#so maybe i just need to push a rib back in or something and then itll chill

[extinctlesspains]

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝐺𝑎𝑚𝑒 [ 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑛]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚　˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚　˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴛʜᴇ sᴀʟᴇsᴍᴀɴ x ғᴇᴍ! ᴡɪғᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: 18+, sᴍᴜᴛ, ᴀɴɢsᴛ, ᴘsʏᴄʜᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛʜʀɪʟʟᴇʀ, ᴅᴀʀᴋ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ

sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ʏᴏᴜ’ᴠᴇ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs ᴋɴᴏᴡɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴜsʙᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴀs ᴀ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜs ᴍᴀɴ—ᴇʟᴇɢᴀɴᴛ, ɪɴᴛᴇʟʟɪɢᴇɴᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴅɪsᴛᴜʀʙɪɴɢʟʏ ᴄᴀʟᴍ. ʏᴏᴜ sᴛᴀʏᴇᴅ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ʜɪᴍ… ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ғᴇᴀʀᴇᴅ ʜɪᴍ ᴛᴏᴏ. ʙᴜᴛ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴘʀᴇᴘᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʏ ʜᴇ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ʜᴏᴍᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ.

ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇs: sᴀᴅɪsᴍ, ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴍᴀɴɪᴘᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴏʙsᴇssɪᴏɴ, ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜsʏ, ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ᴀʙᴜsᴇ, ʙᴇᴛʀᴀʏᴀʟ, sᴇx, ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇs, ᴄᴜᴍ ᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ, sǫᴜɪʀᴛɪɴɢ, ғɪɴɢᴇʀɪɴɢ, ᴏʀᴀʟ, ᴛᴇᴀsɪɴɢ, ʙɪᴛɪɴɢ, ɴɪᴘᴘʟᴇ ᴘʟᴀʏ?, ɪɴᴅɪᴄᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴍᴀʀᴀᴛʜᴏɴ sᴇx, ᴠɪʙʀᴀᴛᴏʀ ᴜsᴇ. ᴀғᴀʙ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇　

The click of the front door was soft, elegant... just like him.

You stood by the window, staring at the glass without seeing your reflection. The city lights danced across the skyline, taunting you with a freedom you hadn’t felt in years. Behind you, the sound of polished shoes tapped across the marble floor. Heavy and loud.

He was home.

“Darling,” his voice called out, velvet and calm. “We have a guest.”

Guest? Your brows furrowed as you turned.

And then you saw her. You're eyes dropped slightly and your posture tensed.

She stepped in beside him, clutching his arm like he was some movie star. She was younger, maybe mid-twenties, with big, gleaming eyes and the kind of soft smile people wore before they learned what love really was.

You blinked. Once. Twice.

“Who is that?” you asked, voice steadier than the storm behind your ribs. A part of you was nervous for his reply.

He just smiled. That same tight, unreadable smile he wore when offering strangers the slap of their life for a few won.

“This is Ji-ah,” he said. “My second wife.”

Silence dropped like a guillotine. You could hear a pin drop. It was an eerie feeling.

“I didn’t agree to—”

“You didn’t have to.” He turned toward you, placing his hand gently on the small of her back. “You’re not being replaced, jagiya. Don’t be dramatic.” He chuckled, pulling her a tad bit closer.

Ji-ah gave you a small, awkward bow. “I’ve heard so much about you. He said you’re the perfect wife.”

Your jaw clenched. “Then why does he need another?”

Your fast reply made her flinch like you’d struck her. But he? He only chuckled softly, unbothered. Almost as if he was enjoying the pain you were experiencing.

“Love,” he said, walking past you and toward the parlor, “is not a pie. One slice doesn’t mean less for the other.”

You followed slowly, footsteps echoing behind his, like a shadow that refused to disappear. Your brows furrowed as you took in his words. His explanation made no sense.

He made no sense.

He poured Ji-ah a drink first. Of course. The same crystal decanter he used for your anniversary just three months ago. The scent of expensive bourbon filled the air.

“I thought you hated sharing,” you said, arms crossing.

“I do.” His eyes flicked up to you. “But she’s not you. She’s something else. This is... an experiment.” He expressed, his hand doing motions around him.

You laughed bitterly. “Is this another game to you?”

He tilted his head, eyes sharp with something cold, like he’d been waiting for you to ask that. With a soft smirk, he replied coldly.

“My entire life is a game,” he said. “You know that. And you? You’ve always played your part beautifully.” He whispered while stepping loser to push a loose strand of hair back.

Ji-ah looked between the two of you, clearly out of her depth, or pretending to be. You couldn’t decide which was worse.

“But why now?” you asked. “Why bring her into our home?”

“Because I can,” he replied simply. “And because I wanted to see what you'd do. Would you fight? Cry? Leave?”

He leaned forward slightly, voice low and intimate.

“Or would you stay, knowing that I will kiss her like I kissed you, touch her like I touched you… but never truly love her the way I loved you first?”

Your chest tightened. The way he said loved, past tense.

Ji-ah reached for his hand then, as if that would calm the room, but he didn’t flinch. He let her. You watched his fingers brush hers gently, then curl around them like a secret.

It was the kind of touch he hadn’t offered you in weeks.

Maybe months.

You stood there, frozen, the first wife in a kingdom that no longer crowned queens.

And then, he glanced at you again.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmured. “You’ll always be mine, jagi. You were just… first.”

Over time, you had learned to ignore them. Well, tried to.

It was hard to ignore the sound of laughter that echoed from the garden.

You stood in the hallway, hidden behind the frame of the door like some kind of ghost in your own home. Ji-ah’s giggle floated through the air, light, girlish, too sweet. It clung to your skin like syrup and bile.

Quite frankly, it made you sick to your stomach.

And his voice… deep, amused, affectionate.

You hadn't heard him laugh like that in weeks.

Your hand curled against the wall, nails biting into your palm. And knuckles turning white.

“She said I was funny,” he said over dinner last night. “You used to say that too. Before you got so… serious.”

You had wanted to scream. Instead, you nodded and swallowed the ache like wine: bitter, expensive, and aging poorly.

Now, Ji-ah sat on the garden bench with him, smiling up as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. That gesture used to be yours.

Your eyes straining as you attempted to decode what she was wearing,it looked familiar. That's when it hit you...she was wearing your old robe.

The ivory silk one he gave you when you moved into the house together. The one that had your initials stitched faintly on the collar. It looked better on you. You wanted to rip it off her like paper.

Your feet moved without thinking. Into the garden and toward the scene.

“Oh!” Ji-ah blinked when she saw you, scrambling to her feet like a child caught stealing.

He remained seated, eyes flicking up lazily. “You’re up early.”

It was nearly noon. His non-expressive tone made your jaw clench. How could he forget his own wife was an early bird?

You ignored her and looked directly at him. “We need to talk.”

He exhaled through his nose and stood, brushing imaginary dust off his slacks. “Ji-ah. Give us a moment.”

She hesitated, then bowed slightly before retreating inside. Her perfume lingered behind, something floral and young. You missed the days he liked your scent best.

He turned to you slowly. “Well?”

“What is this, really?” you whispered. “Is she a toy? A weapon? A test?”

His brows rose, lips twitching slightly. “Does it matter?”

“It does if I’m still your wife.”

“You are.” His voice was calm. Too calm. “She didn’t take your ring.”

“But she took everything else.”

You stepped closer. “She took your mornings. Your voice. Your hands. Your attention.”

His gaze darkened, just a shade.

“You’re angry,” he observed, almost pleased. “I was wondering how long it would take.”

“This isn’t a game,” you snapped.

“But it is. Everything’s a game. You just don’t like that you’re losing.”

You stared at him, blinking through the blur threatening your vision.

“I loved you,” you said quietly.

“I know.”

Then he stepped close, closer than he had in days, until his lips brushed your ear.

“But love, jagiya… has never stopped me before.”

And he walked past you.

That night, you lay in the cold silence of your shared bed, staring at the ceiling.

The wall was thin enough for you to hear her laugh again from down the hall.

Then her moan.

You turned your face into the pillow, biting down on the fabric so hard your teeth hurt. You wanted to scream. To claw. To bleed.

But all you did was lie there.

Still.

Forgotten.

Until the next morning.

When Ji-ah came to you, her voice low, her hands trembling, her lip split.

“He hurt me,” she whispered.

“I thought he was gentle.”

You stared at her. And for the first time…

You smiled.

That was the first time Ji-ah cried in front of you. And it was quiet.

A split lip, a faint tremble in her hands as she sat at the kitchen counter. She practically ran to you, like she knew instinctively where the safety was.

“He... he got upset,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I said something wrong.”

You said nothing at first.

You just passed her the ice.

And watched.

She held it to her face, fingers trembling like bird wings.

“He didn’t mean it,” she added quickly, with a nervous gulp “He said I talk too much, that I make the house too loud. But he didn’t mean it.”

You tilted your head, lips pursed.

“Of course not,” you said softly. “He gets overwhelmed. He’s very… particular.” A sigh escaped your lips, remembering the days he would slap you as if you were a contestant of the games.

The nights he gripped your arms and left bruises that stayed for days, maybe weeks.

She sniffled. “I’m trying my best.”

“I know,” you replied, laying your hand on hers. “I see how hard you try.” lies. All lies.

She looked at you then, eyes watery. “Does he… even love me?”

You paused.

This is it. This is the chance.

Then gave her a sad smile.

“No.”

That night, you brought her tea. Not poisoned, of course. God, no. It was just warm. Calming.

Even so, she hesitated before sipping.

“I used to think I could change him too,” you admitted softly, gazing at the steam. “Thought if I loved him enough, he’d soften. Become… normal.”

Ji-ah’s lips parted. “But he didn’t?”

You met her eyes.

“No. He loved how I broke for him.”

She swallowed. “He told me I was different from you.”

You nodded. “He said the same thing to me about the last one.”

Her brows furrowed. “The last—?”

You placed your teacup down carefully. “He always finds someone sweet. Gentle. Someone who thinks they can fix him.”

She went silent.

“He’ll love you hard,” you continued, voice low and careful. “Until you start cracking. Then he’ll blame you for the pieces.”

Ji-ah stared down at her tea like it might explain everything.

“I didn’t know,” she whispered.

You reached for her hand again. “You don’t deserve this.” A fake, but sweet, smile tugged at your lips. It showed Ji-ah comfort... But for you, it showed that you were winning.

She blinked. “But you… you stayed.”

A pause.

“Yes.” Because I love him.

But you don’t say that part aloud.

Instead, you lean in. “Don’t make the same mistake I did.”

The next morning, Ji-ah was packing.

You found her folding clothes with red-rimmed eyes and trembling hands.

“He was sweet when I first met him,” she murmured. “Like something out of a novel. Charming. Perfect.”

You leaned on the doorway. “That’s how he traps you.”

She nodded. “But not you.”

You gave a sad smile. “I’m not trapped. I chose this.”

She looked at you, quiet. “Why?”

You shrugged gently. “Because I can take what you can’t.”

A silence passed between you.

And then she whispered, “Will he be mad I left?”

You stepped forward, brushing her hair behind her ear like he used to do to you.

“No,” you said softly. “He’ll miss you. But he’ll stay with me.”

That night, he came home to find you alone in the living room, curled up on the couch in your robe.

“She’s gone?” he asked, removing his coat.

You nodded.

He tilted his head, observing you carefully. “Why?”

You looked up at him, your voice barely a whisper.

“She couldn’t handle you.”

You're eyes were dark, manipulative if you will.

A long pause. His eyes darkened just a touch. He stepped forward, and for the first time in weeks, he cupped your cheek.

“And you?” he murmured.

You smiled.

“I was always built to stay."

His eyes narrow slightly at your words, a flicker of something unrecognizable passing through them. He stares at you for a long moment, his gaze piercing and intense. Then, without warning, he reaches out and grabs your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

"You think you can handle me?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous. "You think you're strong enough to stay by my side, no matter what?"

His thumb brushes against your lower lip, the touch sending a shiver down your spine. His face is inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin.

"Prove it," he whispers, his eyes burning into yours. "Show me that you're not like the others. Show me that you can truly be mine."

His grip on your chin tightens slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. The intensity in his gaze is overwhelming, and you can feel your heart pounding in your chest.

"Or maybe," he says, his voice barely audible, "You're just like all the others. Weak. Fragile. Easily broken."

He releases your chin abruptly and turns away, walking towards the window. He stands with his back to you, his shoulders tense.

"I don't have time for games," he says coldly. "If you truly want to stay by my side, then you need to prove your worth. Show me that you can handle whatever I throw at you."

"How should I prove it to you?" A soft whisper escaped your lips.

He turns back to face you, his expression unreadable. He studies you for a long moment, his gaze piercing and intense. Then, without a word, he begins to unbutton his shirt.

Your eyes widen slightly and you're body seems to have frozen.

"Come here," he commands, his voice leaving no room for disobedience.

As you hesitate, he raises an eyebrow, a hint of challenge in his eyes.

"Are you afraid?" he asks, his tone mocking. "Or are you truly willing to do whatever it takes to prove yourself?"

He shrugs off his shirt, revealing his chiseled chest and abs. He's a work of art, sculpted by years of discipline and power.

"Show me that you can handle my touch," he says softly, holding out his hand. "Come here and touch me. Explore every inch of my body."

He waits, his hand outstretched, his eyes locked on yours. The challenge is clear: prove yourself worthy by accepting his touch and exploring his body.

"I don't bite," he says with a hint of a smirk, though the coldness in his eyes suggests otherwise. "Unless you want me to."

The tension in the room is palpable, the air thick with unspoken desires and expectations. Your husbands offer is a test of your commitment, your willingness to submit to his dominance and explore the depths of your relationship.

"So," he prompts again, his hand still extended. "Are you ready to prove yourself? Or will you back down now?"

With hesitation, you walked over slowly, putting your hands out to caress his abdomen.

He watches you approach, his eyes never leaving yours. As your hands make contact with his abdomen, he sucks in a sharp breath, his muscles tensing beneath your touch. He's warm to the touch, his skin smooth and firm.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice low and approving. "Now explore. Touch every inch of me."

He stands still, allowing you to roam your hands over his chest and abs. You trace the lines with your fingertips.

As you continue to explore, his breathing grows heavier. He reaches out and grabs your wrists, stopping your movements. He pulls you closer until your bodies are flush against each other.

"Do you feel that?" he asks, his voice husky. His growing member was pressed against your thigh, making your breath hitch. "That's what you do to me. That's how much I want you."

He releases your wrists and reaches up to cup your face in his hands.

His hands are gentle as he tilts your face up to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark with desire, his pupils dilated. He leans in closer, his lips hovering just above yours.

"You're mine," he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. "Only mine. And you're such h a good fucking girl for manipulating her to leave."

You flushed. How could he possibly know? He chuckled at your expression. "What? Thought I wouldn't find out?..." He teased.

"I created you. I know everything..."

Then he presses his lips to yours in a searing kiss. It's demanding and possessive, claiming your mouth as his own. His tongue sweeps inside, exploring every inch of you.

One hand slides down to the small of your back, pulling you even closer. The other tangles in your hair, holding you in place as he devours you.

When he finally pulls away, you're both breathing heavily. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed.

"That's just the beginning," he murmurs. "I'm going to push you to your limits and beyond. I'm going to make you scream my name until it's the only thing you know."

"That's what I've been asking for since she got here" you spat,

His eyes flash with anger at your words. He grabs your chin roughly, forcing you to look at him.

"Don't you dare compare yourself to her," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "She was a mistake. A fleeting moment of weakness. You are my wife. My equal. My partner."

He releases your chin and steps back, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

"I brought her here because I thought it would push you, challenge you," he admits, his tone softer but still tense. "I wanted to see if you truly loved me, if you were willing to fight for me."

He looks at you, his gaze intense and searching.

"And you have," he says quietly. "You've proven yourself time and again. You've shown me that you're strong, resilient, and fiercely loyal."

He reaches out and takes your hand in his, his touch gentle despite the tension in his body.

"Now let me show you how much I appreciate you, hm?" You gulped, nodding at his demanding words.

His expression softens at your nod. He pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his forehead against yours.

"Good," he murmurs. "I'm going to take care of you now. I'm going to worship every inch of your body and show you just how much you mean to me."

He kisses you deeply, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that belies the intensity in his eyes. His hands roam over your back, pulling you flush against him.

Without breaking the kiss, he lifts you up, encouraging you to wrap your legs around his waist. He carries you upstairs to the bedroom, his steps sure and purposeful.

He lays you down on the bed gently, hovering over you. His eyes rake over your body hungrily.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers. "So perfect."

He begins to undress you slowly, kissing each inch of skin he reveals. He takes his time, savoring every moment, every touch.

As he removes the last of your clothing, he sits back on his heels, admiring the sight of you spread out beneath him.

"I'm going to make love to you. Slowly and gently, until you're trembling with need. I want to bring you to the edge of pleasure again and again, until you're begging for release."

He leans down and captures your lips in a deep, passionate kiss. His hands caress your body reverently, touching and exploring every curve and contour.

He trails kisses down your neck, pausing to suck gently at the pulse point. He continues downward, paying homage to your collarbone and the swell of your breasts.

As he takes one nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive peak, his hand slides down between your legs. He cups your mound possessively, his fingers stroking through your folds.

"You're already so wet for me," he murmurs against your skin.

"I love how responsive you are, how your body reacts to my every touch."

His fingers continue their explorations, teasing and stroking your most intimate places. He slips a finger inside you, curling it to hit that spot that makes you see stars.

"That's it, baby," he encourages softly. "Relax and let me take care of you."

He adds another finger, pumping them in and out slowly. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing circles around the sensitive nub. He keeps up the dual assault, his fingers moving in tandem with his tongue on your nipple.

All you could do was whimper, arching into his sensual touches.

He smiles against your skin at your whimper, pleased by your responsiveness. He increases the pace of his fingers, thrusting them deeper and faster inside you.

"That's right, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice husky with desire. "Let me hear you. Let me know how much you want this."

He switches his attention to your other breast, lavishing it with the same attention. His tongue swirls around the nipple before he sucks it into his mouth, applying gentle pressure.

His thumb presses down on your clit, rubbing firm circles. The combination of sensations is overwhelming, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"Come for me," he commands softly. "I want to feel you come apart on my fingers."

His fingers pump faster, curling to hit that perfect spot inside you. His thumb presses down hard on your clit, sending jolts of pleasure through your body.

"That's it, baby," he encourages, his voice low and husky. "Let go. Come for me."

With a cry of his name, you shatter. Your body convulses as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. His fingers slow their movements, gently bringing you down from your high.

"That's my good girl," he murmurs approvingly, kissing your neck softly. "You're so beautiful when you come."

He withdraws his fingers and brings them to his lips, sucking them clean.

He watches you with a hungry gaze as he sucks his fingers clean, savoring your taste. Once he's finished, he leans down and captures your lips in a searing kiss, sharing the flavor with you.

"You taste divine," he murmurs against your mouth. "I could eat you out all day and never get enough."

He starts trailing kisses down your body again, heading south. He settles between your legs, pressing gentle kisses to your inner thighs.

"But first," he says with a wicked grin, "I'm going to feast on this sweet pussy until you're begging me to stop."

He spreads your legs wider and dives in, his tongue parting your folds and delving inside. He laps at your sensitive flesh, his tongue flat and firm as it strokes along your length.

"Fuck, I just love the way you taste," he groans, the vibrations sending shockwaves through you. With a gasp, your hands travel to his hair and tug at it.

He growls approvingly against your core as you tug at his hair, the slight pain only fueling his desire. He redoubles his efforts, his tongue delving deeper inside you as he feasts on your pussy like a man starved.

"That's it, baby," he murmurs against your flesh, "Use me. Take what you need."

He sucks your clit into his mouth, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud. One hand grips your hip, holding you in place as he devours you.

His other hand slides up your body, palming your breast and pinching your nipple. The dual stimulation is overwhelming, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"I can feel you getting close," he says, releasing your clit with a pop. "Come on my tongue. Flood my mouth with your juices."

He seals his lips around your clit and sucks hard, sending you spiraling over the edge. You cry out his name as you come undone, your body convulsing with pleasure.

He doesn't let up, continuing to lap at your sensitive flesh as he rides out your orgasm.

You breathe heavily as your second orgasm washes over you. You blink slowly, looking up at him. Your vision is blurry but you can see him reaching over the night stand and taking out a tiny vibrator.

You gulp nervously as you stare at him. That's when you knew this would be a long night.

He smirks as he sees the nervous gulp in your throat. He holds up the tiny vibrator, letting you get a good look at it.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," he says softly,

"I'll take good care of you."

[seitmai]

Many thoughts

Phoenix didn’t look at you, but you caught the flicker of her eyes. A tight twitch at the corner of her mouth, gone in a blink. Fanboy tapped the edge of his desk with a pencil once or twice, then stopped. Coyote was staring down at the floor like it held answers. Even Hangman, for once, kept his mouth shut, lips pressed thin, eyes bouncing between you and Rooster like he was watching a fuse burn toward something volatile.

This bunch being quiet says a lot

That was what got under your skin the most. The absolute refusal to gloat. Like he didn’t need to. Like he knew the room had already made up its mind.

Urgh

Hangman passed behind you with a mutter, low and dry. “Hell of a move.” That was it. No smirk. No punchline. The implication curled around your spine: bold, reckless, worth watching.

Coming from Hangman that says something

“Maybe,” he said, voice a little too flat to be sincere. Phoenix tilted her head. Watched him for a beat, then nodded once. “Suit yourself,” she said, already turning away. “But you could probably use one.”

She probably right (as always lol)

Then he turned, walked in the opposite direction—the wrong direction—and shouldered open the door to the women’s locker room. Behind him, Phoenix slowed. Turned her head. Heard the door close quietly behind him. She exhaled through her nose knowingly, barely audible, and kept walking.

She always knows but is smart enough to not get involved

“What the hell are you doing in here?” Your voice was low and sharp, the kind of tone that cut clean. He didn’t flinch. “I’m not here to fight.” You laughed, humorless. “You followed me into the damn womens' locker room, Bradshaw. You’re not here to talk about the weather.”

Fair

“I followed you,” he said, his voice flat, “because if I didn’t, you’d keep pretending like nothing happened.” “Nothing did happen,” you snapped. “I saw an opening, I took it, and it worked.”“It almost didn’t.” “But it did.”

