long ago. It smelled like steam and soap and something else. Something sweeter.

You stepped towards the shower and breathed it in more fully.

Raspberry and basil.

Your shampoo. It was a weird scent combo, one you’d picked half on a whim and half because it somehow stuck in your head every time you used it–bright and green, but soft, with just enough fruit to make someone lean in and ask what it was. You hadn’t brought any with you on the mission.

But now… it was definitely lower than you remembered leaving it.

Your fingers brushed the bottle on the corner shelf. Same with the conditioner. Same with the body wash. All just slightly more empty than they should’ve been. The labels slick with residual condensation, freshly handled.

Your gaze flicked to the sink.

There were tiny flecks of stubble around the drain–barely noticeable unless you were looking for them. Not quite enough to be careless. Just enough to suggest he’d shaved in a rush and hadn’t cleaned up every last piece. Bob always got a little flustered around mirrors. Too many thoughts. Too many selves. You didn’t blame him for not scrubbing them all away.

You leaned on the counter, steadying yourself, and your eyes landed on something else.

His toothbrush, tucked neatly beside yours, with the bristles still wet. You stood there in the bathroom for a long moment, staring at the two toothbrushes resting side by side like they’d always been meant to share that ceramic cup.

Bob hadn’t just been sleeping in your room.

He’d been living in it.

Showering here. Shaving here. Moving around your space with the kind of familiarity you only afforded yourself. Like he hadn’t just been borrowing your room–he’d been waiting in it. Curling himself into the folds you left behind. Slipping quietly into the corners of your routine without disturbing the rhythm, like he’d always known how to match your pace.

And maybe that was what made your chest ache the most.

The realization that he must’ve missed you just as much as you missed him.

Maybe more.

You reached for the shower handle before the weight of it could settle too deep in your bones. The pipes didn’t groan like they normally did, the water just rushed out hot and steady from the spout, steam blooming instantly against the mirror. You peeled off your sports bra and underwear, letting the warmth wrap around your tired limbs as you stepped under the stream.

You tilted your head back, letting the water run down your scalp and over your face, washing away the grime of the last forty-eight hours in one long exhale. Your fingers found the raspberry and basil shampoo, and you worked it into your hair, the scent unfurling in the steam like something sacred. You scrubbed until your scalp tingled, until your shoulders started to loosen under the weight of water and familiarity.

Then came the conditioner, and the bodywash. Each ritual was a little slower than usual, like you were moving through molasses. Your body still felt heavy, but your mind was beginning to quiet. The mission was over. You were home. And Bob was here.

You turned off the water and stepped onto the warm tile, steam curling off your skin in soft ribbons. The mirror was almost completely fogged now, but you wiped a space clear with your palm, squinting slightly at your reflection.

Right at your hip you could see the faint marks of where Bob had bit before you had left, he had said it was something for you to look at when you wanted to think of him. He had this weird thing nowadays where he liked seeing and making little marks on you so you thought about him more than you already did.

A few fresh cuts traced the edge of your shoulder and collarbone–scrapes from the last scuffle, nothing major. A deeper bruise bloomed under your ribs, the kind you’d probably feel more tomorrow. You touched it lightly, then imagined what Bob’s face would look like when he saw it.

He wouldn’t say much. He’d just look. Quiet, brows drawn. Probably reach for you and press his hand there with too much care, like he thought touching it too firmly might break something else.

You grabbed a towel and wrapped it around your body, using a smaller one to pat your hair dry until it stopped dripping. Then you fluffed it with your fingers–messy and soft, but clean–and stepped out into the bedroom.

He was still sleeping, curled around your pillow, the sheet tugged a little lower now, just enough to reveal the defined line of his waist and the way his spine curved like a comma. You let your eyes linger for a breath longer, then padded quietly to the corner of the room where he’d left your clothes.

The sleep shorts were exactly where he knew you liked them. The old blue t-shirt–the one that had started out as his and somehow ended up permanently yours–was still warm from the dryer.

You slipped the cotton over your head and let it fall just past your hips, then tugged the shorts on. The waistband sat soft against your skin, familiar and easy.

You stood there for a second, just breathing, before folding up your towels and stacking them neatly on the edge of your desk.

Without another sound, you padded across the room and eased onto the bed beside him, careful not to jostle the mattress too much. The familiar dip of it welcomed your weight, and you tucked yourself close to his side, your knees brushing the outside of his thigh.

For a long moment, you just watched him.

His lashes cast faint shadows against his cheeks, and there was a tiny crease between his brows like even in sleep he was thinking too hard. The slope of his nose was soft from this angle, and the corner of his mouth was slack, open just enough to let out the faintest exhale.

You leaned forward slowly, and bit his shoulder, gently.

Right on that spot you knew was sensitive–where the muscle met bone, where he always twitched a little whenever your lips lingered there too long.

“Mmph–Ow?” He groaned, more confused than hurt, shifting with a sluggish twist beneath your mouth.

You grinned and pressed a soft kiss to the spot. “Hey, Robert.”

Bob flinched at the sound of his full name, then jolted upright halfway before fully processing–head lifting, eyes wide and blinking blearily through the low amber light. His arm buckled slightly beneath him as he tried to catch himself, sheet slipping further down his waist.

“Wh–What the hell–Y-You’re—you’re back?” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence.

You laughed, hushed and breathy, and cupped his shoulder to steady him. “Careful, you’re about to fall off the bed.”

He blinked again, jaw slack, still halfway tangled in the blankets and now completely upright. “You–you weren’t supposed to b-be back ‘til Friday.”

“I wasn’t,” You murmured, leaning in closer, brushing your nose along the line of his neck. “But I couldn’t sleep.”

His breath hitched as your lips ghosted over his pulse point.

“Jesus,” He whispered, his hand finally rising–tentatively–to cup your waist like he needed to ground himself in the fact that you were real and he wasn’t hallucinating that you were here. You kissed his shoulder again, then nudged your nose against his ear

“Missed me?” Bob let out a short, almost disbelieving laugh–still breathless, still flustered.

“I–I’ve been sleeping in your room like some sad l-lost dog for four nights.” You smiled against his skin.

“I noticed.”

“I wasn’t trying to–like–move in or anything, I just–your pillow still smelled like you and I–” He cut himself off with a quiet groan and buried his face in your neck. “God, this is embarrassing.” You smoothed your hand along his spine, fingertips dragging lightly through the dip of his lower back.

“It’s not embarrassing. It’s sweet.” He went still at that, and then returned his eyes to you, his blue irises shimmering in the dim lighting.

”Yeah?” You smirked, nodding.

”Very sweet.” Bob’s cheeks flushed with that familiar, helpless shade of pink, as he ducked his head slightly, eyes dropping, but you reached for him before he could retreat into himself again. Your fingers curled gently under his smooth chin, coaxing his gaze back to yours, and then, with the softest pressure, you turned his face fully toward you.

His eyes searched yours for the briefest second–barely a breath–before you leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t rushed or careless or clumsy. It was deliberate. Slow at first. Lips brushing lips, once–then again. The kind of kiss that says I remember how to do this. I missed this. I missed you. You angled your mouth against his, deepening it with a quiet sigh that tasted like relief and heat and the week you’d spent without him.

And Bob–God, Bob melted.

Like every bone in his body gave up the fight.

He kissed you back with this kind of overwhelmed gentleness, like he didn’t know how he’d gone a week without this and now he never wanted to let go. His hands found your hips–tentative at first, then a little more sure. He took the pillow and threw it off the side of the bed, before tugging you closer across the bed until you were flush against him, your thigh slotted between his legs.

His lips parted, and yours followed.

Tongues brushing, slow and wet and warm, the kiss deepening with each pass. You felt his breath stutter against your cheek when you nipped at his lower lip, felt the quiet rumble of a groan that built low in his chest and echoed into your mouth.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging gently–just enough for him to gasp into you.

And then he pulled back, barely. His forehead resting against yours, his mouth still parted, pupils blown wide.

“D-Don’t you wanna get some sleep?” He asked, voice rough and frayed at the edges. “You’ve gotta be–exhausted.” You gave a slow smile, your lips still ghosting his.

”I’ll sleep once I’ve got your hands all over me again.” Bob barely registered the words before instinct overtook him.

Your breath had just finished ghosting over his lips when his hands suddenly clutched your hips tighter, and he moved–rolling fully over you with a low, needy groan, pressing you flat against the mattress in one fluid, desperate motion. The way his body stretched over yours, warm and solid and half-draped in nothing but those threadbare grey boxer briefs, made your breath catch with something between a gasp and a laugh.

He was already panting softly, like he hadn’t realized how much he needed this until the second it was offered. His mouth crushed against yours, wetter now, hungrier–kisses landing messily on your lips, your cheek, your jaw, like he couldn’t decide where to start. His hands roamed beneath your shirt without hesitation, dragging up from your hips to your waist, thumbs skating along your ribs like he knew exactly where you wanted to be touched–because he did.

“Y-You’re too dressed,” He mumbled against your mouth, voice ragged and impatient. “How’re y-you still dressed?”

You giggled, tilting your chin back as his lips moved down your neck. “You’re not exactly making it easy to take anything off.”

“’Cause I missed you,” He whined, shameless now, fingers curling around the hem of your shirt and tugging it up in soft, slow inches. “God, I-I missed you and y-you smell like–” You ran your hands down his back, nails grazing his spine.

“Like my shampoo that you’ve been using?” You teased breathlessly, interrupting him. Bob froze for half a heartbeat, then nuzzled deeper into your neck with a groan that was far too pleased.

“Told you I missed you,” He whispered. “You were everywhere in this room but not in it and I just–crap, I needed something.”

His hands slid fully under the shirt now, palms spreading wide over your stomach, smoothing over old scars, faint bruises, soft skin. And then, as gentle as ever, he pulled the shirt up and over your head with one smooth motion and tossed it aside onto the floor.

Lit only by the bedside lamp, his eyes roamed your bare skin like he hadn’t seen it in years. His hands followed his gaze, mapping every familiar slope like he was making sure nothing had changed while you were gone. He cupped your chest with a low, smooth sigh, brushing his thumbs gently over your nipples until you arched into him.

“Still like that?” He murmured, teasing and a little breathless.

“Always,” You whispered. Bob leaned in slow–eyes still dark and wide, lips slightly wet and parted–and pressed a kiss right between the swell of your breasts, leaving a little saliva mark. Then he put another just a little lower, and another.

Your breath hitched as his mouth found the delicate skin at the top curve of your breast, and he sucked gently–just enough for you to feel the sting start to bloom beneath his tongue. His hands cradled you, thumbs brushing under your ribs as he worked his way over the flesh, kissing, mouthing, biting just lightly until you were arching beneath him.

Then he took your nipple into his mouth.

A low, broken moan spilled from him the second his tongue flicked over it–like he couldn’t believe how good it felt to be this close again. He sucked slowly, then a little harder, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, to make your back bow and your fingers tangle in his hair. His hips rutted forward–slow and clumsy at first, then more deliberate. You felt the hot, heavy pressure of his cock through his briefs as it ground against your core, the friction heady and frustrating in the best way.

“God…” He gasped against your skin, mouthing down the side of your breast now. “I-It’s like y-you’ve been gone for y-years.”

His breath was ragged now, teeth sinking into the underside of your breast to leave another mark–deeper this time, and you could feel it purpling as he pulled off. You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders.

He finally pulled back, lips swollen, pupils blown, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. His gaze roamed down your body again–hungry, frantic, and impossibly tender all at once–until it landed on your hip. His thumb skated over the spot.

”I-It’s gone,” He murmured, almost to himself. Your brows furrowed faintly, pushing his hair out of his face.

”What is?”

“The mark I left.” He glanced up at you, a little shy, a little sheepish. “The one I bit into you before you left. I thought maybe it’d still be there…”

You let out a soft laugh, cupping his hot and flushed cheek. “Well, yeah, it healed. It’s not like you can’t give me another one.”

That made his breath hitch.

His eyes darkened just slightly as they dropped back down to your body. “Yeah?” He murmured.

You nodded slowly. “I liked looking at it when I missed you.”

That shy smirk tugged at his lips, the kind that said he was blushing way harder on the inside than he was letting show. Then, without another word, he slid down your body, pressing a few scattered kisses along your stomach until he reached the dip of your hip. He nudged your sleep shorts just enough to expose the skin he wanted, the cotton bunched under his thumbs as he settled between your thighs, his breath fanning warm over your bare skin.

“I’ll make you another one,” He whispered, lips hovering. “Same spot. So you remember.”

The words were almost respectful–but the way he said “remember” made your stomach clench. Like he wanted to brand the memory into you.

Then his mouth sealed over your hip with purpose.

You felt the wet press of his tongue first, lapping softly at the curve of your hip. Then his lips closed over the spot, sucking gently at first–just enough to make your breath catch–before his teeth scraped down with delicate precision. A faint sting bloomed beneath his mouth as he bit just a little harder, pulling the skin between his lips and sucking until heat flared beneath the surface. His hands held you steady by your hips, thumbs pressing into the sensitive dips beside the bones as his mouth worked the mark deeper.

It wasn’t just about the pain–it was the way his tongue soothed the sting after, the way he breathed against you like he was trying to worship this piece of you. Your fingers slid into his hair, jaw slack, body arching into his hold as a slow whimper slipped from your throat. Just like him you enjoyed the process, it was something Bob found out he took pride in doing, it was something only the two of you knew about and that was just scripture at this point.

Then, finally, he pulled back.

Your breath stuttered. His eyes were glassy with heat, lips slick and swollen, pupils wide.

“L-Look,” He whispered hoarsely, leaning aside just enough for you to lift your head and follow the trace of his finger. The mark was already starting to darken–a perfect bloom of bruised skin, flushed deep and raw at the center, fading at the edges like a watercolor stain. Right over your hipbone, exactly where the last one had been.

Your mouth curved into a smug, breathless smile.

And Bob looked absolutely wrecked by it.

You could feel him throbbing against your thigh–hard, heavy, leaking precum in his boxer briefs–and you swore his pupils dilated even more when he saw you smile. His hands trembled just slightly on your hips, the press of his fingers tightening like he wanted to sink into you then and there.

Then, his voice–raspy, shy, so damn sweet it made your chest ache:

“C-Can I take these off?” His fingers tugged lightly at the waistband of your sleep shorts. “W-Wanna…Wanna u-use my mouth. I mean–on you. Go down on you. I–God, I just wanna taste you, I missed you so bad I–” You nodded before he could combust, your hand cupping his cheek again as your thumb brushed across his flushed skin.

“Yes,” You murmured. “Please, Bob.” He exhaled like he’d been punched in the gut. His hands slid lower, slow and reverent, thumbs catching beneath the waistband as he eased your shorts down your legs.

The cotton left your skin with the softest whisper of friction, and then he hooked them around your ankles, slow and careful like he was undressing something sacred.

He didn’t throw them right away. He held them for a second—bunched in his hand—before finally letting them slip from his fingers and fall somewhere behind him with a soft thud. His gaze flicked up.

You’d opened your legs for him.

And that alone nearly broke him.

His breath hitched audibly, chest rising sharp as his hands found your thighs and pushed them open further—just enough for him to settle between them. His pupils were blown wide, lashes fluttering as he took you in, lips slightly parted like he wanted to say something and couldn’t quite remember how to form the words.

But then he did speak.

Barely louder than a whisper.

“F-Fuck… you’re already wet…”

His eyes were locked on the slick sheen between your thighs, his voice shaking with awe and arousal. “I-I didn’t even touch you yet.”

You smiled, breathless, threading your fingers into his hair. “You don’t have to, Bob. I’ve been thinking about this since I left.”

A groan caught in the back of his throat. He dipped his head low, kissing your inner thigh with reverence, lips soft and warm as he moved closer. Another kiss, higher now. Then another. A gentle scrape of teeth. He sucked lightly at the skin just above your knee, then further up–just below the edge of your heat–where he bit down softly and hummed against you.

“G-Gonna mark you here,” He murmured, voice raspy. “Only I’ll know it’s there.”

You felt the nip, the suction, and the soothing stroke of his tongue right after. A shiver ran through your whole body.

He moved higher, lips brushing the crease where your thigh met your pelvis, then gently slid your legs up–guiding them over his shoulders with hands that couldn’t stop shaking. He adjusted slightly, nestling his chest between your thighs, the warmth of him blanketing everything.

And then he looked up at you, utterly flushed, breath unsteady, eyes glassy with lust.

”I-I’m gonna take my t-time…I w-wanna s-savor you.” You nodded, unable to speak, and then he lowered his mouth.

The first lick was slow. Flat and deliberate, his tongue dragging up your folds with aching precision. His groan vibrated into you, low and desperate, like your taste knocked the air from his lungs.

He did it again, slower this time–parting you with careful fingers, exposing your clit, and flicking his tongue over it with gentle laps that made your hips twitch. His hands slid up under your thighs, holding you down, anchoring you as his mouth worked with focused hunger.

He kissed your folds like he loved them–soft and wet, teasing swirls of his tongue punctuated by firmer, sloppier sucks to your clit that had you gasping and writhing. He moaned into you every time your hips jerked against his mouth, like your pleasure was feeding him.

And then–his fingers joined the fray.

He eased one inside you slowly, watching your face the whole time, the stretch just right as you clenched around him.

”Mmm…P-Perfect…” He whispered, barely audible over your breathless moan. He added a second, curling them expertly. You felt the exact spot he was searching for as he pressed deeper, stroking in tandem with the suck of his mouth on your clit. The pace built gradually, maddeningly patient. He knew your body too well. Knew the rhythm that made your thighs start to tremble, knew when to ease off just a little to keep you right on the edge.

He licked you like he was starving, but careful. Worshipful. Like every stroke of his tongue was another way of telling you he missed you, needed you, belonged to you.

One of your hands gripped the pillow behind your head, and the other continued to tangle in his hair, fingers twisting in his soft curls as you gasped out his name.

“B-Bob–”

He groaned again, rutting slightly into the mattress, his own arousal completely unchecked.

“T-That’s it,” He rasped between licks, voice wrecked. “S-Say it again. Lemme h-hear it while I’ve got you falling apart on my mouth.”

And you did.

Because he earned it.

And you were already so close, the coil in your stomach burning with every wet, deliberate flick of his tongue, every curl of his fingers pressing into that perfect spot again and again–

Until everything snapped.

Your back arched. Your thighs shook around his head. His name spilled from your lips again and again like a prayer as your climax crashed over you–hot, electric, and overwhelming.

But Bob didn’t stop.

He moaned into you deeply, slowing only enough to ride out every pulse, every shudder, licking you through it with open-mouthed reverence until you were trembling under him, breathless and overstimulated.

Bob stayed nestled between your legs for a long moment, his cheek resting against your thigh like he couldn’t bear to be apart from you just yet. His chest heaved softly, trying to catch up with the rhythm your body had demanded from him.

And then—still dazed, still breathless—he lifted his head.

His fingers slipped from you slowly, soaked and trembling. He held them up for a second, watching the wet glisten in the low light like he still couldn’t believe how much of you he had, how deeply you let him in.

Then–slowly, modestly–he brought those fingers to his mouth and licked them clean.

One at a time.

He sucked the taste of you from his knuckles with a low, helpless groan, like he was starving, like your pleasure was some kind of sustenance he hadn’t been able to live without all week. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes fanning his cheeks as his lips sealed over the pads of his fingers and pulled back with a soft, slick pop.

Then he looked up at you again–totally flushed, lips wet, curls wild and clinging to his forehead. And he smiled. Just a little. Like he couldn’t help it.

“God, you taste so good,” He rasped, voice nearly broken from the effort of holding back. “Y-You always do. I c-could stay down here forever…”

Your heart gave an answering throb–not just at the words, but the way he said them. Like he meant it. Like it wasn’t just about lust or pleasure or instinct. It was something needful, something devotional.

He pressed one more kiss to your thigh. Then another. His mouth moved slowly, lips soft against your overstimulated skin, kissing up toward the inside of your knee. He nuzzled into the crease where your thigh met your hip, resting there again like he was grounding himself.

“You’re…You’re s-so beautiful,” He whispered, almost shy. “I-I missed every inch of you. E-Every sound, every taste, every time you grab my hair like that–I missed all of it.”

Your fingers stayed tangled in his curls as his eyes met yours–blue and wide and still a little dazed, pupils rimmed with something darker, deeper. You stroked his scalp gently, thumb brushing just behind his ear.

“You’re perfect, you know that?” You said softly. Bob blinked like he didn’t understand the language.

“You’re so fucking good to me, Bob. That mouth of yours should be illegal.” You tugged his hair lightly for emphasis. “You take your time. You listen. You always make me feel like I’m the only thing you’ve ever needed.”

He whimpered at the comment, his cheeks going a deeper shade of red..

Then, quietly, with that fragile edge still in his voice: “C-Can I…Can I be inside you now?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yes. God, yes. I want you.” He didn’t say anything after your “yes”—he didn’t have to. The air shifted the second the words left your lips. Almost in a trance, he pushed himself up on trembling arms, body sliding from between your legs just enough for his hands to tug down the waistband of his boxer briefs. He hooked his thumbs beneath the elastic, dragged them over the swell of his hips, and pushed them past his thighs. They caught for a moment on the curve of his ass, then fell to the floor with a soft thud. You could feel your mouth water at the sight of how hard he was–thick and flushed and leaking at the tip, his cock curved toward his belly with a kind of desperate heaviness.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t ask if you were sure again. Didn’t stutter.

He just moved.

Climbed up over you with deliberate grace, his skin flushed and hot, his mouth parted as he kissed a slow trail up your body. Over your thighs, your stomach, your ribs. Each kiss was lingering, lips wet and reverent, like he was soaking you in. He kissed the underside of your breast, then the curve of your collarbone. Then your jaw. Then–

Your mouth.

It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t rushed. It was hot. Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss you don’t come back from.

His lips opened against yours, his tongue brushing yours, breath catching like he couldn’t get close enough. One of his hands cradled your cheek, thumb stroking just beneath your eye, and the other curled beneath your knee, hitching your leg up around his waist until your hips aligned.

Your hand slid down his back, dragging your nails softly along the ridge of his spine. “You’re so beautiful like this,” you whispered between kisses. “So hard for me already. God, I missed feeling you like this.”

He moaned–full-throated, broken–and rutted into you once, the tip of his cock slipping along your slick folds, just barely brushing your clit.

“I’ve got you,” You whispered, cupping his face. “You’ve always been mine.”

That did something to him. You saw it in his eyes–the shift.

The way the stutter disappeared. The way his jaw set. The way his gaze sharpened like lightning behind glass, the little shimmer of gold behind the ring of blue.

It wasn’t just Bob now, it was also the Sentry.

When he looked at you now, it wasn’t uncertainty. It was awe. Command. Like he could tear through the world but would rather be on his knees between your legs, or buried inside you, trembling with the effort of holding himself back just enough not to worship you into pieces.

“Please,” You breathed. “Need you inside me.”

His voice was lower now. Clear. Quiet. Controlled.

“Spread your legs a little more.”

You did, instantly. The commanding tone–still soft, still reverent, but sure–went straight to your core.

He guided himself forward with one hand, the other still cradling your thigh. And then–slow, deliberate–he pressed in.

The stretch was perfect. Your mouth dropped open in a gasp, and his eyes fluttered shut, forehead dipping down to press against yours. He groaned, low and long and helpless as your walls clenched around him, welcoming him home.

“Mmm… So tight… So wet… I forgot how good this felt,” He whispered, his voice wrecked but steady. “You feel like you were made for me.”

”I am…” You responded, your hands threading through his hair, “No one fucks me like you do. No one fills me like you do, Bob. You’re so deep already and you’re not even close to bottoming out…You’re just so fucking perfect.” Bob’s eyes fluttered closed at your words, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he pushed a deeper inside you, until he was fully seated–hips flush against yours, breath shuddering like he was trying not to lose it.

His voice came out strained, barely above a whisper.

“You know that’s gonna get to his head, right?”

Your breath caught, and a slow, knowing smile curled on your lips. You didn’t pretend to misunderstand. You just tilted your head slightly, brushed your nose against his, and played it innocent.

