#trying over and over to reach out and getting nothing in return

[dayasfilms]

Ahhh I’m obsessed with your writing!!! Can we pls have Star and Steve’s first time together?

Your First Time With Steve

Summary: You and Steve have your first time together after you decide to take a little break from studying for your chemistry exam.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Year: Around September of 1982 (Star and Steve are in their sophomore year of high school)

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fingering, oral (f!receiving), unprotected piv (don’t do this), fluff, bad dirty chem jokes, mentions of Y/N, feeling insecure, losing virginity (both f and m), it would make a lot more sense to read my ST series Reticent (click the Series Masterlist below) before reading this to know more about the part regarding protection and the scar but it’s not absolutely necessary

Word Count: 4.1k

Note: Thank you for your request! Funnily enough, I was already writing this before I even got this request so this is perfect timing. Enjoy a little smut one shot about Star and Steve’s first time together. Also, if you want to get added to my ST taglist, scroll all the way to the bottom of this post and click on the green link!

Series Masterlist

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The amount of notes on your desk was enough to drive anyone insane. But even though you were in desperate need of a break, you didn’t stop. You kept flipping through flashcards, reviewing every homework assignment and highlighting the mess of topics that would be on your Chemistry exam in two days.

The house was quiet. Your mom was working late in the city, which meant you had the whole day to yourself with no disruptions. Not that your mom was a disruption, of course she never was. You just enjoyed having some peace to cram.

Though maybe you’d jinxed it. Just as you reached for the next flashcard in your stack, a light tapping sound came from the window. Your head snapped toward the glass, heart skipping just slightly. Cautiously, you stood and stepped closer, unsure what, or who, you’d find outside.

At first, there was nothing. You just saw the trees outside and the faint reflection of your bedroom in the afternoon light. You were just about to turn around when another knock made you jump, and a face appeared at the window.

You shrieked. A hand flew to your chest, trying to calm your racing heart as you exhaled sharply. Outside the glass, Steve Harrington stood with a sheepish grin, waving at you like he hadn’t just shaved a year off your life. You opened the window and stepped back as he climbed through carefully, brushing his jeans before straightening up.

“Steve!” You hissed, hands on your hips. “You scared me! You could’ve fallen!”

He gave you an unapologetic grin as he shut the window behind him. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry.”

You rolled your eyes and returned to your desk, pulling out your chair and flopping back into it. “What are you even doing here?”

He sat on the edge of your bed, watching you with soft eyes. “I missed you. Haven’t seen you since…uh, yesterday.”

You turned just enough to raise an eyebrow. “Wow, a whole day?”

“Exactly. Tragic.”

You laughed under your breath and turned back around, flipping open your textbook again. “Why not use the front door like a normal person? My mom’s not even home.” That made him pause. You turned to look at him again. “You didn’t notice her car wasn’t in the driveway, did you?”

He opened his mouth, then scratched the back of his neck. “Okay, in my defense, I was too busy thinking about you. I didn’t really notice anything else.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder, but your smile betrayed you.

“Also,” he added quickly. “Sneaking through your window? It’s super romantic, if you ask me.”

“Oh, is that what that was?” You teased.

Steve stood up and walked over to where you sat, leaning over your shoulder to glance at your pile of notes. His brows raised. “Jesus. How long have you been at this?”

You glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost three PM. You chewed the inside of your cheek. “…Since about ten? After breakfast.”

His eyes went wide. “That was five hours ago!”

You deadpanned. “Yes, Steve. I can count.”

He didn’t laugh. Instead, he gently spun your chair toward him, his hands resting on the armrests as he bent down to your eye level. “Hey. You need a break.”

You shook your head. “I need to pass Chem.”

“You also need a functioning brain, and I’m pretty sure yours is melting right now.” You smiled a little despite yourself, leaning back in your chair. “And I’m sure you don’t even need to study anymore. You’re the smartest person ever.”

You hesitated. “I don’t know…”

“Come on,” he coaxed, brushing a hand down your arm. “Just ten minutes. I’ll even quiz you first. I promise.”

“You’re gonna quiz me?”

“I’m very qualified,” he said, grabbing a flashcard dramatically and clearing his throat. “What’s the atomic number of carbon?”

You rolled your eyes, yet you still had a small smile form on your lips. “Six.”

He flipped the card. “Correct. I’m a great tutor already.”

You crossed your arms, amused. “One question and you’re giving yourself a gold star?”

“Absolutely.”

He grinned, tossed the card aside, and asked you a few more. For a little while, it actually worked. You were laughing and forgetting about the pressure. But eventually, Steve stopped reading, just watching you quietly with a look that made your stomach do a slow flip.

He gently placed the flashcards down and stood up straight, motioning for you to do the same. “Come on. Just ten minutes. Take a real break.”

You let out a dramatic sigh and stood, and Steve didn’t waste a second before sliding his arms around your waist, pulling you toward him.

You smiled up at him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “You’re relentless.”

“I just want you to breathe,” he murmured. “And maybe make out with you a little.”

You laughed. “Of course you do.”

You didn’t protest when Steve gently tugged you away from the desk and toward your bed. You let him fall back onto it first, laughing when he exaggerated the flop, then climbed up after him. He reached for you immediately, pulling you down beside him.

“You’re warm,” he murmured as you settled into his chest.