Valid 🤷🏻‍♀️

“Maybe if you stopped riding the rulebook’s dick for five seconds,” you hissed, “you’d actually feel something.” His jaw flexed. A muscle in his cheek jumped. Still, he held the line. “You think flying’s about feelings?” His voice sharpened. “No wonder you’re a liability.”

Ufff 😬

“You want to hit me or fuck me, Bradshaw?” It came out low. Not taunting. Just true. His eyes dropped to your mouth, then snapped upwards to meet your gaze. “You tell me.” And in that moment, months of tension simply broke.

Probably both lol

You bit his lip. He cursed into your mouth. His hands were everywhere—waist, ribs, low on your back like he couldn’t figure out where to hold you because he wanted to touch all of you at once.

Well it's the second one then 🤭

Your hands fumbled at his shirt, tugging it higher, wanting skin, wanting friction. This wasn’t soft, wasn’t patient. It was months of looks that lasted too long, arguments that never ended, flying too close and never pulling back.

This was a long time in the making, just a matter of time before it exploded

Then he pulled you forward with both hands and lifted—up, onto the narrow bench in one clean, heavy motion, like you weighed nothing, like he couldn’t stand one more second not having you under his hands.

That's hot

“You never shut up, do you?” You smirked, breathless, biting down on a moan. “Make me.” He did.

😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

“You’re insane,” he muttered. You bit his shoulder, not enough to hurt. “You started it.” You wanted to win. So did he.

Oh this is gonna be interesting 🤭

“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “You like this, don’t you? All that attitude—just to hide how wet you get when someone finally puts you in your place.” You caught his wrist and dug your nails in, sharp. Your voice dropped, thick with heat. “Then do it, Bradshaw.” He froze for half a second. Then his mouth crashed into yours. It wasn’t a kiss anymore; it was a claim. All teeth, breath, and battle, his tongue pushing into your mouth like he needed to taste every sharp word you’d ever thrown at him. Your hand slipped from his dog tags to the back of his neck, pulling him down harder, your bodies locked together at every possible point. He unzipped his jeans with one hand, fast and fumbling. His cock sprang free, flushed and thick. You couldn’t stop staring for a half-second—not because you hadn’t imagined it, but because now it was real. Now it was yours.

🥵🥵🥵

“Say it again,” he growled. “Fuck. You.” Close enough.

Well, almost 😅

He thrust into you in one hard, punishing motion. “You feel that?” he rasped, breath cutting short. “Feel how fucking tight you are for me?” You arched against him. “Hard not to.”

Oh this is gonna rile him up, I just know it 🤭

“Inside,” you gasped, voice ruined. “Just do it inside, easier that way.” His eyes snapped shut. His jaw locked.

He probably has to pinch himself that this is not a dream 🤭

Then he spilled inside you with a deep, guttural groan, hips jerking with each pulse. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and you held him there, both of you shaking.

I love these little moments after 🥰

You slid a hand up the back of his neck. Into his damp hair. Pulled his head up, face inches from yours. Your voice was hoarse. “Still think I’m a liability?” You looked away, smiled. Wild. Spent. Triumphant. “We’re both so fucked.”

No lies here

You rolled your eyes. “You coming to get clean or coming to get dirty again?” He gave you a look like you already knew the answer.

🤭🤭🤭

His shirt was long gone. His tags still hung around his neck, the chain glinting with sweat, swinging low over his chest as he walked toward you—completely naked, completely unbothered, and completely hard again. Your breath hitched. Just a little.

Understandable reaction imo 🤷🏻‍♀️

“Miss me already?” you said, smiling, half-lidded as the water sluiced between your breasts. “Didn’t exactly get my fill,” he muttered, mouth hot against your shoulder. His hands slid around your waist, fingers spreading wide, finding purchase on your still-trembling thighs.

Oh 👀

“I’m not—” you began, but his hands were already on your hips, thumbs sweeping slow circles into your skin, “—letting you do anything.” “You’re standing here naked,” he murmured, pressing closer behind you, water slipping down both your bodies in ribbons. “And you haven’t told me to leave.”

He's got a point 🤷🏻‍♀️

“You smell like jet fuel,” you muttered, rubbing shampoo between your hands, trying to focus. “You smell like me.”

I just loved this little moment

His mouth dropped to your shoulder. Soft. Gentle. Then his lips opened, and you felt his teeth scrape lightly against your damp skin. You let out a slow, steady breath. “Bradshaw…” “I’m not starting anything,” he said, mouth now at your neck, breath hot where the water was warm. “Just… appreciating the view.” “You’re gonna give me a hickey.” “That’s the idea.”

😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

“You’re a lot easier to handle when you’re not in the cockpit,” he murmured, voice low and rough, lips brushing your skin as he said it. You huffed a laugh, mouth curling despite yourself. “Says the guy who came just under two minutes.”

She's not wrong 🤷🏻‍♀️

He was quiet for a second. Just breathed you in. Then, softer: “You good?” That made you pause. The water hissed around you both, a thick wall of white noise, but his voice cut through it. You nodded. “Yeah. You?” He kissed the space just behind your ear. “Getting there.”

Urgh he is so soft

His arms wrapped around you again, a little tighter now. Less teasing. More human. That was the part you hadn’t prepared for. The part where he didn’t pull away.

But isn't that a positive surprise? 🤔👀

“This doesn’t have to mean anything,” you said. You felt him breathe—slow and steady against your back, forehead still resting near your shoulder. Then, softly. No bitterness. No heat. Just truth: “But it does.”

Now the truth is out

You were soaked. Bare. Quiet. Your wet hair clung to your neck in thick strands, the backs of your knees slick with runoff. You grabbed the towel from your locker without ceremony, rubbing it once over your chest and shoulders, then tossed the second one—your spare—over your shoulder behind you without turning. He caught it one-handed.

Even if there is some animosity, they are a great team, not just I'm the air it seems 👀

So you braved to break the silence. “You heading over to Penny’s?” Rooster glanced up, slow. Not surprised. Just waiting for when it would come. “I was planning on it.” You nodded once. Let the air stretch a little. “No point in going in separate cars, right?” His mouth curved. Barely. “Not unless you want to give everyone something to whisper about.” You huffed softly. It wasn’t a laugh—but it could’ve been if the weight in your chest hadn’t still been settling. “Think we’re a little past whispers.”

Fair

He didn’t trail behind. He didn’t lead. You just walked out together, shoulder to shoulder, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it was.

🥹🥹🥹

He smelled like your soap. And that was a problem.

I truly don't see this as a problem, at least he doesn't stink lol

“We don’t have to walk in together,” you said, eyes still on the bar. He didn’t respond right away. Just exhaled once. Slow. “Is that how you want to play it?” “It’s not about playing anything.” You rubbed your palm once over your thigh. “It’s just… easier.” He turned toward you slightly. Not aggressive. Just enough to make you feel it. “Easier to lie?” “Easier to not make it a thing.” There it was.

😬😬😬

“No,” you said. Honest. Firm. “I think it makes me look like someone who fucks the guy who bails her out of formation errors.” That landed. He looked away. Nodded once. Like he understood. Like he didn’t like it, but understood.

Which is the truth tho

"We all repsect you up there for how you fly, not for who you...fuck." It was his attempt at making it all okay, and in a way it helped. You stared at your palms in your lap for a beat, then looked up and met his eyes, still on you.

I think she really needed to hear this, especially from him

“You know they’re gonna clock me smelling like you.” You cracked a smile. Couldn’t help it. “Guess you should’ve picked a different soap.”

Facts

Just rested one hand lightly on the small of your back—barely there. Not a claim. Not a secret.

Thats big🥹

You hadn’t made it ten steps in before Phoenix turned around from her place at the bar. One look at you. Then Rooster. Then back again. She didn’t miss a beat. “Well, look what the cat finally dragged in.” You gave her a look—dry, flat, not now. She raised her beer to her lips like she hadn’t said a thing.

Of course Nat realizes it first

They high-fived behind her anyway.

But this was so good between them, they deserve the high five imo

“You better hope she knows what she’s doing.” He looked back toward the bar—toward you. His voice stayed even. “She always does.”

Bob finally chimed in from his seat at the edge of the group—quiet, deadpan, exactly when it hit hardest. “At least someone’s getting their hours in.” The whole group howled. You couldn't help but crack a smile. Maybe the squad knowing wasn't the end of the world.

You just have to love Bob

Period 😌

Debrief This - Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Reader One-Shot

❝ You want to hit me or fuck me, Bradshaw? ❞

[bradley bradshaw x reader]

~6.5k words | rated: E

tw: 18+, explicit sexual content, locker room , language, emotionally volatile intimacy, rough sex, brief unsafe sex

anger first. pride second. then friction, fire, and everything that follows.

notes: this was a request!! im so sorry this took like a million years. i literally started this like a month ago and i just finally finished it. my apologies for any typos. i really hope you enjoy it!! <3

my masterlist

request guide

The ready room was colder than usual.

Not in temperature—in tone. The kind of cold that settled in your chest, made your breath feel too loud, your shoulders too tight. Everyone sat like they were still strapped into their cockpits—posture perfect, movements spare, adrenaline sinking deep into flight suits that hadn’t had time to cool.

You sat three seats from Rooster. Not too close, not too far. Just enough distance to pretend you couldn’t feel the burn of him in your peripheral vision. Just enough to keep your pride intact.

The digital display at the front of the room glowed a soft blue, flickering with mission footage and HUD overlays. Clean flight paths. Calculated altitudes. Time stamps tracking every shift and decision like they were all equally weighted.

But you knew better. The screen didn’t show hesitation. It didn’t show instinct. It didn’t show how fast your heart had beat when you broke formation and dove low, chasing the target on gut and grit. It didn’t show the moment Rooster banked hard to cover your blind side. It didn’t show how close it had come to going sideways.

It just showed that it worked.

Cyclone stood beside the screen, hands clasped neatly behind his back. Not relaxed—never relaxed. His shoulders were square, his eyes sharper than the flickering light that cut across his face.

“The maneuver paid off,” he said, voice smooth and cool. “Mission complete. All targets neutralized. No casualties.”

You felt the squad shift subtly around you. The kind of shift that wasn’t physical—just something in the air. A collective bracing for whatever came next.

Cyclone didn’t make them wait.

“But the deviation from standard formation protocol was substantial. Unauthorized. Dangerous.”

The screen kept rolling, even as he spoke. Your split-second decision, Rooster’s immediate correction, pulling hard to close the gap and box the enemy in. Target locked. Target destroyed.

Phoenix didn’t look at you, but you caught the flicker of her eyes. A tight twitch at the corner of her mouth, gone in a blink. Fanboy tapped the edge of his desk with a pencil once or twice, then stopped. Coyote was staring down at the floor like it held answers. Even Hangman, for once, kept his mouth shut, lips pressed thin, eyes bouncing between you and Rooster like he was watching a fuse burn toward something volatile.

No one said anything. No one needed to. The silence said it all.

Cyclone turned slightly.

“Bradshaw.”

Rooster sat straighter, which was saying something. His posture had already been regulation-perfect. But now it was sharp enough to slice.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t shift. His arms were still folded across his chest, the pressure-marks of his gloves faint along his forearms. His flight suit collar was unzipped just enough to breathe, but there wasn’t a single ounce of ease in him.

“Excellent adjustment,” Cyclone said. “Sharp instincts. That’s the kind of judgment we rely on under pressure.”

The words landed like a verdict.

Rooster didn’t preen. Didn’t react. He just absorbed the praise in silence.

And didn’t look at you.

That was what got under your skin the most. The absolute refusal to gloat. Like he didn’t need to. Like he knew the room had already made up its mind.

You locked your eyes on the table in front of you. There was a burn mark at the corner—scorched plastic, maybe from an overheated comm unit. It looked like it had been scraped at, then left to scar.

You picked at the melted plastic. Your voice came out low. Even.

“Yeah. God forbid anyone take a fucking risk.”

The scrape of Rooster’s jaw tightening was practically audible. He still didn’t turn. But you saw the flex of it. Quick. Clean. Contained.

Cyclone looked like he might say something.

He didn’t.

Just exhaled through his nose — one of those clipped, practiced breaths that meant get it out of your system somewhere else.

Then he turned back to the console and tapped the screen off.

“Debrief’s over. Dismissed.”

Chairs pushed back. Gear shifted. No one spoke. Phoenix brushed past you without looking, not in a rude way, just trying not to stir the pot. Fanboy gave you a half-nod, more habit than thought. Coyote lingered like he wanted to say something but didn’t. 

Hangman passed behind you with a mutter, low and dry.

“Hell of a move.”

That was it. No smirk. No punchline.

The implication curled around your spine: bold, reckless, worth watching.

You stood slowly. Picked up your helmet.

Rooster stood, too. Perfectly timed. Predictable. Predictably perfect.

You both moved toward the exit at the same time.

And when your shoulder slammed into him, it was sharp, intentional, and deeply satisfying.

He didn’t react.

But you felt him turn.

Not a full look. Not dramatic.

Just enough to let you know he saw you. Felt you. Registered it.

And chose not to say a damn thing.

The hallway outside the locker rooms was nearly empty, the base settling into post-op silence. Doors shut one by one. Laughter echoed from somewhere deeper in the building—distant, irrelevant. The squad had left the tension back in the debrief room. You hadn’t.

Rooster stepped out of the men’s locker room with his uniform folded neatly in his duffel, damp hair pushed back, clean shirt and jeans clinging slightly to the heat still radiating off him. Dog tags disappeared under the collar. Duffel bag slung low on one shoulder. He looked calm. But he wasn’t.

Phoenix leaned against the wall near the exit, already changed—worn jeans, a Hard Deck tank, a damp braid slung over one shoulder, lip gloss barely there. She looked relaxed. Lighter than she had in hours. Ready to let it all go.

“You coming to drinks?” she asked, fidgeting with the tail of her braid.

“Heading by Penny’s in twenty. Everyone’s going.”

Rooster paused. Just enough to notice.

“Maybe,” he said, voice a little too flat to be sincere.

Phoenix tilted her head. Watched him for a beat, then nodded once. “Suit yourself,” she said, already turning away. “But you could probably use one.”

She disappeared around the corner.

Rooster didn’t move. Not toward the door. Not toward the bar.

Three long seconds passed.

Then he turned, walked in the opposite direction—the wrong direction—and shouldered open the door to the women’s locker room.

Behind him, Phoenix slowed.

Turned her head.

Heard the door close quietly behind him.

She exhaled through her nose knowingly, barely audible, and kept walking.

Inside, the lights buzzed overhead.

You were still in your flight suit, peeled to the waist, sleeves knotted loosely at your hips. Your undershirt clung to your back, still damp from the mission. You hadn’t moved much since the debrief. You didn’t want to.

Your locker door hung open. Your gloves were tossed onto the bench beside you like they’d offended you. Every movement you made was too sharp—like you needed something to hit, scream at, or punch through just to let the pressure out.

You didn’t hear the door open.

But you heard his voice.

“You always have to make it harder than it has to be.”

Your blood went hot. You turned like a switchblade.

He was already inside. Shoulders squared. Face unreadable. A slight flush still on his throat from the shower, but otherwise cool as ever—or at least trying to be.

“What the hell are you doing in here?”

Your voice was low and sharp, the kind of tone that cut clean.

He didn’t flinch. “I’m not here to fight.”

You laughed, humorless. “You followed me into the damn womens' locker room, Bradshaw. You’re not here to talk about the weather.”

He stepped further in. Slow. Deliberate. Like every move was calculated down to the inch.

“I followed you,” he said, his voice flat, “because if I didn’t, you’d keep pretending like nothing happened.”

“Nothing did happen,” you snapped. “I saw an opening, I took it, and it worked.”

“It almost didn’t.”

“But it did.”

He was close now. Closer than you wanted. His presence was always too solid, too composed, like it took effort not to unravel. You hated that about him, hated how it made you want to do the unraveling yourself.

“You don’t get extra points for being reckless,” he said, that calm edge creeping back in. “You just end up dead.”

You took a step toward him, not away.

“Maybe if you stopped riding the rulebook’s dick for five seconds,” you hissed, “you’d actually feel something.”

His jaw flexed. A muscle in his cheek jumped. Still, he held the line.

“You think flying’s about feelings?” His voice sharpened. “No wonder you’re a liability.”

You were in his space now, chest to chest, breathing each other’s breath. His eyes were fire and steel. Yours were wildfire.

“Say that again.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

“You’re a goddamn liability.”

Your hands hit his chest. Hard.

He barely moved, but the energy between you cracked wide open. His hands shot out fast and caught your wrists—not rough, not gentle, just tight. Enough to stop you. Enough to pin the moment down.

You stood like that, frozen, for what felt like an eternity.

Your breath was short. So was his.

“You want to hit me or fuck me, Bradshaw?”

It came out low. Not taunting. Just true.

His eyes dropped to your mouth, then snapped upwards to meet your gaze.

“You tell me.”

And in that moment, months of tension simply broke.

You collided like lightning and steel, mouth to mouth, anger twisted into hunger. His grip released just long enough for his hands to slide into your hair, cup your jaw, pull you deeper. You tugged him by the front of his shirt, dragging him toward you until your back hit a locker with a loud metallic bang.

You didn’t care.

You bit his lip. He cursed into your mouth. His hands were everywhere—waist, ribs, low on your back like he couldn’t figure out where to hold you because he wanted to touch all of you at once.

Your hands fumbled at his shirt, tugging it higher, wanting skin, wanting friction. This wasn’t soft, wasn’t patient. It was months of looks that lasted too long, arguments that never ended, flying too close and never pulling back.

His mouth moved to your jaw, your throat. Your fingers dragged through his damp hair, nails grazing his scalp.

He groaned.

You pulled back just long enough to breathe, to speak between your teeth.

“Shut up.”

“I haven’t said a word,” he huffed, right before kissing you again—harder this time.

The locker behind you rattled. Your pulse thundered.

This wasn’t control.

This was surrender.

And neither of you wanted to stop.

His hands dragged down your back, palms hot through the thin cotton of your tank, finding the knot in your flight suit where it cinched at your hips. He yanked it loose, fabric falling fast, pooling around your ankles like it was nothing. Like there hadn’t been months of protocol and tension wrapped up in every stitch.

You tore his shirt upward, dragging it over his head with a scrape of knuckles and a hiss of breath. His skin was still damp from the shower, heat radiating off him in waves. Dog tags clinked softly as they settled against his chest—solid, familiar, off-limits until right now.

You grabbed them. Yanked.

He swore into your mouth, low and sharp. One hand flew to your hip, the other to your thigh, gripping hard enough to leave prints.

Your teeth caught his lower lip, tugged. He groaned, fingers tightening.

He tried to press you back against the locker again, but you shoved him first. He caught the edge of the bench behind him, and you followed, crowding into his space, breath coming too fast to hide.

You reached for his belt.

His hand covered yours.

Eyes locked.

Then he pulled you forward with both hands and lifted—up, onto the narrow bench in one clean, heavy motion, like you weighed nothing, like he couldn’t stand one more second not having you under his hands.

Not gentle.

Not cruel.

Just urgent.

You gasped, legs wrapping around his waist without thinking.

“That all you got, Lieutenant?”

He growled—an actual, low-throated sound—and shoved your tank higher up your spine with both hands.

“You never shut up, do you?”

You smirked, breathless, biting down on a moan.

“Make me.”

He did.

His mouth found your throat again, teeth dragging blunt along your pulse point. Your fingers slid into the waistband of his jeans, yanking at the fly, desperate for contact, for heat, for friction. He caught your wrists again and pinned them briefly to the bench beneath you—not to stop you, just to feel you there. To claim the moment.

You arched against him.

His dog tags swung between you, clinking with each movement, each shift of your hips. You licked the chain where it pressed to his collarbone just to hear him curse again.

“You’re insane,” he muttered.

You bit his shoulder, not enough to hurt.

“You started it.”

His grip slipped from your wrists to your waist again. His body was solid, straining, pressed between your thighs in a way that sent your thoughts scattering.

You didn’t want slow. Didn’t want gentle.

You wanted this.

You wanted to win.

So did he.

You rolled your hips slow and deliberately—once, twice—and the sound he made was low and furious, a growl curling out of his throat like it cost him to hold back.

“Keep doing that,” he warned.

His voice was dark, torn at the edges.

You tilted your head. All teeth, no fear. “Or what?”

He didn’t answer.

He shoved your panties aside like they offended him—rough, no ceremony, no hesitation—and dragged two fingers through your folds like he already knew what he’d find. His touch was firm and focused like he was confirming what your body had already confessed.

You gasped—bit it back—but he felt the way your thighs jolted, the way you clenched around nothing, desperate for friction.

“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “You like this, don’t you? All that attitude—just to hide how wet you get when someone finally puts you in your place.”

You caught his wrist and dug your nails in, sharp. Your voice dropped, thick with heat.

“Then do it, Bradshaw.”

He froze for half a second.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low, ragged around the edges. Because even now—stripped down, jaw tight, cock hard and leaking between your legs—he was still Rooster. Still rule-bound. Still giving you the out.

You grabbed his dog tags, fingers wrapping around the cool metal like you owned them, and yanked him forward until his mouth hovered an inch from yours.

“Shut the fuck up,” you breathed, venom-sweet, “and fuck me.”

He didn’t move.

Not for a second.

Not until you saw it in his eyes—that last thread of restraint snap.

Then his mouth crashed into yours. It wasn’t a kiss anymore; it was a claim. All teeth, breath, and battle, his tongue pushing into your mouth like he needed to taste every sharp word you’d ever thrown at him. Your hand slipped from his dog tags to the back of his neck, pulling him down harder, your bodies locked together at every possible point.

His hand dropped between your legs, fingers rough where they slid under your panties again, hooking the damp fabric aside with a grunt. He stroked through your slit once—just once—and pulled away like it physically pained him not to take more.

He unzipped his jeans with one hand, fast and fumbling. His cock sprang free, flushed and thick. You couldn’t stop staring for a half-second—not because you hadn’t imagined it, but because now it was real. Now it was yours.

You reached for him, wrapped your fingers around the base, and hissed, “You gonna keep staring or—”

He cut you off with a curse, lined himself up, and pressed the head against your entrance.

Not pushing in.

Just there.

Teasing.

Taunting.

His forehead dropped to yours. His breath was hot, furious.

“Say it again,” he growled.

“Fuck. You.”