“Hmm?” You asked softly, letting your hips roll up ever so slightly against him, just enough for both of you to feel the perfect stretch again. “What will?”

Bob groaned–deep, desperate–and dropped his forehead against your shoulder for a second like he was trying to physically hide from the pull inside him.

“The way you talk,” He rasped. “The way you say I’m perfect. T-That I fill you just right. You know what that does to him…”

You kissed the curve of his jaw, slowly. “Do I?”

He pulled back to look at you, his eyes now shimmering with something gold at the edges, flickering like lightning underwater. That flicker. That edge. The Sentry wasn’t in control–not yet–but he was listening. And Bob knew it. Felt it.

“I-I don’t think you realize how close he is sometimes,” He murmured, one of his hands sliding up your side, over your ribs, until it cupped your throat. He didn’t squeeze. Just held you there–warm and firm, like a tether. “It’s like…Like you say the right thing and it just flips a switch.”

You blinked up at him, breath catching as his thumb brushed under your jaw.

“Maybe I like flipping it,” You whispered. “Maybe I want both of you.”

That broke something.

Bob’s pupils blew even wider, mouth dropping open slightly as he stared at you like you were the most dangerous thing he’d ever seen.

And then he moved.

In one swift motion, he slid your legs over his shoulders, folding you tighter beneath him. The new angle had his cock hitting deeper–hot and full and unbearable in the best way. You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders for purchase as he drove forward with a slow, powerful thrust that made your back arch off the mattress.

He groaned, long and low, hips beginning to snap into you with more force now, still controlled–but rougher. Needier. His grip on your neck stayed steady, anchoring you, his other hand gripping the edge of the mattress like he needed it to keep from breaking apart entirely.

The kiss that followed was messy–hungry and open-mouthed, more teeth than lips. His tongue was everywhere, licking into your mouth with urgency, nipping your lower lip between groans that sounded more like growls now. His hair was falling into his face, damp with sweat, and your nails dug into his shoulders, raking down his back when he hit just the right spot again.

“Oh my–fuck, Bob–” You cried out, legs trembling where they were braced on his shoulders. He was fucking you deeper now, each thrust dragging moans from your throat that echoed in the warm, hazy dimness of the room.

“You wanted this,” He gritted out against your lips. “Y-You wanted him. This is what happens—fuck—w-when you tease him.”

You moaned at the words, high and desperate, your nails leaving crescents in his skin.

“God, yes, that’s what I wanted–want both of you–don’t hold back—”

That lit something behind his eyes.

His hand squeezed your throat gently and he kissed you again, rougher this time, teeth catching your lip before dragging it between his.

“Then you’re gonna take everything,” He growled against your mouth, “Everything…You hear me?” You nodded, gasping, legs clenching around his shoulders.

“Yes–yes, Bob–please—”

And he gave it to you.

All of it.

The Sentry’s strength and language. Bob’s tenderness. That perfect, devastating mix that only you seemed able to call forward.

His thrusts slowed for just a second—just enough for him to look down at you again, to see the way your mouth hung open, the way your eyes fluttered, the way your throat bobbed as you swallowed a breath. His hand was still resting there, warm and firm around your neck, and now he adjusted—his fingers splaying wider across your pulse point, thumb brushing up to trace your jaw, not to control you, but to feel you. To feel the way you beat under his touch. To know you were alive beneath him, trembling and taking everything he gave.

“Feel that,” he whispered, voice hoarse, lips inches from yours. “Your pulse…fuck… it’s so fast.” His thumb pressed just slightly beneath your ear, right where your heartbeat thrummed the loudest. “You do that to me too. Every time.”

Then he kissed you.

Not sweet. Not soft.

Dirty. Starved.

His tongue slid over yours, wet and insistent, lips parted wide as he devoured the sounds you made. He kissed you like he was drowning and your mouth was the only place he could breathe. It wasn’t clean—there was nothing neat about it. It was spit-slick, breathless, interrupted by moans and the shiver of his hips driving into yours. His body pressed you deep into the mattress, your legs still curled up over his shoulders as he leaned forward to pin you there—completely under him, beneath him, owned by him.

His hand never left your neck. It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t tight. But it was grounding. Possessive. Like he needed that connection as much as he needed to be inside you.

“Y-You feel so fuckin’ good,” He panted into your mouth, hips jerking deeper, the head of his cock nudging places inside you that made your vision blur. “Clenching so tight around me—so fucking warm—I c-can’t…”

His voice cracked.

And then his hand slid down your body.

Still shaking, still careful. He found your clit with two fingers, thumb slipping low, and began to rub tight, perfect circles–just like he knew you needed.

“Come for me,” He whispered. “Please. Please come for me—I-I need to feel it.”

You whimpered, your body jerking beneath his, the stimulation dizzying—too much and just right at the same time. The stretch of him. The wet heat of his mouth still ghosting your lips. The slow, brutal way his fingers worked your clit with focused desperation.

And then it hit you.

The orgasm ripped through you like a lightning strike–sudden and overwhelming. You cried out, voice cracked and strangled, legs tightening around his shoulders as you pulsed around him. Your entire body arched, back bowed off the mattress, hips lifting to meet every thrust with frantic desperation as pleasure shattered through your core.

“Oh…Oh my–” Bob choked, the way your walls spasmed around him making his rhythm falter. “God–you’re s-so perfect–I can’t–”

He buried himself to the hilt one final time and came with a deep, broken groan, his whole body shuddering.

His forehead collapsed to your shoulder, hand still clutching your throat, not tight–just present. Just there. His hips jerked twice, thrice–instinct driving him as he moaned into your neck, hot and helpless. His cock throbbed inside you, spilling deep with every ragged, breathless cry he let out, each one softer than the last.

He didn’t move for a long moment–just stayed there, trembling, his full weight settling over you. His lips pressed into your throat. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

Still inside you.

Still hard.

Still shaking.

And then–you felt it.

Another slow thrust.

Not desperate. Not sharp.

Just a gentle roll of his hips, pressing his cum deeper inside you, pushing it further with quiet reverence.

“J-Just wanna…Make sure you keep it in you for a bit,” He whispered hoarsely, breath hitching as your body clenched again around the overstimulated head of his cock. “You feel so good when you come…” You moaned softly, your fingers stroking through his hair as he pulled back just slightly–just enough to look at you. His eyes were glassy. Blue and clear, with no gold in sight. Just Bob. Just yours. You grinned, breath still coming in short, shallow waves as he looked down at you–his hair tousled, skin flushed, lips kiss-bitten and wet. You reached up, cupped his jaw gently, and traced your thumb across the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t suppose that means you’re trying to knock me up, huh?” Bob’s eyes widened instantly, that unmistakable Bob expression washing over his features—equal parts scandalized, panicked, and completely enamored.

“Wh–I–I didn’t–I mean–was that–oh my God.” You burst into a soft laugh, biting your lip as he stammered, his face flushing deeper with every attempt at forming a coherent sentence.

“I’m kidding, Bob, you know I’m on birth control,” You whispered, giggling, dragging your fingers slowly through the sweat-damp curls at the nape of his neck. “Jesus, you’re cute when you malfunction.”

He gave a low, breathless groan and shook his head like he was trying to will his brain back into function, but then he leaned down and kissed you again–this time slow, warm, melting into the shape of you with that unmistakable Bob tenderness.

It was his kind of kiss.

Not the Sentry’s. Not some thunderous, desperate thing.

But soft. Full. Devoted.

Like you were something he’d missed every second of the week you’d been gone and needed to relearn with his mouth–your taste, your sighs, the way your bottom lip always trembled just slightly when he kissed you slow enough.

You sighed into it, and his hand slid from your throat to cradle your cheek again, thumb brushing just beneath your eye as his forehead touched yours.

“I–I could’ve said something better than ‘don’t you wanna sleep,’” He mumbled, sheepish, his lips still ghosting yours. “That was the dumbest thing I’ve ever said.”

You chuckled again and nudged his nose with yours. “You say a lot of dumb things when you’re half asleep and hard.”

Bob gave a mortified little noise in his throat and hid his face in your neck, but not before you caught the faint smile tugging at his lips.

You felt his hand drift down your arm, then settle on your waist as he drew small, grounding circles against your skin. His voice was quieter now, steadier–like the heat had cooled just enough for the weight of it all to settle in.

“Do you need anything?” He asked gently. “Water? A warm towel? Another orgasm?” He said it half-teasing, half-hopeful, with a lopsided grin you could feel against your skin.

You smiled, eyes fluttering closed, your fingers lazily dancing across his spine.

“Just this….This is perfect” You whispered.

And Bob–sweet, sincere, utterly yours–wrapped his arms tighter around you and whispered back, “Okay.”

5K notes · View notes

jawnwicks · 1 year ago

Note

Some of the most important parts for me:

“Friendships are built of repeated low-stakes interactions and returned bids for attention with slowly increasing intimacy over time.”

"Deeper friendships are formed with people from those kinds of groups when you do things with them outside of the context of the original interaction."

"Smalltalk is a social script of exchanging trivial conversation about non-personal topics in order to pass a brief period of time together.

This sort of conversation is about figuring out whether you want to get to know each other better, so it's kind of a behavioral test. It's assessing "can I have a pleasant, brief conversation with this person?" because people usually want to know if the answer to that question is "yes" before they share more details of their lives."

"If the person speaking responds to your sharing of personal information with a request for more information (asks about your sister) or by sharing some of their somewhat more personal information (roses are blooming) they might be interested in continuing to gradually share more information. If they respond with more smalltalk, they probably aren't interested in becoming closer friends ... [but] maybe at some point they'll share something with you and it'll be your turn to decide if you want to get to know them better."

"Once you've seen someone several times, you will begin to know little things about them. ... If you want to become friends with them, ask them about these things and offer information in return. Start casually and don't pry for more information, and be sure to share about yourself as well. Eventually you will get to the point that you can have a comfortable conversation on topics of shared interest for at least a few minutes."

"If they agree to meeting up for the thing, they are interested in continuing to develop the friendship. If they don't want to meet up then continue at the same level of interaction as before and perhaps later on down they line they'll ask you if you want to plan a meetup."

"Once you have hung out on purpose a few more times you've got two choices: set a regular meetup, or hang out elsewhere. Setting up a regular meetup is the relatively casual option here; it keeps things in the same location and keeps the context of the friendship the same while still increasing interactions and intensifying the relationship. You can have perfectly good, if somewhat casual friends, who you see regularly in one place and rarely outside of that place."

"Hanging out in a new place changes the context of the relationship; suggest a hangout in a place that makes sense for the mutual interests you've learned over the previous months of getting to know the person."

"If you’re talking about the weather as in the first example, but you mention where you grew up and what the weather was like, that can be inspiration for the other person to also talk about where they’re from! But, unlike with a question, if they don’t want to share that information they can usually dodge it without having to make it extremely obvious that that’s what they’re doing."

Wait, so you said that you can learn to trust others by building friendships, but how does one go about doing that? Wouldn't someone I don't know be creeped out or annoyed if I suddenly walked up and started talking to them?

Friendships are built of repeated low-stakes interactions and returned bids for attention with slowly increasing intimacy over time.

It takes a long time to make friends as an adult. People will probably think you're weird if you just walk up and start talking to them as though you are already their friend (people think it's weird when I do this, I try not to do this) but people won't think it's weird if you're someone they've seen a few times who says "hey" and then gradually has more conversations (consisting of more words) with them.

I cheat at forming adult friendships by joining groups where people meet regularly. If you're part of a radio club that meets once a week and you just join up to talk about radios, eventually those will be your radio friends.

If there's a hiking meetup near you and you go regularly, you will eventually have hiking friends.

Deeper friendships are formed with people from those kinds of groups when you do things with them outside of the context of the original interaction; if you go camping with your radio friend, that person is probably more friend than acquaintance. If you go to the movies with a hiking friend who likes the same horror movies as you do, that is deepening the friendship.

In, like 2011 Large Bastard decided he wanted more friends to do stuff with so he started a local radio meetup. These people started as strangers who shared an interest. Now they are people who give each other rides after surgery and help each other move and have started businesses together and have gone on many radio-based camping trips and have worked on each other's cars.

Finding a meetup or starting a meetup is genuinely the cheat-code for making friends.

This is also how making friendships at schools works - you're around a group of people very regularly and eventually you get to know them better and you start figuring out who you get along with and you start spending more time with those people.

If you want to do this in the most fast and dramatic way possible, join a band.

In 2020 I wrote something of a primer on how to turn low-stakes interactions with neighbors and acquaintances into more meaningful relationships; check the notes of this post over the next couple days, I'll dig up the link and share it in a reblog.

#this is legit the best advice i've ever seen for making friends #i can just SEE my problems in (particularly irl) friendship making now #combo of avoiding going beyond polite small talk my end out of Fear and Shame and not doing outside-of-context meetups bc Covid and Fear 2 #i'm Very good at asking questions and inviting people to talk about themselves in a way that people clearly enjoy #but then it comes to them asking / me sharing and I shy away #which leads to me making a lot of “friends” who are quite self-centred and don't care to ask questions about me or stop dominating a convo #and other ND people who struggle with this stuff and actually enjoy/haven't been shamed out of infodumping #probably bc i (at least initially) feel more comfortable in those situations #but the ones who are naturally better at respecting my boundaries / are better at receptive conversation probably notice the shying away &#which is a P r o b l e m when either they're the self-centred kind or they're kind and just ND and i don't know how to change the balance -#- of the interactions once i'm more comfortable #<_>#i also struggle with not lying in the light conversation bc i know my truthful answers are not light and bubbly and easy #i don't mean 'how are you' 'not ok' i mean like 'what do you do for work' 'i work for my mother in her business' 'what's that like' 'awful'#😂#& i get all fight/flight when asked these questions that i immediately get flustered/scared and trip over my answers and EXTRA lie #how 2 balance between truth and scare off people - lie and make false friends #also the difference between direct cues and indirect cues is AMAZING to read about thank u so much #this whole post puts words and language to things I've felt and known without a language for them this whole time #guess i'm learning suddenly why people tend to find me very likeable but then I don't make actual friends lmao. and also why self-centred -#- people go NUCLEAR when I get fed up with being their perfect audience/moodboard & start putting boundaries in place. bc i've been sO gOod #this also rly helps explain to me why some ND people seem to go dead silent when I do an indirect cue rather than share Their thing about i #also the idea that this post is full of ableism is the most batshit thing known to man #THIS IS LITERALLY A GUIDE FOR DISABLED PEOPLE #resources

17K notes · View notes

joelsgoldrush · 10 months ago

Text

“never is a promise” | 12.4k

old man!logan x f!reader

SUMMARY: You are everything Logan isn’t: sweet, trouble-free, much younger—and, to top it off, Charles' caregiver.

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ mentions of drinking. angst. some fluff. old man!logan x caregiver!reader. implied age gap (reader’s in her twenties). miscommunication. slow burn. pining. reader is shorter than logan and has long hair. charles in his cupid era. petnames. minor injuries. wound tending. mentions of blood. virgin!reader. dirty talk. cum shots. fingering. handjobs. oral sex (m receiving). loving sex. sex with a lot of feelings (is that a tag?). unprotected p in v.

A/N: i just want to fall in love with him. that’s it. that’s the reason why i wrote this long ass fic 😭 while doing so, i had “never is a promise” by fiona apple and “cool about it” by boygenius on repeat. give them a try if you haven’t listened to them (your lives will be CHANGED) (also, thank you for reading <3)

No matter how often you play chess with Charles, you never manage to beat him.

“You’ve been staring at that knight for five minutes. It’s not going anywhere, I promise.”

Chuckling at his sarcasm, you fold your hands in your lap, lifting your eyebrows in mock surrender. “Okay, I get it. You’re the master of chess,” leaning back in the chair, you cross one leg over the other. “Can we play something else?”

“I’m quite entertained, thank you,” Charles says, sliding the board closer to you across the table. “Your turn.”

“How is it that you don’t get tired of this game?” you mutter under your breath, eyes fixed on the board as you weigh your options, hovering your hand indecisively over the chess pieces.

“Please do something before I’m forced to make a dash for the toilet.” He hangs his head, pinching the bridge of his nose—a telltale sign of one of his irritable days.

His words spur you into action, encouraging you to finally slide the knight into position. You glance up, meeting his gaze with a hint of challenge. “You go now.”

Charles doesn’t hesitate, and he moves a bishop. “Check.”

Fuck. You hadn’t seen that coming. “I’d prefer to walk away with my pride,” you joke, pushing your chair back and pretending to lose interest in the board.

That makes him smirk, a barely there grin dangling on the corners of his wrinkled lips. The truth is, you wouldn’t stop playing for anything in the world—not even if this old man kicks your ass every single time he suggests playing chess. “You’re not out of the game yet.”

Quietness settles over the tank while you allow yourself some time to come up with a new strategy. After a moment, you decide to go for a pawn, using it to block his bishop.

He doesn’t stop grinning, studying your move with an amused glint in his blue eyes. “Not bad, but you’ve left your king exposed.”

You gape at the board, your fragile confidence faltering for a split second. "I still have some pieces in play."

Charles nods, his brows drawing together in thoughtful consideration. "True. But sometimes, it’s not about how many pieces you have left—” He reaches out, carefully sliding his queen across the board. "It’s about where you place them.” He relaxes, hunching over, his eyes searching for yours. A smile that’s all teeth welcomes you. “Checkmate."

“Damn.” You blow out your cheeks, your gaze tracing the path of his queen. Somehow, he’s trapped your king with no easy way out.

He leans back with a satisfied grin. “That’s three games in a row. My suggestion is that you start rethinking your strategy.”

“Or maybe you’re just a better player,” you admit, a mix of frustration and admiration palpable in your tone. “No more chess for today, though.” You stand up from your seat, gathering the board and chess pieces. As usual, they find their place under Charles’ bed, and you turn back to him, beaming with delight. “I think you owe me one after all this.”

“You’re a terrible loser, my dear,” he says, his eyes twinkling as they take you in. “Reminds me of someone I know.”

At that exact moment, you hear the familiar creak of the tank’s door opening, followed by a cough you immediately recognize.

Without thinking, you straighten your back as Logan steps into the room. Charles notices it, but says nothing in return.

It was an infatuation—or at least, that’s what you try to convince yourself of. Logan is a very good-looking man, probably the most handsome you’ve ever laid eyes on.

The fact that you live with him doesn’t help at all. You think that if you only saw him occasionally, this—this anxiety that grips you whenever he’s around or when you hear his voice—wouldn’t happen in the first place.

Whether it’s good or bad luck, you’ve been sleeping under the same roof as him for over a year, and the crush you’ve had since the first time you exchanged words with him only seems to grow stronger with each passing day.

What you figure out over time is that men like Logan aren’t the dating type. He’s never brought anyone home, and for that, you’re secretly grateful. The last thing you need is to see him with another woman—thank you very much. Still, the thought gnaws at you: he could easily be meeting someone elsewhere.

In fact, it’s more than likely that he’s hooking up with other people. It doesn’t have to be at—

Alright. You don’t need this either.

Logan’s heavy footsteps resonate even louder, his presence more imposing, and he seems especially pissed off. Then again, he always has that demeanor—angry, grumpy, locked in a constant battle with life.

But today… today, you haven’t seen him this troubled in weeks.

“Look who’s joined us,” Charles mumbles, steering his motorized chair to meet him halfway. The chair bumps against Logan’s legs with a thud that sounds almost cartoonish, and Charles scrunches up his nose, his nostrils flaring in disgust. “You smell like shit.”

“Yeah, I missed you too, Pop,” Logan grunts, shoving his hand into the pocket of his suit, searching for something. That’s when you notice the bloodstains on his shirt, smeared across his chest, and the missing buttons at the top. Your breath catches in your throat, and you bite your tongue to keep from asking any foolish questions. “They gave me new ones,” he mutters, looking you in the eye as he tosses the pill bottle at you.

You leap forward to catch it mid-air, your heart skipping a beat. Logan holds your gaze for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before giving a slight nod and turning on his heel to storm out of the tank.

When your attention goes back to Charles, you see how his eyes remain locked on the pills you’re holding, his head lowering in defeat. “He’s waiting for me to die.”

“Don’t say that.” You squat to be at his eye level, momentarily hiding the meds from his view. Still, you struggle to make him shift his gaze. “He’s taking care of you, which is something completely different.” You place your hand on top of his knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze. You’ve had this same conversation innumerable times, yet each time feels like the first. He offers you a melancholic but knowing look as you softly say: “You have to take them, Charles. I’m sorry.”

He raises a hand, his trembling fingers curling around your wrist, examining you, trying to find an answer in the lines. “Don’t be. At least you’re here.”

“I’m sure Logan’s tired; that’s why he doesn’t stay any longer. Haven’t you seen him?” You rise to your feet, moving behind him to guide his chair. The tank sort of has a chill in the air, metallic walls that seem to press in around you both. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to play chess with him. Rest assured I’ll always let you win,” you murmur next to his ear, succeeding in eliciting a chuckle from him.

After that, you help him with his daily routine. Charles isn’t heavy, and you manage to get him onto the bed, his frail body yielding to your gentle support.

You slip the rest of his body beneath the blankets, tucking him in carefully before handing him two pills and a glass of water. “All the way down, okay? And I wanna see that tongue after you swallow them.”

If looks could kill, you’d be six feet under, covered in dust and dirt. Charles sticks his tongue out, putting the glass down on his nightstand. “Happy?”

“You’ve got no idea how much,” you say, adjusting the covers. The silence of the tank surrounds you both, and you can sense his gaze lingering on you. You flick your eyes up, furrowing your brows as you sit in the small space beside him on the mattress. “What is it?”

“You fancy him, don’t you?”

Freezing on the spot, your eyes narrow. “I—I don’t—” you trail off, pushing the words out with some effort. “Are you trying to read my mind?”

His whole chest rumbles with laughter under your touch. He finds your hand once again, intertwining your fingers with his. “Don’t be so naïve. I don’t need my abilities to see the way you get all flustered when he passes by. Why do you think they say older people are wiser?” he inquires, his lips forming a straight line. “We’ve lived too much not to notice the most common things, my dear—and let me tell you that you do a horrible job at pretending.”

“Of course I like him. Logan’s a good man, he keeps us safe.” You glance down at your hands—his, weak and delicate, in evident contrast to your own. “I’m not in love with him, Cupid.”

“Oh, you should’ve seen him years ago,” Charles says, his eyes glazing over as he drifts back into the past. His body remains here, within the confines of the room, but his mind is elsewhere, somewhere far away. You give his hand a gentle tug, trying to bring him back. “When we took him in, he was pursuing a career as a cage fighter. I had never seen anyone like him in all my years of educating mutants. He was so… different from the rest. Reserved, didn’t talk much at first. But I gave him a family, I—” His voice falters, overcome by his own emotions.

That’s when you realize he’s no longer with you, his gaze unfocused, looking around the tank as if seeing it for the first time. It pains you to see him like this, completely disoriented and disconnected from reality.

“Why are we here? What has happened to the rest? Has he told you anything?”

These are the questions he asks every day without fail—questions that you can’t, nor want, to answer. Since you’re not exactly sure the explanation would soothe his troubled mind, you feel forced to play dumb.

“I don’t know, Charles. We don’t really talk that much, Logan and I.” You stand from the bed, not without pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead before. You smile at him, hoping he doesn’t realize the gesture lacks authenticity. “Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll let you know if I hear anything worth sharing.”

Once you close the door behind you, you settle back into it, releasing a shaky breath. Being Charles’ caregiver was a challenging task, especially in moments like these, which required immense internal strength not to crumble in front of him.

You squeeze your eyes shut as you adjust to the harsh sunlight, fighting to regain your composure. When you finally scan the area, the only thing that meets your eye is the deserted smelting plant you now call home.

You open the sliding door, the noise breaking the stillness and forcing Logan to look up from his plate. He’s eating like a starved man, casually drinking from a small bottle of whisky on the table, already half of it gone. After those long drives through the nights and the early hours, he always returns hungry.