You snorted softly. “You dragged me away from my desk. This is your fault so stop complaining.”

“Who said I’m complaining?” He said with a grin, then tilted your chin up toward him. “You’re so cute when you’re mad at me.”

You rolled your eyes, lips already curving as he leaned in. His kiss was soft at first, teasing and slow. But as your lips continued to move, it grew heavier. His fingers brushed along your jaw before sliding into your hair, and your hand found the hem of his shirt, fingertips curling slightly against the fabric.

The kiss deepened as you shifted, Steve sitting against the headboard while you straddled him, your body pressed to his. His hands moved to your waist, holding you steady.

It was easy to lose track of time like that. It was easy to melt into the feel of him, the way he kissed you like he’d never get tired of it. The way he always made you feel like you were the most important person in the world.

You shifted slightly, and the pressure of his bulge against your thigh made your breath hitch. He let out a quiet whine that was barely audible, but he quickly deepened the kiss to cover it up. The sound still lingered in your mind, sending a flutter through your core as your fingers curled tighter into his shirt.

At some point, you pulled back just enough to catch your breath, but you didn’t move far. Your forehead rested against his, and both of you were quiet for a moment, just listening to the sound of each other’s breathing.

Your heart pounded and not because of the kissing, but from the thoughts that formed the longer he held you. “Steve?” You asked softly.

His eyes blinked open. “Yeah?”

Your voice wavered, trying to figure out how to say it. “Have you ever, you know…done the thing before? Like, actually?”

Steve blinked up at you, surprised. “No. I haven’t.”

You nodded slowly, not quite meeting his eyes. “Me neither.”

He was quiet for a second, searching your expression. “Why do you ask?”

You paused, fingers fiddling with the collar of his shirt. “I was just…thinking. About us. Being with you like this.” His brows softened as he tilted his head, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. You glanced at him, and though your cheeks were warm, you pushed through your shyness. “I think…I think I want to. I want my first time to be with you.”

Steve’s eyes widened, the boy stuttering. “I–I, uh, wha–really?”

You wanted to hide, thinking that maybe you shouldn’t have said anything. “Yeah. I mean, we don’t have to. If–if you don’t want your first time to be with me, I understand. But…I–actually, never mind. Forget I said anything.”

“Hey, no.” He shifted a little, cupping your face gently, his thumb brushing along your cheek. “Of course I want my first time to be with you. But are you really sure about this?”

You nodded, your voice a whisper. “Yeah. I mean…I’m nervous. But I trust you. And I want this. I want to do it with you.”

Steve let out a quiet breath and smiled, like he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have you. “Okay. We’ll go slow, alright? If you change your mind at any point, you just tell me.”

“I will,” you promised, your heart fluttering.

He leaned in to kiss you again, gentler than before, like he was memorizing every second. His hands stayed put on your waist, always patient with you.

Slowly, he lays you back on the bed, his body covering yours. He peppered kisses along your jawline and down your neck, his lips leaving a tingly sensation on your skin. You arched into his touch, your hands gripping his shoulders as he continued his exploration of your body.

He stopped, pulling back a little to check on you. “Are you okay?” He asked, his voice gentle.

You nodded, giving him a small smile. “Just a little nervous,” you admitted, your cheeks turning warm with embarrassment.

He reached out and took your hand in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay, I’m nervous too,” he confessed, his thumb tracing small circles on your skin. "But I promise, we’ll take it slow. We’ll only do what you’re comfortable with.”

His words eased your anxiety, and you found yourself relaxing a little. You tilted your head up and captured his lips in another passionate kiss. He responded immediately, his hand cupping your cheek as he deepened the kiss. You moaned softly against his mouth, your tongue tangling with his.

Your hands began to roam, going up and down his chest. He groaned, his fingers tangling in your hair. You could feel his erection pressing against your thigh, and it sent excitement through your body.

When he reached the hem of your shirt, he paused, his eyes seeking permission. You nodded breathlessly, eager for more. He took it off, revealing your bra-clad breasts. His gaze darkened with desire as he took in the sight of you.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice deep.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the swell of your breasts, his fingers swiftly unhooking your bra. As he took off the material, he gazed upon your exposed flesh, his eyes filled with awe.

Suddenly, his eyes landed on a scar near the side of your stomach. He paused, looking up at you. “Wait, what’s this?”

You immediately covered it with your hands, shying away from him. “Um, it’s nothing. It was from a car accident when I was younger.”

His eyes softened, and he went down to the scar, pressing soft kisses on it. The contact made you shiver.

“Steve, you don’t have to—”

“Shh…” he shushed you, continuing to pepper kisses along the faded edges. “Just let me.”

You didn’t say anything else as he loved on you, pressing his lips to make you forget about what happened to you in the past. You wanted to tell him, but not yet. You weren’t ready to open up about that part of your life. You just watched him, your heart full of warmth and love as he put so much care into you.

He then brought his head up and took one hardened nipple into his mouth. You cried out, your fingers tangling in his hair as he sucked and nibbled gently. Waves of pleasure coursed through your body, making you squirm beneath him.

As he lavished attention on your breasts, his hand slid up your thigh, caressing you through your sweatpants. You tensed for a moment, unsure if you were ready for this. But as his hands went higher, you found yourself aching for more.