Close enough.

He thrust into you in one hard, punishing motion.

You gasped—too loud, too raw—and your head hit the bench beneath you. He didn’t stop. Didn’t give you even a second to adjust. He pulled back and thrust again, slower and deeper this time. The stretch of him bordered on too much.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, anchoring yourself as his rhythm picked up—fast, relentless, brutal. His cock dragged against every sensitive nerve inside you, thick and perfect and completely unapologetic.

You barely recognized your own voice, the ragged sounds pouring from your mouth, breath catching every time he bottomed out. He was fucking you like he wanted to leave a mark from the inside out.

His hands locked on your hips, bruising. You welcomed the pain. Welcomed him.

You forced your eyes open and found him watching you—face twisted in restraint, jaw clenched, sweat beading on his temple. His dog tags bounced against your sternum with every thrust, cold metal dragging across your bare chest, clinking with your own every now and then. He glanced down once, eyes dark, watching your tits bounce with each snap of his hips, jaw clenched like it hurt to look.

“You feel that?” he rasped, breath cutting short. “Feel how fucking tight you are for me?”

You arched against him. “Hard not to.”

His mouth curved—more grimace than smirk—and he fucked into you harder, hips slapping against your thighs in frantic rhythm.

The bench creaked beneath you.

Your orgasm was crawling up your spine like a fuse burning toward detonation, a tight, breathless coil that left your thighs shaking around his waist. His cock hit that spot inside you again and again and again and again—

You felt him everywhere—between your thighs, across your chest, under your skin. You were wrecked on him.

Your voice broke.

“Bradshaw—fuck—Rooster—”

His eyes snapped to yours. “You gonna come for me, baby?”

“Don’t stop,” you gasped, nails dragging down his back. “Don’t you fucking dare—”

His hand slipped between you, fingers finding your clit and circling, all the while still thrusting.

You came like a scream you couldn’t get out, like fire catching under your skin. Your whole body arched, legs trembling, breath gone, mind obliterated. You clenched tight around him, fluttering, dragging a hoarse, broken moan from deep in his throat.

“Jesus fuck—”

His thrusts went ragged. Out of control.

“Where—” he choked, trying to pull out, hand already moving to grip himself.

You shoved him back in. Locked your legs tighter.

“Inside,” you gasped, voice ruined. “Just do it inside, easier that way.”

His eyes snapped shut. His jaw locked.

Then he spilled inside you with a deep, guttural groan, hips jerking with each pulse. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and you held him there, both of you shaking.

For a long moment, all you could hear was your breathing—raw, uneven, almost matching.

You slid a hand up the back of his neck. Into his damp hair. Pulled his head up, face inches from yours.

Your voice was hoarse. “Still think I’m a liability?”

His breath hit your cheek. His mouth twitched. “Still think I don’t feel anything?”

You looked away, smiled. Wild. Spent. Triumphant.

“We’re both so fucked.”

He nodded and pressed a kiss to the edge of your jaw like a truce offered too late.

“Yeah,” he said, chest still heaving. “We are.”

You stayed like that for a moment—both of you breathless, tangled, soaked in sweat and everything you weren’t supposed to be. His weight pressed against you, skin sticky, breath ghosting hot against your collarbone.

Then your fingers threaded through the back of his hair and tugged—gently, firm. He lifted his head, eyes heavy, lips swollen from your ki,ss and the half-muffled groans he’d dropped against your skin.

“You’re crazy if you think I’m not taking a shower after that.”

He blinked. Once.

You untangled your legs from his waist and pushed him back just enough to slide off the bench, feet hitting the cold tile with a soft slap. Your tank was still shoved up high, your panties ruined, your thighs slick. You tugged what little fabric remained out of the way, stripped what was left of your clothing without a second thought, and tossed everything—flight suit, underwear, socks—in a pile by your locker.

When you turned, fully naked, sweat-glossed, and unbothered, Rooster was still watching you.

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He licked his lips slowly, eyes dragging down your body like he hadn’t just been inside you a minute ago.

“Nothing wrong with a second shower.”

You rolled your eyes. “You coming to get clean or coming to get dirty again?”

He gave you a look like you already knew the answer.

Then, he dropped his jeans the rest of the way to the tile and stepped out of them.

His shirt was long gone. His tags still hung around his neck, the chain glinting with sweat, swinging low over his chest as he walked toward you—completely naked, completely unbothered, and completely hard again.

Your breath hitched. Just a little.

The shower stall door was already half-open. You pushed it the rest of the way, turned on the water, stepped under the warm spray, and let the heat work over your shoulders, rinsing salt and sweat from your skin. You barely had time to sigh before you felt him behind you—close, radiating heat that had nothing to do with the water.

He pressed in, chest to your back, hands bracketing your hips.

“Miss me already?” you said, smiling, half-lidded as the water sluiced between your breasts.

“Didn’t exactly get my fill,” he muttered, mouth hot against your shoulder. His hands slid around your waist, fingers spreading wide, finding purchase on your still-trembling thighs.

“Not my fault you finished too fast.”

He huffed a sound against your neck that might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a groan. You felt it in your spine either way.

“I’ll let that slide,” he murmured, voice thick with aftermath and heat, “since you’re letting me stay.”

“I’m not—” you began, but his hands were already on your hips, thumbs sweeping slow circles into your skin, “—letting you do anything.”

“You’re standing here naked,” he murmured, pressing closer behind you, water slipping down both your bodies in ribbons. “And you haven’t told me to leave.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbed the little travel-sized shampoo bottle from the shelf, and popped the lid more forcefully than necessary.

He didn’t move away.

Didn’t even pretend to give you space.

His hands slipped up, cupping your waist, then higher—palms flattening over your ribs as he pulled you gently back against his chest. Your breath caught when you felt him—still half-hard, pressed to your ass, no urgency in his body but no apology either.

“You smell like jet fuel,” you muttered, rubbing shampoo between your hands, trying to focus.

“You smell like me.”

His mouth dropped to your shoulder. Soft. Gentle. Then his lips opened, and you felt his teeth scrape lightly against your damp skin.

You let out a slow, steady breath. “Bradshaw…”

“I’m not starting anything,” he said, mouth now at your neck, breath hot where the water was warm. “Just… appreciating the view.”

You kept scrubbing your scalp. His hands slid up to your chest.

His thumbs grazed your nipples—slow. Barely there. He did it again when you didn’t stop him. Then, once more, slower, just to watch your back arch.

“Appreciating?” you said, voice tighter now.

“Mmhm.”

You turned your head and glared over your shoulder. “You’re not helping me shower.”

“Sure I am,” he whispered. “I’m helping you relax.”

His mouth was on your shoulder again, open and wet, teeth leaving little nips—nothing mean, just claiming. Lazy. Confident. Like he had all the time in the world to taste you again.

“You’re gonna give me a hickey.”

“That’s the idea.”

You rinsed your hair under the spray and tried not to shiver when he mouthed your spine. He was only touching you with his lips and hands now, no thrusting, no pressure—just contact. Steady, reverent, low-simmering heat.

And it was working.

He kissed a trail from the nape of your neck down between your shoulder blades, then rested his cheek there, arms snug around your waist.

“You’re a lot easier to handle when you’re not in the cockpit,” he murmured, voice low and rough, lips brushing your skin as he said it.

You huffed a laugh, mouth curling despite yourself. “Says the guy who came just under two minutes.”

He groaned behind you, the sound half-mortified, half-turned on, chest rising against your back.

“Jesus,” he muttered, burying his face in the curve of your neck like he could hide from the smirk in your voice.

You rolled your eyes under the stream. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. Happens to a lot of guys.”

“I swear to God—” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face like he regretted every choice that led him to you and none of them at all.

You laughed — quiet, smug, too satisfied for someone who just got railed on a bench.

“Rooster,” you said sweetly, “was that your first time...losing control?”

He pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder. Then another. Then a bite, just sharp enough to make you gasp.

“Keep talking,” he muttered against your skin, “and I’m gonna drag you back to that bench and see how much attitude you’ve got left.”

“You wish,” you said, leaning forward slightly under the spray to rinse shampoo from your hair. Water slicked down your spine, between your legs, over his hands where they sat loose and warm on your hips. He hadn’t moved. Not really. And you didn’t want him to.

He was quiet for a second. Just breathed you in.

Then, softer: “You good?”

That made you pause. The water hissed around you both, a thick wall of white noise, but his voice cut through it.

You nodded. “Yeah. You?”

He kissed the space just behind your ear. “Getting there.”

One of his hands slid around your stomach again. Not groping. Just holding. Like he didn’t want to let go yet. His fingers tapped slow along your ribs.

The water hissed around you. Your pulse had finally started to settle, but your chest still rose and fell like you weren’t done yet. Like part of you was still waiting for something—an impact, a question, a retreat.

His arms wrapped around you again, a little tighter now. Less teasing. More human.

That was the part you hadn’t prepared for.

The part where he didn’t pull away.

You swallowed.

The steam curled between you, blurred the tile, clung to your skin.

You cleared your throat. “This…”

He stilled. Just slightly.

You stared at the wall. Counted the drops sliding down the tile.

“This doesn’t have to mean anything,” you said.

You felt him breathe—slow and steady against your back, forehead still resting near your shoulder.

Then, softly. No bitterness. No heat. Just truth:

“But it does.”

Your heart kicked.

It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t an accusation. Just truth. Soft. Certain.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The water was too hot suddenly, your skin too flushed, the weight of his body behind yours too much and not enough all at once.

So you reached forward, turned the shower off with a heavy twist of the knob, and stepped out into the cold air of the locker room, droplets chasing down your thighs, your spine, your still-trembling calves.

You didn’t look back as you walked.

You were soaked. Bare. Quiet. Your wet hair clung to your neck in thick strands, the backs of your knees slick with runoff. You grabbed the towel from your locker without ceremony, rubbing it once over your chest and shoulders, then tossed the second one—your spare—over your shoulder behind you without turning.

He caught it one-handed.

Didn’t say a word.

You stood with your back to him, still drying off, letting the cotton mop up the sweat and steam. He watched the water bead down your spine. The shape of you under fluorescent lights. Quiet now, for the first time all night.

You didn’t look at him as you turned toward your locker.

Didn’t need to.

You unwrapped the towel from around your shoulders, twisted it up into your hair, knotted it off. The rest of you stayed bare—still dripping, flushed, sensitive. Skin cooling by degrees.

You grabbed your underwear from the locker shelf—simple black cotton—and stepped into them slowly. They dragged a little across your thighs, damp skin catching the fabric as you tugged them into place. Your sports bra came next. You worked it down over your chest with practiced hands, adjusting the band flat against your ribs, not flinching when the fabric dragged across skin he’d touched just minutes ago.

Behind you, Rooster moved—quiet, measured. The soft rasp of towel over skin. His dog tags clicked against his sternum. A faint sigh like he was trying to breathe out the tension still clinging to the air between you.

You didn’t look. But you felt him.

You reached for your jeans, stepped into them one leg at a time, pulled them up over your hips, and buttoned them with two quick flicks of your fingers. They stuck slightly where your thighs were still damp. You didn’t care.

Next came the tee. Black. Soft. No logo. You dragged it over your head, felt it catch slightly on your shoulders, stretched warm across your chest. It clung in places. Left others bare.

Rooster sat on the bench behind you, toweling off his hair. You heard the soft creak of old leather, the slide of denim, the rhythm of laces pulled tight. His breathing was steady now—but quiet. Still quieter than he usually was.

You grabbed your brush, took your hair down now, ran it through the strands slightly driedly dried from your towel wrap. The motion was automatic. Efficient. You didn’t care about detangling everything. Just enough to feel normal again. To do something.

You crouched, folded your flight suit in tight quarters, sharp and practiced. It was still damp, still wrinkled where it had been shoved aside, stripped off, forgotten. You packed it into your duffel and zipped it closed with one hard tug.

When you stood again, Rooster was fully dressed. Tee clinging slightly at the collar, boots planted wide, arms loose at his sides like he wasn’t sure whether to leave or say something.

You looked at him—just briefly.

Eyes met.

Held.

Then you turned back to your locker. Pulled your duffel over one shoulder.

He hadn’t said a word since pulling on his shirt.

You’d dressed in parallel—silent, practiced, both of you going through the motions with hands steadier than they had any right to be.

Now your duffel hung off your shoulder, your boots planted, your heart finally slowing in your chest. And still, neither of you moved.

So you braved to break the silence.

“You heading over to Penny’s?”

Rooster glanced up, slow. Not surprised. Just waiting for when it would come.

“I was planning on it.”

You nodded once. Let the air stretch a little.

“No point in going in separate cars, right?”

His mouth curved. Barely.

“Not unless you want to give everyone something to whisper about.”

You huffed softly. It wasn’t a laugh—but it could’ve been if the weight in your chest hadn’t still been settling.

“Think we’re a little past whispers.”

He nodded. That quiet, serious kind of nod he gave when a mission was over, but the adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet.

“Yeah.” A beat. “I think we are.”

The silence came back—but it wasn’t sharp anymore. It just filled the space between your footsteps as you both finally moved.

He didn’t trail behind. He didn’t lead. You just walked out together, shoulder to shoulder, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it was.

You didn’t say anything else as the locker room door clicked shut behind you. Didn’t comment on the way your arms brushed when you rounded the corner. Didn’t stop him when he veered toward the Bronco like it had been decided already.

Because maybe it had.

And when he opened the passenger door for you without a word, you climbed in.

No hesitation.

No need to ask.

Just there. Still with him.

Still in it.

The Bronco rolled to a stop in the gravel lot outside the Hard Deck, headlights catching the backs of boots and bikes lined up like usual. Inside, you could already hear the muffled bass of jukebox music, the low rumble of voices, laughter over pool balls cracking. Just another night. Like nothing had happened.

Except everything had.

You sat in the passenger seat, arms loose over your duffel, your damp hair pulled back into a low knot. You could feel Rooster next to you—steady, quiet, warm in your peripheral.

He smelled like your soap.

And that was a problem.

You glanced out the windshield. Hangman was already posted up at the usual table, probably halfway into a beer and a story about how great he seemed to be. Phoenix was by the jukebox. You could see her, barely, the silhouette of her braid catching a flicker of neon.

You didn’t move.

Rooster’s hand sat on the steering wheel, relaxed. But he was watching you.

You knew it without looking.

“We don’t have to walk in together,” you said, eyes still on the bar.

He didn’t respond right away. Just exhaled once. Slow.

“Is that how you want to play it?”

“It’s not about playing anything.” You rubbed your palm once over your thigh. “It’s just… easier.”

He turned toward you slightly. Not aggressive. Just enough to make you feel it.

“Easier to lie?”

“Easier to not make it a thing.”

There it was.

You saw his jaw tick.

“You think this makes you look weak?” he asked, voice low.

You met his eyes.

“No,” you said. Honest. Firm.

“I think it makes me look like someone who fucks the guy who bails her out of formation errors.”

That landed.

He looked away. Nodded once. Like he understood.

Like he didn’t like it, but understood.

“You don’t regret it,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

“No.” You shook your head. “But I want it to stay separate. What I do up there has to stay mine. I can’t give anyone a reason to second-guess me.”

He was quiet for a long beat.

"We all repsect you up there for how you fly, not for who you...fuck."

It was his attempt at making it all okay, and in a way it helped. You stared at your palms in your lap for a beat, then looked up and met his eyes, still on you.

"Alright," you said and nodded, giving him the okay, that it was okay for the squad to see you vulnerable down on the ground.

Then he nodded again.

“Okay.”

He reached for the door handle and paused. Gave you a sidelong look.

“You know they’re gonna clock me smelling like you.”

You cracked a smile. Couldn’t help it.

“Guess you should’ve picked a different soap.”

He opened the door. Got out. Rounded the front of the Bronco like he had all the time in the world. He opened your door like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just had your back pressed to a locker an hour ago.

You stepped out.

Left your bag on the car floor. Didn’t bother pretending like you weren’t coming back to it later.

The night air wrapped around you—warm, thick with salt, the hum of the ocean and old neon buzzing across the lot. You took a breath. Not a deep one. Just enough to reset your shoulders.

Rooster closed the door behind you with a low thunk. Came around the back of the Bronco and fell into step beside you without a word.

He didn’t say anything.

Just rested one hand lightly on the small of your back—barely there. Not a claim. Not a secret.

Just contact.

It wasn’t a move.

It was steady.

You didn’t pull away.

Didn’t even flinch.

The closer you got to the front door, the louder the music grew—Fleetwood Mac this time, something low and warm that spilled out across the lot like welcome-home static. Inside, you could see Phoenix had migrated to the bar, nursing a beer with one hip cocked out and her braid slung down her back. Bob and Payback were deep in some quiet conversation, heads tilted close.

The door swung open before you as a couple pushed their way out.

You stepped through it first.

Rooster followed you in.

And the noise swallowed you both.

The bar was warm with bodies and salt air, the the jukebox humming, voices loud and low. It smelled like beer, jet fuel, and fried food—familiar.

You hadn’t made it ten steps in before Phoenix turned around from her place at the bar.

One look at you. Then Rooster.

Then back again.

She didn’t miss a beat.

“Well, look what the cat finally dragged in.”

You gave her a look—dry, flat, not now.

She raised her beer to her lips like she hadn’t said a thing.

From the pool table, Hangman leaned in with a grin already forming.

“Hate to break it to you, Bradshaw,” he called, loud enough for the whole squad to hear, “but I think someone’s finally caught your tail.”

Coyote, leaning beside him, chuckled and added, “I don’t know, man. Rooster looks pretty damn smug for someone who usually plays it straight.”

You slid onto a stool near Phoenix without a word.

Rooster stayed standing—beer soon in hand, face unreadable except for the tiniest pull at the corner of his mouth.

“You two carpool?” Hangman pressed. “Or was this a one-way mission?”

Payback perked up from the corner, elbowing Fanboy, who didn’t miss a beat.

“Please tell me someone tracked that flight plan.”

“Oh, it was a low-altitude maneuver,” Payback said, mock-serious. “No radar coverage. Lotta turbulence.”

“Tight landing window,” Fanboy added. “Risky reentry.”

“Zero cockpit visibility.”

“That’s enough,” Phoenix said without looking at them.

They high-fived behind her anyway.

Bob finally chimed in from his seat at the edge of the group—quiet, deadpan, exactly when it hit hardest.

“At least someone’s getting their hours in.”

The whole group howled. You couldn't help but crack a smile. Maybe the squad knowing wasn't the end of the world.

Rooster didn’t flinch.

He just took a slow sip of his beer and met your eyes.

A few beats later, as the conversation drifted and Hangman launched into another story that may or may not have been true, you saw Phoenix touch Rooster’s arm.

A low, subtle pull.

He followed her toward the back hallway—quieter there, dimmer, closer to the jukebox and the old Wurlitzer that only played seemed to play classic rock.

She leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

“So we’re not even gonna pretend?”

Rooster didn’t blink.

“Nope.”

She sighed and shook her head once.

“You better hope she knows what she’s doing.”

He looked back toward the bar—toward you.

His voice stayed even.

“She always does.”

notes: i hope you enjoyed it!! <3

taglist: @valkilmher @icemansgirl87 @milesalexanderteller

comment to be added to my top gun taglist!! <3

© Copyright, 2025.

[vaginalvr]

Hello🤍

I read your Sugar Daddy! Hotch and loved it, there aren't many fics about him as a sugar daddy.🥲

I wanted to ask if I could write something where Hotch and the reader have sex on the floor, you know like if she surprised him with a strong one in front of the fireplace in some nice lingerie and yes silk robe and him just took she it there on the floor in front of the fireplace 🫣

Also if I could leave kisses on his spine that would be great my boyfriend does that and it's so hot lmao🙂‍↕️🫶🏻

Write this only if you are comfortable, if you can't ignore it, I send you lots of love. 🫂

ps.English is not my first language so I'm sorry if this is misspelled. 🥲

content warning: Established relationship, intimate sexual content, oral (F receiving), unprotected sex (monogamous), praise, emotional intimacy, kisses down the spine

a/n: mine does that too its delicoussssssssssss this is so cute and romantic i love it so much

word count ~ 1k

The fire crackled in the quiet, shadows dancing against the walls like slow-moving waves. Aaron sat at the edge of the couch, legs apart, head tilted slightly down as he loosened his tie with practiced fingers. His white shirt stretched across his shoulders, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the last remnants of his day still clinging to him.

You waited until he looked up before stepping into the light.

Silk slipped against your skin as you walked toward him, the soft hem brushing the top of your thighs. You didn’t say a word. Just let him see.

When the robe loosened and dropped to the floor, he inhaled like you’d stolen the air from the room.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

His body moved with purpose, rising from the couch and closing the distance between you. One hand found your waist while the other curled around your neck, tilting your face toward his. His eyes searched yours, intense and reverent, before he kissed you — slow and sure, like he’d waited all week for this moment.

Your breath hitched as he backed you toward the fireplace. The flames pulsed behind you, heat licking your skin. He sank to his knees before you, pulling you gently down with him onto the plush rug.

"You’re incredible," he murmured, fingertips tracing along your ribs, slipping under the black lace you wore for him. "You always are."

Your lips brushed his jaw as he spoke, your voice soft in his ear.

"I wanted to surprise you. Thought maybe you'd like me like this. Thought maybe we needed something… quiet. Real."

He looked at you like you were a miracle.

"I always want you like this. Especially like this."

His hands slid beneath the delicate lingerie, pushing it down your hips. His touch was steady but slow, as though every inch of you deserved to be unwrapped like something sacred.

When his mouth found you, you moaned before you could stop it. The heat of the fire blended with the heat of his tongue, your fingers gripping his shoulders as his name escaped your lips.

He didn’t rush. He never did. He knew your body too well. He knew what made your breath catch and your legs tremble. He gave you everything and then some, until you pulled at his hair and whispered that you couldn’t take another second without him inside you.

You undressed him slowly, hands working the buttons of his shirt, revealing the strong lines of his chest, the tension in his shoulders, the muscles along his back. When his shirt finally fell to the floor, you sat up just enough to kiss between his shoulder blades. Soft, warm, lingering kisses, each one lower than the last. You heard the sound he made — a quiet, barely-there groan like he was trying to keep it buried.

When he finally moved over you, he kissed you like he needed it to live.

"Are you sure?" he asked, even now, always careful, always reverent.