You pour yourself a cup of coffee, setting it on the stove to heat. Neither of you says anything for a few minutes: he eats, and you sip your hot coffee in silence, not wishing to disturb the breakable peace that hangs by a thread.

Thinking this is how the noon will continue, you begin to walk toward your room until he clears his throat, stopping you in your tracks. That simple gesture makes you whirl around, anticipating something.

“This is delicious,” he acknowledges, pointing to his plate with his fork, the rice with veggies and meat you cooked last night nearly gone. Dipping his chin, he adds in a low voice: “Thank you.”

You’re taken aback by his unexpected willingness to engage in conversation. Moments like these are as rare as seeing Halley’s Comet, so you proceed with caution, as if you’re approaching a skittish animal—one wrong move, and the opportunity is lost.

Setting your mug down on the table, you sit on the chair opposite him. Deep down, the hammering of your heart echoes in your ears, and you hope his sharp senses don’t pick up on it.

“I’m glad you liked it. Charles ate two bowls of it,” you explain, unable to suppress a smile. Logan hums, tilting his head to the side as he keeps devouring his meal. You take another sip of your coffee, blowing on it in a futile attempt to cool it down. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Huh?”

“Charles. He—he asks to see you a lot,” you begin, carefully choosing your words. “I know it’s none of my business, but I think it would make him feel better if you spent more time with him.”

The sound of a distant train rumbles through the walls, amplifying the silence between you. Logan doesn’t utter a word; instead, he puts down his fork, the clinking noise making you jump slightly, the intensity of his stare becoming overwhelming.

“You’re right about one thing—what I do or don’t do is none of your goddamn business.”

Just like that, the buildup dissolves in a matter of seconds. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, nodding absentmindedly. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, feeling a wave of shame wash over you. How stupid were you to think he might want to talk to you? “I just—I want to be of help.”

“Just take care of Charles. That’s all you gotta worry about, all I’ve ever asked you to do,” he barks, clenching his jaw, and you can tell he means each word.

When he talks to you in this tone, it makes you think more rationally—it reminds you that you don’t really know him, and yet you agreed to work for him in exchange for a roof over your head and food on your plate. He’s not your friend, and he’s excellent at making that crystal clear every time you cross the line.

Logan pushes you away like you’re nothing, like you’re just another of the many burdens he has to deal with.

It should be enough to send you running to your room, but despite the knot tightening in your belly, you somehow remain rooted in place, your eyes sharp like daggers.

As another train echoes in the silence, you come to terms with the knowledge that one more question will drive him away.

And sometimes, you speak before you think, as you do now: “Whose blood is that on your shirt?” you ask, voice steady and cold. Perhaps it’s you who wants him to leave this time.

He shakes his head with offense, frustration crinkling his eyes. “I don’t need this shit,” he groans, his gruff voice loud enough for you to hear it. He gets up from the table, placing his plate in the sink without much delicacy. At last, he heads to his room, slamming the door with a deafening thud that reverberates through the entire place.

It’s not a crush, that voice deep inside you insists as you’re left alone in the kitchen. And it’s valid: a mere crush wouldn't cause this kind of pain, wouldn’t make your chest feel this heavy and your limbs numb.

Whenever he leaves, he takes a part of you with him, never to be returned. By now, you’re certain he’s stolen all those missing pieces from you, and you’ve got no idea how much longer you can endure before you shatter completely.

You seem to have won this battle, but what you end up losing is far greater than any fleeting gratification.

Loving Logan is maddening, to say the least.

To this day, you still recall every detail of the night that altered the course of your life—the night you met Logan.

The memories are rather vivid in your mind, and you revisit that moment on nights like these, when you can’t sleep and the past appears to be much more appealing than your present.

Pressing your cheek against the cold pillow, you let your eyelids drop, reconstructing the full scene behind your sealed eyes.

It was your third week working at that restaurant, and you were still getting used to its daily rhythm. Waitressing was working wonders for you—you had a good memory, and people often gave you generous tips.

Everything was going well: you were the only waitress on shift, and your boss had left for a brief errand, promising he would be back soon.

During this lull, a group of men entered the restaurant, already drunk or high—probably both. They sat at one of the empty tables, immediately calling for you.

One of them, a tall blonde, was the loudest. “Come here, baby.” He pointed his finger at you, gesturing for you to approach him. The nickname felt wrong rolling off his tongue, and as you obliged, he shoved a handful of bills into the front pocket of your apron. He clutched your waist, dragging you nearer. “I’m getting married tomorrow. Think you can do something special for me?”

His friends cheered him on, laughing and pounding their fists on the table. You managed to slip from his grasp and asked them what they wanted to order.

While they took their time deciding, you noticed a limousine parked in the distance, probably the vehicle that had brought these morons here. The driver rolled down his window, hanging his arm from the armrest.

Though you couldn’t see his features, the interaction alone was enough to make you look away.

An hour went by, and the men refused to take off. They’d eaten, drunk, and danced—and driven you crazy in the process. The rest of the customers had decided to leave once they realized the night was far from finishing for the noisy group of friends. You apologized, feeling incapable of doing anything to change the situation.

Your sanity felt threatened as you turned off the TV, ending the sixth round of karaoke, their shouts and hoots ringing in your ears.

“We’re closing in ten minutes,” you informed them, starting to collect their dirty plates and glasses. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted the blonde man standing right beside you, his piercing blue eyes burning holes through your skin. He attempted to graze your shoulder, but you quickly stepped back, keeping a safe distance between you. “How do you plan to pay? Cash or credit?”

“How about with a kiss, huh?” He inched forward, his face dangerously close to yours. Unaccustomed to being approached in this manner, you ducked your head, unsure of your next move. His breath reeked of beer and vodka, a horrendous combination that had you nearly gagging on the spot.

As he backed you against the counter, one of his large hands cradled your face, urging you to make eye contact with him. “I swear I can be very, very nice. You haven’t given me the chance to show it yet.”

“Hey, pal. You said one hour.”

The first time you heard his voice—low and husky, the kind that could send shivers down your spine.

Your eyes locked with Logan’s, your pleading gaze seemingly stirring something in him as he got a grip on the situation. His brows bumped together in a scowl, and you didn’t miss how he limped as he made his way into the restaurant.

There was something about him—how he moved, his stance—that felt strangely familiar.

“We’re busy in here, chauffeur,” the blue-eyed man protested, slightly losing his balance while still holding your cheek.

Your rescuer squared off against him, their noses practically brushing. He worked his jaw, his half-lidded, tired eyes taking in the sight of you. “I’m no fortune-teller, but I don’t think she’s into you, bub.”

“Come again?” the blonde guy released you, much more concerned with defending his bruised pride. “What’s the matter, Grandpa? Is it past your bedtime?”

“I want you to pay me for the ride, and for waiting a fucking hour and a half for you and your friends,” the older man spat, jerking his thumb toward the limousine. “I’m not taking you back to the hotel. You might want to start looking’ for another driver.”

The group of men closed in around him, their anger bubbling. “That’s not cool, dude. We had a deal,” another voice snapped, but Logan couldn’t seem to care less.

“Well, the deal’s off. And leave the girl alone, will you?” he retorted, his tone dripping with disdain. “So, where’s my money?”

He couldn’t have predicted it. One of the men behind him swung a plate, striking him in the nape and catching him off guard. Logan collapsed to the floor, clutching his head in pain. The others took the opportunity and began to pummel him, kicks and punches landing wherever they could.

You screamed at the top of your lungs, desperately trying to intervene. You grabbed at their clothes, digging your fingernails into every patch of exposed skin you could find, but they shoved you aside with brutal force. Your back slammed against the nearest wall, a jolt of sudden pain making you wince.

The blood in your veins turned to ice as you watched, paralyzed with fear that they might kill him. But then—

Three metallic claws emerged from his knuckles, and he used them to push himself upright. Despite the blood smeared across his nose and mouth, he managed to stand, his quickened breathing coming out in short puffs.

The men backed away in shock, leaving him alone amidst the chaos.

You stared at him, your hands trembling as recognition dawned: it was The Wolverine.

The familiarity, the sense of having seen him before, all made sense now. It all flooded back in a rush—the comics, the news, the rumors.

“Get the hell outta my sight,” he growled, pressing his claws against the fabric of the blue-eyed man’s jacket, making him flinch.

You couldn’t make out what you were feeling. It wasn’t fear, but intrigue. Even as the group of men fled the restaurant, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. At first, he avoided your gaze, focusing on his shoes as he retracted his claws.

Once the immediate danger had passed, he slumped forward, groaning. You gently draped one of his arms around your shoulders and helped him into a nearby chair. His weight felt like a thousand bricks, but you accomplished to get him seated.

He rubbed a shaky hand over his graying beard, his face twisting in pain as you pressed a makeshift towel of napkins against his lower lip, where blood continued to flow.

Taking the towel from you, he continued tending to himself. You scanned his features, scrutinizing him.

“You are…” you began, the words feeling inadequate at the moment.

Logan nodded hesitantly, his silence confirming your suspicion. “Yeah, that’s me,” he tugged at his shirt collar, exposing some of his chest hair, fresh blood staining his work clothes. Your gaze fell there, and you quickly chided yourself.

The poor guy was bleeding, and you were checking him out. Jeez.

Kneeling by his side, you introduced yourself. “Thank you for stepping up for me,” you said afterward, and he shook his head dismissively. “They were a pain in the ass. I don’t know how you even managed to drive them here.”

“Money’s money, darlin’. Doesn’t matter where it comes from, as long as—” he was interrupted by a coughing fit, and your concern deepened as you continued to spot more of his injuries. “I’ll heal,” he reassured you, his expression softening in an attempt to calm your anxiety.

Your eyes pierced his with an intensity that seemed to unsettle him. Warmth crept into your cheeks as a question surfaced in your mind: “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“You don’t owe me anything, kid,” he replied, a hint of gruffness in his voice.

“But I could help you,” you persisted, your voice betraying a touch of eagerness. Stifling a cough, you tried to mask your enthusiasm, and sighed. “Are you hungry? I could cook you something, or pour you a drink. We’ve got plenty of liquor—”

Logan interrupted you, placing the towel down on the table. “Have you ever taken care of an old person?”

Tilting your head, you considered his question. “How old?”

“Ninety-somethin’.”

You nodded, memories of the events from years ago surfacing. “I lived with my grandparents for most of my life. When they fell ill, I spent a lot of time with them. My mom had to work long hours, and I—well, the point is, I did take care of them,” you paused for an instant, his expression unreadable, though you perceived a slight relaxation in his posture, as if your answer had put him at ease. “I like being around old people. They have stories to tell,” you added, a genuine smile breaking through, “and I’m a good listener.”

“Then I suppose there is somethin’ you can help me with.”

And so began a new chapter in your life.

The very next day, you were moving in with him and Charles. It took several weeks for the latter to warm up to you and get used to your presence.

Initially, he was hopeful that you might also be a mutant, but his disappointment was palpable when he discovered you lacked any supernatural gifts. Leaving that aside, he valued your company.

“The shots mellow the seizures. The pills keep them from happening,” Logan had once explained, detailing the medications Charles needed. You recalled the psychic attack from a year ago and its consequences, but that wasn’t a topic to be discussed with Logan, and you understood why.

“Where do you get these?” you asked, examining the bottle of pills with a curious glance. “Without a prescription, I mean.”

“Oh, you don’t wanna know.”

Soon, you got adapted to the whole package: his unpredictable temperament, his mood swings, and his nightmares. Logan Howlett was a puzzle box of surprises, one you could never quite unlock.

Fast forward to the present day, you realize it must be already late, because Logan’s heading to work. You stand on your tiptoes, peering out of your bedroom window. Your humid breath fogs the glass as his eyes find yours, and then he slips into the vehicle, blending into the shadows of the night.

The distant rumble of his limousine signals his departure, your forehead pressed against the glass, as if somehow that could take you with him.

There goes another piece of you.

You find yourself shaving Charles the moment worry takes over your senses.

He’s retelling a familiar story: that one time Logan, Scott, Jean, and Storm saved Rogue from Magneto.

On any other day, you wouldn’t mind listening to his stories, despite having heard them countless times. This one in particular is your favorite.

But today, it’s hard to focus on it, even more when one of its main characters is missing in action.

Logan hasn’t come back home yet.

It’s been an entire day, and he’s usually back by morning to rest. Now, after having cooked dinner and helping Charles shower, you’ve run out of distractions. There’s nothing left to occupy your thoughts, nothing to ease the building anxiety gnawing at you.

You texted him multiple times—no answer. You even called—also nothing. Every time Charles asks if Logan’s at work or sleeping, the knot in your chest tightens. That’s when your mind starts to spiral, and you’re convinced you’ll burst any moment.

After putting him to bed, you pace the kitchen, picking at your nails and biting the raw skin around them. The sting of pain is there, but it’s faint, not enough to overshadow the real fear clawing at your insides.

All these what-ifs that storm through your mind make you feel nauseous: what if he’s dead? What would you do with Charles? How would you provide for both of you without a salary?

Just as you’re about to dial his number again, Logan materializes out of thin air through the sliding door.

He’s got a dark bruise under his right eye, and his once-white shirt is littered with bloodstains. You stare at him—he’s limping harder than usual, each of his movements slower.

Walking towards him, your hands cup his face. His skin feels rough beneath your fingers, and he lets out a grunt as you graze his split lip. “What happened?”

“They were followin’ me. Had been doin’ so for a few days now,” he says, making no effort to pull away.

“Did you kill them?” you wonder out loud, still inspecting his injuries. The pad of your thumb hovers inches away from his bruised mouth.

Covering your hands with his, Logan ducks his head, closing his eyes for a brief second and swallowing thickly. “Somebody had to do it, sweetheart.”

You limit yourself to a nod, because you know there’s nothing you can reproach him for. You were no stranger to the idea of him killing. It was an implicit truth between you.

“I thought—I was so scared, and I—” your voice wavers, and you feel your eyes watering, the tears prickling at the corners. “I thought you—”

He doesn’t let you finish, already knowing how it would end. “Hey, look at me,” he’s the one touching you now, tilting your chin up. Your eyes keep flickering over the cuts and old scars you spot on his cheeks, his neck. Logan forces a pained smile, unable to hide his discomfort. “It’s fine, I’m alright. Just a bit fucked up, but nothin’ you haven’t seen before,” he jokes, trying to lighten the mood, and it works. You bite your lower lip, suppressing your grin. “I always come back, don’t I?”

“But you can barely stand,” you whisper, not sure why you’re speaking so softly. You make him turn his back to you, helping him shrug off his coat. As expected, remnants of dried blood decorate his shirt like highlights. “Let me help you.”

“I don’t—”

”There are cuts all over your back. And your chest—you’re not healing properly,” you say, turning him to face you again. The look on his face suggests only one thing: he’s about to throw in the towel. “You don’t have to do everything on your own.” You think you’ve never been this close before, his proximity both intoxicating and comforting at the same time. “Please.”

He ends up giving in to your persuasion, allowing you to guide him to the bathroom. Logan sits down on the toilet, watching you gather supplies to clean his wounds. When you come back, he’s still staring at you, his eyelashes fluttering together each time he blinks.

Starting with his cheek, you press a damp towel to his skin, and he hisses. It takes everything in you not to flinch in sympathy.

“How’s Charles?” he asks, probably trying to distract himself as you continue to clean his wounds, the towel darkening with his blood over time.

“He’s doing great. Asked for you a lot, actually,” you take a look at his jaw, where one shallow cut is already starting to fade away thanks to his healing ability, something that never fails to amaze you.

Logan hums, tilting his head. ”I’ll check on him in the morning,” he murmurs, and you flash him a quick smile, finishing with his face. He’s now free of dirt and blood, his brows furrowing as he pauses to collect his thoughts. “The other day, when we talked—”

You cut him off, turning to the sink as you rinse the towel, watching the water get red. “Forget it.”

“No, it wasn’t okay—how I acted,” he stands up from the toilet, and you feel his presence behind you, the alarm inside your head going off as the space between you shrinks. “I know you just want what’s best for him. For us. I’m sorry I was a jerk,” his voice comes out even huskier at this time of the night, sounding afraid of waking someone, even though it’s just the two of you here.

“Apology accepted,” you swirl around to meet his gaze, only to find yourself nose-to-nose with him, and you lean back against the sink, your spine pressed into the cool surface.

Logan places his hands on both sides of the vanity, caging you with his body. Like the most beautiful tree, he stands tall in front of you, and you take a deep breath, getting drunk on his distinctive scent. “Are you… okay?”

You watch as he lowers his head, pursing his lips before muttering: “Imma need you to do something more for me,” he says, almost pleading, and you can’t avoid the amount of thoughts that rush into your mind.

Gone was your decency when you had to deal with him.

That’s when he looks up to find your eyes, his harsh expression evolving into a more vulnerable one. “Have you ever removed a bullet?”

If you thought listening to Logan’s nightmares was painful, nothing could have prepared you for the sounds he makes while you pull several bullets from his wounds.

He sits shirtless in front of you, grunting at each of your careful movements. As you remove one bullet lodged near his ribs, Logan practically yells, and you rest your cheek against his, desperate to ease his suffering.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Almost done,” you whisper into his ear, hoping your words might bring him some relief. He lets his head fall forward, resting it on your shoulder, trusting you enough to tend to his injuries, his thoughts drifting elsewhere.

It takes you half an hour to clean both his chest and back, but Logan doesn’t complain. When you’re finished, he goes straight to his room, flopping onto his bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. You see the way his chest rises and falls rapidly, his breathing still labored.

You wish you could lie beside him, even just for a few minutes, but your last shred of self-control stops you from doing such a thing.

“Get some sleep,” you say leaning against the doorframe, your advice sounding more like a plea. He looks exhausted, dark circles sunken beneath his eyes.

Logan lets out a bitter laugh. “Do I look that bad?”

You roll your eyes at that, your fingers curling around the doorknob. Glancing back at him over your shoulder, you catch something in his look—a glimmer of something you struggle to put into words, but you decide not to look further into it. “Good night, Logan.”

“Good night, darlin’—and thank you,” he murmurs, holding your gaze until the door shuts between you.

Then you sprint to your room, gently closing the door before biting back a smile, replaying the last hour in your mind. How close to you he had been, how comfortable he seemed around you.

You hadn’t just crossed lines—you’d broken them. You almost pinch yourself to make sure you weren’t dreaming.

Somehow, your racing mind calms down, and you fall asleep, one hand tucked beneath the pillow, the other resting against your chest.

You’re a light sleeper. The sound of something shattering wakes you, leaving you startled and disoriented.

Dawn is just breaking, the first rays of sunlight slipping through your window. You sit up, pricking up your ears as you scratch the back of your head, listening attentively.

Logan’s voice filters into your room—he lets out a string of profanities, and you stifle a giggle, throwing off your covers and putting on a sweatshirt that matches your pajamas.

Barefoot, you walk down the hall, stopping at the kitchen’s entrance. Logan is kneeling beside the table, gathering the shards of a broken mug. It seems like he’s just gotten out of the shower, tiny droplets of water trailing down his neck.

“That was my favorite one,” you say in a low voice, teasing him. His back muscles flex under the material of his shirt, and he turns to look at you, his expression a silent apology. “I take it you’re not using your glasses?”

“I’m gonna stop you right there.” Rising to his feet, he grunts, digging his fingers into his lower back with a grimace. “They’re called readers for a reason.”

You decide to let him have that one, grabbing a new mug from the shelf and handing it to him. He accepts it, thanking you, and fills it with freshly brewed coffee.

“Was it a nightmare?” you ask, watching as he sinks into the couch, spreading his thighs apart with a sigh while you take a seat at the table instead.

Logan gives a nod, sipping some of his coffee. “At least I slept for a few hours.”

“Are you really going to stay up? It’s pretty early.” You stretch your arms over your head, a yawn escaping you before you can hold it back.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You hesitate for a moment, but then comes your question: “Can I join you?” You prop your elbows on your knees, any trace of sleepiness now gone with the wind.

He squints his eyes, his unrelenting stare boring into you. “Feel free.”

So here you are, studying him as he drinks his coffee, his fingers wrapped tightly around the ceramic. There are so many things you want to ask him—about how he’s feeling, if his wounds have healed—but it seems you’ve entered a silent staring contest without even knowing it.

Not that you mind him looking at you—you just want to know the reason why.

You snort, and he arches a brow. “Do I have something on my face?” You decide to ask him, straightening your back.

“I guess I can’t help but wonder why you agreed to all of this,” he says, setting the mug down with a soft clink. By this, you understand he’s referring to being Charles’ caregiver and leaving your old job behind. “I mean—you could be doing better things with your life. Why would you choose to do this?”

“I told you before: I wanted to help you,” you shrug, trying to keep your tone light even as your stomach tightens with nerves. You watch as Logan folds his arms, the muscles of his biceps becoming more visible. “Plus, I love being around Charles.

“I don’t think people your age would be that interested in spending their days like this,” he says, and you toy with a lock of your hair, wrapping it around your finger.

“Well, good thing I’m not like most people my age then.”

His silence hangs heavy in the air until he speaks again. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know that feeling when life seems like a race? And you just have to keep up with certain things that everybody else is doing, or you’ll be left behind?” You pause, the words falling more naturally than you’d expected.

Logan nods, making it seem like he understands what you’re trying to say. Whether he truly does it or not, you don’t know.

“When my friends started going to parties, getting boyfriends… I couldn’t. My family wouldn’t let me. And even when I could, it felt like it wasn’t really what I wanted.”

Inhaling sharply, you stop yourself. The conversation suddenly feels far too personal.

“You never had a boyfriend?” He gets more comfortable on the couch, his voice gruff as he rubs his chin, waiting for a reply.

A familiar heat settles between your legs. “I went out with some guys, but it never led to anything serious,” you say, your cheeks getting warmer the more details you share with him. “I guess I wasn’t the kind of girl they were looking for,” you add, not missing the way his lips twitch momentarily.

“How could they not want you?”

“They didn’t think like you do.”

“That’s because they were boys, not men,” he mutters, his gaze dropping to your hands before returning to your face. “Did they treat you right, those boys?”

Swallowing hard, you can hardly register the uncertainty in your own voice. “I mean… yes, I think they did. They were nice to me.”

There it is—the faintest hint of a smirk dancing on his lips. “Nice doesn’t mean good, though.”

You dig your nails onto the table, your pulse quickening, trying to hide how affected you are by his words. “What is it that you want to know?”

“Come sit with me, doll.”

Doll. Doll. Doll. Inside your chest, your heart gallops, your legs trembling as you get off the table, moving closer to him.

Feeling lighter with every step you take, you plop down beside him, and Logan sits straighter, his knees almost bumping into yours.

You can’t bring yourself to look at him—this is happening, just like in your filthiest dreams.

His hand slides up to yours, not applying any sort of pressure. He scrutinizes your skin, bringing your hand to his lips, and he presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist.

It tickles, it burns—it ignites a fire inside you, one you know you can’t ignore. A gasp attempts to escape you, but you suppress it.

“Did you let them touch you?” he whispers, attaching his mouth to your neck, brushing the sensitive spot where your jaw and ear meet.

This time, you moan, any possible rational thoughts turning into putty, melting with the way he’s touching you. “Logan,” you purr his name, begging for something, anything he’s willing to give you. Your thighs, once shoved together, spread of their own accord, and you hear him click his tongue.

“I asked you something.” His teeth graze your pulse point, forcing you to close your eyes.

“I didn’t. They wanted to, but I—I wouldn’t let them,” you answer, and as if he’s rewarding you, his fingers begin to tug on the hem of your sweatshirt, rolling it up your body and over your head. He tosses it to the floor, admiring you.

“Why?”

Goddamn.

“Because I was waiting for the right guy,” you manage to get out, grasping his hand and positioning it on top of your right breast, encouraging him to go on with what he had started. His pupils widen further, and he squeezes your tit roughly, eliciting a moan from you. “I think I’ve found him.”

Logan scans your face, searching for any sign of repentance in your expression. “I’m going to hell for this,” he murmurs under his breath, his hard-on noticeable through his tented sweatpants. “Lay down.” You obey his command, easing yourself onto the couch, and sinking into the cushions as he presses himself to your side.