When his fingers brushed against your core, you knew there was no turning back. This was really happening. You were about to give yourself to him completely.

He pulled away briefly, his eyes locking with yours. “Is this okay?” He asked, his voice quiet.

You nodded, biting your lower lip as you gazed up at him. “Yes,” you whispered. “Please, I want this. I want you, Steve.”

A smile spread across his face, and he leaned down to capture your lips in another searing kiss. As he did, his hands helped you take off your pants and then panties, before his fingers glided through your slick folds.

You gasped at the contact, your hips lifting off the bed to meet his touch. He stroked you gently, applying just the right amount of pressure to make you moan with pleasure. Your head fell back against the pillow, your eyes fluttering closed as you lost yourself in his touch.

But as he continued to pleasure you, you couldn’t help but feel a little worried. You couldn’t stop thinking about how maybe you weren’t good enough to do this, that you would only disappoint him and make a fool out of yourself. Your insecurities threatened to overwhelm you, and you found yourself tensing up under his touch.

Sensing your sudden hesitation, Steve pulled back, concern etched on his face. “Hey, what’s wrong?” He asked, his fingers stilling.

You bit your lip, unable to meet his gaze. “I’m just...I’m worried that you won’t like it,” you admitted, your voice small.

He cupped your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him. “Hey, there’s nothing to be worried about,” he assured you, his eyes soft. “This is both our first times, remember? We’re learning together. There’s no right or wrong way to do this, all that matters is that we’re honest with each other and communicate what feels good. I want to make sure you feel good.”

His words helped calm your nerves again, and you felt yourself relaxing once more. You leaned into his touch, your lips brushing against his in a tender kiss.

“Thank you,” you whispered against his mouth. “For being so understanding.”

He smiled, his thumb caressing your cheek. “Of course, honey,” he murmured, before capturing your lips in another deep kiss.

As the kiss intensified, you found yourself losing yourself in the moment, all thoughts of nervousness and self-doubt fading away. You were here with Steve, the boy you loved, and nothing else mattered.

With newfound confidence, you began to explore his body, your hands moving under his shirt to touch his bare skin. He groaned at your touch, his hips pressing against yours. You could feel his bulge growing, straining against his jeans.

Unable to resist any longer, you reached down and palmed him through the denim, earning a sharp intake of breath from him. He bucked into your hand, his fingers digging into your hips.

“God, Y/N,” he gasped, his head falling forward to rest against your shoulder. “You’re driving me crazy.”

Satisfied with his reaction, you began to unbuckle his belt, your fingers trembling slightly. He helped you push his jeans and boxers down his legs, kicking them off the side of the bed. He then took his shirt off, throwing it to the side as well.

Now fully naked before each other, you took a moment to appreciate the sight of him. He was lean, subtly toned from years of sports, with a faint trail of chest hair that made your breath catch. His cock made your eyes widen, and you couldn’t help but feel nervous again.

Sensing your gaze, Steve looked down at you, eyebrows furrowing. “Hey, we don’t have to do this, honey. Just say the word and we can stop,” he told you softly.

You shook your head, bringing your hand to his cheek. “No, no. It’s not that I don’t want to do it. It’s just…” you looked back at his cock. “How is that supposed to, um…fit?”

Steve couldn’t help but almost let out a laugh at the nervous look on your face. He tried to remain composed, grinning at you instead. “It’ll be okay. And if it hurts too much, we can stop, okay? You just have to let me know. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

You nodded, biting your lower lip as you gazed up at him through lowered lashes. He leaned down and kissed you deeply, his tongue delving into your mouth as his hand slid between your thighs once more. This time, when his fingers brushed against your folds, you were ready for him.

He stroked you slowly with one finger first, applying just the right amount of pressure to make you writhing beneath him. He then added a second finger, and then a third. Your moans filled the room as he explored your slick folds, his touch driving you closer and closer to the edge. He pumped his fingers in and out, making sure you were ready for him. He wanted to make this as painless as possible for you.

A soft moan escaped your lips as his fingers kept moving inside you, the wet sound of it only making the ache between your legs increase. Your eyes dropped to watch the motion of his hand, mouth parting at the sight. It was too much but in the best way. You let your eyes flutter shut, head falling back against the pillow as you let him continue.

You suddenly felt Steve lick a stripe up your pulsing heat. You gasped, opening your eyes to see his head between your thighs. He looked up at you as he stuck his tongue inside, lapping at your soaked core.

“You taste so sweet,” Steve murmured against you, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. The vibrations made your hips move on their own, grinding against his mouth. Your hand flew to his hair, fingers tangling as you tugged him closer. He groaned at the feeling, trying to match your pace as he continued exploring you with his tongue. When his nose bumped a particularly sensitive spot, a sharp whine escaped your throat. He froze instantly, lifting his head with concern etched into his features. “Did I hurt you?” He asked softly, eyes wide and apologetic.

“N–no,” your voice was quiet, and you could feel your cheeks grow warm. “It felt good.”

His frown turned into a relieved smile when he realized you were okay. He brought his fingers back, pressing gently against the spot that had made you gasp. This was all new for both of you, but Steve was determined to learn, to make it good for you. And now that he’d found what made you fall apart, he wasn’t about to let it go. He lowered his head again, his lips wrapping around your clit. When he began to suck softly, your back arched, a moan slipping out as your hand tightened in his hair, keeping him close.