You reached for him, guiding him to you. Your voice was breathless, but certain.

"I’m sure."

When he pressed into you, your bodies met like they were meant to. Every thrust was deep and deliberate, a rhythm built on intimacy, not haste. Your fingers tangled in his hair, your legs around his waist, every part of you wrapped around him.

He whispered your name between kisses. He told you how good you felt. How beautiful you looked. How you drove him insane in the best way.

When you came, he held you through it, hand between your legs, voice at your ear, coaxing you higher until the tremor took you completely.

He followed you a few moments later, his body shuddering against yours, breath unsteady, hands clutching at your skin like he never wanted to let go.

He didn’t pull away right away. He stayed inside you, forehead pressed to yours, one hand caressing your jaw while the other rested at the curve of your hip.

You reached up again and kissed the space just beneath his shoulder, then lower, and lower again, until your lips found the base of his spine. He sighed your name, his voice low and raw.

"You’re unreal," he whispered. "And mine."

The fire cracked again, the sound soft and grounding.

You smiled, tugging him down beside you, limbs tangled, skin still flushed.

"Next time," you said into his chest, "I’m lighting the fire before you even walk through the door."

His hand slid into your hair, his voice filled with quiet satisfaction.

"Then I won’t bother making it to the couch."

[neesu]

The white fox

Contains: violence, blood, weapons, power dynamics, manipulation, threats, possessiveness, emotional coercion, mentions of death and injury, suggestive undertones, unresolved sexual tension

The white fox masterlist

(long chapter)

Part 5

The silence stretched — heavy, suffocating. The kind of silence neither of you were built for. Not in this world. Not between men like you.

But neither of you broke it.

Not yet.

Your fingers stayed tangled in his hair, thumb grazing the back of his neck, slow… deliberate. Just enough pressure to remind him who he belonged to now. Just enough softness to confuse the hell out of him.

You felt him exhale. Shaky. Shallow. He shifted, like maybe he was thinking about getting up — about putting the mask back on, snapping out some reckless, cocky line just to claw back the scraps of control he’d willingly handed over.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

“You’re dangerous,” Gojo finally muttered, voice barely above a whisper, lips ghosting the skin just beneath your jaw. “Worse than anyone said.”

You huffed, amused but cold. “And you’re slow to learn.”

His fingers twitched against your thigh, a nervous tic — or maybe frustration at himself for being here. For needing this. Needing you.

“Is this how you treat all your enemies?” he asked, trying for flippant, but his voice cracked halfway through it. “Or am I just lucky?”

You dragged his head back by the hair again, forcing him to look up at you — neck exposed, pupils blown wide, lips parted and breathless.

“You think this is luck?”

Gojo swallowed. Hard. And for the first time, the grin faltered.

“No.” His voice dropped, lower now. Almost hoarse. “Not luck.”

A pause. Long enough for the tension to crawl down both your spines.

“Fate, maybe.”

Your grip tightened. “Careful.”

A breathless chuckle left him, ragged and thin. “Wouldn’t dream of pissing you off, boss.”

He was lying. You both knew it.

His hands curled into the fabric of your jacket again — tight, desperate, like he hated himself for it but couldn’t stop. Couldn’t let go.

“Look at you,” you muttered, tilting his chin up further, fingers framing his jaw. “You walked in here thinking you’d shake my world. And now you’re the one falling apart.”

His eyelids fluttered, breath hitching at the edge of a groan. “Yeah. So? Maybe I like falling.”

You stared him down, something cold and hot twisting deep in your gut. “Good,” you murmured, leaning in until your lips brushed the corner of his mouth but didn’t quite give him what he wanted. “Because I’m not done breaking you yet.”

Gojo’s hands trembled where they clutched you, but the grin fought its way back to his lips. “...Didn’t think you were.”

Then — a knock.

Sharp. Precise. Followed by a voice through the door, muffled but tense. “Boss. We’ve got a problem. Urgent.”

You didn’t move at first. Neither did he. Both frozen in the static charge between this — whatever the hell this was — and the reality clawing its way back in.

“Of course,” you muttered. Fingers loosened in his hair, but you didn’t push him away.

“Duty calls,” Gojo sighed against your skin, teasing, but softer now. “Bet you’re real fun at meetings.”

You shoved his head lightly, enough to make him stumble back onto his knees, staring up at you with flushed cheeks and wrecked hair — dangerous, arrogant, and completely ruined.

“Get up,” you ordered, already fixing your jacket, cold professionalism settling back over your shoulders like armor. “You’re coming with me.”

“Am I?” His grin curved sharp again. “What am I? Your hostage? Your plaything?”

You turned toward the door but glanced back, gaze sharp, cold, like the barrel of a gun pressed between his ribs. Voice low, final.

“No,” you said. “You’re not my hostage. Not my plaything.”

You stepped in close, grip curling in the collar of his jacket, yanking him forward just enough that your lips hovered by his ear.

“You’re mine, Satoru. Property. And I don’t share what’s mine.”

You let go — sudden, sharp. He stumbled slightly, breath hitching, hands flexing like he didn’t know whether to fight, grab you, or fall back on his knees again.

But he said nothing. For once, Gojo Satoru — the man who always had something reckless to throw, always knew how to tip the balance back — was speechless.

Not broken. Not yet. But close. Too close.

And he hated how much he liked it.

The knock came again — louder this time, more impatient. “Boss. Situation’s escalating. They’re waiting on you downstairs.”

Your eyes didn’t leave him. “Get up,” you ordered. “You’re coming with me.”

A breath. Then his grin pulled back into place — cocky, strained, but there. “Tch… guess I don’t get a safe word, huh?”

“Keep pushing me, and you’ll learn you don’t get a choice either.”

He stood, straightened his jacket, ran a hand through his hair like it could fix the wreck you left him in. “Dangerous,” he muttered. “So damn dangerous.” He tilted his head, smirk curving sharp. “...Kinda hot.”

You ignored him — mostly. Threw the door open, stalked into the hallway, boots heavy against marble floors. Your men waited there, stiff-backed, eyes flickering between you and the man trailing behind you like a shadow — or maybe a captured wolf pretending he wasn’t wearing a collar.

“Boss,” one nodded. “The convoy’s ready. East docks. Same deal — ambush on arrival. Intel says they’re armed heavy.” His gaze flicked to Gojo, uncertain. “...And him?”

“He’s with me,” you said, simple, final.

No one questioned it. They knew better.

As you made your way toward the blacked-out SUV waiting by the curb, Gojo kept pace at your side, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders loose — but his eyes were scanning everything. Calculating. Watching.

“You always ride into shootouts with your enemies in tow?” he asked, leaning just enough to brush against your shoulder. “Or am I just special?”

You didn’t look at him. “You should pray you are.”

A low chuckle rumbled out of him. “Trust me, sweetheart — if I’m gonna die today, it sure as hell won’t be by anyone else’s hands but yours.”

The way he said it — like a promise, not a threat — had your fingers twitching for the gun at your hip. Or maybe for his throat.

Either would do.

The car doors slammed. Engines roared to life.

The car pulled away from the curb, tires screeching against asphalt, engines snarling through the choking neon-lit streets.

And as the city blurred past in streaks of rain and steel, the line between enemy and obsession didn’t just blur — it shattered. Completely. Irreversibly.

Inside the SUV, silence pressed thick. Except for the low chatter of comms, the occasional crackle of gunfire already sounding distant from the east docks.

Gojo leaned back against the leather seat, legs spread like he owned the space — like he hadn’t just knelt at your feet not ten minutes ago. But his hands told the truth — fingers restless, flexing against his thighs, betraying nerves he’d never admit out loud.

“Still time to back out,” he muttered, head tilted toward the window but eyes flicking to you in the reflection. “If you’re scared of what happens when we’re out there... together.”

You scoffed. Low. Dangerous. “If anyone should be scared, it’s the poor bastards waiting at the docks.”

A crooked grin pulled at his lips. “That’s what I like about you. No fear. No hesitation.” His eyes dragged over you, slow, deliberate. “No mercy.”

The convoy hit a sharp turn. Ahead, the docks came into view — rusted cranes, stacks of containers, shadows moving where shadows shouldn’t be. Armed men. Dozens. Waiting.

The comms crackled. “Boss, eyes on the target. Six cars. Two mounted guns. Snipers posted north side.”

“Good.” You adjusted your gloves, checked the safety on your pistol. Then glanced at Gojo, voice like ice. “Stay close. Don’t get clever.”

“Oh, sweetheart…” He rolled his neck, cracking it side to side, smile sharpening like broken glass. “I’m nothing but clever.”

The SUV skidded to a halt. Doors flew open. Boots hit concrete. Your men scattered, taking positions, weapons drawn.

Chaos broke like a gunshot.

Bullets screamed. Metal sparked. Someone yelled — distant, already drowned by gunfire. You moved fast, cutting through cover, returning fire with surgical precision. And right behind you — a flash of white hair, a grin too sharp, Gojo moving like smoke and lightning, dropping men without breaking stride.

“Left side — two incoming!” he barked, voice low but clipped. You pivoted, fired twice. One dropped. The other never got the chance.

“You’re useful,” you muttered, ducking behind a crate.

“Careful,” Gojo laughed, sliding into cover beside you, breathless but high off adrenaline. “Talk to me like that, I might start thinking you like me.”

Another burst of gunfire rained over the container. Close. Too close. Gojo flinched, pressed shoulder to shoulder with you, tension rolling off him in waves. “...Y’know, this is kinda romantic,” he grinned, panting. “Our first real date.”

“Shut up.”

“You love it.”

You grabbed him by the collar, yanked him closer — teeth bared, faces barely an inch apart. “Focus, Satoru.”

But your grip lingered. Too long. His grin faltered. Not gone — but softer now. Tighter. Like it suddenly wasn’t a game anymore.

“...You keep grabbing me like that,” he murmured, breath hitching, “and you’re gonna have to follow through.”

“After,” you growled. “If you survive.”

His gaze burned. “If?”

“Move.” You shoved him toward the left flank, covering his sprint with three clean shots. “We’re not done yet.”

⸻

The docks were almost quiet now. The gunfire had thinned to stray pops in the distance, and the last bodies hit the pavement with a wet, final thud. Smoke curled off burning crates. Blood smeared concrete.

Gojo stood there, breathing hard, knuckles split, a lazy grin spread across his face like he hadn’t just torn through half a dozen men with nothing but borrowed firepower and bad intentions.

And for a second — just a second — it almost felt natural. Easy. Like maybe he wasn’t the white-haired devil from a rival syndicate. Like maybe he belonged at your side.

Until one of your men stumbled over, panting, blood streaked across his jacket. “Boss... we ID’d one of the bodies.” He glanced at Gojo, then back to you, jaw tense. “Yakuza. Clan under Gojo’s family.”

Silence. Heavy. Immediate.

The weight of it hit like a brick to the chest.

Your grip on your gun tightened. “...You brought your own men into my city?”

Gojo didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. “Not mine.” His voice went cool, smooth as glass. “I don’t run that crew. You know how fractured it is over there.” He tilted his head. “Rogue cells. Happens.”

“Convenient,” you muttered, stepping in. Close. Close enough your shadows merged in the firelight. “Or maybe you planned it this way. Cozy up to me. Use me to wipe out your competition.”

Gojo’s grin flickered — not gone, but sharper. “If I was using you... would you really be this angry?” His fingers twitched at his sides. “Or is it because you liked having me under you more than you’re ready to admit?”

Your hand shot out, grabbed him by the collar again, yanked him so close your noses brushed. “Careful, Satoru. I don’t need a reason to put you on your knees again. And this time, it won’t be pretty.”

His breath hitched. But his hands came up — not in surrender. Just pressing to your chest, fingers curling in your jacket. Tense. Controlled. Fake-casual.

“You think I don’t know how dangerous this is?” he murmured, voice low but cracking at the edges. “You think I don’t wake up knowing exactly how stupid it is to be here? To be... this close to you?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because it was stupid.

Because tomorrow, your organizations would be right back at each other’s throats. You’d be fielding hits. Dodging bullets. Trying not to think about the way his voice had sounded in your ear, or the weight of him when he let himself fall against you like he belonged there.

“...This doesn’t change anything,” you finally said. Jaw tight. “You’re still my enemy.”

Gojo tilted his head, smiled — but softer now. Meaner. “Then why does it feel like you’re about to kiss me or kill me... and even you can’t decide which?”

You shoved him back. Hard. “Get out of my city.”

He stumbled. Caught himself. Straightened his jacket. But he didn’t stop smiling.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “You keep saying that...” His eyes dragged over you one last time, hot, electric. “But we both know... I’m coming back.”

The tension in the air didn’t break. It only stretched, thin and dangerous, like a wire pulled taut between two ticking bombs.

Your jaw clenched as you watched him—watched that infuriating, cocky grin like he hadn’t just played you. Like he hadn’t just manipulated your entire crew into doing his dirty work.

“Don’t push your luck, Gojo.” Your voice came low, lethal. “You already walked out of here breathing. Don’t expect it twice.”

But the bastard just chuckled, running a hand through blood-slicked white hair, smearing the mess like it didn’t matter. “Oh, come on,” he drawled, stepping backwards, slow, deliberate, never once breaking eye contact. “You don’t want me dead.” His gaze darkened, cutting. “Not really.”

“You sure about that?” you bit back, stepping forward once, matching his retreat with something heavier. Meaner.

For a second—just a second—his grin faltered. His breath hitched. And that stupid bravado cracked right at the edges. He felt it too. That pull. That thick, magnetic force between violence and something far worse.

“...Yeah,” he breathed, quieter now. “I’m sure.”

Then he turned. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders loose like none of this mattered, like none of it had sunk claws into the marrow. But his steps were heavier than before. Slower.

And he didn’t look back. Not this time.

The second his silhouette disappeared around the corner, the burn in your lungs finally registered. You hadn’t realized you’d been holding your breath.

One of your men shifted behind you. “Boss… you want us to follow him?”

Your fists curled. Loosened. Curled again. Your instincts screamed yes. Hunt him down. Drag him back. End it before it gets worse. Before it gets complicated.

But it was already complicated.

“...No,” you muttered, shoving your gun back into the holster. “Let him run.” A pause. “For now.”

But your men weren’t stupid. They’d seen the way he looked at you. The way you didn’t pull the trigger. And they knew better than to ask questions you weren’t ready to answer.

Not yet.

Not while your head was still replaying every second of that fight. Of him. The way he moved beside you like it was second nature. The way his voice scraped at the inside of your ribs. The way even now, he felt closer than he should.

You spit blood to the side. Wiped your mouth with the back of your glove.

“Clean this up,” you ordered, voice cold as steel. “No loose ends. No witnesses.”

But as you turned toward the waiting car, your hand hovered at your collar. Right where his fingers had been. Where his breath had ghosted against your skin.

And no matter how deep you buried it—how clean the crew left the docks—there was no scrubbing the fact that the bastard had gotten under your skin.

Worse.

He knew it.

And whether it was next week, next month, or next damn hour—Satoru Gojo was coming back.

And you weren’t sure if you were going to kill him.

Or drag him under you until he forgot who he worked for.

Maybe both.

[sturnzsblog]

Not worth it 4

Summary: Y/N never planned on falling in love with a gangster — until she met Matt. Mysterious, dangerous, and fiercely loyal, he drags her into a world of crime, secrets, and bloodshed. What starts as passion turns into obsession, violence, and survival.

warnings: Violence & gun use, Murder / blood / graphic scenes, Kidnapping / captivity, Torture / psychological manipulation, Mentions of death, trauma, & PTSD, Toxic relationship dynamics, Jealousy / possessive behavior,Alcohol / drug mentions,Language / explicit content (sexual & violent),Loss / grief, Mental health struggles (depression, anxiety, dissociation),References to past abuse (implied),Emotional manipulation / codependency

My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

The morning light sliced through the blinds like thin razors, turning the room gold and sharp. I lay still in Matt’s bed, curled up beneath one of his worn hoodies, the weight of the night pressing into my chest like I’d never get up again. The memory looped in my head on repeat — the man’s face, the way his hands had gripped me, the panic, the scream that never left my throat… and then the shot.

The recoil.

The silence after.

I pulled the blanket tighter, but it didn’t help. It couldn’t. My skin felt too thin. My soul felt cracked down the middle.

I hadn’t cried last night. Not after we got home. Not even in the car with Matt gripping the steering wheel so hard it left marks. But now, in the quiet of the morning, my body betrayed me. Silent tears slipped down my cheeks, soaking into the collar of his hoodie.

The sound of a door creaking open made my breath catch.

Matt.

I heard his footsteps — slow, uncertain — then the shuffle of him pausing just outside the bedroom. I squeezed my eyes shut and pretended to be asleep.

Maybe he’d go. Maybe he couldn’t look at me the same anymore.

But the bed dipped beside me, and a familiar calloused hand rested gently on my thigh.

“I know you’re awake,” he said softly.

I didn’t answer. Just breathed, barely.

His hand stayed there for a long time. Not pushing. Not asking. Just… there.

Finally, I turned over, my eyes meeting his. He looked exhausted. Pale. Haunted in a way I’d never seen before.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I whispered.

Matt nodded. “Me either.”

We stared at each other for a long beat. My throat burned.

“I killed someone, Matt.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. “You saved yourself.”

“That doesn’t make it easier.”

“No,” he said, voice low. “It doesn’t.”

He reached out, cupping my face. “Come on. Shower. You need it.”

⸻

The water was too hot, but I didn’t care. I sat on the floor of the shower, knees to my chest, as steam curled around me like smoke.

My sobs were silent at first. Just the kind that shake your ribs and leave you gasping for air.

Then I felt arms around me — warm, solid, Matt.

He was fully clothed. Wet. Kneeling behind me, pulling me into his lap as if I could fall apart at any second. Maybe I already had.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, again and again. “I’ve got you.”

I turned in his arms and pressed my forehead into his chest.

“I didn’t want to do it,” I whispered.

“I know,” he said.

“Does it make me like them?”

“No. Never.”

I looked up at him. “Do you still see me the same?”

His eyes softened. “I see you clearer. Stronger than you know.”

I kissed him then — not out of desire, but out of desperation. A plea for connection, for something to make me feel human again. He kissed me back, slow and steady, before pulling away gently.

“Not now,” he said. “You need to breathe first.”

So I did. With him. In his arms. For as long as I needed.

~

By nightfall, I wasn’t ready — but I went anyway.

I sat in the passenger seat of Matt’s car, eyes fixed out the window as the city flickered past in smears of red and yellow. My hands rested in my lap, cold and stiff. Matt’s grip on the steering wheel was tight, knuckles white. Neither of us spoke.

The job was simple. A meet-and-scan. We weren’t supposed to engage — just monitor a suspected drop between a mid-level supplier and a contact from a rival crew. Chris and Nate were already posted outside the back alley, and Skye was running recon from a cafe across the street.

Me? I was bait.

“You’re sure about this?” Matt asked suddenly, his voice slicing through the tension.

I turned my head, meeting his eyes in the glow of passing streetlights. “Are you asking because you don’t think I’m ready, or because you don’t want me involved?”

His jaw tensed. “Both.”

I gave a weak smile. “Too late either way.”

He didn’t reply. Just sighed, pulled over, and handed me the earpiece.

“I’ll be watching,” he said, brushing his knuckles down my cheek. “Don’t try to be a hero.”

I swallowed. “I won’t.”

⸻

The alley reeked of sour garbage and gasoline. I slipped through the shadows, heels light against cracked pavement, the echo of my breath loud in my ears. Chris’s voice buzzed quietly in the comm.

“Target entering from the north side. Heads up, Y/N.”

My heart pounded as I rounded the corner, pretending to be lost. I pulled out my phone and glanced around with feigned confusion. A man stepped out from a side door — tall, greasy hair slicked back, eyes that ran down my body like a scan. He looked like a wolf in human skin.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” he drawled. “You lost?”

I blinked. Played innocent. “I—I was looking for the metro.”

“You’re far from it.” He stepped closer, slow. Predatory. “But lucky me.”

Chris’s voice was in my ear. “That’s him. Keep him talking.”

I nodded slightly, then looked up at the man. “Do you work around here?”

He smiled like he knew something I didn’t. “Something like that.”

I laughed softly. “You don’t look like a desk job kind of guy.”

He chuckled and closed the distance. “I can show you what kind of guy I am.”

Before I could respond, his hand darted out — fast — and grabbed my wrist.

My heart seized.

I tried to pull back, but his grip tightened, yanking me forward until my back hit the wall. I gasped as he shoved me, one arm pinning me by the throat. Cold metal pressed into my side — a gun.

I froze.

“You think I don’t know why you’re here?” he hissed, lips inches from my ear. “You’re one of them. Pretty little spy. Think you can fool me?”

“I don’t—” I started to say, voice choked.

His hand slid to my waist, fingers creeping. “I could ruin you right here. Leave you a message for your boyfriend.”

Tears stung my eyes.

“Please—don’t—”

I wiggled under his grip, struggling, breath cutting short. My fingers clawed at his arm, trying to find space between his hand and my throat. My other hand reached low, slowly, quietly—

He didn’t see me pull the small pistol from beneath my waistband until it was pointed at his foot.

His eyes widened.

I pulled the trigger.

Once. hit him in the big toe.

i think

The sound was deafening.

He dropped instantly, crumpling to the ground, a gurgled breath escaping his lips. I stumbled back, choking on air and adrenaline, hands shaking violently.

“Y/N?! What happened?!” Matt’s voice thundered in my ear.

“I… I had to—” I couldn’t finish.

Chris was the first one to reach me, followed by Matt, who looked like a madman storming through the alley. He caught me just as I collapsed into him.

“It’s okay,” he whispered over and over again. “You did what you had to do.”

But I did feel okay.

I actually felt great?

The ride back to the safehouse was silent, heavy — the kind of silence that screamed.

I was still in Matt’s lap in the back seat, my head pressed against his chest, the rest of the crew scattered in their own vehicles. I barely remembered how I got here. My gun was gone. My dress was torn at the collar. My throat burned from where he’d held me.

Matt hadn’t let go of me since he picked me up from the alley floor. His hands were tight around me now, as if he feared I’d disappear if he blinked.

“Does it hurt?” he finally whispered, voice like gravel.

I shook my head slowly. “Not like it should.”

He kissed my temple. “You’re safe now.”

But I didn’t feel safe. I didn’t even feel real.