He peppers your neck with kisses, playing with the waistband of your shorts. “I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.”

You accept his offer, knowing that you’ll probably regret it in a couple of hours. Right now, it doesn’t matter. You need his electrifying touch, his fingers, his—

With a swift motion, your shorts are yanked down your legs, and his calloused hands part your thighs even wider. A damp spot on your underwear sells you out, and his thumb rubs gentle circles over that area, causing you to lift your hips.

“So this is what you look like when you touch yourself, huh?” He edges his fingers closer to your clit, his breath tickling your ear, and he dips his tongue into your collarbone. “I hear you all the fuckin’ time. You’re not as quiet as you think.”

It should embarrass you, the fact that he has listened to you pleasuring yourself. But in a moment like this, it only succeeds in fuelling your desire. “Please. You said you’d make me feel good.”

“And I will, but you’re greedy as hell,” he says, his movements more deliberate now. You feel hot all over as he pulls your panties to the side, exposing your glistening cunt.

Logan’s on the verge of drooling all over you, reaching for your folds and spreading your wetness. “Men aren’t strong creatures, honey. You’ve got no idea how hard it is to hold back.”

“D-don’t hold back,” you stutter, losing your composure when he returns to your clit, his fingers coated in your arousal while they flick your swollen bud. “Oh, Logan…”

“You make the prettiest sounds,” he rasps, mouthing at your jaw, though as you try to kiss him, he slows his pace. “What’s wrong? Am I not giving you enough?”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” you whisper, fascinated by how big his fingers look in comparison to your pussy. “I’m just—”

“Needy, I know,” he finishes for you, and he picks up his merciless rhythm again. Heat pools in your lower abdomen, and you can’t help but arch your back every time he teases you, grazing your entrance with his middle finger. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

You dig your nails into his arm, relishing the way his body responds to your touch. He grinds his cock against your hip, his teeth nipping at the column of your neck. “I want to come. Please, make me come,” you sob, letting out a shaky breath.

A thin sheen of sweat covers your forehead, and Logan locks eyes with you after what feels like an eternity. “Please, Lo.”

The nickname snaps something inside of him. His fingers circle your clit with a fervency you hadn’t experienced before, your pleasure seemingly being his primary focus. “The shit I’d do for you.”

You warn him, telling him you’re close—so so so close—until the fire in your belly flares, and blood rushes to your ears. You collapse against him, holding his hand firmly against your core, hips jerking as you ride your orgasm.

The world narrows down to this—this moment, your most desired fantasy.

Logan holds you as you go limp in his arms, rubbing your clit ever so slightly, murmuring soft praises. “Y’did so good, sweetheart,” he whispers, planting a kiss on your temple, burying his nose in your hair. You’re still out of breath, the pulsing between your parted legs persisting long after your release. “Told you you weren’t quiet.”

A giggle bubbles up from your chest, his beard tickling you as he slides his hands up under your shirt, finding your nipples.

“It was n-nice,” you tell him, your voice faltering the more he toys with your hardened peaks. Your skin heats up again, heart racing at the thought that he isn’t done with you yet.

“Just nice?” One of his hands makes its way back into your pussy, ghosting his fingers over your hole, and he smirks when he feels you squirm. “You surely know how to hurt a man’s pride.”

“I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—” You can’t structure a proper sentence, not when he’s playing with you like this.

Logan rubs your arousal between his fingers, as though he wants you to see how slick you still are, even after coming. “Are you going to touch me again?”

He hums, feigning uncertainty. “What do you think, baby? Should I make you come with my fingers now?”

It’s like a switch flips in your mind. He knows exactly how to make you beg and which buttons to push, using that power to his advantage. “Yes, please. I want it,” you plead, intending to buck your hips into his touch, impatient for more.

“Do you fuck yourself with your fingers?”

“Sometimes, but I can never finish—Oh my God.” He slips one finger inside you, causing you to curse, your voice barely above a whisper. You clench around the intrusion, your head falling back onto the cushions. “Fuck me.”

“In a minute.” He begins to thrust his finger in and out, gathering your juices every time he goes back to hammering that sweet spot in your interior. Soon, one finger becomes two, and he reduces you to a panting mess.

Tears threaten to swell in your eyes, and you whine as he involves his other hand in the matter, furiously rubbing your clit. “Your fingers feel much better than m-mine, Lo.”

“I can tell.” He curls them just right, and you push back against his thrusts, tilting your pelvis to meet him halfway. “There you go. Take what you need, sweetheart. I’m right here, I’ve got you.”

Everything feels frenzied, fast, the way your inner walls spam and contract around his fingers as you chase your second climax.

Once you come down from your high, your blurred vision catches him tugging the waistband of his sweatpants down. His cock springs free, and he fists himself, stroking his length angrily.

You watch as some pre-cum dribbles from the head, and you lean forward, watching it closely.

“You look goddamn beautiful when you come, darlin’,” he murmurs through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched tight. Hovering over you, he rucks your shirt up until he can see your tits from above. He alternates between your breasts, squeezing them while he continues to stroke his girth. “Want to see these all dirty.”

Logan truly loses it when your hand reaches out to him, tracing a bulging vein near the head of his cock. You meet his lustful gaze, batting your lashes, and then you feel his come splashing against your bare chest, a choked moan escaping Logan’s throat, spurts of his hot seed landing on your skin.

“Fuckin’ hell… fuck,” he grunts, still tugging at his cock, enamored with the masterpiece he’s created. When it’s finally over, he lies beside you, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. You run your fingers through his hair, and he nuzzles further into your touch with a groan. “I’m too old for this.”

Minutes pass as both of you seem to grasp the gravity of what has just happened. Eventually, Logan rises to his feet, disappearing for a brief moment before coming back with a towel to wipe his come off your stomach and chest.

He’s gentle with you, his gaze trained on his task until his eyes flick up to meet yours.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, pulling your shorts back up.

“Like what?”

“Like you want to see right through me.” He adjusts your shirt to cover your body again, but the towel remains in his hand, a reminder of the previous events.

I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.

You don’t have to talk about it. You definitely don’t.

Two days later, he’s the one who comes looking for you.

You’re nearly asleep when he knocks on your door. “Come in,” you mumble, a bit of drool having dampened your pillow. You dry your mouth with the back of your hand, your back turned to the door.

He steps into your room cautiously, as if navigating a minefield. The mattress dips under his weight. “Were you sleeping?” he asks, caressing your leg over the covers.

You shift onto your back, your body responding before your mind. There’s no blood on his clothes—that makes you feel a bit better, and you shake your head.

“Good.” He looms closer, fumbling with his belt. His thumb applies little pressure to your lower lip, and your mouth parts to let him in, salivating.

This is just like Pavlov’s dog experiment—except that Logan isn’t an experimenter, and you aren’t a dog.

Yet, when he approaches you like this, you can’t help but respond, settling into a routine where you both take take take from each other.

Logan doesn’t fuck you, even when you beg him to. He gets you off with his fingers, his thigh, his mouth—but his cock remains out of the equation.

“Just the tip,” you plead, voice laced with pure need, when he’s got his face nestled between your legs.

As he stops eating you out, his beard shiny with your arousal, he’s still got that angry look on his face. Your cries don’t get to him.

“That lie’s older than me.” He slips his fingers back inside you, aiming to make you drop the subject. “Come on, baby. Gotta get ready for work, but you need to come first.”

Nor does he stay the night after telling you you’re the most gorgeous girl he’s ever seen in his life. Just when you think he’s fallen asleep, his legs intertwined with yours and one of his large hands under your head, you drift off.

By the time morning comes, he’s gone. You just know that when night falls, he’ll be back for more, drawn to you like a moth to a flame.

Despite all that, Logan won’t kiss you. He keeps his promise, and you hate how determined he is.

“Not even once?” you ask him one night while going over the scars on his back. You’re in his bed this time, and he has his nose buried in his pillow, moments away from dozing off.

“No,” he answers, squirming slightly under your touch. “I’m tired. Stop doing that.”

“How did you get this one?” You trace one scar that’s close to his shoulder, resting your chin just inches from it.

He turns his face to see your eyes. “Well, I was doing Pilates, and I—Hey!” He laughs when you pinch the skin near his ribs, tickling him. “I don’t even remember. Must’ve got it a long time ago.”

“Did it hurt?” It’s a dumb question, but he doesn’t mention it.

His index finger grazes your cheek, and he chuckles at the way your eyelids flutter. “In the past, they all did. But not anymore,” he replies, though you wish you could believe him.

You know he’s in pain most days. That when he goes down on you, and he’s on his knees for too long, he has trouble standing up without cursing. That no amount of alcohol, or his healing ability, helps him with it.

You kiss each of his scars before curling against his side, brushing your nose against his. “And now?” Your eyes fall to his lips, silently hoping he’ll say Yes.

Instead, he sighs. “I think we should go to sleep.”

So despite the lack of kisses, the miscommunication, and the fact that he won’t fuck you even though you know—you feel—he wants to, things are good between you.

Charles notices it, openly expressing his recent realization. “He looks happier, doesn’t he?” he asks says after winning two games of chess in a row, startling you.

“Logan, you mean?”

“Yes, my dear.”

You glance down at the board, fidgeting with the pieces. “I guess so.”

“You guess so?” he parrots your previous words, raising an eyebrow in doubt. “Look at me,” he says, and as you do it, he points a shaky finger toward your neck. “I assume mosquitos have taken a liking to you.”

Heat rises to your cheeks, your hand flying up to cover the hickey you had completely forgotten about in the first place. “Charles, I’m—“

“Are you happy?” he interrupts you, and you nod, because you are.

A nagging thought lingers at the back of your mind. You don’t know if you’re asking for too much, but it still feels like something’s missing.

One morning, you accidentally overhear a conversation between them. The door of the tank is ajar, and right before you step inside, you recognize Logan’s voice in the distance.

“Charles, I’m fine, alright? I don’t need your advice.”

There’s a pause before Charles responds. “You know, Logan… this is what life looks like. You should take a moment and feel it. You still have time.”

Logan doesn’t say anything in response to that. And if he does, you don’t stick around long enough find out, because you’re already turning on your heel.

A poet once said: “Blowjobs are fucking amazing.”

Actually, you might be wrong. Those may not have been a poet’s words, but your best friend Keira’s from high school.

You remember the sleepovers at her place—she had a boyfriend at the time, a boy she had met at a party you hadn’t been invited to.

“Welcome to blowjobs 101,” she had declared one night, holding a hairbrush like a microphone. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll tell you everything you need to know when the moment comes.”

Luckily, many years later, that moment arrived.

Just ten minutes ago, you were cooking dinner, sniffling back tears while chopping onions, so lost in thought that you didn’t realize Logan was already home.

He tossed his keys onto the table, hugging you from behind seconds later. You leaned back against his chest, enjoying the scratch of his beard against your sensitive skin, his lips planting soft kisses wherever they could.

“How was work?” you dropped the knife, wiping your tears as you turned to face him, throwing your arms around his neck. Logan pulled you in tighter by the waist, giving your ass a firm squeeze.

“Hell, as usual,” he looked into your eyes, finding them all glossy. “You miss me so much you started crying?”

Of course, you didn’t talk about it—but words aren’t the only ones who can convey meaning.

You’re not sure how, but one thing led to another, and now you’re on your knees, Logan’s cock filling your mouth. Your lips, swollen and red, suck hard at his tip, pulling the foreskin back, and his hips jerk deeper into your throat. “That’s it, fuck. Doin’ so good.”

Your movements are far from graceful. As a matter of fact, it’s all too sloppy and desperate. Saliva drips down your chin, some of it coating his balls, and you fondle them at the same time you bob your head.

Keira’s advice plays on repeat in your mind, and you pull out every trick you know to make Logan roll his eyes.

So far, you think you’re doing pretty great, judging by the way he’s gripping the back of your head.

“H-how is this your first time suckin’ cock?” he slurs, more to himself, his voice strangled as you make eye contact with him. He brushes your hair out of your face, bewitched by the sight of him disappearing into your wet mouth. “God, I fuckin’ love you.”

Taken aback by his sudden confession. you involuntarily gag around him. He pulls you off his cock, not even sparing you a glance, tucking himself back into his briefs. “Wait, Logan—”

“Not now,” he mutters abruptly, withdrawing into his bedroom and shutting the door behind him.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

But still, he doesn’t want to talk about it.

How bad is it to tell somebody you love them and then avoid them?

Yeah, it’s absolutely terrible, right? Tell that to the idiot himself—Logan Howlett.

It’s been over a week, and no matter how many times you press him for an explanation, he keeps dodging it.

Things go back to how they were before you two started fooling around, and Charles’ questions don’t take long to come: “I thought you two were getting somewhere.”

“Me too,” you admit, your voice quieter as you try to appear indifferent.

You have no answer for him. Not that you don’t want to discuss your relationship problems—it’s just that you don’t know what went wrong.

When evading you isn’t enough, he works longer hours, which only adds to how little you see him. At least he lets you know if he’s going to be late, sparing you from waiting up.

But apart from that, your interactions have dwindled to nothing, and it’s eating you alive.

You’re madly in love with him. You thought you knew that already, but now that he’s distant, the depth of your feelings has become clearer than ever.

He’s everywhere you go, just not physically—he has conquered your mind.

And it should be funny, loving someone who used to be no more than a myth for you. Though Logan is real—maybe too real for your own good—and he hasn’t been the mutant you once read about for quite some time.

This morning, he’s having breakfast at the table when you walk into the kitchen. You hold your breath as your shoulders brush for a microsecond, his gaze following your steps.

You’re no longer accustomed to sharing the same space with him, so it makes sense that you stay as far away as possible.

After an awkward silence, he stands up and mutters something about checking on Charles and giving him his meds, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

It’s infuriating, how collected he seems. Why isn’t he miserable like you? Doesn’t he miss you? Didn’t you two have something… special?

I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.

The shit I’d for you.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

Not now.

The memory of his words lingers, seared into your unconscious, though the sound of his phone jolts you out of your thoughts.

It’s ringing beside the coffee machine, and you try to ignore it, determined to be the bigger person.

But after five minutes of the relentless ringtone echoing in the empty kitchen, you’ve had enough.

Unknown caller—interesting. What could he possibly be hiding?

Charles, you better keep that asshole busy, you think to yourself, swiping right to answer the call.

Before you can say anything, a woman’s voice fills the line.

“James! Thank God. It’s Gillian. You didn’t reply to any of my texts, and I was starting to get worried,” she lets out a giggle, the sound grating against your nerves.

As your grip on the phone tightens, your knuckles start to go white.

“Look, I know you said you weren’t available, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that ride. I didn’t see any ring on your finger, so what do you say, huh? Will you let me take you out?”

Red. You’re seeing red.

“James? Hello? Cat got your tongue?”

At last, you clear your throat. “Hey,” you greet her, pacing around the kitchen. “I’m deeply sorry, but James can’t talk right now.”

“Excuse me?” she snaps, her high-pitched voice echoing through the speakers, and you pull the device away from your ear. “This is James’ number. Who the fuck are you?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you who the fuck I am, you intolerant piece of—”

Before you can finish, the phone is yanked out of your hand, the call hastily ending.

There is no use in playing dumb, not when Logan’s standing right in front of you, observing you like you’re a child who’s made a severe mistake.

His deep, brown eyes pierce your soul, shattering any chance you had of coming up with an excuse.

“What where you doing with my phone?” It’s the first thing he asks you, his voice still steady, the calm before the storm.

Perhaps you’re not as mature as you thought you were—your forehead furrows, unwilling to back down, and you fall silent. He takes a step forward, as if he can’t believe your attitude. “Think I asked you somethin’. Why did you answer?”

“Gillian sounds like a lovely lady. Tell her I said ‘Hi’ the next time you see her,” you croak, attempting to walk past him, but he doesn’t budge, his solid frame blocking your path. You collide with his chest, and it feels like trying to move a brick wall without success.

“We’re talking. You can’t just leave.”

The nerve of this man.

“You can’t be serious,” you retort, staring at him, wishing the emotion in your tone could capture even a fraction of what you’re truly feeling. “Weren’t you the one who walked away first? After telling me you loved me?”

You search for any sign of the man who once held you close, but he feels miles away, hidden under all these layers that smell like cheap whiskey and gasoline. “You didn’t mean it.”

“I did. I meant every word,” he growls, his fists clenching at his sides, and you don’t miss the exhaustion in his eyes, the dark circles that expose the fragile façade of control he’s so desperate to maintain. “Goddamit! You’re doing that thing again!”

“What thing?” you exclaim, your mouth hanging open in frustration. “What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, you are! You’re trying to see through me, like you can read my mind.”

“Well, sorry to disappoint, but I’m not a fucking mutant. I just have eyes, Logan.” You throw your arms up, exasperated. “People actually look at each other when they have a conversation, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“You’re testing my patience,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face.

“And you are testing mine.” You rest your back against the table, raising your chin. “So, who is she?”

Logan drops his shoulders, slamming his eyes shut. “I drove her once, last week. It was a long ride and she… wouldn’t stop talking. Didn’t shut up for a single second. She hit on me, but I told her I’m off the market.”

“Why? ‘Cause she talked too much?”

“No. Because I love you,” he says, pure awe transforming his expression, like he doesn’t believe he has said it out loud. “I don’t know when I started feeling like this, or if I’ve always felt it, but—I do. I love you.”

Oh.

You had heard those words slip through his lips before, but now they sound different. It might be that keeping him at arm's length has felt like death by a thousand cuts, or perhaps it’s the realization that this is the first time someone’s declaring their love for you.

Fuck. He loves you. As in, he’s in love with you?

“Then why do you keep running?” You edge closer to him, your eyes trained on his. “I’m done with the chase, Logan. It’s tiring—I am tired. I’ve been sleeping like shit, trying to figure out what—”

His arms surround your body, cutting you off and pulling you close. The hammering of his heart matches yours, and you return the hug, nuzzling your nose against his neck.

You fear that this might be all you’ve ever needed, feeling as if the pieces he took from you in the past are finally falling back into place.

Logan holds you as if in a past life he lost you, but now, he’s decided to never let you go.

This profound sense of completeness, of being where you’re meant to be, makes you realize you’ve found home in the warmth of his embrace.

“I’m sorry. This… this scares me, alright?” he murmurs next to your ear, raking his fingers through your hair. “You make me feel things I didn’t think I could feel anymore. That’s what I’m running from—the part of me I thought was gone. But you… you brought it back.”

You feel a deep urge to curl up and cry, wondering why on earth he would ever think he was unworthy of being cared for. “Logan, I…”

“I sound pathetic, I know. It sounded way better in my head.”

“Don’t you dare say that.” You retreat a bit, looking him in the eye. He stares down at you with a tenderness you’ve never seen before. “It’s not pathetic to voice how you feel. I want to know it all, want to know everything about you.”

“Everything?”

“Yes, everything. But I need you to promise me that you won’t run away anymore. I know it’s difficult, but it’s not fair to any of us.”

His eyes peer directly into yours, and he gives a nod. “I promise to do my best.” He presses your foreheads together, and that’s when his mouth turns into a grin. “You’re not going to say it back?” he teases, gripping your waist. “Come on, I said it first. Twice, for the record.”

Lifting your shoulders in a half-shrug, you find it hard to conceal your smile. “I may need a bit more convincing.”

Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.

Before you know it, his lips are on yours, almost making you lose your balance. You whimper into his mouth, tightening your arms around his neck as his tongue wastes no time in finding yours, stroking it sensually.

The wait had been definitely worth it—you’d do everything all over again if it meant having him kiss you like this at the end of the day.

He tilts your face so that he can deepen the kiss, and a whine gets caught in your throat when his fingers pull gently at the hair at your nape, nibbling at your bottom lip.

“I love you, too. Very much, to be honest,” you blurt out against his mouth, pleased with the way he laughs at your reaction, squeezing your hips. “But I still have some ideas in mind.”

“I’m all ears.”

Here goes nothing. “Fuck me like I’ve been asking you to.” You cup his cheek, guiding his lips into yours one more time. “Please,” you mewl, standing on your tiptoes. “Want you to be my first.”

If it were up to you, you would’ve begged him to take you right there on the kitchen floor. But Logan, ever the gentleman, insists on moving things to his room.

Each of his movements is slow, igniting your skin with a burning heat, leaving his name imprinted where his teeth sink into your soft flesh.

You’re left in nothing but your underwear by the time he murmurs: “Let me take my time with you.” He trails his lips down your chest, your stomach, until he’s planting several kisses along your ankle. “I don’t know how I got so lucky, baby. Look at you.”

Under his gaze, you feel shy, your eyes snapping to the ceiling instead. “Shut up,” you say, tugging at his shirt to undress him, your fingers tracing the lines of his abdomen before you pull him into a bruising kiss, sucking on his tongue.

He strips out of his black slacks and hovers over you, his clothed cock grinding against your throbbing core, eliciting a moan from both of you. “So goddamn beautiful. Can’t believe you’re mine.” His tip grazes your entrance through the fabric, making your toes curl in ectasy. “I’m gonna make you feel good, I swear.”

At first, he’s extremely careful, making sure to stretch you out with his fingers while you stroke him, pumping your fist to match his rhythm. “Keep that up and this’ll be over sooner than expected,” he warns, taking one of your nipples into his mouth.

It doesn’t happen like it does in the books or movies. No foreplay could’ve prepared you for the moment he enters you.

You move clumsily beneath him, your nose bumping into his forehead as he eases the first inch of his length inside.

For a moment, you’re not certain which hurts most: the dull ache in your nose or the way he’s splitting you open.

Logan freezes, his eyes wide in concern. “Shit. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Are you okay?” His hand cradles your face as he props himself up on one forearm, pushing your hair back while you adjust to his size. You laugh despite the sting, and he wipes away your tears with his thumb. “You’re laughin’?”

“I’m just happy,” you manage to get through the lump in your throat, raking your nails down his back, feeling the rough texture of the scars beneath your fingers. “I love you. Since that day at the bar, I—” you pause for a second, gasping at the sudden wave of pleasure when he twitches inside you. “I’ll always l-love you. Forever.”

As you wrap your legs around his waist and tell him you’re ready, something inside him shifts.

He feels like a madman, his eyes fixed on your face the whole time, searching for any hint of discomfort, though he occasionally glances down at the place where your bodies meet and become one, entranced by the sight of you taking him in, slick coating his length.

Your heels dig into his lower back, pulling him back to the present—back to you, with your pretty tits bouncing each time he pistols his hips, the intensity of his thrusts increasing.

“All those times you took care of me, when you—Fuck,” he groans, nipping at your jaw to regain some of his composure, his humid breath dampening your skin. Your scent drives him wild, and he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. “You made me feel loved when no one else did. My girl, love you so f-fucking much.”

His pace is nothing more than a voiceless testament to everything he feels but can’t find words to express.

With each minute that passes, your dripping cunt grips him tighter and tighter, his thrusts losing finesse. He needs you to come first—why does he feel like a virgin?

When you tell him you’re close, the world around him turns into a musical. You cling to the sheets, the mattress creaking noisily as he clutches the headboard, determined to find that angle that will push you over the edge.

“That’s it, sing for me,” Logan mutters from above, hypnotized by the crease forming between your brows. “Come on, let go.”

Time seems to slow down as your muscles tense and you clamp around him, your body sagging against him. His name spills from your lips in breathy whimpers, like an endless prayer, and your mouth engulfs his, tongues and teeth clashing in a fevered kiss.

Soon after that, he surrenders to the coiling tension deep within him, pulling out just in time to stroke himself once, twice, before emptying his hot load across your mound.

You gently thumb the head of his cock, coaxing out every last drop of his hot seed. He’s panting as he comes down from his high, his brain foggy and blissfully blank for a while.

Logan loses track of how many times he tells you he loves you—he does it when he pulls you into his chest, when his lips press against your temple, and when you crack that smile, the one that resembles the very purpose of his existence.

“So this is what it feels like.” His voice sounds low like a murmur near your ear, and you stir, half-asleep.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing, baby. Just thinkin’ aloud.”