The pressure in your core was building fast, your breaths coming out in soft, stuttering gasps as Steve’s mouth moved against you. He held you steady, his hands gripping your hips as if he didn’t want to let go. Your fingers were still in his hair, tugging him further into you as that wave of pleasure crept faster.

“Steve,” you whimpered, barely able to say his name. He didn’t stop, he just kept going, and it finally sent you over. Your eyes squeezed shut, head pressing back into the pillow as your body tensed, then melted beneath him. The sound of your moan filled the room, shaky and breathless, as the release swept through you. Steve looked up at you, his lips still parted and glistening with your slick. His eyes were wide, completely in awe. You opened your eyes slowly to meet his, still dazed.

“Was that okay?” He asked softly, his hands gently tracing along the insides of your thighs as he brought you back down to earth. You gave him a lazy, content smile and nodded, your heart still fluttering from the high. He leaned up to kiss you again, and you could faintly taste yourself on his lips, a reminder that made your cheeks flush and your legs instinctively press together at the image of him between them just moments ago. He then pulled away from your lips, leaving you aching for more. You whimpered in protest, your lips chasing him.

“Shh, just wait,” he murmured gently, his voice soothing as he settled between your legs. Just as he was about to continue, he paused, eyes going wide as he pulled back slightly. “Shit–I don’t have a condom. I never thought we were going to do this today.”

You stayed quiet for a second, your heart racing. You debated telling him the truth, but now wasn’t the time. Someday, when you were older and ready, you’d open up about everything. For now, a small white lie would have to do.

“We…don’t need one,” you said softly, watching his head snap up in surprise. “I’m on the pill.”

Steve blinked, confused. “Wait, really?” His brows furrowed as he tried to make sense of it. “I mean–is that, like…safe?”

You almost laughed at the look on his face, but you held it back. Shifting slightly, you closed your legs, suddenly feeling too exposed. “Yeah, it’s safe,” you reassured him, meeting his eyes. “My doctor put me on it…to help regulate my cycle.”

He still looked a little uncertain. Steve had never claimed to know much about girls’ bodies but he was still trying to learn. He didn’t push you though. What you said made enough sense for him and he trusted you with everything in him. His gaze dropped to your now closed legs and then back to your face. Gently, he placed a hand on your knee.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” He asked sincerely.

You nodded slowly, your cheeks warm. As he carefully parted your legs again, you swallowed your nerves and whispered. “Yes. Please.”

His eyes searched yours before leaning down and pressing a kiss to your forehead, his thumb brushing your cheek. “I promise I’ll be gentle,” he whispered. “We’ll go slow. If it’s too much, you just tell me, okay?”

You nodded, taking a deep breath as you prepared yourself. Slowly, he entered you, inch by inch until he was fully sheathed inside your tight heat. The sensation was unlike anything you had ever experienced before. It was a mix of pleasure and discomfort that made you tremble. You were grateful he had taken his time to prepare you. You gasped as he began to move, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you tried to adjust to the new feeling.

As he continued to thrust into you, the discomfort began to fade away, replaced by a building sensation of pleasure that threatened to consume you whole. You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him to go deeper and faster.

He obliged, increasing his pace as he tried to get you to come before him. The room was filled with the sounds of your moans and the slap of skin against skin as he drove into you with more speed. His fingers went to your clit, gently rubbing the sensitive bud, making you cry out in pleasure.

You could feel your orgasm building again, your body tensing as the pleasure became almost too much to bear. You clutched at him desperately, your nails scratching down his back as you were so close to reaching your high.

“Don’t stop,” you gasped. “I’m so close.”

He groaned against your neck, his thrusts becoming sloppy as he neared his own climax. “F-fuck, where do you want me?”

You tried to answer but another moan fell out of you. Your hands clenched tightly on his shoulders, barely getting the word out. “I-inside.”

That one word was all it took for him to push into you one last time, sending both of you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your body shaking beneath him as wave after wave of pleasure washed through you. He followed at the same time, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he found his own release, spilling inside you.

For a moment, neither of you moved, content to just stay wrapped up in each other’s arms. Finally, he rolled off you and pulled you close, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“That was incredible,” he whispered. His eyes stayed locked on your face, full of longing.

You smiled up at him, your finger tracing lazy patterns across his chest. “Yeah, it really was,” you murmured, nuzzling closer.

He wrapped you tighter, tangling your legs together so there was nothing between you. He kissed the top of your head as your eyes fluttered closed.

He knew he’d have to leave soon since there was no telling when your mom would get home, but as he took in your peaceful face, all he wanted was to hold you like this forever.

After a while, you glanced at the abandoned flashcards across your desk. “Great. Now I’m definitely gonna fail this test.”

Steve shifted beside you, grinning as he trailed his fingers along your waist. “Impossible. Like I said, you’re literally the smartest person I know.”

You rolled your eyes. “Tell that to my chem grade after Monday.”

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Honey, if tonight proved anything, it’s that our chemistry’s explosive.”

You blinked, then groaned. “Oh my God, Steve.”

“What?” He said, feigning innocence. “I’m just saying, we definitely bonded.”

You shoved his shoulder, trying not to laugh. “Stop!”

“Come on,” he said with a wink. “Don’t act like I didn’t rock your periodic table.”