As we neared the penthouse, a strange tension built in my chest. Something wasn’t right.

That’s when the first bullet cracked the passenger mirror.

Chris cursed from the front seat, jerking the wheel hard. “Fuck! They found us!”

Matt pushed my head down instinctively, covering me with his body as another shot rang out.

“It’s an ambush!” Nate shouted through the comm. “Three cars behind us—same tags as the rival crew from the club!”

“Everyone split!” Matt barked into his mic. “Safehouse protocol!”

The car screeched into an alley. I could hear the rubber burning beneath us as Chris took the corner at a deadly speed. Matt gripped my hand.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

I blinked up at him.

“If anything happens, you run. Got it? You don’t stop. You don’t look back.”

“No,” I whispered, grabbing his shirt. “I’m not losing you.”

His jaw clenched. “I’m not planning to let that happen.”

More gunfire.

Screams.

Glass shattered.

The car jolted violently as we hit a barricade, sending me and Matt tumbling against the seat. Chris cursed again, bleeding from his temple.

“They’re on foot now!” Nate’s voice crackled through.

Matt looked at me, eyes wild and feral. “Stay here.”

“Matt—”

“Stay.”

And then he was gone, slamming the door behind him.

I stayed curled in the backseat, panting, ears ringing. The shots grew louder. Closer. Then — silence.

Dead silence.

I opened the door slowly and crept out, trembling legs dragging me down the alley, heels crunching glass.

“Matt?” I whispered.

A figure emerged from the shadows.

Not Matt.

A man — tall, built, unfamiliar. He smirked when he saw me and started walking faster.

My heart seized.

I turned and bolted.

His footsteps pounded behind me.

I didn’t have a gun. Didn’t even have my phone. All I had was fear and adrenaline.

I turned a corner — and slammed straight into someone’s chest.

Strong arms wrapped around me instantly.

I screamed.

“Y/N! It’s me—Matt!”

I gasped, burying my face in his chest. “He—he was behind me—”

Matt didn’t hesitate. He shoved me behind him, gun raised. A beat passed… but no one came.

We waited another moment before he turned and cupped my face.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded frantically.

He looked like he didn’t believe me.

⸻

We finally made it back hours later — bruised, breathless, bloodied.

Matt didn’t speak to anyone. He just carried me straight to our bedroom, closed the door, and collapsed onto the bed with me.

He pulled me into his arms, our bodies tangled, his forehead pressed against mine.

“I can’t keep watching you get hurt,” he whispered. “I’ll fucking lose my mind.”

I pressed a hand to his chest. “I don’t want this either. I didn’t sign up for war.”

Matt nodded slowly, brushing a piece of glass from my hair. “Then let’s figure it out. Together.”

I nodded, chest tight.

We stayed that way for a long time. Quiet. Breathing.

Then Matt tilted my chin up and kissed me — slow, deliberate, full of all the pain and tenderness he couldn’t put into words.

And the rest of the night was ours.

taglist 💋

@n00dl3zzz @pip4444chris @sturnzzlovee @bernardmatthews @xsturnkay @katiebae333 @dummyslut00 @eszt1 @kalel2005 @nessaisabelartemas333 @sturnxvibes @jaybirdie34 @izzylovesmatt @sturnxluvv @courta13

[chrisstvrns]

DISCO: M.S.

word count: 1.0k

warnings: suggestive sexual content, groping, club/alcohol setting, implied sexual activity.

AFTERCARE marathon schedule here

the bass pulsed through your body before you even made it through the doors. neon lights streaked across the sidewalk outside the club like they were searching for someone, and when they landed on you, it felt personal. you tugged your jacket tighter around your frame, nerves skittering like sparks just beneath your skin. you hadn’t meant to end up here tonight. but then again, maybe fate wore a suit and tie.

inside, it was chaos. a beautiful, shimmering chaos. the kind that made you feel infinite. the kind that made you forget the ache of yesterday. and then you saw him.

matt sturniolo. leaning against the wall like he owned the place. dressed in black-on-black, the collar of his shirt slightly askew like he didn’t care, but somehow still looked like a god in the smoke and strobe light. his eyes caught yours like a hook in the dark. there was a pause in your heartbeat, like the whole club held its breath.

he didn’t smile, not right away. he just pushed off the wall and started walking toward you. slow and deliberate, like he already knew how the night would end.

“dance with me,” he said, not a question.

and god, you wanted to say no. you weren’t here to fall.

but it already felt like you were.

the tension between you too was inevitable. so much history, so many promises of never finding each other again. but somehow, you always did. 

his hands roughly yet comfortingly gripped your arm, pulling you to the middle of the club floor. the room was shaking, nearly 500 people dancing around you. chris and nick were lost somewhere else in the crowd, but neither you nor matt paid any attention to them. 

matt held you against his chest, his large arms wrapped around your chest, one hand gently gripping your right breast. the both of you swayed to the music, matt gently nipping at your neck. each sway, every slight movement, you could feel matt growing harder. his erection was fully pressed against your ass, and you let out a slight whimper as you felt one of his hands go down to press against your clothed pussy. 

you should’ve pulled away. should’ve said something sharp, something that would’ve cut the moment clean in half. but your body betrayed you—leaning back into his like it belonged there.

the music shifted, darker now. bass heavier. like it was echoing the war between your ribs.

matt’s lips brushed the shell of your ear, his breath hot and unhurried. “you always make it harder than it needs to be,” he murmured, the edge of a smirk laced through his voice.

your fingers curled slightly around his forearm. “and you always think you know exactly how this ends.”

he chuckled low, the sound vibrating through your back. “don’t i?”

you hated that he wasn’t wrong. that you remembered the way his hands fit against your body like they’d been carved for it. that part of you still ached in the places he’d once mapped with nothing but whispers and unfinished promises.

his fingers, once resting, now moved—slow, almost innocent. like he was just adjusting his hold. but you felt the intent beneath it. every subtle shift spoke volumes.

he leaned in closer, lips barely brushing your cheek. “say the word, and i’ll stop.”

he wouldn’t.

you wouldn’t ask him to.

instead, you turned your head, just enough to catch his gaze through the haze and flickering lights. “you never stop,” you whispered.

and the dangerous glint in his eyes told you that was exactly the point.

his hand stayed where it was, not moving, just holding. like he was memorizing the shape of you. like he’d forgotten everything else in the world except the way your body felt against his.

you weren’t dancing anymore. not really. just swaying in that suspended space where the music was a hum in your bones and his breath was the only rhythm you could follow.

“we shouldn’t be doing this,” you said, but it came out more like a sigh than a warning.

“maybe not,” he said, nose brushing your jaw, “but when have we ever done what we should?”

your heartbeat stuttered. he always did that—made recklessness sound like fate. like some kind of poetry you couldn’t stop reading even when you knew the ending.

his fingers dragged slowly across your ribs, barely grazing fabric, and it wasn’t the touch that made you shiver—it was the way he looked at you. like he already knew what came next. like he already had the memory of it tucked behind his eyes.

you turned in his arms, chest to chest now, your hands splayed against the front of his jacket. he stared down at you like he was daring you to run. like he knew you wouldn’t.

“what are we doing, matt?”

he leaned in so close your lips almost brushed. “whatever this is,” he said, voice rough, “it’s never just nothing.”

you hated how much you agreed.

his hands dropped to your waist, thumbs pressing into your hips like he was grounding himself—like he needed proof you were really there. and maybe you needed the same, because you didn’t stop him. didn’t flinch. didn’t breathe.

the world kept spinning around you. lights pulsing, people laughing, drinks spilling—but none of it touched the bubble you were both trapped inside. it was just him. just you. and the silence between heartbeats.

“you gonna leave again?” you asked, voice low, unsure which answer would hurt more.

he didn’t answer right away. just studied you with that look that used to make you feel like the only person in any room. the only one who mattered.

“not if you tell me to stay,” he said finally.

god. he always did that. left the choice in your hands, knowing you never really had one.

you leaned up, lips brushing his—soft, barely there. a promise or a warning. maybe both.

“then don’t make me say it,” you whispered.

and that was it.

not a kiss. not a goodbye. just the two of you, holding on for a little longer in a place where the night was too loud and the past was louder.

outside, the sky was starting to hint at morning. but inside, time stood still.

and maybe, just for tonight, that was enough.

you were waking up in his bed tomorrow morning. if you didnt? it would be him waking up in yours.

────────────୨ৎ────────────

aurora's notes: 4/15!!! im finally starting the marathon again yayyyyyy (also im posting this at like 1 am, can one of my east coast girlies lmk what you feel the best posting time is??)

- aurora ᯓ✮⋆˙

likes and reblogs are always greatly appreciated! ੈ✩‧₊˚

to be added to my taglist, comment on this post!

[wiremotherofficial]

my neck is BAD today

[freakalot]

gojo hates condoms ☆

not even in an ‘i can’t feel a thing’ frat-fuck way either. he just wants to be close to you. he’s touch starved as it is and being inside of you is quite literally the closet he can be to you. why would he want a barrier between his achy length and your silken walls?

he hates condoms. hates them like they’re pointing south on his moral compass. hates them like they hurt to use—which they do, in a way—the mental anguish feels real to him, at least. he picks up a fuss in the grocery store when you pull a pack of ribbed condoms from the shelf to try because why would you seek pleasure from artificial ridges when the protruding veins of his cock would feel just as good if not dressed in a condom?

sometimes he eats you out for twice as long as usual to get you really fucked out and dumb. he’ll make you cum hard and fast and so much that your mind is a mess in the hopes that you’ll forget all about your safety precautions and let him feel you from the inside out. but you always catch on. with a tsk and a finger pointed to the draw where he keeps the horrid things out of sight.

so when you let him fuck you raw for the first time, gojo is reeling. it’s on the condition that he promises to pull out, and promise he does—with a pinky finger hooked around yours and his lips to his thumb—he promises to pull out.

he decides on missionary, because as much as he loves the hundred different positions he knows how to wrangle you into, he wants to connect with you. to make love, not fuck.

and even your wetness against his tip is enough to jolt his stomach downwards. collecting your glossing over his angry head as he rubs himself up and down your folds—he would cum just like this if he wasn’t so stuck on feeling all of you. you’re warm and wet and tight as he pushes against your entrance and oh god he’s going to cum already.

“oh,” he stills, eyes deadset on yours as he slides into you. his tip is rubbing against that spot that makes your back arch upwards and it takes everything in you not to laugh at the distraught look on his face as he says “i have to pull out.”

“you’re joking, right?”

“i really wish i was baby,” he looks pained. he’s never felt something so heavenly and ungodly at the same time. he wants to do bad things, to fuck you into the mattress and breed you full of himself until you’re too weak to care about the aftermath of such recklessness. “i can’t pull out.”

“what?” you laugh, his balls tighten at the sound.

“if i move—” satoru has never looked so serious, “—i will cum. this was a bad idea. why would you let me do this?”

“you’re the one always—”

“actually don’t argue with me, you know what it does to me.” he squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on anything other then the way you feel around him. he does math in his head, thinks about the people he’s killed, how much he loves you… how pretty you look right now… growing old with you.

“i swear you’re getting harder inside of—”

“imsorryiloveyoubutpleasebequietorelseyouaregoingtogetpregnant.”

it takes him a minute of mental gymnastics to feel confident enough to start slowly sliding out of you, but all hope dies when the heel of your foot presses against his ass and with a smile made of sin you pull him deeper inside of you.

he opens his mouth to protest, to tell you he is not joking and all that comes out is a beautiful strangled moan that makes you tighten around him. for a man who claims to be the strongest he is rather weak-willed when it comes to your pussy. he needs to cum so hard that it hurts, but a fear of maybe ruining your life and relationship digs his teeth into his bottom lip.

“don’t do this to me,” he whines.

but you’re smiling. you’re so tight and wet and beautiful and everything he’s ever dreamt of having and holding and you’re smiling. “satoru,” you say, and he’s weak. “cum inside.”

anything for you. it’s gorgeous: the way he lets loose, falling forward to press all his weight into you as he groans and his balls release in hot spurts that you can feel painting your insides white. it’s the connection, the intimacy, the tears that prick at his eyes.

and he doesn’t pull out. no, he presses his hips forward to fuck his cum as deep into you as he possibly can and he vows to throw out every condom in the goddamn house.

god he hates condoms.

part 2

[nereidprinc3ss]

be my angel

in which BAU fem!reader was injured on the job, but is refusing painkillers at the hospital. spencer thinks he knows why.

fluff (+a little angst) warnings/tags: established relationship, hospital stuff, reader got beat up by an unsub, discussions of spencer's past addiction, mentions of period cramps, reader ends up being administered some sort of painkiller a/n: another draft i found in my literal hundreds of pages of abandoned wips and fixed up cause it's cute, I hope you like!!!

Spencer is tearing through the hospital. They all keep saying you’re going to be okay, but what does that even mean? Why is nobody telling him anything? He’s not even sure he heard what the orderly at the front desk said, but his feet are carrying him with a strident purpose through the winding white halls, so he has to assume he at least subconsciously knows where he’s going. 

Finally he spots Penelope, a beacon in her candy-colored clothing, speaking to a doctor in hushed tones. Penelope sees him approaching and turns away from the doctor, looking harried and exhausted. 

“Is she okay? What happened?” Spencer demands, before either of the others can say a word. 

“She’s okay,” the doctor assures. “She was beat up pretty bad—concussion, broken ribs, some bruising that looks worse than it is. There was a clean shot through her arm, but—” 

His blood runs cold. Nobody told him you were shot. Why had nobody told him you were shot? 

“I need to see her.” 

The doctor frowns, glancing between the two agents. 

“I’m sorry, are you her spouse?” 

“Yes. No, not yet, I just—I need to see her, please. Now.” 

“Sir, unless she—” 

“Just let him see her!” Penelope practically yells. “She wants him here, believe me.”  

The doctor clenches her jaw and scribbles something on her clipboard. 

“Okay. Maybe you can try to convince her to accept some painkillers.” 

Spencer’s frown deepens. 

“She’s refusing pain management?” 

“We gave her as much ibuprofen as we could, but she refused anything stronger than that. She has to be in a lot of pain right now, and there’s no background of addiction.” 

“I’ll talk to her,” Spencer says, already twisting the silver door handle. He has a sneaking suspicion as to why you denied pain treatment, and it makes him feel incredibly guilty. More than he already did, after this entire debacle. 

The sight of you, bloodied and bruised and obviously suffering has his heart splintering right down the middle. Whatever meager semblance of a smile he can scrounge up and offer is reflected back to him on you—which only makes him feel worse. As always, you’re putting on a brave face. 

“Hey,” Spencer says quietly as he closes the door behind him. 

“Hi,” you croak. “How do I look?” 

He approaches, sitting on the edge of the bed and pushing your hair away from your face. 

“How do you feel? The doctor told me you wouldn’t accept pain medication,” he murmurs. 

You sniff. 

“I feel okay. Did she tell you it’s not as bad as it looks?” 

But your voice is so small, so wavery and weak, that he knows you’re lying. 

“Sweetheart...” 

You’ve been holding it together since the unsub beat you nearly unconscious. You held it together as he ran away, even got a couple shots in before he turned around and returned fire. You held it together while you sat against the dirty truck, bleeding out, not sure if your team was coming, and you held it together in the ambulance, and for the past thirty minutes in this hospital bed. But all it takes is one gentle word from Spencer, with that concerned, solicitous look in his eye, and the floodgates are opening. Tears spring up in your eyes and begin silently falling down your dirtied cheeks. 

“It’s okay!” you attempt to reassure him, affecting cheeriness even through the tears. “It doesn’t hurt. I’m fine!” 

He says your name soft and low and he tries his best to keep his tone even though he is liable to burst into tears or start yelling at someone (not you) at any minute.  

“I know that’s not true. You have broken ribs and a gunshot wound. I know how badly it hurts to breathe and how it feels every time you move your arm. That is too much damage for over-the-counter anti-inflammatories. You need real analgesics.” 

“I don’t,” you whisper. Your teary eyes make his whole body ache. He squeezes your hand—the one that’s not connected to the wounded arm. 

“Because of me?” You stare at him blankly, as if you’re shocked he was able to put two and two together. “I promise you don’t need to worry about that.” 

You sniffle. 

“But what if—what if they give me the drugs and I get all weird and it’s, it’s like... triggering for you, or something?” 

“It’s been a really long time since I’ve worried about that. I’d rather see you a little tired and out of it than in extreme pain and trying to pretend you’re not. You getting the pain relief you need in a medical emergency is not going to make me relapse.” 

“But I really think I could go without,” you begin, voice already tightening around a cry. “I’ve—I’ve had period cramps that were worse than this.” 

Despite himself, he chuckles. Goes back to stroking your hair. 

The laughter fades quickly. All the pain you’re in is so evident in your eyes. The dissociative glassiness, the tension around them, the bloodshot quality—he's seen it many times before, and he hates it on you. 

“Will you please tell them you’re ready to take something? They won’t give you Dilaudid. It’s too strong. They’ll give you something that I’d have no interest in anyway.” 

“Not funny,” you whisper. 

He ignores this. 

“Will you let me call the doctor back in?” 

You take a deep, shuddering breath—or at least, you try to, before you’re loosing a sharp squeak that deteriorates into a little sob. The ribs. 

Spencer doesn’t bother asking again, just gets up and begins to walk away as efficiently as his legs will carry him. You need painkillers and he thinks it might be fastest to just fetch the doctor or a nurse from the hallway. 

“Wait,” you plead.  

He stops. Reminds himself that you need him right now—not his medical opinions. Spencer turns back around and approaches again, crouching by your bedside this time. 

“What, honey?” 

“I don’t...” 

You trail off, overcome by something like fear in the width and shine and nervous dart of your eyes. Spencer knows, everybody at the BAU knows, that showing fear to a serial killer will get you killed that much quicker. During your time alone with the unsub, which is a can of worms Spencer literally cannot psychologically open right now, you had to put on your bravest face. Even while you were being beaten within an inch of your life. Even when you thought you were going to die, alone, and that your team—that Spencer—wasn't coming back for you. Because that’s the kind of thing you have to do to cope when you’re at rock bottom. But you were terrified. Petrified. That doesn’t just go away—and Spencer knows it’ll be bumping against the surface until it finds a way out.  

He has to remember that just because you look unafraid and you act unafraid doesn’t mean you aren’t. 

“You were so brave,” he manages after he’s sure he can say it without incident, swiping moisture from your cheek. “You did everything exactly right.” 

“I know,” you whisper, chin trembling. Spencer knows you, and he knows this kind of trauma well enough to know that you’re thinking, I did everything exactly right, and it wasn’t enough. I did everything exactly right and this is what I have to show for it. 

“But nobody needs you to act like it wasn’t hard, okay? You don’t need to pretend like it doesn’t hurt. You were so, so brave, angel. You don’t have to be brave anymore.” 

Your eyes squeeze shut, sending a new wash of tears over your tacky cheeks. A few moments pass. You say nothing. He hopes you’re not going to hide away inside yourself like he did. 

“Will you please, please, let me get the doctor?” 

At least this time you don’t immediately say no. 

“Will you come right back?” 

“Of course.” 

Finally, you nod your hesitant assent, and Spencer presses a careful kiss to your forehead. 

A few minutes later, the doctor—who was shocked that Spencer was able to so quickly change your very made-up mind—is back, and so is Spencer. It only takes a moment for them to determine the best course of action for you and soon the fist around his heart is loosening its grip as he watches some of the agony melting from your eyes. 

“Better?” he murmurs as the nurse who’d administered the drugs leaves, fanning his thumb over the underside of your wrist. You nod, already appearing sleepy. 

“Can you lie down with me?” 

He smiles at the way your words slip against each other, simply relieved that you’re able to relax and no longer in extreme pain. 

“Hospital beds aren’t rated for two people.” 

“Spencer.” 

It’s enough for him to climb onto the bed—not that he was ever going to deny you what you wanted to begin with. The fit isn’t exactly perfect—he's a bit too long and combined the two of you are just slightly too wide—but with some finagling it’s comfortable enough. Spencer has slipped his arm underneath you and your head is on his shoulder and he’s so glad to have you in his arms and so grateful that you’re okay he does something almost like praying in his head as he kisses your hair. 

“Hey. Ask me about my bruises.” 

“Why? Do they still hurt?” 

“You should see the other guy.” 

It’s dumb and it doesn’t make sense because you didn’t bother waiting for him to actually set the joke up—but he smiles dryly nonetheless. 

“Can you please give me... I don’t know, 36 hours before you start making jokes about almost dying?” 

“Clock starts now.” 

“Thank you.” He feels your lips curve into a half-conscious smile against his neck. It’s a wonderful feeling. “How are your ribs? Breathing feels okay?” 

“Mhm. Love breathing.” 

“Mhm. And your arm?” 

“Like I got shot.” 

“Well, that’s pretty much unavoidable. But not as bad as before, right?” 

“Right. Spencer?” 

“What, my love?” 

A little pleased puff of air warms his shoulder. He carefully rubs your hip. 

“Will you tell me how brave I was again?” 

He takes a silent, very deep breath.  

“You were incredibly brave. And smart, too. I’m really proud of you for how you handled that situation. I’m so sorry you had to go through that, but I don’t think anyone could have handled it better. Especially when you chose to stay put by the truck, instead of chase him. I know that wasn’t what you wanted to do, but it was the right choice.” 

“I thought you guys maybe weren’t coming,” you murmur, no hint of sadness in your smushed, flat voice—like you’re barely awake. “I waited half an hour and I thought you weren’t gonna find me.” 

“Angel, I will always find you. We didn’t stop looking even once, as soon as we noticed you were gone. I’m just sorry I wasn’t with Emily and Rossi when they got to you.” 

“’Nelope told me... she told me you got really angry and scary.” 

He stares at the ceiling and considers this. 

“I could see... how what I was feeling would be interpreted that way. I was pretty angry. But not at Penelope or any of them. I was mostly just scared.” 

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you whisper. “And I’m sorry if I made you mad.” 

“You did not. I wasn’t mad at you. And it’s not your fault that I got scared. You were just trying to do your job. None of this is your fault.” 

“She also said that you said fuck like... three times.” 

“Mm... doesn’t sound like me,” he evades. You giggle, and the sound is more a relief than any drug he could take.

“No, seriously, I’m so mad I missed it. I love hearing you swear. Tell me what you said—and you have to cause I’m all messed up so I get whatever I want.” 