You don’t have to talk about it, at least not now. Deep down, he knows that whatever thoughts run through his mind will somehow find their way into yours.

This is what life looks like. You should take a moment and feel it. You still have time.

And God, is he feeling it.

dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! :)

9K notes · View notes

stardustquills · 3 months ago

Text

here is the full fic for everyone who wanted it! (you can read the trailer here)

thinking about caleb’s first time with mc… 18+ mdni.

cw; smut, unprotected, p in v, creampie, mentions of baby trapping, pet names (pipsqueak, pips, baby), caleb being obessed, caleb being loud

wc; 2.1k

when caleb sinks into you for the first time, he thinks he’s in fucking heaven with the way you fluttered around him and your voice called his name.

one thing lead to another, and now you’re almost naked on his couch, taking his dick like all of the times he’d dreamed. except this is so much better than his fist, or the stupid fleshlight he bought all of those years ago. now, he can finally stop pretending.

fuck, teenage caleb would be losing his mind right now. current caleb is losing his mind.

he can stop pretending his fist is yours instead, that the damn, cold fleshlight is your cunt, that all those girls he fucked during high school was you.

now he finally has you all to himself, and there’s no way in hell he’ll ever let you go.

“o-oh, pipsqueak,” he moans, and loudly. his head helplessly falls into the crook of your neck, taking in that familiar, vanilla scent. the same scent that he’s been yearning for god knows how long. the same scent that tells his mind ‘relax, you’re home.’

you are his home.

your hands wrap around him. one of them hide in his hair, deliciously scratching his scalp as you other one drags your nails down his back. he fucking whimpers into your neck, planting a kiss onto your skin because what else can he do? normally so strong for you, he’s been reduced to nothing but a lovesick, pussy drunk fool.

caleb gets in his head, thinking you must think he’s absolutely pathetic for being like this. but honestly? you wouldn’t have it any other way.

the hero of your childhood, the big, strong man you always knew, a deepspace pilot reduced to a needy, lovelorn puddle! how romantic; what a dream come true.

so when he bottoms out, he’s trembling like a madman. it’s taking every ounce of his self control not to grab your waist and absolutely ruin you, dick slamming into your cunt like he desperately aches to. but he can’t do that. not to his precious pipsqueak - not to the girl that’s finally under him after all these years of pining.

not yet, at least.

he gives you a second to adjust, like the thoughtful man he is. “doin’ okay?” he whispers softly, pulling his face away from your neck, eyes flitting over your face, searching for any signs of pain or discomfort. one of his hands come up and cups your cheek, touching so tenderly, like you might break. he treats you like you’re made of porcelain, as if you’ll shatter if he’s too rough.

your eyes are closed, jaw slack as you breathed through your mouth. caleb’s eyes are fixated on your lips, the one’s he’d seen wrapped around his cock so many time is his dreams.

he could feel himself twitch just at the thought. not now, caleb, that’s for another day.

“mhmm,” you hummed, delightful voice like music to his ears. your lids fluttered open, seeing him already staring down at you. you don’t think you’ve ever seen his gaze so loving before, hearts bouncing around his eyes like the dvd logo on a black screen.

truth is, he’s had heart eyes for you for as long as he can remember. caleb looks at you like you’ve hung the fucking moon and embroidered stars into the sky, but you’ve just been too fucking blind to see it. it drove him beyond crazy. still, he knew you’d find out one day—one day you’ll realize how much love he harbours for you. that day is finally here, and he couldn’t be happier.

slowly, cautiously, he pulls out all the way, puckering hole unhappily releasing with with a pop! before he pushes back in. his face helplessly falls back into the crook of your neck as you mewled into his ear, cock deliciously stretching you open.

“mmf-aah,” his mouth falls open against your skin, hot breath panting against your neck. he whimpers like a virgin, arms shaking around your head as he practices his self control. “better than i fucking dreamed, baby.”

“caleb!” he thinks he’s never heard your voice so high pitched.

he cradles your head in his arms, lips planting open mouthed kisses on your pulse point. it’s the perfect spot for him to moan into your ear while also taking in your scent, the natural one under your perfume. one of his thumbs trace the shell of your ear as he continued his slow, shallow thrusts.

“ca- nngh, caleb,” you keen, and he swears to god your throbbing around him. “hah, harder!”

“don’t wanna hurt you, pips…” he lets himself go deeper with a groan, the syrupy slick of your arousal dipping down the rest of his length. he wants to be careful, wants to take his sweet time with you. but when he feels his mushroom head kiss your cervix, all former resolve goes out the window.

“please?” you hand in his hair tugged every so slightly, manicured nails scratching delectably.

oh. he couldn’t say no to that. he could never say no to you. what type of jerk would he be if he denies his beloved pipsqueak? not him. no one would ever catch him disappointing you—never in a million years.

he obeys without a word, a hand coming down to your waist. he’ll ease you into it, he decides. he can’t just started slamming his cock into you as much as he wants to. that wouldn’t be nice of him.

bit by bit, his tempo increases. in music terms, he’s going adante. he doesn’t even notice when he starts bitching and whining louder than you. he can’t hear himself either; he’s too enamoured by the way you’ll call his name as your cunt quivers. strings of your name along with noises and mumbles of praise leave him, muffled by the skin of your neck.

“squeezing so good,”

“shit, you’re unreal.”

“mmmh, pipsqueak, fuck!”

he starts kissing your neck again, balls slapping onto the flesh of your ass as he thrusts into you. the only thing occupying his mind was you. your sounds, scent, taste, feel—his mind was screaming at him, ‘mine, mine, all mine!’

his little pecks turn into kitten licks, then into sucking and biting at the skin. he’ll suckle on your skin, bruising it, leaving his mark before he bites. then, caleb licks it over as an apology before moving an inch over and repeating.

soon, the left side of your neck is covered in his dark purple love bites. you’ll need a shit ton of colour corrector and concealer to cover it up, but that’s a problem you’re not even aware of yet.

his hips snap into yours earnestly, tip of his cock crashing against your cervix.

it hurts so good!

he pulls back from your neck, admiring his art before his eyes flick to your face. your eyes are closed, blissfully fucked out expression as he pleasured you. he smiles, leaning down to sweetly kiss your lips, biting your bottom lip teasingly before he shoves his tongue into your mouth.

you stay like that for a while, getting fucked on the couch by your childhood best friend. your head is propped up against the arm rest, one leg dangling off the edge as the other one is propped against his waist, opening up your hips so he could jam his into yours. caleb is going feral, but he doesn’t let it show. ever the considerate one. he grins against your lips, almost laughs as he devours your sounds, swallowing them up. he thinks back to high school, to all the times he could be making love to you instead of those other sluts.

then a thought crosses his mind—how many guys had you been with? how many others had you let into you like this, at your most vulnerable?

it makes caleb upset—it disturbs him to no end. it gets to the point where he’s speeding up his pace, gaining more momentum the more he thinks about it. moderato, allegro, presto, then prestissimo! he’s going faster than you could even imagine and it makes you dizzy with lust.

lewd, nasty sounds of skin slapping skin and mixed moans from both of you fill the living room.

“caleb, o-oh! there!”

“a-aah, shit, baby!”

your back arches as he repeatedly rams into that sweet, spongy spot. eyes screwed shut as both you hands scratch his back, nails dragging down his rippling muscles. if you pressed any harder, you might’ve drawn blood.

one of your hands trails down your body, quickly finding your neglected clit. you started rubbing quick, tight circles, wanting that extra push to get to your long awaited release.

no, not on his watch! that’s his job, caleb decides, swatting your hand away and replacing it with his own. you happily whined into his lips, voice turning up at the end. his fingers felt so much better than yours, you think you’d never be able to recreate the feeling.

“o-ooh, you’re pulsing!” he chimes, pulling back from your lips. he looks down, watching as he disappears into you. the sight has him in a chokehold.

he sits up, still ramming into you. he takes his hand away from your clit temporarily, earning a displeased whine from you, so he can angle your hips to go deeper.

his fingers return to your nub, playfully pinching it before his thumb starts rubbing again. his free hand goes to that little bulge on your lower stomach, pressing down. caleb can feel himself through your flesh, feel himself rutting in and out of you. “gonna come, pipsqueak? h-hah, oh p-please do, you feel so good, please please please,” he’s rambling. he’s so far gone. stupid, pussy drunk fool.

a brief thought flashes across his mind—baby trapping you.

that would be awful, caleb, don’t do that! but he doesn’t want you to ever leave him. it would be terrible for your career too, being a hunter and all.

but how else is he supposed to ensure your safety? he can’t sleep at night when you’re out, never knowing what kind of monster you’re fighting and what type of horrible injuries you could be dealing with. this would be perfect, his pipsqueak staying home all day as she grew their child inside of her. and then soon, a little version of his beloved pipsqueak would be running around!

he’s not actually going to do it. he’s not actually going to baby trap you.

“caleb!” his eyes snap to yours. he didn’t even realize he was staring at the spot where you two connected. “so- a-ahh, ‘m so close! keep going!”

he planned on doing exactly that. “whatever you say, baby,”

he’s too far away for you to grab, so your hands instinctively come down to your tits. you groped and grabbed, squeezing them together as you pinched and rolled your hardened nipples under your nimble fingers.

caleb and his perverted gaze could help but watch. mesmerized as he wished it was own hands instead. but his hands didn’t father, still pressing on your lower belly and caressing your swollen pearl like his life depends on it.

he throws your leg over his shoulder, tilting his head to place a brief kiss on your ankle as your body quivers and shakes, rope in your stomach hanging in by a thread.

“gonna- mmf! gon’ come!” you moaned, lip quickly catching under your teeth as it happened just a second later. “c-coming!”

“i know, pips,” caleb drunkenly grins, watching as his girl comes undone under him, around him. his rubbing on your clit doesn’t slow, his own lip catching under his teeth as he hungrily watches you ride out the shockwaves of your high.

shit! he doesn’t have time to pull out before he’s spilling into you, eyes wide as his jaw grows slack, mouth open as his own string of curses and moans escape him. and once more, he’s louder than you.

“shit shit shit,” he cusses under his breath, quickly coming to his senses once he comes down from his own high. the twisted part of him feels how’d he came in you, but he knows that now it’s happened, it won’t stop. “i’m sorry pipsqueak. fuck! i didn’t mean for that to happen-“

much to his dismay, you laugh. you fucking laugh at him.

“it’s okay,” you say softly, after you’ve calmed down and your breathing has slowed. “it’s okay.”

“really?” he thinks he might’ve just baby trapped you. he wants to feel bad, he really does! …but he just can’t bring himself to.

“yeah.” you smile up at him. you’re on birth control, he just doesn’t know yet.

but in that moment, caleb thinks he’s seen an angel. an absolute goddess, are his. his goddess. he leans down, wrapping his hands around your waist as his thickness softens in you. his face naturally finds its place in your neck again, peppering kisses all over your sweet, sweaty skin.

this is the first of many, many other firsts, he thinks.

tags: @dummiebunny @b1mb0b33 @lillycore @onlythepurplemoon @mcdepressed290 @cordidy

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated:)

4K notes · View notes

baddingtonbitch · 1 year ago

Text

oh god...guys i might need to make a sideblog

#giovanni content will remain on main so that when future generations find my blog they will know my truth #but that doesn't mean i can't get a little action on the side(blog)#p

1 note · View note

satoblue · 3 months ago

Text

“DIRTY LAUNDRY” — gojo satoru

satoru hates cleaning day, but after being put on laundry duty, he may find that something good will come from it (or rather — himself). | wc: 4.8k+ (oops)

MDNI, f!reader, established relationship (you’re married :D), satoru being forced to do household chores (the horror), your husband is sick in the head...for YOU, panty sniffing, inappropriate use of underwear, masturbation, no p in v, domestic and disgustingly sweet i would say (sorry heh), lowkey selfship coded bc i would so go off on this man to do work around the house LOL, extra of the aftermath at the end (satoru gets in trouble), not much banter + more so yelling (on your part aha), the only person he fears in the world is YOU. | dividers made by me

There are three hundred and sixty five days in a whole year, and of those many there is only one day during which the earth completes its entire revolution around the sun that Gojo Satoru, the Strongest, despises with a passion — Cleaning Day.

No, there is not a designated day around the world in which all people drop whatever they are doing just to deep clean their entire house, but in the Gojo household, unfortunately, there is. And maybe it is because you, his wife, are his world, so the event feels bigger than it actually is. Though, even with this seemingly romantic sentiment, the poor man feels shivers run down his spine just thinking about what was soon to come.

Do not get him wrong — Satoru loves his home, and only because you occupy the space and fill it with your warmth through every smile you grace him with. He loves how you adorn and furnish it, how you make it yours as the rightful Mrs. Gojo. There was not a single area which did not have the trace and essence of you, his darling wife. Your husband takes into account everything you do, and therefore, notices even the smallest things out of place. He is fulfilled and endeared with the knowledge that his woman has been there, and his woman has indeed made the decision that the strange ball decor you are so fond of and chose to put in a designated area on the shelf in the hallway would no longer be in its usual spot, but five inches to the right of it — and simply because you wanted it there.

You were a little weird like that, but it filled him with immense joy that you were weird about the place you share together and call home. And he, in turn, is very weird about you — something he will prove time and time again. You have a certain flair, a touch that lingers around this place that is so uniquely you. This, unfortunately, also applies to cleaning just the same. Most people have normal fears — spiders, heights, the dark. But Gojo Satoru’s is firstly, his wife, and secondly, a little black smiley face drawn in sharpie with the words ‘Cleaning Day!’ written right beside it which you mark on the calendar to remember. In all truth, he thinks the color of the marker you chose is symbolic in representing the terror and trauma that comes with the day.

Okay, maybe he’s being a little dramatic, but your dearest husband could be walking past the wall where the calendar was hung — and then? His body will have a visceral reaction. He’ll become visibly tense and turn pale. He doesn’t even have to look, he can feel its presence like a ghost. It is accurate if he does say so himself, because that is what Cleaning Day is to him — a ghost, a shadow come to torment him, always lurking and lingering before slowly but surely approaching before you even realize it.

Even so, no matter how much distaste your husband holds towards something so inanimate — there is not a single day that goes by where he does not love and adore you to the fullest. Perhaps that is why you put up with him all the time, because you know the extent of his love for you even when he’s being absolutely insufferable (which he knows himself is all the time). But he also knows this — whenever he is with you, anything and everything is somehow bearable. When he’s by your side and heeding your commands, he is the happiest, and Satoru has no problem spending the rest of his life being told what to do by you and you alone... even if it’s chores too, he guesses.

Though, even with that in mind, still, another thing he didn’t look forward to today, to top it all off, is the tensions that came between you two because of all the stress — and not the hot kind!

“Honey,” you peek in, calling out to your husband by the doorway of your shared bedroom, drawing his attention with your saccharinely soft voice.

There it is.

The trap.

Satoru prepares himself, taking a deep breath.

“I don’t wanna!”, he whines back almost immediately, hiding under the cozy covers that smelt like you, hoping the bed would suck him right in and he’d disappear. You hadn’t spoken on your true intentions yet, trying to butter him up first. It wouldn’t work though because he knew, he always knew.

Your smile strains into something unnatural and scary.

“Stop playing around and get up!” You snap, dropping the act, approaching quicker than the speed of light and ripping the blankets off of him, annoyed you had to play this game of cat and mouse every single time.

Satoru flinches at your tone in exaggeration, straightening up and out of bed like a soldier called to duty. You roll your eyes at his antics. Why did he always feel the need to be so dramatic? Actually, never mind — this was your husband you were talking about.

Crossing your arms, you give him a scrutinizing once-over which would usually have his dick up in no time (it still does) before heaving out a sigh, turning on your heel gracefully as you do and padding out of the bedroom and down the hall, expecting him to follow. He does, albeit, like a kicked puppy rather than the powerful sorcerer everyone knows him to be, and all because of his very, very mean wife — who wasn’t mean all the time, just specifically when he was being lazy or leaving his stinky socks around the house.

“Stop looking at me like that.” You tut in disapproval. Satoru can still tell you care, from the way your brows knit together and your eyes soften just a bit at his fitful demeanor. Your voice grows a tad gentler now. “You’re in charge of the laundry, okay? I left the basket over there —”, you point somewhere to the ground, assigning him with his own special task, but he finds himself barely paying attention to anything (except for your ass that was swaying rather temptingly in front of him).

Cerulean blue stares after you, and he opts for hugging himself like the very definition of a pouty child who had gotten a rather harsh scolding from his parents, sliding his way childishly towards the living space, his Cinnamoroll slippers chafing loudly against the floors. White brows furrow, and Satoru’s eyes widen with his classic pitiful look when you turn your attention to the carpets, switching on that dreadfully loud machine which has even the cat running leaps around the house in fear (of your wrath and said machine). He couldn’t help but be on the same page with his sworn enemy more than today.

“Stupid laundry…”, he whispers to himself, peeking at you from the corner of his eye right after the words leave his mouth to make sure you didn’t hear him over the noise. Heh, can’t be too careful — you tend to have selective hearing.

Flopping side to side theatrically, he makes his way over to the full laundry basket on the floor, lifting it up effortlessly. Satoru looks over at you, pout deepening and jutted lip growing more pronounced by the second as he glares half-heartedly at your back, sending you waves telepathically to turn around and watch as you force your distressed lover to perform labor. It melts away rather quickly, however, his blue gaze softening so easily against his will as he watches you fiddle around, completely in the zone, maneuvering the expanse of the living room with the vacuum in hand, paying him no mind.

The basket almost slips out of his hands as he admires the sight of you performing such a menial task. Honestly, Satoru could stand here and watch you for hours and hours and hours, even if you were doing nothing. But that’s also the thing, you are never doing nothing. You are living and breathing, existing as his wife, and you do it beautifully. Hair messy and clothes shabby, even in your rage — you were the definition of perfection. How could someone have such a powerful hold over him, he could never begin to understand. The love you both hold for each other was far from simple, so perhaps it has something to do with that. It’s like every thought flies out of his head when you fall into his sights like an angel, and Satoru, well, Satoru just goes dumb.

He waits there like an idiot for a couple more moments, taking advantage of the seconds until you turn around and likely scream at him for standing around and wasting time, eyes glued to your figure, tracing all over you, from the top of your head to your sock-clad feet (he wonders if you can feel him touching you with only his gaze), before eventually coming back down to earth.

With a serene sigh and acceptance on his face, Satoru relents, coming to terms with the fact you won’t look back at him and change your mind about him doing chores, the very word leaving a bad taste in his mouth, no matter how big his puppy dog eyes are that he throws in your direction (you were always a cat person anyway). He has That Look, the one that says — ‘Even in my impatience, I will listen’. He can never fight with you, because you are always right. If you say it’s his job to do the damn laundry, then it is. And with that, he gives you one last glance for good measure, sights pointedly lingering on your derrière, before turning and heading straight to the laundry room (taking his damn sweet time while at it).

Setting the basket down on the counter, your dutiful husband sifts through the laundry to separate the clothes into two piles like you taught him that one time. Something about the white clothes getting stained and ruined if they get washed with the dyed fabrics. He didn’t really know about that type of stuff, but he didn’t want to be on the receiving end of your scorn by fucking this up, so he just followed your instructions.

Truthfully, Satoru didn’t understand you at times (though, he supposes he never will). Why would you waste your time on tedious things like cleaning when he could hire help to get it done for the both of you? It’s been that way since he was a child, so he was used to the lifestyle until you came along. He is not lacking in money, and you could finally catch a break instead of complaining about your back all the time . . . Or maybe you like playing as his little housewife. The thought brings his infamous cocky grin to his face before it quickly drops, nose scrunched in disgust at a rather unpleasant smell wafting into his nostrils.

“What the —”

Oh, it was just his socks.

Satoru grumbles to himself, annoyed and muttering under his breath, barely able to hear himself over the vaccuming in the other room, going on his usual spiel about how much he hates today (and how much he hates his stinky socks — and he knows you wouldn’t disagree with that sentiment), which he wouldn’t have the same confidence saying directly to your face as he continues to dig through the vast mountain of clothes. He releases a long, drawn out sigh, deft fingers hooking into soft fabrics until he pauses, spotting something rather interesting in the pile.

“Eh? What do we have here?”

Taking his arm out from the bin, Satoru’s face lights up with curiosity as he pulls out a cute, pink, strawberry-patterned number with a small bow sewn into the front hem, holding it up to the light, a cheeky glint in his eye. First, his sights dart across the room, waiting for you to pop up around the corner and start berating him for being a pervert at a time like this.

When you don’t, he officially deems it safe, turning his attention back to what was important. He pinches the straps and examines them from every possible angle, a sly smile creeping on his face. He shuts one eye, making optimal use out of the other, intently focused. He has never been more serious about anything. In fact, if he had a tiny magnifying glass in his pocket, it’d be used for moments like this — for him to be weird about his wife’s dirty underwear.

“Oops, I think I might have found something that doesn’t belong to me.~”, he chirps.

Cerulean eyes inspect the (adorable) piece of fabric, and out of instinct, Satoru’s gaze falls on the subtle stains on the seat of the panties, and his smile grows even wider into something cheshire and menacing. He can’t help but let out a low, impressed whistle, eyes twinkling mischievously. Thick fingers trace the stains on the tiny gusset, amusement written all over his face. He giggles to himself.

“Hehe, this is so... cute. Why haven’t I seen these before?”, he inquires to himself with pursed lips, voice laced with feigned innocence as he bats his lashes. Why would you hide these from him? It’s the only possible conclusion he could get to. He’s certain he is well informed in every pair of undies you own — lacey, granny, g-string, thong (and you look unbelievably sexy in all of them). Did you know he’d be gross about these too? Well, you were right.

Satoru slingshots them across the room, and they make a little ping! sound as they hit one of the machines. He repeats the action a few more times but grows tired of it after a few minutes. Next, he tries them on for funsies. But his face soon falls, his pouty expression returning as he tries to squeeze his large frame into them.

“Geez, I’m not that big.”

He wiggles his hips, trying to make them fit, but they’re just too small. He looks down at himself, a mixture of disappointment and amusement on his face, before letting out a loud sigh.

“Aw, no fair! These were supposed to be cute on me too...”

Satoru huffs even more, trying to adjust them so they sit more comfortably, but it’s a lost cause. They were too tight on him, and he’s peeved as well as a little offended he can’t fit into his wife’s underwear like you can his. So, he takes them off, almost tripping over his long legs that get stuck in the holes, before holding them up to his face.

“Don’t tell anyone I did that, okay?”, he whispers to the flimsy cloth in sworn secrecy.

Satoru twirls the panties around his finger, the fabric wrapping around it like a ribbon. The man grows bored, forgetting what he’s in there for in the first place, lips puckered in thought. He spins them in circles, whistling to himself as he leans against the shelf before pausing abruptly. He blinks. An idea pops in his head. He stares at the strawberry-pattern, eyes traveling from the little bow to the sheer white stain. Once again, he looks around the laundry room, ensuring he’s still alone, before slowly bringing the pair close to his face, his twitching nose almost grazing the soft fabric. With caution, he takes a deep sniff, his eyes fluttering shut as he inhales the scent, a throaty moan escaping his lips.

Oh. Yeah. That’s the stuff.

He takes another inhale, face buried in the fabric. He lets out a low, guttural groan, cock throbbing in his pants instantaneously, an immediate reaction, his entire body tensing as the aroma overwhelms him. He goes for another whiff, and then another, his nose pressed firmly against the thin cloth, his breathing growing ragged, becoming intoxicated on you.

Satoru hears the vacuum shut off in the distance and his eyes shoot open, face flushed with arousal and adrenaline. He pulls the panties away from his face with a shaky hand, eyes dilated and hazy with uncontrollable desire. Quickly clutching his treasure close to his chest right over where his heart is thumping loudly against his ribs as if trying to hide them from view — he waits, frozen in place, before he hears it rumbling to life again. A sigh of relief leaves his lips.