You gave him a look. “Okay, now you’re banned from speaking until my exam is over.”

He gasped. “What?! That’s, like, two whole days!”

“Exactly. Suffer.”

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•• @kirriririririri @djospresso

get added to my ST taglist

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[puck-luck]

hi, could i get a mocha with whipped cream: dom quinn/ sub reader with quinn hughes, thank ya happy 1 year!!

good news to you all!! i conglomerated this ask with another so i have an IDEA of an extended cut, but i'm currently pretty happy with the ending of this blurb. in future weeks/months, i MAY create a part two (or copy-paste these 700 words into a new doc and continue building the story) as a full fic.

i now present: brat tamer!quinn hughes.

Once upon a time, you heard a story in which your sweet, perfect, loving boyfriend Quinn ripped the braces off his brother’s teeth because Jack was bothering him on the ODR. It’s been a goal of yours ever since to make Quinn snap.

You don’t act like this often. At least, you don’t act like this often enough for Quinn to notice that you’re playing a game without his knowledge. The situations are so isolated that Quinn has no idea. He seems to think that you get into moods where his calm girlfriend disappears and his testy brat appears as the replacement. 

When Quinn left to make his tee time, he kissed his good girl goodbye. He returned home to an indifferent wedding planner with little patience for her boyfriend’s wandering hands. 

“Baby, stop ignoring me,” Quinn groans, stretching out on the couch like a cat and putting his head in your space. He’s trying to get his big ol’ cranium on your lap, but that’s currently occupied by your whirring computer. You have a billion (seven) tabs open, running shopping sites and spreadsheets and checklists for a friend’s wedding in several months. You need to buy a bridesmaid dress and you need to consult the requirements your friend listed and the links your other friends pasted in so that no one buys the same dress. 

In other words, you’re busy.

“I’m not ignoring you, Q,” you say absentmindedly, scrolling to the next page of dresses and letting your eyes wander over the styles. Nothing is quite you. “I’m just prioritizing things that matter.”

Quinn shoots up into a seated position, whipping his head around to face you. “‘Prioritizing things that matter?’” he repeats incredulously. “So you’re saying I don’t matter?”

“No, baby, you matter,” you tell him, although you don’t even look his way when you reach over to pat his thigh. “Think of it like this– you had to leave me for your round of golf, and now I have to shop for my friend’s wedding. It’s just priorities.”

“Are you mad that I left for golf?” Quinn questions, frowning deeply. “It was only for a couple of hours and I promised I’d be back before dinner. I’m back extra early, the guys wanted to grab a couple of beers but I turned them down.”

“Aww, I’m sorry. You should’ve gone with them,” you say. “I’m going to be doing this for a while.”

Quinn must catch the smirk tugging at your lips. He deadpans, “You’re messing with me.”

“No, honey, I’m not messing with you. I’m trying to get this done.”

Quinn snatches your computer from your lap and closes it. “Get it done later.”

You finally turn to look at him, holding your hands out for him to return your computer. 

Quinn shakes his head, raising an eyebrow and setting the computer aside. 

You lean forward to take it and Quinn seizes your wrists and overpowers you, laying you back on the couch with your hands above your head. His face is inches from yours, body solid on top of yours.

“It’s cute how you think you’re intimidating. Keep trying,” you tell Quinn. “Maybe I’ll even flinch.”

“You’re pushing the wrong buttons, little miss,” Quinn warns.

“The wrong buttons?” you laugh. “Maybe to you. I think I’m playing with you perfectly.”

“Oh, you’re playing with me, huh?” Quinn shifts your wrists into one hand and brings the other to your chest, pinching your nipples through your soft cotton t-shirt. There’s a bit of force behind it, a spark of pain, and you lean into it. Quinn smirks.

“Mhm, you’re like a broken toy,” you quip, mirroring the curve of his lips. “Still fun to mess with, just not useful.”

Quinn’s eyes flash with something dark, your words hitting a part of Quinn they haven’t before. He takes your words as what they are: a challenge, not the truth.

“Not useful?” Quinn muses, showing his teeth when he smiles next. “Is that so?”

Your skin starts to crawl with anticipation, with excitement. “That’s what I said.”

Quinn’s eyes bounce between your eyes and your mouth. “Not useful,” he repeats, a breath of a laugh making his right cheek twitch. “Let’s get you tied up and I’ll show you how useful I can be.”

[jetii]

Man or Commander

Pairing: Wolffe x fem!Reader / Wolffe x Doctor!Reader

Words: 17,082

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! established relationship, fluff, it's like 50/50 pwp, protective!Wolffe, smut, oral (f recieving), fingering, unprotected sex, pinv, dirty talk, so much of that, praise kink in a big way, size kink, veryyy soft dom!Wolffe, Wolffe is a cuddly drunk

Summary: After your first date in months with Wolffe is ruined, you want to make the most of your night together. All Wolffe wants is you.

A/N: This was born from @cyaretra and I discussing Wolffe's guilty pleasures of red wine, trash reality tv, and fast food. RIP Wolffe you would love space in-n-out.

Previous Work | Next Work | Masterlist

“How much further?”

You and Wolffe share a look over your shoulder as he hoists Boost further in his arms, Sinker dangling from yours like a wet bag of laundry. Comet trudges behind, looking for all the galaxy like he just got kicked in the face.