He sighs in mock annoyance. 

“Well, she’s wrong. I only said fuck once. I used fucking as an intensifier twice.” 

You hum. 

“Sexy.” 

“Alright,” Spencer laughs, flushing as he moves his hand to your shoulder. “Go to sleep before I tell them to up your dosage, weirdo.” 

[ditzyrafe]

rafe x needy!reader? they’ve already gone at it once but she cannot get enough… she feels like she physically can’t stop

if you’re not comfortable with writing this then just ignore it!! :) thank youu

— bf!rafe fucking needy!reader

warnings — p in v, thigh riding, petnames, reader being needy, lewd language

the tangled sheets are damp beneath you, clinging uncomfortably to your overheated skin. rafe lies beside you, chest rising and falling heavily, eyes closed, looking utterly spent. you just came, a shuddering, messy climax that should have left you satiated, maybe even borderline numb after the hours you've already spent fucking each other.

but it didn't.

rafe sighs, shifting slightly, his arm brushing against yours. even that fleeting contact sends a jolt through you. without thinking, you reach out, fingers tracing the line of sweat down his ribs, sliding lower toward his limp cock.

he cracks an eye open, looking at you through heavy lids, a mixture of exhaustion and faint surprise on his face. "jesus, baby," he murmurs, his voice rough, thick with sleep and exertion. "still going? thought that last round finally killed you."

you shake your head silently, unable to articulate the relentless need clawing at you. you shift closer, lifting yourself off the bed before lowering your core to his thigh, seeking the familiar heat and hardness, even though you know he must be soft now, spent. your hand finds him, closing around his length. he stirs slightly under your touch.

"baby, come on," rafe sighs, trying to gently push your hand away. "m'fucking exhausted, let's go to bed, yeah?"

"no," you whisper the word desperate, raw. you push his hand away, resuming your ministrations with more urgency, needing to feel him harden again. "please, rafey. i need more." it feels shameful, this relentless craving, but you need this. your body feels hollow, aching, incomplete without him filling you up.

"fuck, you're relentless," he murmurs, but he stops resisting your touch. his cock begins to stir, thickening slowly under your insistent hand. he reaches out, pulling you on top of him, settling you onto his hips. even half-hard, the pressure against your entrance is agonisingly good.

"ride me, baby" he commands softly, his hands finding your waist, guiding your initial desperate movements. "ride this fuckin' cock."

you obey instantly, grinding down, using your own slickness and desperate friction to coax him back to full hardness. it doesn't take long. the need radiating off you seems to fuel him, bypassing his exhaustion. he watches you, hands gripping your hips tightly, letting you set the pace this time.

you lift your hips high, then slam back down onto his cock, seeking the deepest penetration possible. sweat beads on your forehead, dripping down between your breasts, mirroring the sheen on his own skin. your hair sticks to your temples, your breathing coming in ragged, almost panicked gasps. it's not just pleasure driving you; it's something closer to desperation, a physical craving that borders on pain.

"easy, doll," rafe murmurs, his voice still rough but losing some of its earlier exhaustion, replaced by a growing intensity as he watches you unravel above him. his thumb snakes to your clit, rubbing slow circles lazily. "you’re gonna tire yourself out."

but you can't slow down. the friction feels good, incredible even, but it's not enough. it doesn't touch that core ache. you whine softly, a frustrated sound, leaning forward, bracing your hands on his chest, trying to find a better angle, a deeper connection. his muscles tense beneath your palms.

he groans low in his throat, his own control starting to fray under your relentless assault. his hips begin to lift off the mattress, meeting your downward thrusts, adding his power to yours. the shift is subtle but significant. he's no longer just letting you ride; he's participating, drawn back into the fire by your sheer, consuming need.

"fuck, you feel so good," he grits out, his eyes darkening as he watches your face contort with effort and building pleasure. "pussy's so fuckin' tight and warm… y'gonna cum for me, angel?"

"f-fuck yes, mmhhh," you cry out, riding him impossibly harder, faster.

"that's it," rafe encourages, his voice strained now, hands gripping your hips tighter, almost bruisingly. "cum f'me again. show me how much y'need this cock."

his words, combined with the powerful thrust of his hips meeting yours, finally tip you over. the orgasm hit with staggering force, more intense than any of the previous ones, fuelled by hours of build-up and sheer desperation. it rips through you, stealing your breath, making you cry out loud, a raw, keening sound. your body convulses violently around him, clamping down hard, milking every last drop of him.

he roars beneath you, his own release triggered by the intensity of yours, coating your walls with his warm seed. you collapse onto his chest, utterly boneless this time, trembling uncontrollably, spent in a way that feels deeper, more complete than before. his arms wrap around you, holding you tight against his slick, heaving chest. for a long moment, the only sound is the harsh rasp of your combined breathing. the ache is still there, a faint echo beneath the overwhelming tide of release.

"such a needy girl today, weren't you?"

taglist ; @13hischiers @rafesprecious @mayanqueenxx @bbshann @zoenighshade555 @feverg1rl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @onxlyemery @yncoded @millie--billie @laniirackssss @slut4you @g3t2kn0w @kravitzwhore @dollyfiles @kild4re @zzhenyac @sparklyananas @dsfault @athaliahxoxo @allislths @nonbeliever1 @drewsephrry @soft-starr @k4yr14 @babydollll-bunny @leleasalwaysblog (join here) | divider creds ; @/anitalenia @/fairytopea

© written by ditzyrafe — do not steal or claim as ur own, stealing will result in me blocking u, any resemblance to any other story is simply coincidental!

[daryltwdixon]

teeny tiny request from me bc ily and your brain:

lazy morning sex with obsessed jackson!joel 🧎‍♀️

(think about him sleepily praising you…. yum)

joel miller x you drabble

|| smut MDNI 18+, plot what plot???, praaaaiiiseeeee kinkkkkkkk, edging, pinv, fingering?? kinda?? dirty talk so much dirty talk, daddy kink, pussy pronouns, picture either joel ||

a/n: I had a moment where I needed to step away from this and ask myself wtf am I doing. thank you for the request!!

Once upon a time, you'd shown old man Joel the art of edging.

You know, bringing you to the brink of an orgasm just to be denied and denied over and over again. The concept had confused him at first, not because he didn’t understand it, but because on a spiritual level, it offended him. Joel was a man who believed in finishing what he started. His favorite thing in the world was eating you out. He believed in slow, drawn out sessions where he'd bury his face between your legs and nearly forget to breathe. He’d make you come on his tongue and over and over. Leaving you on the edge of release, teasing you only to pull back? That shit felt cruel to him. Damn near a sin.

But then he'd done it once. With you beneath him, soaked and trembling, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, lips parted like you’d forgotten how to breathe, he saw your mind go far away, drifting slow through the heat pooling in your gut. It broke something in him wide open.

Or maybe it built something.

Because now he was obsessed.

So this morning, curled up in bed on a quiet Sunday, you refused to wake, even as the sun bled through your closed eyelids and painted the darkness behind them red. You'd barely stirred, body drowsy from sleep and overstimulation from the night before, your skin damp with sweat that had long since slicked fresh again. Joel had you spooned up tight, bare skin pressed against bare skin. His arms were wrapped around your ribs, thick and strong, locking you into place against his chest. One palm was splayed across your breast, fingers occasionally squeezing to feel the twitch of your spine. His other hand was beneath your hips, holding them at just the right angle so he could stay buried deep inside you.

He was moving in slow, controlled thrusts, fucking up into you from behind, steady and deep. Each time he pulled out, he dragged against your walls with painstaking precision, then drove his cock back into your slick, overstimulated cunt like he was slotting himself into a lock built just for him.

“So pretty,” he breathed into your ear, voice thick. His breath was hot, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he pushed in again. His cock hit a tender, spongey spot high inside you and you moaned, walls clamping down on him like a vice, still trembling from the second orgasm he’d denied you.

“Joeeel,” you whined, voice barely audible, one hand stretched up over your head, fingers laced in his damp, messy hair.

“I know, baby,” he murmured, lips dragging across your neck to your pulse as he pressed a kiss. Your skin was fever-warm and slick. His hand at your breast squeezed tighter, grounding you, while his grip on your hip never wavered, keeping you perfectly aligned for each slow, deliberate push of his hips.

“I could fuck you all damn day like this,” he said against your skin, lips brushing your shoulder, your neck, the soft edge of your jaw. His stubble scraped you raw in places already rubbed red from him kissing you over and over again. He pulled his cock out halfway, and you could feel the exact moment it dragged over the ridged front of your walls—the thick, curved head brushing the same spot again and again, making your toes curl and your breath hitch in your throat. Your mouth fell open, a mewling cry breaking out as your eyes rolled back.

“Shh, shh,” Joel cooed, voice like warm gravel, “You hear that?”

Your eyes blinked open, a little sleepy and dazed. He was peering over your shoulder, chin perched on your collarbone. His eyes were dark, wild, hungry. But soft, too.

“Can hear just how much she likes it, can’t you?” he murmured, hips giving a small roll that pressed him deeper, the obscene, squelching sounds of you soaking around him filling the room in time with your breath. The evidence of your arousal was everywhere. It shone along your inner thighs, it dripped against his balls, and soaked the bedspread beneath you. You were a mess.

“This is all she needed, just needed some love from daddy,” Joel added.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, your voice breaking on the words. Your head fell back against his shoulder, neck arched, whole body pressing into him, “Please, please, Joel—”

You rolled your hips in a desperate circle, seeking pressure, angle, anything that would fill that maddening void inside you. But he held steady.

“Gotta wait for it,” he said, casual, calm, but his voice was tight with restraint. “Be patient like daddy. You don’t want this to end already, do ya?”

You whimpered. The ache in your hips and spine was starting to burn, muscles trembling with the effort to hold it in while he fucked you slow and deep, like time didn’t exist. His cock throbbed inside you, dragging over your g-spot with each movement. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t hard. It was worse. It was agonizingly slow. And yet so, so addictive.

He was torturing you.

Because Joel didn’t just edge you anymore. He’d started edging himself. He wanted to drag it out, hold back, hover on the brink of release until his whole body was shaking, the same as yours. He finally understood how it made the orgasm stronger. That it made you tighter around him, clenching like a fist. Said your cunt would milk him dry every damn time.

And fuck, he was right.

He let go of your breast, hand trailing down your sweat-slick stomach, fingers slow and lazy as they traced toward where your bodies were joined.

You let out a strangled noise when his finger grazed your soaked folds, feeling the obscene stretch where his cock disappeared into you. He pushed deeper at the same time, a slow, relentless press that had your thighs twitching.

"She's openin' up real nice for me, ain't she, baby? She loves daddy's cock, huh?"

“Yes,” you gasped, brain blank, body buzzing like live wire. His fingers slid over your clit, the poor thing swollen, raw, so sensitive it felt like you were burning from the inside out.

“Yes, daddy, yes yes yes—”

He didn’t rub or stroke it, though. He merely brushed the lightest tease over your clit, so faint it barely registered as touch, but your body screamed at the sensation. He pushed his cock back in again, slow as syrup, grinding forward until you swore he was reaching your lungs.

“On one, you’re gonna come with me, alright, babygirl?”

You nodded frantically, tears stinging the corners of your eyes, breath shuddering through your lips.

“Five.”

He brought his fingers to your mouth, coaxing your lips open. You sucked them in obediently, wrapping your tongue around the two thick digits, tasting yourself faintly on his skin. Joel growled in your ear, low and primal, hips twitching at the sight of you like this, so desperate, and aching for release. He knew how much you loved it too.

“Four.”

His fingers left your mouth with a wet schlick, sliding down to toy with one of your nipples, just rubbing lightly around it, enough to make your back arch like a bowstring. You writhed against him, grinding back into his cock, brows pinched and breath shaking. His mouth was on your shoulder again, then your neck, his chin hooked over your clavicle.

"Three," he moved his fingers down, and thank every god in heaven above, began to stroke your clit in little circles. Your body jolted like you’d been shocked. You let out a mewl, high and desperate.

"You gonna be my good girl?"

“Yes, Jesus fucking Christ, Joel, I swear to god—”

“Two,” he cut you off, a slow grin curling against your skin as he lifted his fingers away, “That ain’t no way to be thankin’ me, baby. You were doin’ so good a minute ago. Maybe we should start over.”

“No, no, no, I’m sorry,” you cried, trembling hard now. “I’ll be good. I’ll be good. Please, please—”

“I know, I know,” he said gently, fingers sliding back to your clit with that same maddening precision. “My best girl. Prettiest girl I know. Prettiest pussy too, sweet baby. You wanna come for me?”

“Yes!” you shrieked, every nerve in your body sparking, heart slamming against your ribcage as you hung onto him for dear life, holding back the pressure that was building in your belly and your hips.

“Okay, baby. You can come for me,” he breathed heavily, groaning, "Come with me, pretty girl, there you go, there you go, yes—"

Your whole body seized as your head was thrown back, mouth open in a scream that sounded like a cat in heat. It tore through you, wave after wave of hot, unbearable pleasure. Your vision blacked out in bursts. Your eyes were blinded white, then red, then nothing but color and sound and Joel’s voice in your ear.

He held you tight, growling low in his chest as you clenched around him like a vice. His hips bucked, fucking himself through his orgasm as his release spilled into you.

The room spun, your limbs like jelly. You barely registered the soft kisses he pressed to your shoulder, your hair, the corner of your jaw.

Eventually, your eyes fluttered open again. You turned your head, still half-limp, lips curved into a lazy, euphoric grin.

“I’ve created a monster,” you whispered against his lips.

Joel just chuckled, deep and warm, and kissed you again before saying, "Good mornin' to you too,"

[kisakunt]

Choso getting all jealous of a fuck machine and your dildo collection?

-🫡

“Why do you need that?” It’s a simple question, but you can’t tell if he’s angry or not. You and Choso were going through your closet, some spring cleaning if you will, and he happened to stumble upon your private box.

“I don’t know, it’s fun.” You don’t think it’s a big deal. Almost every girl has a sex toy or two. Sure, maybe you’re a little bit overboard— you did buy a three hundred dollar contraption that physically fucks your favorite dildo into you— but are you so bad for liking a little pleasure?

He pauses, fingers tracing over the veins on your hyperrealistic toy.

“Am I,” He starts, pausing for a second as if he’s questioning himself. “Am I not doing a good enough job?” Shit.

“No! No, baby, you’re perfect.” You reach and grab the dildo out of his hands, quickly shoving it out of the box. “You’re gone a lot, though, and I don’t know… I get needy, I guess?”

“Oh.” That didn’t seem to appease him. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“I didn’t mean to leave you unfulfilled.”

“No! Cho, you’re not understanding.” Your hand is over his and it feels like religion. You never get over him. “I think about you every time.”

“Yeah but if I were fucking you enough you wouldn’t need this.” Your heart drops. In some sick, twisted way you think it’s cute. 

“Is it better than me?”

“No.” He finally looks up at you, eyes full of something you can’t seem to understand, and also a little pain.

“Does it make you cum?” You’re not going to lie to him. If it didn’t, that would be a horrible waste of three hundred dollars.

“Yes.”

He’s grabbing you before you can even think twice, yanking you towards your bed with still such a timid touch. It’s a soft push when your back falls onto the mattress, and he’s on top of you in an instant.

“I’m the only thing that’s supposed to make you cum.” Choso fucks sweet. He can get rough, he can fuck you like he hates you, but despite all that he is a gentle lover. There’s never been a moment having sex with him that you haven’t felt his care radiating from him. You can still feel it right now as he latches himself onto your neck— open-mouthed and sloppy—, but there’s a sense of selfishness you’ve never felt before. Possession. He’s jealous.

It’s a silly concept, you think, to be jealous of a sex toy— but Choso is a silly guy. His hands trace down your stomach, fingers hovering over your hip before they go lower, touching you over your pants.

“I don’t like that you have those.” Choso is never controlling. You know he’s not telling you to get rid of them, more so conveying his emotions to you like you’ve begged him to do.

You gasp as he circles your clit, pussy wet under the cloth of your leggings. There’s a sense of routine when you and Choso fuck. He’s always asking what’s okay, always asking what feels good, always checking on you. But now, he strips you naked without a word, bringing himself down to suck at one of your tits while his hand goes back down to your now bare cunt.

He doesn’t waste time with your clit. His fingers plunge inside you, curling into your g-spot as he moves them in and out of you.

“Does it go faster than this?”

“Yes,” It’s shaky, because even though it hasn’t been long Choso knows how to make you feel good. Then he speeds up and it’s better and you’re cockdrunk without even having his cock.

“Oh, shit.” His tongue is back to lapping circles around your nipple, his hair poking at your neck, his chin pressing into your ribs, and you’re overwhelmed. The room is full of sounds of just wet— from his mouth and your pussy— and it’s vulgar and crass and lewd and you want him.

You cum quick. He feels it on his middle and ring finger— you taught him that, you taught him everything, he’s your picture perfect fuck toy— and whines into your chest.

“I’m going to fuck you now.”

It doesn’t take him long to live up to his promise. He’s bottoming out in you without a second thought, balls hitting you every time he thrusts.

“This is what you’re supposed to have.” You think you might be stupid right now. Actually, you can’t think at all— sharp breaths and erratic moans leaving you.

Choso is a whiner, but right now he groans. He’s fucking you like he needs you, like he loves you, like you’re meant to be his.

It’s almost grotesque; the way your pussy drips from both of your arousal, the sloppiness of the way it sounds each time he bullies in and out of you, the desperation from your spasming cunt.

“Does it feel like this?” He’s barely getting out the words, almost incomprehensible. “Does it fuck you better than me? Does it fucking love you?”

That’s enough to make you cum again. And now, you feel stupid for ever having it.

“I’m sorry!” He’s relentless, each thrust pounding at your cervix, stretching out the softness of your walls. “I’m sorry, I’m yours, I’m sorry.” And it’s beyond the toys, it’s beyond the insecurity and jealousy, it’s beyond primal emotions.

It’s connection. Sweat drips from his hair onto your cheeks, and in a desperate move you lift your head to lick it off his temple. He owns you. You can both feel it in the way your soft walls clench around him, you can both feel it as your legs wrap in a loose pretzel around his waist, you can both feel it as tears form in your eyes from how much it all is.

“I love you, I’m sorry, I’m yours.” It’s weak, muffled by your moans and the sound of his pelvic bone slapping yours. His hips rub at your clit each time he snaps them into you, his cock grazing the top of your pussy in a way you didn’t know was possible.

“Cum, please,” It’s pure yearning. You can tell he’s close from the way he hiccups his breaths, from the way his head has dipped down into the crook of your neck, from the way he begs you through gritted teeth. “I need you to cum, let me make you cum.”

And how could you deny Choso? So you let go, nails scratching at his back, fingers gripping at the slightest bit of fat on his waist, head lulled into the mattress, and you cum.

And so does he, continuing his choppy movements to fuck his cum further and further into you, getting you as full of him as he can.

He collapses on you for a brief moment, before he shifts himself out of you and next to you, arm wrapping around you as he presses kisses onto the top of your head.

“Is it better than that?” It’s breathy, exhausted and worn, but he sounds so sure of himself you can almost see his smile.

“No.” Choso hums, shifting gears into aftercare.

You finish your cleaning the next day, and when you’re back in your closet, Choso can’t find your precious collection anywhere. He thinks he must’ve done a good job.

[starl1ght444]

jason todd x fem!reader

── .✦ angst

[jason’s hurtful words lead you to leave for a couple days]

long story — [7k word count]

second person writing / edited-ish

*.ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

you don’t even remember what started it.

maybe it was the late nights. the blood on his knuckles. the way he shut you out like a slammed door every time something bothered him. maybe it was the way you kept asking, over and over, “are you okay?” and getting that practiced silence in return. or maybe it was you. wanting too much. needing answers he wasn’t ready to give.

It starts with the quiet. the kind that creeps in before the thunder hits. jason walks in, his jacket soaked with rain and something darker. his eyes avoid yours. you’re used to it, but tonight something in you snaps. “did you kill anyone yet?” you ask. not because you want to accuse him. but because you have to know.

he stiffens. “what the hell kind of question is that?”

you don’t back down. “a serious one. because I can’t keep pretending I don’t know what you’re doing out there.”

jason tosses his helmet on the counter with a loud clatter. “don’t start this.”

“no, you don’t get to tell me when I start. you come home covered in blood, you don’t talk to me, you shut me out—”

“because it’s none of your business!” he snaps.

that stings. you feel it in your chest, sharp and immediate.

“I am your business, jason. or am I just something you keep around to feel normal?”

he laughs—bitter, cold. “don’t flatter yourself.” —silence.

you blink. his words hit you like a slap, and he knows it. he flinches for a second. just one. but he doesn’t take it back. you try to keep your voice steady. “so that’s what I am? just… convenient?”

he doesn’t answer. you’re waiting for him to say no. to soften. to say he didn’t mean it. instead, he mutters, “you knew what this was. don’t act like you didn’t sign up for it.”

that’s the thing. you did know. you knew loving jason todd would mean long nights, fear gnawing at your ribs, and blood on his knuckles when he kissed you goodnight. but what you didn’t sign up for was being invisible.

“I didn’t sign up to be treated like an afterthought,” you say, standing now, voice rising. “I didn’t sign up for being ignored, for being lied to. you don’t talk to me, jason. you just disappear.”

jason scoffs. “and what, I should be reporting in every five minutes? you want a boyfriend or a lapdog?”

your heart aches, but you don’t back down. “i want you. the version of you that lets me in. the one that doesn’t shut down and push me away every time something gets hard.”

“I don’t need you to fix me!” he shouts, voice suddenly cutting through the air like a whip. “I don’t need your sympathy or your constant hovering. you think loving me gives you the right to pry into every dark corner of my life?”

you stare at him, stunned. “It’s not prying when I’m trying to help jay..”

“I didn’t ask for your help!” he barks. “god, you’re so damn exhausting. always needing something. always complaining. maybe I’d be better off without you dragging me down all the time.”

you stare at him like you’re seeing someone else entirely. “you’re a coward.” — wrong thing to say.

jason steps forward, eyes burning. “you think I’m the coward? you sit here in your nice little apartment, judging me like you’re above it all. you don’t know what it’s like out there. you couldn’t last a week in my world.”

“and yet I’ve been trying for months!” you shout, your voice breaking. “but you don’t care. you never really let me in. you just wanted someone to come home to—someone who didn’t ask too many questions.”