He looks down at them again, his gaze lingering on the wet spots before he brings them to his mouth, his tongue darting out to lick the discharge off the fabric. His eyes roll back into his head, a loud pornographic moan escaping his lips as the taste explodes on his tongue. He starts licking faster like it’s his favorite popsicle, practically shoving the whole thing into his mouth to get every drop of your dried juices off it.

“Mmm...”, Satoru whines. “O-oh no... This is...” A shaky breath. “— really bad...” He pants, whispering to himself in a strained voice.

Satoru’s grip on the panties tightens possessively. His breath quickens, cock twitching in his pants the more he breathes in your scent. Those blue eyes are half-lidded, dark and clouded with something primal — a hunger he only gets with you. He pulls the little number out of his mouth, his breathing heavy, a thin strand of saliva connecting them to his lips. He wants nothing more than to taste more of you directly from the source.

A hand flies to his crotch, and he rubs, his cock straining against his grey sweatpants, leaking pre-cum like a broken faucet. The taste of you is driving him insane, and he reminisces on the numerous times he’s buried his face between your legs and ate you out like a man starved, wishing so badly he could do it right now.

Satoru’s muffled sounds grow louder, but it is nothing in comparison to the noisy vacuum in the background — his hand moving frantically against his clothed cock. He’s in a complete daze. He wants more, so much more. He wants to feel your warm cunt wrapped around his cock, squeezing him tightly. Wants to hear your cries and screams of pleasure, and most of all — to see your face twisted in ecstasy as he makes you cum over and over again like the mess you are beneath him when he takes you every night.

With that, your husband rips your panties out of his mouth, drool running down his chin, quickly freeing his massive cock, pre weeping from the tip in globs. He takes the measly cloth, wrapping it around his shaft, using it like a makeshift fleshlight. He starts stroking himself, grunting and groaning loudly as he fucks your underwear. His breathing grows heavier, cheeks pink, eyes glassy, his balls tightening up, ready to explode at any moment.

Satoru’s strokes become faster and faster, his hips bucking wildly as he thrusts into your panties like a madman. The small room fills with the lewd schlicking of his cock and his guttural, borderline filthy sounds. Standing there, he imagines how it would feel to have your hot, tight cunt clenching around his cock instead of this flimsy piece of fabric. Your husband could just go over to where you were now, to the real thing, and bend you over and fuck the attitude and temper out of you. He grits his teeth, practicing self control.

Suddenly, your voice rings out, calling for him over the loud vibrations of the machine. He stills, a pounding in his ears as he holds his breath before he starts stroking himself again at a pace. He could get caught, but that knowledge only serves in making the whole situation hotter, his hand moving even faster as he tries to stifle his grunts. The sound of your voice fuels him, and he can feel himself getting closer to the edge, the thrill of you walking in sending a shiver down his spine and straight to his cock, the massive thing twitching and bobbing in his hold.

Another “Satoru!”, and he leaks.

“A-ah! I’m coming, fuck!”

And just like he said he would, Satoru cums, his cock erupting like a geyser, thick ropes of hot, sticky seed shooting out of him. He shudders violently, the orgasm hitting him hard, mind going completely blank from the sheer intensity of it all. The only thing on his mind is you. Your husband whimpers loudly, your name tumbling heedlessly out of his lips over and over again like a prayer, giving more energy into the hand working his cock than any chore he’s ever done in his life.

“Oh god… oh god!”

“What?!”, you yell back to him in confusion, blissfully unaware as your voice drowns out into background noise.

Satoru continues to ejaculate, coating your underwear in a thick layer of his white fluid. He keeps thrusting into the makeshift fleshlight, milking himself dry, his entire body trembling. He moans your name again, his cock twitching violently as he pumps more and more out and the fabric soaks it up greedily just like your cunt would, legs going weak and numb from right under him due to the sheer intensity of his orgasm. Meanwhile, you continue to vacuum in the living room, none the wiser.

His movements eventually come to a full stop, sighing in satisfaction with a hoot, staring at your now messy pair of panties. The idiot admires his handiwork with a perverted sense of pride, a wide goofy grin on his face, wiping his slicked cock with them, smearing more of his mess onto it as he shivers at the oversensitivity.

You shout again over the vacuum from the other room, causing him to yelp in surprise. “Putting the clothes in the washing machine should not take that long!” He quickly scrambles to clean himself up, making himself presentable by adjusting his pants, hiding your soiled panties beneath the other clothes before he makes his way to you.

Satoru strolls back into the living room, whistling in satisfaction to himself, hands in the pockets of his sweats, trying to act casual and pretend like he wasn’t just doing the nastiest thing imaginable in the laundry room with your underwear. You stop vacuuming and turn to him, throwing him a scathing look.

He gives you a disarming smile, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your neck, giving you a kiss, trying to defuse your fuse with affection and his classic charm. You brush him off, vexed. “What the hell was taking you so long?!” He opens his mouth to speak but you don’t let him. “Never mind.” You groan, “Just... go throw out the trash.” You pause. “Please?”, you add to sweeten the deal.

Satoru winces slightly at first, but then he internally groans. Taking out the trash is one of the most boring chores he has to do. Then you just had to tack on the ‘please’ and his resolve crumbles instantly. Damn it, how could he say no when you asked him so nicely? He sighs dramatically, trying to act put-out by the request.

“Ugh, fineee.” He whines.

You glare.

He quickly shuts up, sensing your growing irritation. He knows better than to push your buttons right now, especially when you are already pissed at him. So, he begrudgingly lifts up the trash bag, trying his best to show off his beefy biceps as he does this, and heads for the door, muttering under his breath about how much of a hassle taking out the trash is.

Right before he makes his exit, Satoru glances behind him one last time, only to see you staring intently . . . at his muscles. Your eyes flit up to his rather quickly and suspiciously, noticing the pause in his movements. “What?”

He smirks, smug in a way that screams Satoru.

“There’s no need to be shy.” He starts smoothly and you quirk a brow, pursing your lips. “You can look. It’s okay to want all of this, babe.” The bastard flirts with a wink.

Satoru flexes his biceps and his back as casually as he can one last time for good measure, grunting and groaning excessively as he does so, and those gorgeous eyes of yours roll in exasperation, but he can still pick up on the small telltale hint of a smile gracing your lips.

There it is.

That smile.

You love it, you love him. No matter how much you play hard to get even though you’re already stuck with him forever, there was a reason why you still chose him out of all the men in the world (and it totally has everything to do with how amazing and handsome he is).

“Just go, you big idiot.”, you speak in finality, your tone conveying what your words fail to express, eyes shimmering with an unspoken emotion. But he knows what it is, and he knows you know it too.

Satoru salutes, body tall and rigid, one hand holding the heavy black trash bag while the other comes to rest just at his forehead. His cute brows scrunch together in playful seriousness, eyes full of respect, unwavering like his devotion towards you. In that instant, the world seems to pause, the gesture being both simple and profound, a silent vow from him to you. It spoke volumes even after all the hassle of today, and you need not ever say more.

“Yes, ma’am!”

He would follow you to the ends of the world.

a while later . . .

Walking into the laundry room, you go to check to see if the wash cycle is complete so you can transfer the wet clothes into the dryer — only to find out he didn’t even start it or anything! With loud stomps, you storm out of the room, making your way down the hall, basket in hand, up to where he’s lounging on the sofa, playing Candy Crush on his phone without a care in the world — but the sweetness of the previous moment would soon dissipate.

“Satoru! You didn’t even put the laundry in the machine!”

Shit.

The culprit jolts in his seat on the couch, looking up from his phone to see you standing there with the laundry basket in your hands, looking like you’re about to explode with anger. He immediately feels a pang of guilt, and a little apologetic, but mostly — fear.

How did he forget to put the laundry in? He quickly pockets his phone and tries to play it cool.

“O-oh, I, uh, must have forgotten. My bad sweetie...” he titters.

“Forgotten?”, you repeat in disbelief and he blinks dumbly. “It was the only thing I asked you to do in there!”

You slam the basket down on the coffee table, making him jump. His eyes widen as you surf through the clothes to separate the clothing into two piles, and in a moment of revelation, Satoru suddenly remembers the little surprise he left in there — and he freezes.

He can only watch on in horror as you begin to touch and examine each and every article of clothing with a keen eye, his heart rate spiking. It is inevitable. You are going to stumble upon the mess he made earlier; the cum-soaked, used panties that he left in the dirty laundry with the rest of the clothes — and you were going to chew him up and spit him out before evidently, killing him.

Fuck.

He tries to speak up, to stop you from continuing, but his throat feels dry and his tongue feels heavy in his mouth. All he can do is sit there frozen, face pale and sweat starting to bead on his forehead as you get closer and closer to finding out.

You huff. “Why do you always act like everything is so difficult? All you have to do is —” You pause, and Satoru’s heart sinks to his stomach.

“What is that?”, you pronounce your words slowly, voice low and full of suspicion, hands getting wet with something sticky and white.

Your husband can feel his soul leave his body as soon as you pull out that cute number which is very obviously drenched (he has a big load). The poor man swallows hard, perspiration pouring down the side of his temple, palms growing clammy.

This is it. This is the end. This was how the Strongest would die — at the hands of his wife.

You look down at the soiled fabric in disgust, grossed out by the tacky mess on your hands. Knowing the type of person your husband is (a pervert), it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what the so-called ‘mysterious fluid’ is.

Satoru sits there, looking like he’s about to pass out, cheeks now pink and sockets round in utter embarrassment, the picture perfect definition of someone who has been caught. A pair of cerulean eyes dart around the room, desperately searching for an escape route while another, sharp and terrifying, latch onto his form — and he knows no amount of sweet talking will be able to get him out of this one.

He is absolutely screwed.

p.s. — satoru is banned from doing laundry ever again. he can’t help but be a little disappointed even though he never wanted to do it in the first place :’(

#᠙𑣱 — aomi writes #gojo x reader #gojo x you #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #satoru x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x you #satoru x you #jjk satoru #gojo x y/n #gojo headcanons #jjk drabbles #gojo smut

2K notes · View notes

ice-man-goes-bwoah · 2 months ago

Note

Thank god someone else sees the potential of remmick’s sub side bc 👀 that man has been looking for connection for centuries - if you were kind to him I think he’d be putty in your hands and it would be glorious. I’d love for you to explore this in your writing - I know you’d kill it and leave me screaming into a pillow haha

Let me be soft with you||Remmick x reader

Summary — remmick has never known an act of kindness in his life until he met you.

Warning smut dom!reader sub!remmick p in v reader rides remmick

Word count—1017

A/n— I LOVE SUB REMMICK AND I NEED MORE

Tagging @abriefnirvana @fuckoffbard

The wind outside howls, brushing dead leaves across the rotting windowsill. The cabin creaks around you—old wood, brittle bones, shadows so thick they feel alive. This place is half-forgotten, sunken into the ribs of the forest like a wound no one wants to reopen. No one comes here. Not anymore.

Not since he made it his own.

You shouldn’t be here.

And yet, Remmick can’t look away from you.

You’re warm. Real. Grounded in a way that mocks the rotting walls and the ghost-thick air. You stand there like you belong, unshaken by the stink of old blood or the teeth of the cold. All soft curves, steady breath, and those kind, quiet eyes that haven’t flinched once—not even when you stepped over the threshold and saw him bare-chested, blood-drenched, wild-eyed.

“You should’ve run,” he rasps, back pressed to the wall like he thinks you might burn him. “Should’ve screamed.”

You tilt your head, like you’re studying a puzzle rather than a predator. “Why would I scream? You haven’t hurt me.”

His jaw flexes. His fingers twitch. There’s blood dried like rust across his collarbone, a streak of it trailing down toward the edge of his sternum. The chain around his neck catches the firelight—dull gold, heavy. Worn not for style, but like penance. Like ownership.

“You don’t know what I am,” he growls. There’s something raw under it. Not menace—shame.

“I do.” You step closer, slow and sure. “And I think you’re tired.”

He flinches like you slapped him.

It’s the kind of answer he doesn’t know how to fight. Not judgment. Not fear. Just truth, laid bare between you. And you, offering it so gently he could scream.

“I’ve done terrible things,” he mutters, voice fraying.

“I know.”

You’re right in front of him now. He could reach you. He could snap your neck. Drain you. Feed on you until the blood runs down his chin. But he doesn’t move. His hands stay clenched at his sides, trembling with effort, nails biting into his palms.

You press your palm to his chest.

His dead heart stutters. Not a beat, not life—but something. Recognition. Longing. Ache.

“You don’t scare me, Remmick.”

And something inside him—something old and ruined—breaks.

He doesn’t remember his knees hitting the floor. Doesn’t feel the pain of it. Just the cotton-soft thump of surrender as he folds, head bowed, hands gripping the hem of your shirt like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His forehead presses into the warmth of your stomach, desperate, reverent.

“Please,” he breathes, voice so quiet it trembles. “Don’t be cruel.”

“I’m not,” you whisper. Your fingers find his hair, slow and soothing, and his whole body shudders like the simple touch is too much. “Let me be soft with you.”

He makes a sound—low, ragged, almost animal. A wounded thing trying not to bleed out in front of you. It tears out of him like a confession. Like a prayer.

You don’t stop. You hold him through it. You let him kneel. You let him need.

“I’m not good,” he says, mouth still pressed to your belly like he’s trying to hide in you. “Not clean. Not… worthy of this.”

“You don’t have to be good,” you say, gentler still. You tug on his hair, tilting his head up until his eyes meet yours—stormy, wide, afraid. “You just have to be mine.”

His breath catches.

God. He wants that.

He wants to belong. To be claimed, even if he doesn’t deserve it. Wants to forget every name he’s ever taken, every throat he’s ever torn open, every night he’s spent drowning in the dark and trying not to feel.

He surges forward, hands sliding up your waist like he’s starving for you—and you let him. You don’t flinch, don’t falter. You hold his face in your hands, and he leans into the touch like it’s holy.

Like you’re holy.

Like if he lets go, he might never find this again.

You guide him to the bed.

He goes willingly, crawling back on the creaking mattress while watching you with wide, desperate eyes. You undress without shame, your full body bathed in the flicker of firelight—and he stares like he’s witnessing a miracle. Not hunger. Worship.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes.

You smile. “You always look at me like that.”

“Because it never stops killing me.”

You climb over him slowly, pressing him down. His breath catches when your thigh settles between his legs, when your weight blankets him. He doesn’t feel crushed. He feels safe.

“Is this okay?” you ask, fingertips brushing his cheek.

He nods, too fast. “Please. I—I don’t want to think. Just tell me what to do.”

You kiss him. He sighs against your lips like he’s never been kissed soft before. Like the world always demanded he take, and you’re the first to give.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you murmur, grinding your hips just slightly. His head thumps back. “Just feel.”

He’s already hard beneath you, hips jerking helplessly, chain cold against your chest as you lean in. You drag your lips down his throat, over the metal links, to the spot above his unbeating heart.

When you rock your hips again, he moans.

“You’re so good for me, Remmick,” you whisper. “So sweet like this.”

His eyes flutter shut. “No one’s ever called me sweet.”

“Then they weren’t paying attention.”

You ride him slow, holding his wrists above his head, letting him tremble under you while his thighs shake and his whimpers fall like prayers. The praise is steady, like rain—washing him clean, softening him where he thought he was stone.

“You take me so well.”

“You’re doing so good.”

“You’re mine, baby.”

“Yours,” he gasps, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes as his orgasm builds. “Yours, yours, please don’t stop—”

You don’t. You stay with him through the high, through the cries and shudders and pleading. When he comes, he falls apart completely—back arching, mouth falling open in silent reverence, body shaking as you ride him through it, gently coaxing him to give more.

And afterward, when you lower yourself to lay on top of him, he wraps his arms around you like a lifeline.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

“You deserve everything,” you whisper back. “Especially this.”

You stroke his hair until he falls asleep.

For once in his long, dark life, Remmick dreams of peace.

#remmick x fem!reader #remmick x you #remmick fanfic #remmick x reader #remmick smut #remmick sinners #sinners remmick #remmick #stack sinners #sinners x reader #sinners fanfiction #sinners fic #sinners movie

2K notes · View notes

em1i2a3 · 30 days ago

Text

Moonlight Desires

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Fem!Reader

Summary: You’ve wanted Rhett Abbot since the day you laid your eyes on him. So when the opportunity for a friends with benefits arrangement presents itself you immediately take the plunge, even though there is a risk of hurt feelings on both ends.

Warning: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut (a lot of it), Jealousy, Angst, Fluff, and Swearing. We love when people don’t know how to communicate their feelings properly and seek arrangements that may cause issues! We love a jealous cowboy though…Can’t say no to that.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up y’all), Dirty Talk, Rough Sex, Sensual Sex, Fingering, Oral Sex (Female Receiving), Biting, Scratching, Very Light Choking, Bruising (not intentional bruising…But there’s bruising lol), Spitting ((hopefully I didn’t miss anything)

Author’s Note: Oh how we love a juicy friends with benefits fic. I eat these up, especially when you’ve got two people who don’t know how to communicate their feelings for one another and it tailspins…With a happy ending of course (in more ways than one HA! ZING!) anyways! Thank you for @haydenlizz for your lovely request! I hope this lives up to the ask, and that I met all requirements :), enjoy!

Word Count: 11,698

You knew who Rhett Abbott was before you ever really met him.

Everyone in Wabang did. He was that roughed up boy with grass-stained jeans and dirt-slick boots, who rode bulls on weekends and left class with scabbed knuckles and a crooked grin. He had a laugh like summer and eyes that always looked like they’d seen more than a kid his age should’ve.

He wasn’t exactly a jock, nor was he the best student either. He floated between circles–grinning at teachers, fumbling over flirting with girls he had no intentions of keeping, and disappearing before anyone could really get close to him.

You had a lot of classes together. He’d copy your history notes with a lazy drawl of ‘ya got the best handwritin’ I’ve ever seen,” and sit behind you in English, whispering dumb jokes until you were biting your lip to keep from laughing.

You truly didn’t think he acknowledged you as more than a classmate, until one day he walked you home after your truck died in the school parking lot after a football rally. He had dust on his boots, and rope burns on his palm and arms when he came up to you, and that blue-eyed smirk had softened into something quieter.

”Don’t want you walkin’ alone,” He’d said, “Town gets too quiet after dark…Wouldn’t want anythin’ happenin’ to you.”

After that day you weren’t able to look at him the same, and you’d been half in love with him ever since.

———————

The both of you stayed in Wabang after graduation. Neither of you left for college–you didn’t find a good enough reason, and Rhett just didn’t have the guts to leave, even when he told you–more than once, usually after a few drinks–that he would.

“I’m not stayin’ in this damn town forever,” He’d mutter, picking at the label of a peer bottle, with the porch swing creaking under the weight of both you bodies. You’d glance sideways at him with a smirk.

”Sure you’re not.”

But you both knew the truth. Wabang had its claws in you. It wasn’t just the land or the quiet or the unspoken expectation that you’d stay and carry on what was already here. It was the comfort of familiarity. The way the roads remembered the tires of your truck, and the way the stars always looked better from the Abbott’s fence line.

The way he was still here…That was enough for you…

You didn’t really talk about your friendship. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could sum up in words. It was just a constant.

It was Rhett knocking on your door at 11 p.m. with a busted knuckle and a lopsided grin, asking if you had any more of that whiskey he liked. It was you handing him a bag of frozen peas without comment, and sitting beside him on the couch while a movie played in the background–neither of you really watching it.

It was you keeping a spare key under the doormat for him–just in case.

It was him fixing the squeak in your truck door without you asking.

It was the dumb inside jokes, and shared music taste, and the way you always knew when he was lying to you because of the way he wrinkled his nose and batted his eyelashes.

You didn’t flirt with him, but the tension was always there, crackling beneath the surface like dry kindling waiting for a match. You called it closeness, his mother called it something else entirely, especially when she would see the both of you in action together, or when she would see you watching him.

Because you went to every single bull riding meet.

It didn’t matter if it was fifteen minutes outside of town or two hours into the next county–you were there, usually wedged between Cecilia and Perry Abbott, with your hands clenched tight around a plastic cup, with your heart hammering through your ribs every time he got thrown.

Rhett always spotted you in the crowd, even with his adrenaline spiked high and dirt caked into his skin, he’d look toward the fence line the moment he climbed off that bull–head tilting just a little, eyes sweeping the stands until they found yours. When you waved, he’d smile, soft and crooked, as if seeing your worried face made things worth it somehow.

Afterward, you’d sneak him away from the crowd and bandage his wrists or ribs in the front seat of your truck, your hands careful, your eyes averted, and your voice scolding but warm.

“Y’know you don’t have to prove anything right?” He would shake his head at you, wincing as you tightened the bandages, before reaching for his painkillers, mumbling.

”Ain’t about provin’–just gotta feel somethin’.” And you understood that on another level.

Then there were the weekends where you and him would go out drinking together, with or without Perry.

Sometimes it was a bonfire at someone’s ranch. Oftentimes, it was the back booth at a random bar, with Rhett’s knee pressed to yours beneath the sticky table as you made fun of the live band or ripped each other a new one about the latest town gossip about one another. Then sometimes you would play darts until your aim got too loose to win.

Sometimes he walked you home, and sometimes you walked him home.

More often than not, you ended up in each other’s living rooms, continuing your drinking on the comfort of a worn couch. You’d pass a bottle back and forth, taking sips and cringing. He’d take off his boots and prop them on your coffee table like he paid rent, and you’d push him and tell him to take them and put them at the front door like a normal person.

Neither of you put labels on what you had, and you never asked for more.

But you were in his life the way sunlight lives in dust–not loud or obvious, just always there.

He called you when his truck broke down, when his favorite horse got colic, when his brother went missing for two days and nobody would say why.

You called him when your water heater flooded the kitchen, when your uncle got sick, when your hand shook too much to open a stubborn jar and you didn’t want to cry alone.

He always showed up.

So did you.

And through it all–years, really–people kept asking.

”Y’all together or what?” You’d laugh, and he would smirk, shaking his head ‘no’.

But sometimes, when the music got low and the lights in your trailer softened to that familiar amber haze–when you were half-drunk on bourbon and closer than two people with no claim had any right to be–you wondered:

Why not?

Why wasn’t it more?

You never asked.

And he never offered.

But the ache settled into your ribs like something permanent. Something sharp and quiet and always humming under your skin.

Then lines were crossed…

——————

The night it happened started like any other time you and Rhett hung out.

A six-pack between you on the coffee table. Two bottles already open and held in your respective hands. The same playlist you always put on when the sky turned indigo and the bugs outside started their midnight song. It was low, something moody and twangy, bleeding softly into the corners of your living room like it knew not to intrude.

Rhett was sprawled across your couch, legs wide, his shoulders sinking into the cushions like he’d been there a hundred times–which, to be fair, he had. That old red flannel he always wore after a long day was clinging to him in the heat, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, buttons undone just far enough to show the sweat-shined skin at the base of his throat. His hair was still combed back, only being held by his posture, it he leaned forward tendrils of his light brown locks would certainly fall out of line and get into his eyes.

You were tucked into the far corner of the couch, feet up, knees pulled close to your chest, wearing a faded band tee and your usual cotton sleep shorts–barely-there, worn soft from a thousand washes. No bra. No effort. Just comfort.

Not for him, not really at least.

But still—there was something about the way his eyes kept flicking toward you between sips of beer. Something about the way he lingered, just a second too long, on the exposed stretch of your thigh or the slight sway of your chest when you shifted to grab another bottle.

The air was thick. Summer-heavy. The kind of slow heat that settled into skin and made everything feel a little lazier, a little looser. You were both warm from the drinks, buzzed from the day, and quiet in that way that only ever happened with people who didn’t need to fill silences.

And then he said it.

“I haven’t had sex in a while.”

You blinked, the words falling like a flat rock into the still water between you. He was staring at the beer label, picking at it with his thumbnail like it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. But his voice was too casual. Too practiced. The sentence didn’t belong there. Not between that song and the one before it. Not between the rhythm you’d spent years building together.

You raised an eyebrow at him, “Wow…So that’s where we’re at now, huh?”

Rhett huffed a soft breath, not quite a laugh. “Guess so.”