He had, by Wolffe's own account.

“If you don’t stop whining, I’ll leave you all here in the street,” Wolffe grumbles back, and you can tell he’s only half-joking.

Boost and Sinker, to their credit, shut up.

Comet, who has always been the most perceptive of the bunch, says nothing and tries his hardest to keep pace, limping on what you guess is a sprained ankle. The rest of him looks like a bruise, with various shades of reds, purples, and blues covering most of his exposed skin. He had been the first of them to get tossed around in the scuffle, the others jumping into the fray a little too late for him to not take the worst beating.

You try not to think about what might have happened if they hadn't intervened.

The streets of Coruscant are never truly empty, not even during the day, but they are at least quieter in the early morning hours. Which means that when a small squadron of clones, one of whom is being carried, appears from around the corner, people notice.

People stare.

You feel a wave of secondhand embarrassment for the four of them. You can practically hear Wolffe's internal cursing, and he makes sure you know he isn’t happy by the way he grabs your arm and pulls you close to him.

The four of you are going to look quite the sight once you reach the barracks.

Not a bad sight, mind, just a bit... rough.

Wolffe and you share the burden of Boost and Sinker, but it’s mostly him carrying both. You simply hang on, your free hand grasping one of theirs so they don't fall from their commander's arms.

Comet is still trailing behind, and Wolffe shoots him glances, trying to gauge whether or not he is going to pass out before you make it back. He doesn't say anything, though, and neither do you. Comet must take as some sort of dismissal, because he starts trying to make conversation.

"You know, sir, you should really get us some medals for this," he starts, and Wolffe looks up to the sky, asking some unseen deity why it hates him so.

You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing, but a giggle still escapes, and it makes Wolffe glance at you. You offer him a small smile, and his lips twitch slightly in return.

Comet keeps talking. "It was a hard-won battle, sir. We had them outnumbered. I bet there were twenty of 'em, at least."

"There were six," you say, turning back to him, and he shrugs, which you guess is as good a response as any.

"They were pretty big, though. They were probably part-Wookiee. Did you see the size of them? Huge."

You look at Wolffe again, who looks ready to drop Boost and Sinker in order to throttle his soldier. You can't help the laughter that bubbles out of your mouth.

Comet looks pleased with himself, and you think the pain of the fight is starting to make him delirious.

Wolffe glares at the two of you. "I hate both of you."

”Me?” you ask. "I didn't do anything!"

He doesn't answer, which is his usual response when you’re right.

You turn and continue making your way down the street. The neon signs and blinking lights of the seedy district fade into the darkness of the night as you walk, the sound of music and raucous laughter fading with them. The city is still busy, but it’s a different crowd, and they seem to be a bit more interested in getting home than making their way to the next club.

Not that there are many places open at this hour. It is, after all, one in the morning.

You and Wolffe share a sigh as another person pushes past, nearly knocking you over.

You've had about enough of this city. You were ready to go home the moment the sun went down, and now, it‘s all you can think about. You barely had time to look at your bed when you dropped off your bag this afternoon, and you want nothing more than to curl up in it, Wolffe at your side, and sleep for about a week.

That was the original plan, after all.

It's been months since you've had a day together, and you have been looking forward to it. A few drinks. A nice dinner. A walk through the city. An evening spent catching up on all the episodes of that awful holo-series the two of you have gotten hooked on. And then, you and Wolffe could crawl into bed and stay there for as long as possible.

It's what the two of you have been planning for weeks, and now, thanks to your over-zealous, over-protective, and frankly, ridiculous boyfriend and his brothers, you'll be lucky if you make it home before sunrise.

You can't bring yourself to be mad at them though. If they hadn't stepped in when they did, you and Wolffe would be the ones needing to be carried.

They saved the day, and you can't be mad at them for it.

But you are going to complain.

A lot.

"Why is there a fight every time we come here?" you ask. "Every time. We can't even get through one night without someone saying or doing something that causes a riot."

"Because Boost can't keep his mouth shut," Wolffe grunts, and the clone in his arms groans, which you think is an attempt to defend himself.

"You've got to stop picking fights with the locals," you add, turning to Comet, who’s looking worse and worse the closer you get to the barracks. "And I swear, if one more person calls me a 'trooper's whore'..."

"I will rip their spine out," Wolffe growls, and you and the others stare at him. He's a little bloodthirsty tonight, and you have a feeling it has to do with the way he'd been pulled from your embrace in order to break up the fight.

"That's a little graphic, don't you think?" you say, and he glares.

"They deserved it."

"Of course they did, honey," you placate, knowing it's easier to agree than to argue. He knows you're humoring him, but he lets it go.

A few more blocks, and the lights of the barracks come into view. There’s a single floodlight above the entrance, a few windows on the first floor still lit, but the compound itself is quiet. You’re the only ones walking the streets, and as you make your way through the gate, the silence settles around you. It’s a welcome change.

You step into the building and walk to the lifts. Wolffe presses the call button, and the doors to one open with a soft ding. You all shuffle in, and as soon as the doors are closed, you let out a collective groan.

Sinker snorts and lifts his head, his face contorted in pain. There’s a cut on his forehead, and a black eye mars the left side of his face. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

Wolffe shifts, trying to keep his hold on Boost while also giving Sinker a little shake.