“you think you’re some kind of savior?” he sneers. “you’re not. you’re just another person who thought they could fix me.”

you stop. you feel it crack right there—something fragile and important inside you. “i didn’t want to fix you,” you whisper. “ i just wanted you to let me in.”

he scoffs. “then you wanted too much.” and that’s it. a finial look into jason’s eyes of any hint of regret— nothing. just pure frustration and anger. a weight in your heart dragging you towards the door. no dramatic exit. no final scream. just you walking past him, grabbing your bag, and shutting the door behind you.

at first, jason doesn’t move he doesn’t feel much of anything, honestly. just numb. tired. angry in that hollow way that doesn’t have a target anymore. he just stands there, staring at the door like it’s going to swing open again. It always does.

you always come back. — he grabs a beer from the fridge. sits on the couch. flips on the TV. something violent and loud, because silence feels like guilt.

hours pass. no call. no message.

he scrolls through his phone. no unread texts. he opens your thread—nothing. his fingers hover over the keyboard, then stop. he locks the phone and throws it on the table.

then he starts thinking about what he said. really thinking.

“you’re just another person who thought they could fix me.”

the way your face changed. he remembers the silence right before you walked out, how final it felt. and something cold settles in his chest. it’s been almost 4 hours since you left.

he starts pacing. that tight feeling in his chest creeps in like smoke under a door. his palms feel clammy. he’s sweating. his vision is narrowing. he can’t think. — you didn’t come back.

you always come back. “shit,” he whispers, running a hand through his hair. “shit, shit—”

the room feels like it’s closing in. the walls are too close, the ceiling too low, like everything’s pressing down on him at once. he can’t breathe. his knees buckle, and he slides down against the wall, gasping for air, chest heaving like he’s drowning. his hands shake. his throat burning.

he didn’t mean it. — of course he didn’t mean it. you’re not convenient..you’re the only thing that’s kept him afloat. you’re the light he pretends he doesn’t need but clings to in the dark.

and now you’re gone. the words he threw at you, the venom he spit out just to win a fight, ring louder than the silence you left behind. he says your name into the empty apartment. once. then again. then louder. like if he says it enough, you’ll hear him. — but you don’t. and now the silence is unbearable.

he can’t breathe. now It’s been five hours since you left, and jason’s chest is on fire. not the kind that comes from bruised ribs or a bullet wound—he knows that pain. he’s good with that pain. this is worse. this is panic. helplessness.—this was worse kind of hurt because it doesn’t bleed.

his phone is clutched so tight in his hand, his knuckles have gone white. he stares at the screen, thumb hovering over your name in his contacts again. he’s already called five times.

no answer. — just the sound of your dumb voicemail message, cheerful and playful and now completely soul-crushing. “haii! Its (y/n), im sorry i missed your call! im not home right now! but i can take a message… let me grab a pencil…hm okay! what would you like me to tell me?” it used to make him smile. now it makes him sick. he hits redial.

one ring.

two.

three.

voicemail. — again. again. again.

he runs both hands through his hair, dragging his fingers hard through the strands like maybe pain will wake him up. like maybe this isn’t real. like maybe you’re still coming home, keys jingling, saying his name like you do when you’re trying not to smile. but the apartment is dead quiet. and it smells like rain and blood and something fading.

“pick up,” he mumbles to no one. “please (y/n).. please just pick up.” he calls again. and again.

his hands are shaking now, so bad he nearly drops the phone. his mind is running circles around itself—what if something happened? what if she didn’t look crossing the street? what if someone followed her? what if she’s hurt?—and he can’t shut it off. his heart is pounding too loud in his ears, drowning out reason. he stands up fast, then stumbles forward, grabbing the edge of the counter to steady himself. everything’s spinning.

he opens your location on his phone. nothing.

either you turned it off or the battery’s dead. or worse. his brain fills in the blanks faster than he can stop it. “goddammit,” he breathes, slamming his hand down on the counter. the sound echoes in the empty room.

this wasn’t supposed to happen. you were supposed to yell, slam a door, crash on the couch, and by morning everything would be fine. that’s how it’s always gone. you fight, you cool off, you come back. you always come back.

but not tonight. tonight, you left like you meant it.

and jason realizes—too late—that he pushed you harder than he ever had. too far. past the point of no return. past the point where an “I’m sorry” could fix it. he scrolls to your name again.

calls. again. “haii it’s (y/n)! im sorry i mi—” he shuts his eyes and grips the phone like he could tear it in half. your voice is soft, light, untouched by the mess he made. It makes him want to scream. It makes him want to curl in on himself and disappear.

you’re gone. and you’re ignoring him. that’s what finally breaks something inside him.

because jason todd—red hood, vigilante, killer, survivor—can handle almost anything. bullets. torture. death. — but he could not handle being ignored by the one person who made him feel human.

he sinks down against the wall again, chest heaving, lungs burning. his phone slips out of his hand, landing face-up on the floor, screen still lit up with your contact. a tiny, cruel reminder: your not picking up. you don’t want to talk to him.

his mouth is dry. he tries to swallow, tries to breathe, but every inhale feels like it’s too shallow. like he’s not getting enough air. his arms wrap around his knees. he’s shaking. his thoughts are racing.

‘she’s not coming back. you blew it. you pushed too hard. you said too much. she hates you. she should hate you. why would she come back after that?’ he doesn’t know how long he sits there like that—maybe twenty minutes, maybe an hour. All he knows is the silence. and your stupid voicemail. and the gnawing, tearing fear that he might’ve lost the only good thing left in his life.

“I didn’t mean it,” he says aloud, as if the room cares. as if his regrets can travel through walls and streetlights and find their way to wherever you are. “I didn’t mean any of it.” but the universe doesn’t answer.

he pulls himself off the ground. head still spinning, he can’t keep sitting around for you. he needs to find you. the air outside hits him sharp and cold, but it doesn’t clear his head. the city is still dark, the streets damp with leftover rain. his helmet is in his bag. he doesn’t wear it. doesn’t need it. he’s not red hood right now— he’s just jason. — and jason’s falling apart.

he makes his way through the city on his motorcycle, his mind endlessly searching for you. stopping when he even sees a glimpse of someone with your same hairstyle. everything reminding him of you. he feels hopeless knowing how huge gotham is, even more so how dangerous it is.

he ultimately decides to stop at some of your favorite places, maybe to soothe him with precious memories. he knows it’s to early in the morning for most of these places to be open, but he needs to check. needs to try anyways.

his first stop was a café. your favorite locally owned coffee shop, where you two became regulars. it was a small business, on a strip walk between a laundromat and boutique. — the coffee’s always too strong and the chairs wobble if you don’t sit just right. you loved that place.

he memorized your order. it was always the same thing everytime you came here— your order barely changed. — the smell of coffee, occasionally tea on ur breath, he was craving to kiss your lips just to taste your order again.

jason stands across the street for a second. the lights are off. homemade “closed” sign hangs crooked in the window.

he still walks up. presses his hand to the door like it might open. It doesn’t. he presses his palms to the glass, looking in

your spot is empty. the corner table by the window where you used to sit and steal sips of his coffee when you swore you didn’t want one. where your eyes would crinkle when you laughed, lips covered in foam you never noticed until he wiped it away. he stands there, remembering the time you convinced him to try that stupid seasonal drink with cinnamon and syrup and something else sweet that he pretended to hate—but secretly liked, because you liked it.

he thought if he came here, maybe you’d be sitting there again. your beautiful eyes locked in a book he’d recommend while eating a pastry. but there’s nothing. only cold glass and silence and now an emotional memory.

he sits on the bench outside and closes his eyes, trying to summon your laugh. where you are the happiest, and he remembers your smile when he took you to his favorite library.

it became a sacred place for you to. both calm and quiet while enjoying each-others company. so that was his next stop.

the library.

not a big, fancy one. no marble columns or quiet rules. this one’s cramped, unknown, smelling of dust and secondhand pages. you loved it for its charm—for the creaky floors and mismatched chairs and the old man behind the desk who always smiled when he saw you.

jason picks the lock with trembling fingers. slides through the back door like a ghost. third floor. far left corner. your nook.

he stares at the armchair you always claimed, the stack of dog-eared romance novels that you teased him with—the window seat you used when the weather was just right and the sun poured in like liquid gold. he walks through the aisle, trailing his fingers along the spines of books you once handed him. he can almost hear your voice echo in the stillness.

walking around until he was in the aisle where he first met you. making his eyes burn, to many memories flooding in his head— where he tried so desperately to be cool in front of you, and staring at you from afar admiring how divine your presence felt. — jason reading all the books he thought you’d like before even knowing you and putting his name in the checkout card. and watching your face light up from seeing his name once again. giving him the courage to go and talk to you.

a tear burning his cheek, he puts his head down feeling ashamed of pushing you away when memories like these made him feel alive again.

jason left the library, riding off having the city district him. he rides for a while thinking of any more possibilities. he was about to run out of gas and just decides he needs to take a walk anyways— and when he gets off his bike, he notices he’s at a familiar park — It’s further out, away from the main drag, quiet enough that the chaos of gotham doesn’t touch it. you both used to go there when things got loud—inside his head, inside the world.

It’s mostly empty, just a jogger in the distance and birds rustling in the trees. jason walks the winding path slowly, like a man retracing his own history — here—this is where you tripped over your own feet and he caught you, both of you laughing like kids. over there is the tree you climbed and got stuck in, yelling at him between laughs while he pretended he wouldn’t help you down. there’s a bench under the big oak tree. you kissed him there for the first time. real, honest, vulnerable. no masks, no walls. just lips and nerves and something too tender to say out loud.

he passes through more bench where you sat one night, eyes puffy, telling him things you hadn’t told anyone else. and he’d wrapped his jacket around you and promised—promised—he’d never be the one to hurt you.

he sits down there now, gripping the edge of the bench so hard his knuckles go white. — “i lied,” he whispers to no one, his voice strained. becoming angry with himself.

but there was still no sign of you.. and so he knew despite it all he had a couple more places to check. his mind became desperate. he heads where he should’nt, hoping you’re not there. he still had to check— ‘the narrows’ — ‘ park row ‘ — ‘crime ally ‘

he checks alleyways where addicts linger and criminals circle like vultures. every step, he begs he won’t find you there. But he has to check. has to know. he’s on a rampage now, eyes wild, heart racing. he gets in a guy’s face just for looking at him too long. knocks someone out cold when they make a comment about “that girl he used to walk with.”

he checks rooftops. alleys. places you shouldn’t be, but maybe are. places where bad things happen. — places he belongs, not you. he asks around. no one’s seen you. and those who know who he is don’t dare lie. — still nothing. jason’s a mess—bloodshot eyes, raw knuckles, unshaven. he looks like he hasn’t slept in years instead of just a night.

and then — “jason?”

jason turns around. it’s dick.

“jason?” dick calls, landing on the fire escape in full nightwing gear. “what the hell are you doing back in this part of town?”

jason doesn’t answer at first.

dick jumps down in front of him, blocking his path. “jay—hey. talk to me.” — “I messed up,” jason says hoarsely.

dick blinks. “with…?”

jason swallows hard. “(y/n)... she left. and she’s not answering. It’s been hours. I’ve checked everywhere. the café, the library, that damn park. nothing. I don’t even know if she’s okay. I just—I said too much. I said shit I didn’t mean and now she’s just… gone.— dick, i can’t breathe.”

dick moves quickly, placing a hand on jason’s shoulder. “hey. breathe. look at me.” jason meets his eyes, jaw clenched so tight it hurts.

dick doesn’t say anything for a moment. then: “alright. sit down.” dick says guiding him to sit on a nearby stoop.

jason does. because for once, he has nothing left to fight with.

“you love her?” dick asks, voice low. jason nods without thinking, like it’s a reflex. “then tell her. find her and tell her. but not like this. you’re spiraling.”

“I can’t stop,” jason whispers. “every second she’s not answering, I keep thinking she’s hurt. that it’s my fault. that I broke her. I can’t even hear her voice without thinking of what I did.”

dick sighs and puts a hand on his shoulder. “you didn’t break her. you pushed her away. that’s different. and maybe you don’t get to fix it. but you sure as hell don’t stop trying. not until she tells you to.” jason looks at him. “and if she never does?” — “then you mourn. but not until you know for sure.”

jason’s quiet for a long time. watching gotham pass by with his brother “never give up jay, i believe in you” and jason stands up, continuing his search.

but he doesn’t find you.

he checks safehouses. rooftops. he climbs halfway up wayne tower before turning around because he knows you wouldn’t go there.— by the time the sun rises, his hands are shaking.

his head is pounding. his legs feel like lead. and you’re still gone.

he stumbles home like a ghost. kicks off his boots. sinks to the floor. doesn’t even make it to the couch. just sits there.

and stares at the door. It never opens.

three days pass.

no texts. no calls. not even a read receipt.

jason doesn’t eat. doesn’t sleep. barely moves. the apartment is dead quiet except for the occasional replay of your voicemail, like he’s torturing himself on purpose. by the fourth morning, he can’t take it anymore.

he grabs his bag and heads to wayne manor.

bruce meets him at the batcomputer. he doesn’t ask why jason’s there. just takes one look at him—pale, tired, shaking, blood shot eyes — and knows. “use whatever you need,” bruce says softly, walking away.

jason nods, throat tight. while the system loads, alfred appears at his side with a quiet sigh and a fresh mug of coffee and a blanket. he doesn’t speak right away.

then, gently, “would you like to talk about it, master jason?”

jason’s jaw clenches. he shakes his head, but then his voice breaks. “I ruined it.” a lump in his throat, looking at alfred.

alfred sets the coffee and blanket down and pulls him into a hug without a word. just strong, steady arms and that grounding kind of warmth jason hasn’t let himself feel in years. “i don’t know how to fix this,” he whispers.

alfred holds him tighter. “you start with the truth. then you wait. and if she’s worth it—and I suspect she is—you never stop.” jason nods against his shoulder

and for the first time in days, he lets himself cry. sobbing into the older man’s shoulder releasing all the pent up sadness and anger he kept inside for days. “I’ve cleaned blood off your boots, patched holes in your uniform, and stayed up more nights than I can count wondering if you’d make it back. but what worries me most… is how quick you are to believe you don’t deserve good things.. ” he said rubbing jason’s back soothing him, letting himself cry. “i love her so much, alfred— I don’t know how to hold on to good things without breaking them.” jason hiccups “it hurts how much i love her”

and they stay like that for a while, talking about jason’s feelings and what happened causing you to walk away. alfred listening and making him eat and drink to get something in his system. jason slowly getting tired, the comfort he craved slowing his brain down. alfred replacing you for a little while.

you always comforted jason, your touch melted him into a different man. you were his safe place and made him feel completely loved. the unconditional love he never felt before, ‘she’ll come back..’ - ‘ she’s okay, she’s safe’ — he kept repeating to himself, trying any possible way to soothe himself — jason became tried once again, but this time he was willing to sleep. he slept next to the computer, with the blankets alfred placed over him. he got a couple hours in until he woke up, a reminder of what happened.

now five days have gone by—

the coordinates come in just after midnight.

a quiet ping from the batcomputer—courtesy of a city-wide search bruce helped set up. jason had loaded every street cam, signal ping, and facial recognition tool he could, but deep down, he hadn’t really believed he’d find anything.

until now. a small rental apartment in the east end. under a friend’s name. you hadn’t left the city—you’d just gone off the grid. he finally found what he was looking for.

the screen flickered, and your image appeared in the facial recognition software. jason’s heart dropped as he studied the image that was pulled from surveillance footage. your face, usually full of life and fire, looked hollow. the light in your eyes were dimmer than he remembered, like you’d been carrying an unbearable weight for far too long.

your skin was pale, darker circles under your eyes indicating sleepless nights and too many tears shed. lips, once always curled into a small, knowing smile, were now pressed into a thin line. the fight had drained you, and he could see it in every inch of your face.

the camera hadn’t caught the vulnerability posture, but jason knew. you weren’t just physically tired—you were emotionally worn out. the woman he loved wasn’t the same one who had walked out five days ago. this woman, this (y/n), looked like someone who had been pushing through the world alone, all the weight of her pain carried on her shoulders.

he gripped the edge of the desk, eyes locked on the screen, his chest tightening. guilt, sorrow, and a deep sense of regret clawed at him. he had to find her. he had to make things right before it was too late.

he reads the address three times to be sure, then grabs his helmet and jacket and is out the manor doors before bruce can say a word. he jumps on his motorcycle and starts the engine, the loud sound of his tires screeching in the cave as he raced out to find you. he was lighting on the road, dangerously weaving in and out of cars, adrenaline of seeing you alive making him rush even more.

then he makes it to your location. his feet on the pavement, one flight of stairs, then two. his heart is a riot in his chest. his hands are sweating, shaking, cold. an a rush of anxiety washes over him.

what if you slam the door in his face?

what if you don’t even open it?

what if you’re gone again?

what if you don’t want to see him?

but he still knocks. soft at first. then harder.

he hears the lock click. the door creaks open a few inches. you stand there in sweats your friend let you have, eyes puffy, hair lazily in your face like you stopped caring how you looked days ago. and you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

your eyes widen when you see him. and that’s all it takes. jason breaks down.

his legs give out. he drops to his knees like something inside him finally caved in. and before he can even stop himself, he wraps his arms around your waist and presses his face into your stomach, sobbing. not the angry kind. not the kind that comes with yelling and fists through walls.

the kind that’s quiet and raw and scared. the kind that says thank god you’re alive and I’m sorry and I missed you all at once. he was relieved.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m so fucking sorry—please, I didn’t mean it, I was angry, I didn’t know how to say it right, I—god, I thought I lost you—” you freeze. shock, sadness and joy all overwhelming your head. your hands hover for a second, unsure, still hurt, wondering if this is a dream or not.

but then they come down gently, slowly, fingers threading through his hair as you hold him against you. your voice is quiet. “jason…” a melody to his ears.

he can barely speak. “I looked everywhere. I thought something happened. I thought—god, I thought maybe I deserved it. maybe you were better off without me. — I’ve never been this scared in my life.” you listen to him, his words muffled into your stomach. as he plants small kisses in between each sentence— his words rambling and gasping in-between for breaths. “baby.. come here.”

you helped him stand up and stared at his face. “I was angry,” you admit. “you hurt me.” — “i know.. i never wanted to hurt you.”

he leans into you like he needs your heartbeat to breathe.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispers. “I keep ruining everything good in my life. I say the wrong thing. I push too hard. I scare people off. and then when I finally realize what I’ve done, it’s too late.” you pull back just enough to make him look at you. — his eyes are red. wet. desperate.

“you didn’t scare me off,” you whisper. “you hurt me. but I left because I didn’t want to say something I’d regret. I needed time.”

jason swallows. “you should’ve. said something worse. hit me. I deserved it.” — “you don’t get to decide what you deserve, jason. I do.”

a beat. “and I still choose you.” he exhales a breath that sounds like a sob.

his eyes are rimmed red, exhausted, glassy with the tears he’s still trying to keep at bay.

“I went everywhere. the café, the library—the park,” he continues, his arms tightening like he thinks you might slip away again. “every place we made a memory. every place that still smells like you. I kept thinking, maybe I could find one more piece of us that wasn’t broken yet.— I needed to find you. I was losing it, sweetheart. I checked alleys. dangerous places. I—fuck, I was hoping I didn’t find you there but I had to check. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t sit still. I just wanted to see you. to say I’m sorry. to fix it.”

you nod slowly, listening to him. watching the way he talked.

“I knew I took it too far, even when I said it,” jason continues, clutching you tighter. “I was mad at the world, not you. but I threw it all at you because I knew you’d still love me, and that makes me the worst kind of person.”

you press your hand to his cheek, and he leans into it like it’s the only thing keeping him together. “I didn’t mean it,” he whispers. “not a single word. I was angry and afraid and so fucking overwhelmed that I—” his voice cracks. “I lashed out. at the one person who loves me the most. and when you left, I knew. I knew I deserved it.”

you stare at him for a moment. because your silence isn’t punishment—it’s your own unraveling. choosing your next words — “you said I was just a distraction,” you whisper finally, voice shaking despite how hard you try to steady it. “that I make things worse for you. that I don’t understand you, and maybe never will.”

jason flinches. physically recoils at the words he remembers far too well. the words that have been haunting him for the past few days.

you swallow, continuing. “you didn’t just lash out, jason. you hit where you knew it would hurt. you said things I’ve been afraid of ever since we met.”

“I didn’t mean any of it,” he whispers again, desperate. “god, if I could tear the words out of the air and bury them, I would. I would’ve rather taken a bullet than see you walk out that door. I just—” he breathes in deep. “I’m not good with… emotions. with fear. and losing you? that’s the scariest thing in the world to me...”

you nod slowly. “you self-destruct.”— he presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut. “yeah. and I took you down with me.”

silence stretches again, but it’s different now. heavy, but not hostile. like the fog after a storm. “I wasn’t leaving forever,” you whisper. “I just needed time. space. I needed to remember who I was outside of what you said.”

running your fingers through his hair. “I love you, jason. that didn’t change. but you hurt me. bad. I will never stop loving you. i will always come back to you— I needed to know I could still choose to come back on my terms. not because you begged. not because you were falling apart. but because I wanted to.”

his arms tighten around you again, and for the first time since last night, his tears start to fall freely. once again. no restraint. no pride. just a man drowning in his own grief, relieved to be seen, still loved despite everything.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers into your shoulder, his voice small and shaky.

“no,” you say gently. “but you have me. and that means doing better.” and you both stand there for a while. two exhausted people wrapped around each other like maybe the world will stop spinning if you just stay still long enough.

after a while, you hold out your hand. “come inside.” and he does.

the apartment is small, quiet. the kind of place that smells like lavender and old books and something that’s just you. jason steps inside like he’s walking on glass—like the walls might collapse if he breathes too hard.

you close the door behind him. lock it gently. like you’re not locking him out, but keeping the world away.

neither of you says much as you move to the small couch in the living room. he follows you, slow, cautious. sits on the edge like he doesn’t deserve the whole cushion. like if he gets too comfortable, you might change your mind and tell him to leave.

you notice the way he keeps stealing glances at you from the corner of his eye. the way his knee’s bouncing, nervous. his shoulders are curled in, defensive, like he’s ready to run the second you flinch.

finally, you break the quiet. “why are you sitting like you’re afraid I’m gonna hit you?” jason freezes.

you don’t say it to hurt him. you say it softly. genuinely. because you see it—the hesitation, the fear, the way he’s pulling away without moving an inch.

he exhales. “because I don’t wanna fuck this up again.”