You studied him then. Really looking at his expression and his body language. His jaw was tight. His posture was just a little too still for how he normally was. His thumb had stripped the label halfway down the neck of the bottle, and his gaze hadn’t lifted once since he’d said it.

“You tellin’ me that because you think I should know,” You said, “or because you want me to do something about it?” That got his eyes on you. Sharp, and steel blue, and more tired than you expected.

“Wouldn’t’ve said it if I didn’t think maybe you’d…I dunno. Get it.” You shifted in your seat, your heartbeat hitching once, then steadying.

”Get what, exactly? Being celibate?” He shot you a look. The side of his mouth twitched–almost a smile, almost a smirk, but weighed down by something heavier.

“Not what I meant,” He muttered, taking a quick sip from his bottle, “Just figured you might be in the same boat.”

You raised your brows. “So what, we’re comparing dry spells now?”

“I mean,” Rhett leaned back, stretching one arm along the back of the couch like he wasn’t deliberately invading your space, “If you wanna get competitive, I’ll win on stubbornness alone.”

You gave him a sidelong glance. “You? Stubborn? No way.”

He grinned for real this time–wide and a little too cocky, like he was trying to climb back into comfortable territory.

You took a sip of your beer. “So let me get this straight. You haven’t had sex in a while, and now you’re sitting here telling me that fact for…What? Sympathy? A medal?”

“Didn’t think I needed a reason,” He drawled. “Just sayin’–sometimes you spend enough nights alone, you start thinkin’ too much.” Your eyes lingered on him. And then you said it–because someone had to.

“Sometimes you start thinking about the wrong people.” The words landed hard. You didn’t mean them to…Or maybe you did.

The air shifted. Heavy, warm, alive with the tension that had been lingering between you for years but had never been close enough to touch like this.

Rhett looked at you again, quieter now.

“You think this would be a mistake?” He asked, voice low.

You held his gaze.

“I think it’d be a mistake we’d both want.”

A beat passed. Then another.

His bottle hit the table with a soft clink. He shifted closer–just a little. Enough for the outside of his knee to touch yours. Enough that you could smell the beer on him.

“We’ve been dancin’ around this for a long time,” He said, almost under his breath.

You nodded once. “Yeah. We have.”

He licked his lips, glancing down at yours. His voice dropped to a murmur, like if he said it louder it might break the spell hanging between you.

“So you’ve thought about it then?”

Your breath caught. “Thought about what?”

He leaned in–slow, deliberate, like he was giving you every chance to stop him.

“Us,” He said softly, “Like this.” His nose brushed against yours, a barely-there drag that left your skin tingling. His lips hovered close—too close. Just far enough that you could still pretend it wasn’t a kiss yet. That it was still a choice.

You could feel the warmth of his breath on your mouth, the sharp tang of beer on it, the way it mixed with that unmistakable Rhett scent–something dusty, sun-warmed, and sweat-slicked, like hayfields and leather and the faintest trace of musky cologne long since faded.

Your chest rose and fell with tight, shallow breaths.

You could see the flecks in his eyes now–the stormy silver threads inside the blue, rimmed dark where his pupils had blown wide. He tilted his head, just slightly, lips brushing your lower one without quite committing.

Then he whispered:

“Bet you’d taste like trouble.”

You made a sound–something between a breath and a hum, your lips parted on instinct.

And then you kissed him.

You moved first, but he met you–his mouth opening the moment yours touched his. It wasn’t polished or perfect. It was a little off-center, and a little too much, and so goddamn honest you felt your whole body flinch toward it. His hand was already at your hip, fingers digging into the bare skin just above your waistband. Yours went instinctively to his jaw, thumb dragging along the scruff of his cheekbone as you deepened the kiss. He groaned–low and guttural–like he’d been holding it in for years.

Your beer bottle was still in your other hand, cold and slick with condensation. You didn’t even look–you just reached out beside you and set it on the coffee table blindly, fingers fumbling for a second before it settled with a quiet thud.

Your now-free hand went to his shoulder, then up–curling behind his neck, slipping into the back of his hair. He shuddered against you.

“Fuck,” He breathed out, like it knocked the wind out of him.

His hands moved–one gripping your thigh tight enough to anchor you, while the other slid up beneath your shirt completely now–calloused fingers skimming your ribs, dragging heat in their wake as they climbed higher. You could feel his fingertips hesitate at the swell of your breast. And then–with reverence and hunger in the same breath–he cupped it.

You gasped.

Your nipple was already stiff, so sensitive from the heat and the tension that you whimpered the moment his palm made contact. He groaned again, deep and ragged, lips crashing into yours harder now–needier, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he was starving.

His thumb flicked over your nipple. You moaned into his mouth, hips shifting instinctively against him, thighs pressing tighter around his.

“Christ,” He muttered against your lips. “You’re gonna ruin me.” He moved fast after that–his hands firm but careful as he grabbed your hips and pulled you across the short distance, settling you right into his lap, your legs straddling his thighs.

Your breath hitched at the feeling of him–solid, strong, and so thick beneath you. Denim rubbed rough against the cotton of your shorts, right where you were already aching, and the sudden friction made your stomach flutter.

You shifted–grinding once, experimentally.

He hissed.

His hands locked down on your hips. “Don’t do that unless you want me to lose my goddamn mind.” You did it again anyways. This time he growled–low and from the chest, one hand sliding up your back, under your shirt, splaying wide between your shoulder blades to keep you close. You buried your fingers deeper into his hair, tugging at the back as you kissed him again–open-mouthed, hungry, teeth scraping, lips plush and pink and bruised with want.

The heat between your bodies was unbearable now. The trailer felt thick with it. Sweat beading at the base of your spine, sticking your shirt to your skin. You could feel Rhett’s thigh muscles flexing beneath you, hard and solid, his jeans taut across them as he rocked up into your core with just enough pressure to make your toes curl.

You broke the kiss with a gasp, forehead resting against his, eyes fluttering shut.

“Bedroom,” You panted heavily, and he didn’t have to be asked twice. He wrapped his arms around your waist–one fluid, grounded motion, strength rolling through his spine as he stood with you in his arms like you weighed nothing.

Your legs locked tight around his hips.

Your breath stuttered as your back bumped gently against the hallway wall. His mouth found your neck–wet, open kisses trailing along your pulse, his teeth catching once on that spot just below your jaw that made your knees go soft. You whimpered. He groaned. The sound he made was pure need.

“I should’ve done this years ago,” He rasped against your throat. “Should’ve known you’d feel this fuckin’ good.”

Then he nudged your bedroom door open with his foot and walked you straight in.

The mattress creaked beneath your combined weight as he set you down gently–but his hands didn’t leave you. His mouth didn’t, either. Not for a second.

He hovered above you, body bracketed between your thighs, and when his hips rolled down again–hard, and slow, with just enough pressure to make you gasp against his lips. The grind of denim against your already-damp cotton was delicious and mean, a friction that bordered on unbearable. Your hands flew to the hem of your shirt, tugging up, breath catching.

Rhett stopped you.

“Let me,” He said, voice wrecked, eyes already dark and heavy with heat.

His fingers curled around the edge of your shirt, slow, deliberate. He peeled it up like it meant something–like unwrapping a gift he didn’t know if he deserved. And when it cleared your head and hit the floor in a soft flutter?

He just looked at you.

His breath hitched. “Jesus.”

Then he lowered himself again–slow. His lips found your collarbone first, the press of his mouth warm and open. His stubble scraped gently against your skin, rough and deliberate, like sandpaper edged in softness. You arched, gasped, fingers threading deeper into his hair as he worked lower.

Down the slope of your chest. Between the soft curve of your breasts.

“You’re burnin’,” He whispered, kissing a path along the swell. “Can feel your heartbeat.”

You moaned as his mouth found your nipple–his tongue wet and warm, his stubble catching just beneath as he sucked you gently into his mouth, tongue flicking slow, then faster.

Your thighs squeezed around his hips. “Rhett–fuck.”

He groaned against your skin.

He kissed lower, trailing fire along your ribs, your stomach, every exposed inch he could reach. His hands never stopped touching–one roaming up to cradle your breast, thumb flicking softly over the one he’d just worshipped with his mouth, the other gripping your waist like he was holding onto something holy.

You were panting now, nearly writhing under him, and your fingers scrambled at the buttons of his flannel, cursing softly when they wouldn’t come undone fast enough.

Rhett sat back on his knees, catching your hands gently in his. “Let me,” He murmured again.

He popped the buttons open one by one, slow and steady, like he wanted you to watch.

And you did.

You watched as the soft fabric fell open and revealed the toned stretch of his chest–sun-kissed, sweat-slicked, dusted with just a little bit of hair–and there, just over the right side of his chest, was the ink you’d seen a hundred times before but never like this.

The bull rider. The rearing beast, hooves kicked out mid-buck, the rider clinging on, frozen in that impossible eight-second storm.

You swallowed hard. You’d seen it before. But not in this light. Not in this context. Not when he was kneeling between your thighs, flushed and panting, staring at you like he wanted to crawl inside your skin.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” He said, voice a low rasp, “And this ain’t gonna last long.” You reached up, palm flattening over the tattoo, fingers splaying across the hard plane of his chest.

“You look better in this light.” His grin faltered–just for a second. Something moved in his eyes. Something softer than lust. Then it was gone, buried under the groan that tore out of him as he pushed you back down again.

He leaned in, kissed you hard, and whispered–

“Wanna taste you.”

You froze. Your heart skipped.

Then you nodded.

And Rhett wasted no time.

His hands were already at the waistband of your shorts, dragging the cotton slowly down your thighs like he was peeling away something sacred. His eyes didn’t leave yours as he did it, not once. They flicked down only when the fabric passed your knees—just enough to take in the sight of you bare before him.

And when they did?

God, his whole expression changed.

His breath hitched, jaw flexing like he was trying not to say something filthy, and then it softened. You’d never seen him look at anyone like that before–like he was staring at something breakable and holy all at once. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You shifted up the bed slightly, breath coming fast, your back meeting the pillows as you settled deeper into the mattress. The air between your thighs felt electric now, flushed and hot and wanting. Rhett followed–crawling after you like something primal and starved. His palms braced on either side of your hips, shoulders hunched as he ducked his head low.

He kissed your knee first.

Then the curve just below it.

Then your inner thigh.

And then again, higher.

Slow, wet kisses dragging open-mouthed up your leg, the scrape of his stubble leaving heat trails across your skin–just abrasive enough to sting, just soft enough to make your breath catch.

When he reached that sensitive, untouched place where your thighs met, he paused. Pressed his cheek there, the heat of him burning into you.

“Been thinkin’ about this–about you–way longer than I should’ve.”

Then he spread you open.

His hands were firm on your thighs, parting them wider, guiding them over his shoulders until he was fully settled between them, mouth hovering just above your soaked core. You could feel his breath—hot, reverent—ghosting over you.

Then his tongue dragged a long, slow stripe through your folds.

You gasped, spine arching, fingers immediately tangling in his hair.

“Rhett–oh my god–”

He groaned like your moan alone had done something to him, like it lit a fire in his gut. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, keeping them steady as he licked you again–slow at first, then firmer, the tip of his tongue circling your clit with maddening precision.

It wasn’t perfect.

It was messy and hungry and a little clumsy–but it was real. Eager. Worshipful.

He moaned into you, mouth slick, tongue relentless, lips pressing wet kisses to your clit between each sweep of his tongue. You felt like you were unraveling–bit by bit, every nerve ending lit up with the heat of his mouth and the press of his stubble, your legs shaking around him.

“Fuck,” He whispered, pulling back for half a second, lips glistening. “You taste like a goddamn dream.” Then he dove back in.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything except hold on–fingers curled tight into his hair, head thrown back, mouth open with sounds you couldn’t stop even if you wanted to.

He sucked gently at your clit now, tongue flicking fast, and your body jolted.

“Oh, fuck, right there–don’t stop–”

His hands came up to your hips again, holding you down as your thighs threatened to close around him. His name fell from your lips like a prayer–again and again–and he just kept going, groaning against you like he couldn’t get enough, like he was drunk on the taste of you, the feel of you squirming beneath his mouth.

When your orgasm hit, it hit like wildfire.

Hot, blinding, breath-stealing. Your whole body arched off the bed, a cry ripped from your chest as your hands gripped his hair and your thighs trembled around his head. He didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down. Just kept licking you through it, slower now, more deliberate–like he was helping you ride it out, tasting every bit of it.

Only when your body went limp against the mattress, your fingers slack in his hair, did he finally lift his head.

His lips were swollen, cheeks flushed, eyes blown wide with something darker than lust. He kissed your thigh once more, slower this time. Then he looked up at you.

“You good?” He asked, voice thick, rough-edged from use.

You stared at him, dazed. “You just…Jesus, Rhett.”

He grinned, cocky and sheepishly all at once.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” He said, crawling back up your body like a man with a mission, “We’re just gettin’ started.”You laughed, breath still uneven, your skin flushed and damp beneath him. “You sure you don’t need a break?” you teased, brushing sweat-matted hair back from his forehead.

Rhett huffed a breath, half a laugh, half a growl. “Darlin’, if you think I’m done after one taste, you don’t know me at all.”

His mouth found yours again—hot, slick with your arousal, and unapologetically greedy. You moaned into the kiss, your fingers dragging along the ridges of his spine, nails scratching lightly just to feel him shudder.

When he rocked against you again, still fully clothed from the waist down, the friction of denim made you both groan. You reached down without thinking, tugging at his belt buckle with quick, practiced fingers. His breath stuttered as he pulled back just enough to watch you.

“Impatient, huh?” he murmured, voice thick with that rough drawl, eyes flickering dark.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you whispered back.

He didn’t argue.

You popped the button on his jeans, dragged the zipper down slow, and slipped your hand past the waistband to cup him through his boxers. The groan he let out sounded like it came from the center of the earth.

“Fuck–” He rasped, head tipping forward to rest against your shoulder. “Keep doin’ that and I’m gonna embarrass myself.”

You smirked and gave him one last squeeze before helping him shimmy out of his jeans. He kicked them off the bed with a grunt, then slid his boxers down in one quick motion, tossing them somewhere behind him to even the playing field.

And then you saw him.

Hard, flushed, heavy–his erection curved slightly up toward his stomach, the tip already wet and glistening. He was thick enough to make your breath hitch, veins prominent along the shaft, the base dusted with soft, light-brown hair that was trimmed but not overly neat–natural, just like the rest of him. Masculine. Raw. Beautiful.

You stared a little too long.

He caught your gaze, saw the way your lips parted–and he smirked, wicked and self-conscious all at once.

“Like what you see?” He asked, accent thick, almost shy in the corners of it.

“I knew you’d be big,” You whispered, licking your lips. “Didn’t think you’d be this pretty.”

That made him flush–the redness high in his cheeks. His cock twitched against his stomach, and he groaned like you’d physically touched him.

“Jesus,” He muttered, hand bracing beside your head, voice dipping low. “Do I need a condom?” You shook your head slowly, eyes locked on his.

“As long as you’ve got a clean bill of health and no STD’s I somehow don’t know about…”

He raised both hands in surrender, playful but sincere.

“Healthy as a horse, darlin’,” He said, drawl thick, words hot against your mouth as he kissed you again, “But I gotta warn you–I ride real hard.”

You laughed–giddy, breathless–and wrapped your legs around his hips to pull him close.

“Then quit stalling, cowboy,” You whispered, “And show me what all that riding has done for you.” Rhett laughed–low and warm and breathless–as he shifted forward, his chest brushing yours, the heat of his skin pressing close.

“Quit stallin’, she says,” He muttered, mouth hovering just above yours, “Like you ain’t been teasin’ me with those damn eyes all night.”

You felt the blunt head of him brush against your soaked folds, your breath catching immediately at the pressure. He rolled his hips once–just enough for the thick ridge of him to drag slick and slow through your arousal, not quite entering, just testing. Your thighs twitched around him.

“Rhett,” You gasped, fingernails curling against the nape of his neck, “Please.”

His jaw flexed. His hand found your thigh and gripped tight, grounding himself before he finally, finally pushed in—slow, careful, inch by inch.

Your mouth fell open. A cry caught at the back of your throat.

“Jesus Christ,” Rhett groaned, voice cracking in half. “You’re so damn tight—fuck.”

The stretch was overwhelming. Not painful, just full—full in a way that made your whole body arch beneath him, your fingers digging into his shoulders as your nails scratched across sweat-slick muscle. He paused when he was about halfway in, panting against your cheek.

“You okay?” he whispered, kissing your temple. His voice was shredded, barely holding on.

You nodded fast, but your breath was still broken. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Just…big. Just need a sec.”

Rhett’s hand slid up and down your side in slow, grounding strokes, his forehead pressed to yours. “Take your time, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Ain’t no rush.”

You clenched around him, and he swore—soft and low and filthy.

After a few more seconds, you shifted under him, rolling your hips a little—testing. Adjusting.

“I’m good,” you whispered, voice steadier now. “Rhett…move.”

He obeyed.

Slowly, reverently, he sank in the rest of the way—grinding his hips down until he was buried fully, seated deep and pulsing against your walls. Both of you moaned in tandem, loud and shameless, the sound tangled with sweat and need and every year you’d spent pretending this wouldn’t happen.

“Holy fuck,” he gasped. “You were made for this.”

Then he started moving.

His thrusts were slow at first, deep and deliberate, dragging along every sensitive nerve ending inside of you like he was memorizing the exact way to break you apart. His jaw was tight with restraint, eyes squeezed shut, the muscles in his neck pulled taut from the effort of not losing control.

You clung to him—arms around his back, lips on his shoulder, whimpering every time he bottomed out.

Then he shifted—sat back just a bit, bracing one hand beside your head and the other slowly dragging down your stomach until it rested just above your pubic bone. He pressed down lightly.

Your vision whited out.

“Oh–fuck–Rhett–what the–”

He grinned, wicked and lazy, watching your eyes go glassy with pleasure as his hand held you down while he rocked up into you again, hitting deeper.

“You feel that?” He rasped, a small bead of sweat glistening down his jaw. “That’s me hittin’ right where you need it. Got this little trick from a girl back in high school–don’t worry though,” His thumb stroked the skin of your stomach, “You’re already screamin’ way louder than she ever did.”

Your hips jerked beneath him and you cried out, body caught between overstimulation and need, your thighs shaking on either side of his waist.

He growled low in his throat and leaned down again, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear. “Told you I ride hard…Hope you got stamina.” You could only moan, helpless under him as he kept you open and trembling, his thrusts still steady but picking up pace, your nails dragging down his back in desperation. Every time he rocked into you with that pressure on your belly, it felt like a bolt of lightning shot through your spine. Rhett’s gaze never left your face.

He watched you fall apart beneath him–watched the way your lips parted, the way your brows drew together like you couldn’t make sense of the pleasure surging through your body. He watched your chest rise and fall in uneven little gasps, your skin flushed and dewy in the soft light of your bedroom.

He grinned–that same cocky little smirk that drove you crazy when he used it in bars or before bull rides, except now it was darker. Hungrier. Wrecked.

“Goddamn,” He rasped, leaning down to press his forehead to yours, his thrusts still deep, still slow–but sharper now, more precise, “You’re makin’ the prettiest fuckin’ faces right now.”

You whimpered, your legs tightening around his waist, and he groaned–like the sound alone made him twitch inside you.

“Could watch you like this all night,” He murmured, voice rough in your ear. “Eyes all glassy, mouth open… You keep squeezin’ me like that and I ain’t gonna last.”

Then, without warning, he dipped his head and bit into the soft spot between your neck and shoulder–just hard enough to make your whole body jolt.

You cried out, hands flying to his back, nails dragging down instinctively. He soothed the bite a second later with his tongue, warm and slow, lips pressing there with something tender that made your chest ache.

“You’re so wet for me,” He whispered against your skin, hips grinding in deep and holding, just to let you feel it. “You’ve been so fuckin’ wet this whole time. Can feel it runnin’ down me every time I slide in.”

You let out a broken sound–half a moan, half a sob–and he shuddered above you, thrusting again. Harder this time. And again. And again.

The headboard started hitting the wall–soft at first, then louder as he picked up speed. A steady rhythm, punctuated by the slap of skin on skin, your moans, his groans, and the creak of the bed springs beneath you.

Your hands were everywhere–on his back, in his hair, clutching his shoulders like he was the only solid thing left in the world. You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. All you could do was feel–feel him, thick and hot and buried so deep it was dizzying, feel his sweat slicking against yours, feel the way your body was building again, tighter and tighter like a storm winding itself up from the inside.

“Come on, baby,” Rhett grunted, his voice catching with every thrust now, like he was chasing the edge of his own pleasure just behind yours. “Give it to me. Wanna feel you fall apart.”

You did.

Your orgasm slammed into you like a freight train–sharp and fast and blinding, your whole body locking up and shaking under him. You screamed his name, voice ragged and high, your nails raking down his back so hard you knew you’d leave marks.

“Fuck–” He choked out, hips jerking once, then again, deeper, harder. “Fuck, I’m gonna–shit…” He buried himself to the hilt, body trembling above you as he let out a raw, guttural sound against your neck. You could feel every pulse of it inside you, hot and thick and perfect.

For a moment, the world just stopped.

The only sounds left were the ragged gasps of your breathing, the thump of your heart in your ears, and the soft whimper Rhett let out as he collapsed on top of you–still buried deep, chest heaving, sweat-slicked and wrecked.

He didn’t move. Just wrapped his arms around you and buried his face in your neck like he needed to stay there, skin to skin, where it was safe.

You were still trembling.

He felt it.

He kissed your neck once–soft this time. Then again. Then he whispered:

“Still think it was a mistake?”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“No definitely not…I think it should…It should happen more often.”

———————

After that night, it wasn’t just a one-time lapse. It became something else–something raw and frequent and borderline unmanageable.

You and Rhett started sleeping together like your bodies had been waiting for permission and now couldn’t get enough of it. Like something old had snapped and neither of you knew how to put it back. There was no declaration, no sit-down conversation about what it meant. Just a shared, wordless agreement that this was a thing now. A thing that happened often. A thing you both needed like air.

He’d show up late some nights, boots dusty from the barn or the bar, a tired smile pulling at the edge of his mouth. You’d let him in without a word. Sometimes you were already in bed, sometimes he’d catch you in the kitchen still finishing a drink. The routine was always the same: a kiss before the door was fully shut, clothes in a trail to your bedroom, soft groans swallowed against skin as you dragged each other down into the sheets like you were starving.

And he never stayed.

That part was clear from the beginning. He always made a point to wrap himself around you for a while afterward, breath still ragged, one hand splayed against your bare stomach like he needed to feel it rise and fall. He’d press his mouth to your shoulder, sometimes your neck, and hold you like he meant it.

But he always left before morning.

Sometimes he had early chores. Sometimes Perry needed help with something on the ranch. Sometimes he just didn’t say. And you never asked.

You told yourself it was fine. It was what you signed up for. You respected the rules. No staying over. No sleepovers. No falling asleep in each other’s arms.

It didn’t mean it didn’t sting a little every time the sheets cooled beside you.

You didn’t go to his place much–not since you both agreed it’d be weird sneaking around with his dad or his brother still milling around the property. So you didn’t push. You didn’t ask for more. You didn’t press into the soft ache that bloomed every time his truck door shut and the gravel cracked beneath his tires at 2 a.m.

Instead, you adjusted.

The hookups came fast and varied–sometimes drawn out over hours in your bed, all heat and filth and tangled limbs. Other times they were desperate things done in the back of his truck or the passenger seat of your car, fogging up windows and whispering each other’s names like it was a secret that burned too hot to speak aloud.

One night it was on the hood of his truck just off the road behind the rodeo grounds–your back against warm metal, his mouth between your thighs with stars spinning overhead and his hat hanging low on his head.

Another time it was in your laundry room, barely making it through the door before he bent you over the dryer and fucked you with his hand clamped over your mouth to keep you from moaning loud enough for the neighbors.

He never said no when you reached for him. Never hesitated when your shirt came off. But afterward? When your legs were still trembling and his forehead was pressed against yours like maybe he was breathing you in?