That seems to do the trick. Sinker clears his throat and speaks, his voice hoarse. "I'm sorry, Commander. I really didn't mean to cause any trouble."

Wolffe shakes his head.

"You didn't. Those shabuir did,” he says. Boost grumbles, and Wolffe jostles him a little harder than Sinker. "Shut it. You're lucky I didn’t let Fox throw your shebs in the drunk tank. And I'm only not doing it because she," he nods to you, "won't let me."

Boost grumbles again.

"What was that?"

"Thank you, Commander," Boost mumbles, and Wolffe sighs, letting his head fall back against the wall.

"I'm not mad," he continues, and you and Comet share a look, knowing what’s coming next, "but I am disappointed."

There's a chorus of groans and winces, and you have to cover your mouth with your hand to keep from laughing.

The lift slows to a stop, and the doors open. You and Wolffe shuffle out, the boys in tow, and turn towards the infirmary. The halls are still and empty save for a few droids who patrol the floors, and your footsteps echo in the silence.

You pass the first ward, then the second, until finally, you arrive at the third. You enter, and the lights flicker on as you move into the main room, heading for your equipment.

"Let's get the droid. I'll take Comet," you say, nodding at Wolffe, and the two of you deposit your passengers on the nearest cots. The medic droid, sitting idle since you left, stands up and powers on, the little light on its head flashing red.

"How may I help?"

"Run a diagnostic on Boost, would you?” you ask as you thumb through bacta patches. “I'm pretty sure he has a concussion."

"Yes, Doctor."

You come to stand beside Wolffe as the droid scans Sinker, and he wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you against him. You lean in and rest your head on his chest, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"I'm sorry our evening was ruined," he says softly.

You hum and smile. "It wasn't a complete disaster."

"We didn't get to eat. Or talk. Or..."

You lift your head, and place a finger against his lips, shushing him. "No, we didn't. But we got a few things instead. For one, you got to prove to everyone that you can still take on three men twice your size."

"They were drunk," he points out, and you roll your eyes.

"And we got to spend some time together."

"Barely. Then they got jumped,” he says, motioning to the men, who are now all staring at the two of you. You give them a pointed look, and they avert their gazes, but not before muttering a few apologies.

"We also have the rest of the day, and tomorrow,” you add, raising your eyebrows suggestively, “to do whatever we want. With no interruptions."

"Is that a promise?" he asks, his lips pulling up into a smirk. He leans over you, his mouth inches from yours, and your breath catches.

"Absolutely."

"Oh, gross," Boost groans, and Wolffe pulls away from you, his glare returning.

"If the next words out of your mouth aren't a 'thank you' or an 'I'm sorry,' I'm going to make you wish you'd never been decanted."

"Thank you," Boost mumbles, and the other two chime in. Then, the droid speaks.

"Doctor, I have completed my diagnosis," it says, and you and Wolffe move towards Boost. "Trooper Boost has sustained several contusions and minor abrasions, including a sprained wrist, and a laceration requiring five stitches. He will also need an anti-inflammatory and analgesic."

"Shab," Boost lets his head fall back and groans, and Sinker rolls his eyes.

"I told you. Didn't I tell you? Didn't I say that would happen?"

"Yes, Sinker, we get it," Comet interjects.

"Did I not?"

"Yes, Sinker. You did."

You tune out the bickering as you move to help the droid with Boost and Sinker, then move on to Comet. By the time you’re finished, his ankle is wrapped and the bruises and scrapes have been covered. He still looks like he got hit by a speeder, but at least he isn’t bleeding.

The droid makes a note of the injuries and gives you the report, which you quickly read over before setting it aside.

"Alright. All three of you," you start, pointing a finger at each of them, "will stay here for the night. No strenuous activity, no training, no lifting or pushing for a minimum of one week."

There’s a round of protests, but you hold up your hand, cutting them off. "No. You all will do as I say, or you will spend the rest of the war in the infirmary scrubbing bedpans. Are we clear?"

"Yes, doc," they all grumble, and you smile, satisfied.

"Good. Now, try and get some sleep. If you need anything, just ask the droid. Don’t call me.”

Wolffe, who’s been standing silently behind you, steps up and crosses his arms. "Do what she says. I'll be back in the afternoon, and if I find out any of you left this room..."

He lets his words hang, and the three clones nod vigorously, promising to stay put.

"Good."

"Thank you for defending my honor. But next time, please try not to get yourself beaten up in the process,” you say, squeezing Comet’s arm.

He nods and smiles, his grin crooked thanks to the split lip. "You got it, doc."

You pull away and reach for the datapad, signing off on the treatment plan before handing the pad back to the droid.

"Notify me if any of their conditions worsen," you say, and the droid's head flaps in understanding.

"Of course, Doctor."

Wolffe steps up and places a hand at the small of your back, giving his men a parting nod.

"Behave yourselves," he warns.

You step away, and the three clones give their goodbyes, calling their apologies and promises of good behavior as you and Wolffe leave the infirmary. The door hisses shut behind you, and you turn, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with Wolffe back to the lifts.

The corridors are still and quiet, the silence broken only by the occasional beep from a passing droid. The lights are dim, the shadows stretching long across the durasteel floor, and you can feel the fatigue of the night begin to creep in. Your body is tired and aching from the adrenaline crash, but the thought of getting to curl up in your bed with Wolffe is enough to keep you moving.