“you think being quiet is safer?”

he shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s safe with you anymore. I keep playing every version of this in my head—if I say too much, if I touch you too soon, if I breathe the wrong way—maybe you’ll walk out again.”

you shift toward him slowly. “I didn’t leave to scare you.”

“I know.” he finally meets your gaze. “but it scared me anyway.”

you nod. “and now you’re trying not to want anything.” he doesn’t answer. “jason, you’re allowed to want me.”

his breath catches. you reach out, gently covering his hand with yours. he looks at the contact like it might vanish.

“you’re not scaring me off,” you say, voice soft but sure. “you’re hurting. and so am I. but I didn’t stop loving you. I didn’t forget all the good just because of one night.”

jason’s voice is raw when he answers. “It was more than one night. I’ve been shutting you out for weeks. I didn’t let you in when you were trying. I turned everything into a war when you just wanted peace.”

“yeah. you did.” he flinches. “but,” you continue, tightening your grip on his hand, “you came back. you searched for me. you let yourself fall apart. that means something to me, and im sorry too. i didn’t intend on being away this long. i just felt so lost” he closes his eyes, jaw clenching.

“i’ve never felt this afraid,” he murmurs. “not even when I died.” you squeeze his hand.

“I’m not good at soft,” he admits. “I can be violent, I can be angry, I can be the guy who kicks in doors and breaks bones. but being… gentle? I don’t know how to do that without thinking I’ll screw it up.” you lean forward, pressing your forehead to his.

“you’re being gentle right now.” he nods, barely. and for the first time since that fight, he lets his hand curl into yours. not tight. just enough.

enough to say I want this.

enough to say I still love you.

he presses his lips to your temple, hesitant at first, then lingering. not hungry. not desperate. just present.

“i love you eternally jason, im sorry too, i’m truly sorry for walking away.”

“i love you so much (y/n), so.. so much it’s a unbearable pain i never want to let go of. you are my heart.. my soul.. my person”

he pressed kisses on your hand inbetween words. whispering softly to you, sweet nothings. just wanting to cherish you. “i cried to alfred, cried like some damn kid and I was just—gone. full-on sobbing in his arms like I was ten again.”

(y/n)’s eyes softened, reaching out but letting him keep going.

“I told him everything. told him I screwed up. told him I was scared you’d leave for good. and he just… held me, made me miss your touch.— i’m still sorry,” he whispers

“I know,” you say. “i am too jay”

the two of you sit there, wrapped in the silence that used to hurt—but now, maybe, it’s just healing in disguise. you pulled jason in to cuddle him. he wraps his hands around your body. feeling fortunate to have you, to touch you, to kiss you. he hasn’t been able to breathe normally since you left, but now his chest feels lifted. he’s calmer and exhausted. he can tell you were too. he rubs your body while kissing all over you until he knows your asleep in his arms. watching you sleep so peacefully puts him at ease, helping him drift off into a wonderful slumber he’s been dreaming about for the past five days.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

ahhh :3 i couldn’t do a sad ending— i was going to!!, but he’s been out through to much already!! haha

hope u enjoyed!! im trying out different writing, angst is one im not the best ask but i like trying! it feels repetitive sometimes :p

have a good day / night!! xx

[yanderedrabbles]

Imagine being a lady out in the Wild West, mayor's daughter, preacher's niece, something good and proper. All tight laced and demure on Sundays, sweet and pretty all week 'round.

You got plenty of admirers. Cowpokes drifting through your small town who promise themselves that the second they've got more than dirt to their name, they're coming back to marry you. Traders and tradesman who see you in your Sunday best and think how sweet it would be to have you waiting at home for them. And others too. Men with too sharp eyes and hats kept low. They think about you too, but always at night. Always with one hand slick.

You've got plenty of folk with eyes on you, but no real suitors. Whoever your guardian is, they've got high standards. Maybe your father is hoping for a good political match, or your uncle is looking for a God fearing man. Either way, you're untouchable. Untouched.

Well, until you ain't.

Maybe the man who takes you is one of those hard eyed drifters, with a mean mustang and an even meaner right hook. A crook in everything but name. Maybe he doesn't work alone, and it's a whole pack of them who grab you straight out of your backyard, hands pressed against your mouth so hard they leave bruises on your cheeks.

Either way, they've got just about one thing on their mind. And they don't want to be interrupted.

They take you out to the desert, or out into the deep woods, or far into the canyons. Somewhere lonesome. Somewhere they can take their time with you.

Maybe they succeed. Get to keep you all to themselves. A prize too sweet for men like them, a little missy who would always be out of reach if they didn't take matters into their own hands. Their hands are rough with labour - wrangling and gunslinging and digging graves for folk that wouldn't otherwise need them. And rough with you, too. Skimming up your thighs, prying them apart...

That's what folk would call a bad ending. Would shake their heads over and secretly pray that it never happens to one of their girls.

Maybe they succeed. Or maybe, just maybe... they don't.

See, the sheriff of your town is a hard man. White hat always clean, badge always shiny, but his gun is nicked with use, his spurs dull with hard riding. And when he hears what happened, it ain't long before he's on your trail. Pushing his stallion until it's frothing under the saddle. Hoping to get to you before night time. Before the sun goes down and the lust comes out.

He finds you easy enough, but it's just him against a gang and that ain't no easy win. He watches them from a distance, from up on the canyon maybe, or from between the thick trees. Sees you sitting at their campfire, hands and feet tied, pretty white dress stained with mud.

He sees that and thinks how he'd rather eat lead than see them stain the rest of you so dirty.

It ain't easy. It takes planning, skill. He lures them out one at a time and picks them off. Knife between the ribs, arrow straight through the neck, a wire pulled taught and tight around their throat. Until it's just him and the leader left - the man who chose to take you, the one who'd have gotten the prime cuts when it came to butchering your innocence.

It could go either way at this point. The sheriff ain't no slouch but the gunslinger is younger, hungrier. Folk would say the good guy should win, that justice ought to come out on top, and that you deserve your happy ending. But the truth is that they're both rotten to the core.

'Cause it ain't duty that made the sheriff ride his horse lame trying to get to you. No. It's love, of the kind just as perverse as the outlaw's. Only difference is that the sheriff has a whole society of rules and laws and expectations to keep him in check. And out here? Well, they just don't apply.

If the outlaw wins, the story ends pretty simple. He keeps you, has his way with you. Ruins you. Tucks you away in his hideout for only him to enjoy.

But I don't think that's what happens. The sheriff might not have the other man's speed, but he's got experience, age, years of watching cocksure young men giving themselves away when they go for their guns too early. He puts a bullet right in the other man's heart and steps over his body to get to you.

You're shaking, crying so hard that your gag is soaked through. Looking up at him so thankful that he wants to fuck you right then and there.

He cuts through your ropes and you hug him, not caring one bit that it ain't something a proper lady would do. He kneels on one leg and let's you cry into his shirt, voice all weak and sweet as you thank him.

"They was gonna do such awful things sheriff. Kept tellin' me how good it would be for me, but they kept touching me. Sheriff, I was so scared."

If he could, he'd kill them all over again. Instead he just holds you. Ignores the age gap between you, ignores how it ain't the proper thing to do.

"I'm here darlin'. And ain't no one gonna lay a finger on you again, you hear?"

You nuzzle into his neck, hiccuping. And God, it feels good to hold you. He's too old for you - hair going grey at the temples despite him still being lean with muscle. He's too jaded and mean for you - how can he be a good match for such an innocent thing when his hands are soaked in blood? He knows, but he just doesn't care.

Just scoops you up in his arms and carries you to his horse.

If there's one thing you ain't realised, it's that the sheriff is about as sly as he is mean. When he takes you home, he'll probably take your guardian aside for a quiet word. Lie straight through his teeth and tell them he was too late, that you were ruined before he got there.

He'll watch them go pale, watch the cogs turning. Who will want you now? And when he sees that awful realisation on their face, that's when he goes in for the kill.

Puts his hat over his heart and says he's so ashamed that he wasn't faster. That he couldn't save your innocence and your life both. That if your pa would give his blessing, he'd be more than happy to take you as his wife.

It's not the match they wanted for you. He's not a great political ally and he sure as hell ain't a God fearing man. But who else will have you once the rumours start flying?

And when they tell you, you're too shaken to object. Too indebted to the law man to wonder what he said to make them suddenly so amenable.

It's a nasty trick to pull. A theft almost as bad as your kidnapper's. You're too good for a dog like him, but he'll be damned 'fore he let's you get away. Rabid dogs sink their teeth in and never let go, didn't nobody ever tell you that sweetheart?

And on your wedding night, when he claims his reward from between your thighs, you slowly start to realise that honour isn't as easily found as you once thought, that a badge doesn't make a man good. He'll probably look up at you from between your legs, his lips and stubble shiny with your wetness. Smirking like a wolf who got locked in the pen with the whole helpless flock.

In the end, you only have yourself to blame. I tried to tell you he was rotten.

[ofbatsandballads]

a love like religion

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 1.4k

warnings: smut MDNI, unprotected sex, gentle dom!jason, size difference, creampie, biting and scratching hard enough to draw blood, all the pet names from Jason (baby, sweetheart, ma, mama, darlin’, honey), lots of aftercare, hints of codependency from jay and reader.

a/n: was daydreaming about jason (as per usual) and got to thinking about how if he were real I would be so down bad for this man it would be borderline unhealthy. something something about your lover becoming your god or whatnot. ngl wrote this with a bit of a “bones and all” vibe in mind of just needing jay in every conceivable way and it uhhhh…spiraled. so here, have some fucking with copious amounts of aftercare and maybe codependency if you squint?

divider credit: cafekitsune

There aren’t many things in life you can be certain of. The ever changing tides of fate have washed you ashore and swept you back into drowning more times than you can count. You’d grown used to it, the ephemeral nature of being alive. You relied on the two things you knew to be unwaveringly true: you are currently living and breathing; and one day you will die, and the living and breathing will be over. You did not anticipate adding any other unchangeable qualities to this list. You now have one that supersedes every other: you love Jason Todd.

You love him more than anything in this universe or the next. You love him like you love air to breathe. He’s your entire world. The sun holds itself in the smiles he reserves only for you, the stars in the gleaming of his seafoam eyes when the moonlight hits them just right, gravity residing in the weight of his hands on your waist.

You love Jason so much you wish you could crawl into his chest, nestle yourself between his ribs and feel the beat of his heart from within. You can’t, of course. But right now, with his broad frame between your thighs and his hips rocking relentlessly into yours? It’s as close as you can get.

It’s intoxicating, the combination of physicality and emotion. Jason feels so good. His cock pushes against every sweet spot you have, delicious toe-curling drags that have you whimpering his name. And he’s so big. It feels like he’s splitting you in half even though he’d spent a good half hour prepping you on his fingers and his tongue. You wouldn’t have it any other way. Feeling your body give way to him, conforming to the shape and weight of him—it’s like nothing else you’ve ever experienced. Nothing compares to Jason.

That’s part of it too. Sure, the feeling of him driving his thick cock into you would be amazing no matter what. But doing this with him while knowing how much he loves you, how much you love him? It’s divine. No heaven could come close to this. You’d take an eternity with him over anything else.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty, ma. Feel so fuckin’ good around me,” Jason moans as he trails kisses down your neck.

“Jay–Jason, please,” you whine.

You’re not even sure what you’re begging for. He’s giving you everything you need. His hips rock back and forth at the perfect pace, deep thrusts that you swear you can feel all the way in your throat. Your legs wrap around his waist, ankles crossing over his lower back in an effort to keep him close. He’s buried to the hilt inside you and yet you still want more.

“What is it, baby? Tell me what ya need,” he pants. “I’ll give you anythin’, sweetheart. Anythin’ you want.”

“You.”

The word tumbles from your mouth over and over and over again. He’s reduced you to a crying, needy mess, incapable of thinking about anything other than him. But he knows you all too well and indulges you in your request. He leans in closer, using all his weight to pin you between his warm body and your disheveled blankets.

All you know is Jason. His large frame above you, so big that he blocks the candlelit bedroom from your sight. His voice cooing praises in your ear—you’re so beautiful, takin’ me so well darlin’, I’m all yours sweetheart. His lips kissing and biting adoring bruises into your neck, your collarbone. How heavenly the wet strokes of his cock feel inside your over sensitive cunt. He moves his hand down to rub your clit at the same time that he licks his way into your mouth and you’re done for.

Burning, bright—a white hot supernova that explodes across every nerve ending from your head to your toes. Your legs lock around him as your whole body shudders. Your nails rake across his back and biceps, pretty red lines blooming over his scars. Your teeth sink into his shoulder and you recognize the coppery taste of his blood. The pleasure-pain of your bite draws forth Jason’s orgasm and the warmth that floods you makes you dig your claws in deeper. You mark him as he marks you. A permanent claim, tangible evidence of the love that hums between you. You have one semi-coherent thought before your mind becomes static: you’re as full of him as you can be; mouth, nails, pussy—you’ve got him in every part of you now.

You don’t realize you’re sobbing until you feel his gentle hands wipe the tears from your face.

“You with me, mama?” he whispers, forehead resting against yours.

You hiccup. It takes all your energy to nod weakly in confirmation. You cling to him, not letting him move an inch away from you. His strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you as close to him as physically possible. The movement causes his half hard cock to grind deliciously inside you and you’re gasping into the crook of his neck.

“Stay. Please,” you beg through tears.

Jason just holds you tighter to his chest, and you find safety in the strength of his embrace.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby. I’m stayin’ right here with you,” he assures you.

After a few moments, your head clears ever so slightly. You become conscious of touch. Your hands twitch back to life and you discover that Jason has placed them around his neck. Your fingers rest against his pulse, the steady badum badum badum lulling you back to lucidity. You blink open your teary eyes and see concern swirling in the deep sea green of your lover’s.

“Was it too much? I didn’t mean to overwhelm you, baby. I’m sorry,” he whispers, gentle as the winter rain that’s beginning to fall outside.

“Not overwhelmed,” you mumble into his neck. “I just love you.”

Your voice cracks on those four words. You break under the bruising weight of your love for him. You think it could kill you, could bury you six feet under, and you would happily die for it. You would happily die for him. You don’t think you’d want to go out any other way. His hand in yours; it’s the only way you can exist now.

Jason feels it too. He knows you almost as well as you know yourself. He knows how complete your devotion is to him, how he could ask for anything and you would offer it up without hesitation. He knows his is the same. You could demand his heart on a silver platter and he’d go grab his daggers that are displayed neatly on the wall and the fine china back at Wayne Manor. And maybe it’s a lot, maybe you’re both a little too attached. But how could either of you possibly care when loving each other felt this good?

So he handles you delicately. He soothes you when your sobbing returns as he goes to grab a warm washcloth. He wipes your tears as he cleans your combined spend off your thighs. He gently pulls a pair of his boxers over your hips, one of his hoodies over your head. He cradles you in his arms as he carries you to the living room to eat some snacks and continue binging The Great British Baking Show. You’ve come back to reality now. A soft peace settles across your overworked body and mind as you lie intertwined with Jason on the sofa.

“I’m sorry I lost it a little there,” you mumble into his chest, cheeks flushed and more than a tad embarrassed.

“You got nothin’ to apologize for, honey. How many times have I done the same?”

It’s true. Most times it’s Jason that’s the sobbing, fucked out mess in the afterglow. It’s part of why the come down hit you so hard this time. You feel almost guilty, like you should’ve been able to hold yourself together better for him. You swear he can read your mind when he gently grabs your chin and turns your head to face him.

“Hey, none of that feelin’ bad bullshit. We take care of each other. It’s what we do. You’re the one always sayin’ that, right?” he asks, softly nudging his hooked nose against yours.

“Yeah, we take care of each other,” you whisper. “Forever and always?”

Jason absolutely beams at you, and suddenly nothing matters but him and the love you share in this little bit of time and space that’s all yours.

“Forever and always.”

[winterst4n]

Sit still!

Pairing: Nurse!Reader x Grumpy!Bucky Barnes

Warnings: Very, very light swearing. Just pure fluff!!

Word count: 1.3k

Summary: After stupidly jumping out of a craft on a mission, ending up with many broken ribs. Bucky is placed under your care unwillingly and he makes the week hell for you. But when the week ends he starts to regret everything.

A/N: This is pretty short and maybe i’ll come back to it another time and try something new but so far i like how this turned out. If you like this, i’d really appreciate it if you could share or leave comment!

“Will you just sit still?!” You grumble at Bucky for what feels like the millionth time today.

“Well stop poking me and maybe I will.” He practically hissed at you. You swear that when Fury assigned you to take care of him he was plotting your early death– or at least Bucky's death.

“If you sit still I'll give you a cookie…” you try to bribe, but of course this just earned you a very hard and angry glare from Bucky.

Due to Bucky’s recklessness on a recent mission, he is now under your care until he can breathe without whining and groaning about his ribs, which he broke several of. He thought the easiest and quickest way to land by a mission base was to jump out of the craft without a parachute– stupid!

You were the nice nurse. The nurse everyone on the team liked to be cared for the most when they had an injury, except a certain fossil. He was grumpy and rude to you for no reason, always making an effort to ruin your day with some stupid comment every time he saw you. But this week had been hell!

So here he was pouting and glaring at you in the plush armchair in your office that practically cowers under his large frame. “I need to check the progress of your ribs and I can't do that without touching you. So please…just sit still.” You sigh, your patience being stretched very, very thin.

Bucky notices your stress and annoyance with him and he does feel some sort of pity but he can’t shake this unfamiliar feeling you give him everytime he feels your hands on his body or your gaze on him. “...Fine.” He mumbles grudgingly.

You move your hands back into place against his chest, gently feeling where the broken ribs are located. Due to the serum, he had enhanced healing abilities but it never failed to amaze you how fast they fixed up his and Steve’s body.

“They’re healing just fine.” you say as you pull your hands away and move to sit by your desk. “I still don’t recommend doing any strenuous activities just yet but, you’ll live.”

Bucky just rolls his eyes like usual and keeps his unwavering scowl on his face– it annoys you and somehow hurts you to see just how unwilling he is to accept any help. That was the way HYDRA treated him though, you knew that. Hell, everyone knew that.

“James…” you start softly with a quiet sigh. “It’s just me and you in here…i need to know if you’re in pain so i can fix it.”

Silence– as expected.

He sighs and looks down at his boots, his feet shuffling slightly as he thinks about your words. Soft brown locks fall over his eyes and shields you from looking into his broken and guilty eyes. “I’m fine” a hoarse voice says so quietly.

Hesitating for a moment, you look over his body language and think about his tone. “Okay…” you respond simply, knowing not to push him.

Within the silence, Bucky stands up and storms out of your office– he almost let it all out. How did you have this effect on him? You were so easy and sweet, the complete opposite of him, he couldn’t let you in and see what HYDRA did to him. You weren’t allowed to see how everytime you checked his vitals, he felt like he was back in HYDRA’s claws, back to being prepped to be shocked again. No, he had to keep you away from that.

The week passes and ends, you were no longer assigned to take care of Bucky anymore and he’s back to missions and training– avoiding you. Part of you is happy that he’s not around you everyday by force, no longer having to endure his glares and rudeness but another part of you felt shitty.

That week felt like showing Bucky for the first time that it was okay to be cared for, to be looked after with no ulterior motive except for the benefit of his health. You wish he had that reminder everyday instead of throwing himself into missions, being reckless with himself because he didn’t think his body was worth protecting. This feeling was stronger than the happiness over his departure from your care– a lot stronger.

It seems you weren’t the only one thinking about that week. After some reflecting and thinking (a.k.a, talking to Steve), he realised why he felt so strongly when you touched him and why he wanted to open up to you. Yes, he was angry at the reason why at first. Angry at himself for being so foolish and falling for the team nurse, “She’s supposed to be caring!” he repeated like a mantra. Angry at himself for feeling like it was okay to let you in, to want you to care about him, to know why he struggled.

But Steve explained to him that you weren’t as weak or as fragile as he kept insisting you were– scolding him slightly for the way he dismissed you. Bucky realised that he should probably explain some things to you– or at least apologise, you were only doing your job and he took it out on you.

That night he wrote a letter to you, the words were genuine and words he knew he would mess up if he tried to say them to his face–

“Hey, I'm sorry. I know that’s pretty generic but it’s the truth. I’m still figuring this shit out so don’t take it too personally, it’s just really hard for me. I know you were only doing your job and I'm so sorry that I made it difficult. I wish I could take it back and just be open with you. I know you would’ve treated me the way i needed if i asked, you’re sweet like that. You’re good at your job and I'm pretty sure my ribs feel even better than they did before I jumped out of that plane. Anyways, i hope you’re free tomorrow night so maybe we can grab a drink, I’ll even buy you one of those fruity cocktails if you’re into that,

James Buchanan Barnes.”

Sealing the letter, and addressing it to you on the front, he walked through the compound and eventually found your office and slid the note under the door for you to find in the morning.

But on this night in particular, you decided to stay late to finish some work, maybe by luck or fate the note arrives while you’re already there. You read through the letter and smiled softly, touched that Bucky would let you in like this, you knew it was rare considering he really only spoke to Sam and Steve.

Pocketing the note, you quickly walk down the hall to head to Bucky’s room to give him an answer. Your feet carry you as quickly as they can without running, trying to catch up to Bucky as soon as possible.

You arrive at his door and knock three times in a very desperate motion before the door swings open. There he is. In his sleepy and shocked state. He’s surprised to see you here so soon but he’s slightly anxious for your response– he’s practically anticipating for you to throw the letter back at him and insult him.

To his surprise, you don’t. “I don’t need a fruity cocktail, I'd prefer a coffee…tomorrow morning, in my office?” you say softly as you bite your lip back gently in anticipation.

Bucky’s eyes seem locked in place on your face, his lips parted from surprise until they slowly break into the tiniest smile that lights up his face in your eyes, a smile that gives you a glimpse into the charming soldier before HYDRA.

“Coffee it is then, Doll” he says in a low tone before gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, wanting to fully see your face in all its beauty. Wanting to see the face of the person he was about to let into his life and hopefully never let go of.