That’s when he always started pulling away.

Always with that soft kiss to your shoulder.

Always with a low, muttered, “Gotta go, darlin’,” like he didn’t want to.

And maybe he didn’t.

But he did anyway.

And you let him.

Because friends with benefits didn’t ask for more. They didn’t ask why he always left or why he never let you fall asleep in his arms or why he sometimes looked at you like you were something he couldn’t hold on to for long.

They didn’t ask.

And you didn’t either.

But it was all eating away at you…And it came to a head one night.

It was late when it happened.

Later than usual, even for you two. The town was quiet, half-asleep, shadows stretching long across the pavement as Rhett pulled his truck down a gravel backroad and parked at the far end of a field you both knew well–an open patch behind the Miller place that hadn’t been tended to in years. No one would see. No one ever came back here.

The night was thick with summer, and the windows fogged fast.

He kissed you before the engine was even off–one hand tugging you over the console and into his lap, your thighs straddling him, the other already palming the back of your neck like he was afraid you’d disappear. His mouth was hot and hungry, tongue sliding into yours like he couldn’t stand even a second of distance. Your hands were on his shirt, pushing it up, exposing warm, sweat-damp skin that tasted like salt and beer and him.

It escalated like wildfire.

Your shorts were pushed aside, his zipper dragged down rough and quick, the head of his cock nudging at your slick entrance before you even fully realized you were grinding down against him like your life depended on it.

“Jesus Christ–” He rasped, arms wrapping tight around your back as you slowly sank onto him, both of you groaning in unison, low and filthy. His head tipped back against the seat, throat bare, jaw clenched like the stretch of you around him was something sacred and brutal all at once.

“Always so tight for me hmm?” he grunted, voice thick, hands sliding down to grip your hips. “Fuckin’ hell, Y/N…”

You rolled your hips, slow and deep, the sound of your bodies slick and obscene in the quiet truck. The windows had gone fully opaque, the only light spilling in from the moon, catching faint on the sheen of sweat gathering at his collarbones, the curve of your bare thighs grinding down against him. Your hands cupped his face, holding him steady–thumbs brushing the ridge of his cheekbones, your foreheads pressed together.

His eyes were wide and dark and unfocused, his breath a ragged pant. He looked ruined already.

“You feel too good,” He muttered, almost dazed. “Too fuckin’ good.”

You kissed him again–messy, open-mouthed, your moan swallowed by the groan in his throat as you rocked faster. Your hands slipped into his hair, fingers gripping tight, tugging, and he whined. He actually whined.

The sound did something to you–flipped a switch.

You leaned in close, your breath heavy against his mouth, and spit into it.

Not aggressive. Not calculated. Just…Natural. Intimate. A little filthy. A fully primal.

His lips parted instinctively to take it in, and something in him snapped.

Rhett’s growl was sharp and guttural, his hand shooting up to wrap around your throat–not hard, not painful, but firm. Possessive. Like he didn’t even know he’d done it until your breath caught and your pupils blew wide with heat.

“You dirty fuckin’ girl,” He rasped, voice shaking. “You knew what that would do to me.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as he started fucking up into you with force, the truck seat creaking beneath you, the angle tight and punishing. His hand held your throat like a command, thumb resting right over your pulse point as his other arm anchored you down hard to his lap.

The sound of skin against skin echoed off the fogged glass. Wet. Furious. Desperate.

You were both sweating, trembling, completely gone.

“You like me chokin’ you while you ride me?” he panted, eyes wild, face flushed. “Like when I’m deep enough you feel me here–” He pressed his palm lower, flat against your abdomen where the head of his cock hit deep. “That what you want?”

Your head fell back, a moan tearing from your throat as he fucked up into that spot over and over again. “Yes–yes–right there, please–”

He was growling now, “Gonna come on me, Y/N? Right here in the fuckin’ truck where anybody could see if they tried hard enough?”

Your whole body tightened.

Rhett bit down against your neck, sucking hard at the skin there, and the pressure, the stretch, the grip on your throat–

You shattered.

Your orgasm hit like a freight train–wracking your body, your hands shaking, thighs squeezing around his hips like a vice. You sobbed out his name, head tucked into his shoulder, fingers clawing at his back.

He came seconds after, hips stuttering, choking out a gasp of your name like it was a confession and a sin all at once. His cock twitched deep inside you, spilling hot and thick, his arm locked tight around your back as he buried himself to the hilt and stayed there, shaking.

Neither of you moved for a while.

The only sound was the ragged pant of breath and the faint hum of the cicadas outside, still singing like the night hadn’t just shifted on its axis.

Eventually, Rhett’s hand eased off your throat—replaced with a soft, reverent touch along your jaw.

“You okay?” he whispered, voice wrecked.

You nodded into his shoulder, chest still heaving. “Yeah…Yeah.”

He kissed the side of your head softly. You stayed curled against him, breath finally slowing, your body still trembling from aftershocks and overstimulation. Rhett’s arm was around your back, hand splayed warm and wide across your spine. His other hand had drifted down to your thigh, thumb tracing soft circles in a rhythm that didn’t match the frantic one from minutes ago.

Eventually, you shifted. He did too. Just enough to kiss your shoulder again before helping you carefully off his lap and back into the passenger seat. You winced a little, tugging your shorts up over your hips while Rhett tucked himself back in and adjusted the hem of his shirt.

Neither of you spoke until he reached forward to twist the key in the ignition, the old engine rumbling to life beneath you. The AC kicked in, pushing out sticky warmth, and the windows slowly started to defog as he pulled out of the field and back onto the gravel road.

Your hair was a mess. His collar was damp. You didn’t bother fixing either.

The silence was comfortable. Familiar. Until Rhett’s hand dropped from the gearshift back to your thigh and stayed there. You glanced down at it–at the way his fingers spread, slow and easy, like they belonged there, even though it wasn’t anything to be read into.

“You doin’ anything this weekend?” He asked eventually, his voice still a little hoarse.

You turned your head toward him. “What kind of ‘doing’ are we talking? The biblical kind, or the regular?”

He cracked a grin, that familiar boyish smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. “Was gonna ask if you wanted to come to the bar. Saturday. Me, some of the boys…Y’know the usual.” You shifted a bit in your seat.

“Yeah, I’m in,” You said, “But fair warning–you’re drivin’ us there, not back. Because I fully plan on matching you drink for drink and I will end up dancing on someone’s table.”

Rhett huffed a laugh through his nose, patting your thigh affectionately. “That right?”

“Mhm.”

“Well, I don’t mind walkin’ back to your place,” he said, glancing over at you. “Would just have to be prepared for the second trek back to my place.”

You raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “You say that like it ain’t something you do every time anyway.”

His smirk faltered.

You leaned your head against the window, voice casual. “You ever think about staying? Just once?”

That landed heavier than you meant it to. Rhett’s hand went still on your leg. His eyes stayed fixed on the road, jaw shifting tight for a second like he was grinding molars behind closed lips.

“I mean—” you added, trying to sound breezy, “Not a demand or anything. Just a question.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then:

“I think about it.”

You blinked.

His fingers resumed moving, brushing lightly now, thoughtful. “More than I should, probably.”

You turned your head slowly to look at him. His expression was unreadable–serious, but not cold. Distant, but not cruel. Like he was wading through something heavier than the question itself.

“So why don’t you?” You asked softly.

Rhett didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quieter than you’d expected. “Because I don’t know how to make it mean less.”

You stared at him.

He glanced your way. “Stayin’ over, I mean. That ain’t just sleepin’. Not for me.”

You nodded, slowly. “So what is it then?”

He didn’t answer.

Just kept his hand on your thigh, thumb tracing idle patterns into your skin as the truck rolled on, headlights stretching into the dark.

You didn’t say anything else.

And neither did he.

The silence didn’t feel quite like comfort anymore.

Not this time.

———————

The bar was already halfway full by the time you and Rhett walked in, the familiar pulse of country rock vibrating through the wooden floorboards, neon signs buzzing quietly above the heads of locals hunched over whiskey and worn conversation.

You were both a few drinks in by the time it started.

Nothing serious–just beer, a round of tequila shots with the boys, and the hazy sort of warmth that settled into your limbs the way a summer night always did after a long day. Rhett had his arm slung casually along the back of your barstool, his body close but not touching, eyes half-lidded as he nursed a beer and laughed at something one of his buddies said.

And then the guy approached you.

Not from town. Definitely not one of Rhett’s people. He had a clean look about him–more polished than usual for Wabang. Collared shirt. Straight teeth. That too-easy charm of someone who knew they were decent-looking and had never been told otherwise.

You could feel Rhett tense before he even spoke.

The guy leaned against the bar beside you, grinning like he had time to kill and no one to kill it with.

“Hey,” He said, eyeing the bottle in your hand. “That what I think it is?”

You looked down. “A beer?”

“Not just any beer. That’s a Lone Star. You don’t strike me as a Lone Star girl.”

You smirked, humoring him. “Then what kind of girl do I strike you as?”

The man’s grin widened. Rhett went quiet beside you, the fingers wrapped around his bottle flexing just slightly.

The guy kept talking. You flirted back, just a little. Nothing serious. A tilt of your chin. A cocked eyebrow. A laugh that was more out of habit than real amusement.

Rhett didn’t say anything–but he moved. Sat up straighter. Pulled his arm back from behind your chair. His knee knocked into yours once, not accidental, and you felt it. That shift. That heat.

When the guy reached out to brush his hand against your arm–a soft touch, not gross, but bold enough–Rhett stood up.

“Gonna hit the head,” He muttered to no one in particular. But his eyes flicked toward you when he passed, and they didn’t hold that usual warmth. There was something sharp in them now. Hurt, maybe. Something darker.

He disappeared into the back hallway, and your gut twisted a little.

The guy leaned in. “That your boyfriend?”

You gave a half-smile. “Something like that.”

He looked disappointed. “Shame.”

You didn’t respond. Just slipped off the barstool and made your way toward the hallway.

You found Rhett by the back exit door, hands in his pockets, staring at the dusty floor like it had personally offended him.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, voice low.

He shook his head without looking at you. “Nothin’.”

“Rhett.”

Still nothing. Just the dull hum of the jukebox spilling in from the main room, laughter echoing down the corridor behind you.

You stepped closer. “You sure about that?”

His jaw tensed. “Yeah. Just…Tired.”

It didn’t sound like the truth. But you let it slide.

Eventually, the night pulled you both back to the bar. More drinks. Another round of shots. You ended up on the dance floor for a bit, swaying together, laughing when Rhett pretended to be too drunk to spin you. But he never fully relaxed–not the way he usually did. Not the way he always had with you.

When the bartender rang the last call bell, the room had thinned. Most people had filtered out already, and your feet ached from the boots you regretted putting on.

Rhett threw down enough cash to cover both your tabs and stood.

“C’mon. Leave the truck. I’ll get Perry to help me pick it up tomorrow.”

You nodded, following him out into the warm night, the buzz of alcohol still humming beneath your skin.

The walk back to your trailer was quiet. The gravel underfoot crackled in rhythm with your steps, the stars wheeling silently overhead. You walked close enough for your arms to brush, but neither of you reached for the other.

Not yet.

Not after that.

You didn’t ask again what was wrong.

And Rhett didn’t offer.

But whatever it was–it was still there. In the silence. In the sting of it.

And it wasn’t going away.

The trailer creaked softly as you both stepped inside, the screen door groaning a little before it clicked shut behind you. The air was warm–still holding the heat from the day–and smelled faintly like lavender from the aromatherapy humidifier. Rhett toed off his boots near the door, silent, and you locked up behind him.

He didn’t follow you into the kitchen right away.

You moved on instinct–tossing your keys onto the counter, flicking the dim overhead light on low. The soft hum of the fridge filled the silence as you pulled it open and reached for the Tupperware you’d stacked there earlier.

“I got some leftovers from last night,” you offered gently, glancing over your shoulder. “That stew I told you about–still good cold, but I can heat it up if you want.” Rhett didn’t answer right away. He hovered near the small table, one hand resting on the back of the chair, eyes downcast. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but inside his own head.

You set the container on the counter and grabbed two glasses from the cupboard. “Or just some water, if you’re feelin’ it.”

He let out a soft exhale through his nose and finally sat down. “Water’s good.”

You filled both glasses and brought them over, sliding one in front of him before taking the seat across. He took a sip, then held it in his hands like it might anchor him.

He still hadn’t looked at you.

“Okay,” you said softly, careful not to make it sound like a demand. “What’s goin’ on with you?”

Rhett blinked. His jaw flexed. But he didn’t look angry. Just…Tired. Off-kilter. Like whatever was eating at him wasn’t done chewing.

“You’re not usually like this,” You added, resting your forearms on the table. “You’ve been quiet all night. That wasn’t just the beer.”

His eyes finally lifted to yours–and they held something in them you couldn’t quite name. Something you weren’t sure you were ready to see.

He shook his head once, slow. “I dunno,” He muttered. “Feels like somethin’s slippin. And I can’t… Grab onto it.”

You leaned in slightly. “You mean us?”

He looked away again, jaw working. “I dunno what I mean.”

“You’re allowed to say if something hurts, y’know,” You said, voice soft but steady. “You don’t always have to act like everything’s fine just ‘cause that’s what we agreed to.”

There was a pause.

Then: “It wasn’t just the flirting,” He said, so quietly you almost missed it.

You waited.

Rhett’s eyes found yours again, and for once, he didn’t look away.

“It was seein’ you smile like that,” He said. “With someone else. Like maybe… Maybe I ain’t the only one you do that for.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“That’s not fair,” You said gently. “You’ve never asked me to not entertain anyone else. And I haven’t until tonight.”

“I know,” He said. “That’s the thing. You didn’t do nothin’ wrong.” You watched the way his hand gripped the glass. The tension in his fingers. The way his knee bounced slightly beneath the table, betraying nerves he was too proud to name.

“Rhett,” You said, quieter now. “Were you jealous?”

He didn’t answer.

Not right away.

Just sat there, in the dim light of your trailer, with his jaw clenched and his eyes shadowed, the silence stretching so thin between you that it almost hummed.

You rose from your chair slowly, the legs scraping softly against the floor. Rhett’s eyes didn’t follow. His stare stayed fixed on the table, as though whatever lived in the grain of the wood was easier to face than you.

But you didn’t let that stand.

You stepped in front of him, and he still didn’t look up. Not until your hand reached forward–two fingers tilting his chin up gently.

“Look at me,” You said, softly.

His eyes lifted, wary and wide, the blue of them darker in the dim light. He looked vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed–like he wasn’t just holding his breath, but his heart too, trapped in his chest, unsure if it was about to break or leap.

You leaned in, hands rising to cradle his face between your palms, your thumbs grazing the bristle along his jaw. His breath caught. The angle of your touch forced him to keep his head tilted up, eyes locked with yours. There was nowhere to look but you.

“Were you jealous?” You asked again, quieter this time.

He didn’t blink. Just swallowed hard. His lips parted, then closed. Opened again.

And finally, he said it. Barely a whisper.

“Of course I was.”

Your breath stuttered softly. You could feel it—that subtle shift in the air between you. Like something sacred was about to be said. Or undone.

Your hands didn’t leave his face.

“Because you want me to be yours…” Your voice dropped, a breath more than a whisper, “And yours only?”

His lashes fluttered like he hadn’t expected you to say it aloud.

There was a long pause.

Then, a quiver in his bottom lip. His mouth opened. No sound. He closed it again. Tried once more.

“…Yeah.” It came out rough. Unsteady. Real.

Your heart gave a slow, traitorous ache in your chest. His eyes were glassy, like something too honest had cracked open and spilled out of him. You swallowed hard, gaze flicking over his face. You could feel the heat rising in your own cheeks. Something low in your belly tightened at the way he was looking at you now–like you were something holy he hadn’t meant to touch, but couldn’t stop reaching for.

You leaned in closer. Your hands slid down to his neck, your forehead nearly brushing his, and your lips ghosted the space beside his mouth.

“Then claim me for real, Rhett,” You whispered, barely audible. “Not just in the dark. Not just when it’s easy. Claim me as yours.”

Rhett didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

His mouth crashed into yours like it was instinct—like he was answering the only way he knew how. But it wasn’t rough like the others, not rushed or desperate. This kiss was slow. Deep. Laced with something that burned hotter than anything he’d ever let show. Like he wanted you to feel what he hadn’t had the words to say. Like he wanted to taste every part of the ache he’d been trying to bury.

You moaned softly against his lips, and his hands rose to your waist, gripping tight like he was grounding himself. Your body leaned into his, and he stood—just like that, lifting you as easily as breathing.

You didn’t even have to think–your legs wrapped around his waist like they’d been waiting for that cue all night. Like it was reflex. Clockwork.

The kiss didn’t break as he turned, carrying you toward the bedroom. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging gently at the roots, and he groaned low into your mouth, that sound vibrating straight down your spine.

By the time your back hit the mattress, both of you were already breathing hard. He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his hands smoothing along your thighs, bunching your dress up higher and higher until it pooled at your hips. His gaze drank you in like he didn’t know where to touch first.

“Goddamn,” He muttered, running a hand down your bare leg like he was reverent. “You’re fuckin’ perfect.”

You reached up, grabbing the collar of his shirt to yank him back down. “Then prove it.”

And he did.

His mouth met yours again–hotter this time, wetter. Tongues sliding, teeth clashing. It was messy and full of spit and hunger and the kind of kiss that left you both panting. You felt his hand slip between your legs, fingers stroking through the slick already gathering there, and you gasped into his mouth.

”Always so wet…All for me…” he murmured, pulling back just enough to speak against your lips. “Fuck.”

You didn’t have the breath to answer–not when he was dragging his fingers up and down your slit, teasing the edges of your clit before dipping into your entrance. Not when he curled two fingers inside you and started fucking you slow and deep, eyes locked to your face like he couldn’t bear to look away.

You moaned–loud and shameless–and he swallowed it in another kiss, his free hand cradling the back of your head, holding you in place while his fingers worked you open.

The sound of it was filthy. Wet and obscene and echoing faintly in the room.

He moved with purpose, curling his fingers just right, stroking that spot inside you while kissing you so thoroughly it felt like your bones might dissolve. His mouth broke away only to trail down your jaw, then your neck, biting gently, licking the spot after.

“Want you to come like this,” He rasped, voice ragged. “Wanna feel you gush on my fuckin’ hand before I even get inside you.”

Your hips bucked up helplessly. You couldn’t help it. The pressure was coiling fast–faster than you expected. It was the look in his eyes. The rough sweetness of it all. Like he wanted to ruin you just enough to keep you his.

He pressed his forehead to yours, sweat starting to gather along his brow. “Come for me, Y/N. Just like this…Just on my fingers.” You whimpered, legs trembling as your release built sharp and tight, and then–

It hit.

Your back arched and you cried out, one hand fisting the sheets, the other digging into his shoulder as you came with a shuddering gasp. He held you through it, fingers slowing just enough to milk every last tremor, his mouth brushing your cheek, your jaw, your lips.

“Fuckin’ beautiful,” He whispered. “All mine.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before Rhett was on you again.

There was nothing slow about the way he pulled your dress over your head—nothing neat, nothing gentle. It caught on your arms for half a second before he tugged it free and tossed it somewhere across the room. His hands were back on you immediately, rough palms sliding up your stomach, over your chest, thumbing the soft weight of your breasts like he’d been starving for the feel of you.

You arched into his touch, mouth parting on a gasp, and reached for the hem of his shirt in turn. He helped you, pulling it over his head with a growl caught low in his throat, like he couldn’t stand another second of skin between you. And once it was gone–thrown blindly behind him–his mouth was everywhere–neck, collarbone, the soft rise of your breast–kissing, biting, licking, like he was trying to memorize you through taste. He pulled one nipple into his mouth with a groan, tongue swirling slow and wet, while his hands gripped your thighs like he needed to feel you under his palms, needed to know you were real.

And then he was tugging at your panties, the fabric sliding down your legs with a quiet, desperate sound. You kicked them off without thinking, letting them land somewhere in the mess already forming around the bed. His belt was next–your hands fumbling with the buckle, too frantic to be graceful. Rhett cursed softly against your chest, helping you, pushing his jeans down with a rough jerk of his hips until they were halfway down his thighs.

He didn’t stop to take them off.

Didn’t need to.

Because his body was already pressing into yours–hot, heavy, solid–and you could feel every hard inch of him, thick and aching, dragging against your slick folds like it was killing him not to be inside you.

He leaned over you, one hand bracing against the mattress beside your head, and with the other–he reached for your hand. Intertwined your fingers with his and pinned them down beside your head, palm to palm, knuckles grazing the pillow.

His eyes searched yours for a beat. Just one.

Then his hips surged forward.

The stretch made you gasp, made your back arch, made your fingers squeeze his tighter as he filled you in one deep, unrelenting thrust. You felt the tremble in his arm, the strain in his breath, and when he bottomed out, he groaned–low and filthy–his forehead pressing to yours again.

“Fuck,” He breathed, voice shaking. “You always feel like fuckin’ heaven.”

Your free hand clutched at his shoulder, nails digging in for something to hold onto. He started moving–slow at first, but deep. Every thrust hit that spot inside you that made your eyes flutter, that made your thighs fall wider open, welcoming every inch of him.

“Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ night,” He rasped, voice pitched low against your mouth. “That dress. That smile. The way you looked at him…”

You whimpered, your walls fluttering around him.

“You wanted me jealous, didn’t you?” He growled, dragging his hips back and slamming forward again. The bed creaked. The headboard thumped once. “Wanted me to lose it.”

“No,” you gasped, breath catching. “I wanted to be yours for real….”

His grip on your hand tightened–possessive. And he fucked into you harder then, still deep, but more urgent now. Less rhythm, more need.

“Mine,” He said, grunting with the hard thrust he gave you. “You hear me? Mine. Nobody else gets to see you like this. Nobody gets to feel how fuckin’ tight you get for me.”

Your body shook with every thrust, with every word.

“Say it,” He demanded, hips snapping harder, “Say who you belong to.”

“You,” You moaned, eyes fluttering. “Fuck, Rhett–You. Only you.”

That broke something in him.

His mouth was on yours again, kissing you like it hurt, like he was drowning in it. His thrusts turned frantic–still deep, still dragging you closer to the edge with every roll of his hips, but now he was desperate too. Desperate to make you feel it.

He reached between your bodies, fingers rubbing tight circles over your clit, and your legs shook again.

“I want you to come around me,” He groaned, burying his face in your neck, teeth grazing your pulse, “I want it to be messy, darlin’. Wanna feel it…I need it.” You were already there–so close, the coil pulling tight, the pressure unbearable with the way he was working your clit and pounding into that sweet, swollen spot deep inside.

And then it hit–white-hot, sweeping through your entire body like a wave crashing over every nerve ending. You cried out, clenching around him as your orgasm shattered through you, trembling so hard your hand almost slipped from his.

Rhett groaned like he felt it in his soul.

“Goddamn…That’s it, Y/N…Just like that–fuck, you’re squeezin’ me so fucking tight.” He thrusted once, twice–then he was spilling into you with a broken, guttural moan. His hips stuttered and he stayed buried deep, pressing down so hard you could feel his heartbeat in the way his cock pulsed inside you.

His hand was still gripping yours. Tight. Like he couldn’t let go even if he wanted to.

When it was over, he didn’t pull out.

Didn’t move.

Just rested his weight over you, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, lips brushing your temple.

“You wreck me,” He whispered, voice wrecked and ruined. “Every fuckin’ time.”

You smiled–soft, dazed–and turned your head to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“And you still come back for more.”

He let out a soft laugh, one that warmed against your skin. His grip on your hand loosened just enough for your fingers to thread tighter, more secure.

“I always do,” He murmured. “Always will…And now that you’re mine…I’m going to stay the night with you.”

#rhett abbott smut #rhett abbott #outer range #rhett abbott fanfiction #rhett abbott fic #rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott x you #rhett abbott x y/n #x reader #lewis pullman the man you are #lewis pullman characters #lewis pullman #the hot hot heat of my steamy mind #im screaming #Spotify

2K notes · View notes