You stop at the lift, and the doors slide open, the both of you stepping inside. As the doors close and the lift begins its descent, Wolffe turns and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you into his embrace. You sigh and tuck yourself against his side, his warmth seeping through the fabric of his off-duty uniform.

"They shouldn’t have done that," he says, his voice low.

"They did it because they care," you answer, running your hand over his back.

"They're idiots."

"They're sweet," you correct. "I know they got a little carried away, but I think they're going to have plenty of time to reflect on that."

"You're too nice,” Wolffe replies as he leans down and nuzzles your temple.

"And you're too protective," you point out, smiling.

"You're worth protecting."

He presses his lips to your hair, and you close your eyes, savoring the rare display of affection. He’s not as sober as he appears, you realize, the faintest trace of alcohol still on his breath. He’s always more hands-on when he drinks.

Not that you mind.

You turn and kiss his cheek.

"And you're just mad because your brothers stole your thunder," you tease, giving him a grin.

"Damn straight," he says, leaning down to nip at your earlobe, and he smirks as you let out a squeak.

You slap his chest and turn to face him, his smirk widening at the flush on your cheeks. The lift slows to a stop, and the doors open, but neither of you make any move to exit. The idea of making the long journey back to your apartment is as unappealing as sneaking out of Wolffe’s quarters at the crack of dawn, and you can’t bring yourself to tear away from his embrace.

He tilts his head and nips at your jaw, his lips dragging along your skin. You sigh and run your fingers through his hair, gently scratching his scalp, and he lets out a pleased groan, his mouth traveling up to press a soft kiss against your cheek.

"You're staying," he says, the warmth of his breath ghosting across your ear, and you shiver.

It's not a question, but you pretend to think it over anyway, humming softly as you continue to play with his hair. Wolffe’s eyes narrow at your act, and his foot moves to stop the door from closing on his floor, his gaze never leaving yours.

"You're staying," he repeats, his voice taking on a commanding edge.

You give him a sly smile and shake your head.

“I need to eat and shower, and I’m not using GAR-issued soap,” you say, wrinkling your nose. “My body is not a weapon, and I refuse to treat it like one."

Wolffe huffs and removes his foot from the door, letting it slide shut. He punches the button for the ground floor with more force than necessary, and the lift jolts, slowly continuing its descent.

“I suppose that means we’re going back to your place then," he says, his tone dripping with resignation.

"Unless you have a private collection of luxury soaps I don’t know about, then yes. I'm sorry to say we are," you answer, grinning, and you slip out of his embrace as the lift comes to a stop.

You step into the hall and turn, watching as Wolffe slowly follows, a pout firmly on his face.

"You know, a good boyfriend would keep an extra bottle of shampoo for his girlfriend in his shower,” you tease as he comes to stand beside you.

"If she's such a high maintenance woman, maybe she shouldn't be dating a soldier," he retorts, giving you a pointed look.

“Oh, well if that's how you feel..."

You trail off and start walking towards the exit, but Wolffe catches your hand and pulls you back, tugging you into his arms. You collide with his chest, letting out a soft 'oof' before looking up and meeting his gaze.

His eyes are soft, and the hint of a smile plays at the corner of his lips.

"Come on, cyare, we both know I'm the only man for the job," he murmurs, leaning down to brush his lips against your temple.

You laugh softly and wrap your arms around his waist, holding him tight.

"Yeah, you're definitely the only one who can handle me," you say, and Wolffe’s eyes turn dark.

"Mmm, that I am," he rumbles, and he nuzzles your neck, his stubble scratching your skin.

You shiver, and Wolffe pulls back, looking down at you. He brushes a few stray hairs from your face and tilts your chin up, placing a gentle kiss on your lips. It's brief, barely a whisper, but it still makes you smile.

"Let's go home. We can finish our conversation there."

He drops his hand from your face, and you turn, looping your arm through his as the two of you begin to walk. It doesn't take long to reach the lot where your speeder is parked. The streets are empty, and the air is cool and fresh, the sky dark and dotted with stars. It's a pleasant night, and if it weren't for the events that transpired over the last few hours, you'd say it was perfect.

You shoot Wolffe a grin and hop into the driver’s seat, revving the engine. Wolffe rolls his eyes, but a small smile plays on his lips as he gets in and straps himself in, his hand coming to rest on your knee. He squeezes once, nodding, and you take off, heading home.

It's quiet as you fly over the city, the buildings nothing but blurs of color below you. You're not in any rush, and you fly leisurely, taking your time as you navigate the city streets. Wolffe's thumb moves in a gentle circle over your knee, his eyes fixed on the view outside the window.

You can't help but glance over at him every so often. It’s rare to see him like this, relaxed and unguarded. His head rests against the back of the seat, and he watches the city move by, the neon lights dancing across his features.

You know how much this break has meant to him. How hard it’s been, waiting for a day, an hour, even a minute where the two of you could be alone together. He's done well to hide it, but now, without the threat of prying eyes, his mask falls. He looks tired, and sad, and there's an edge of relief to his features, his eyes softening the closer you get to your apartment. You wonder how much sleep he's actually gotten over the last few months.

Not much, by the look of him.

The man doesn't know when to stop. Or when to say no.

It's part of the reason you fell for him. He's always trying to protect his men, his friends, his family. He puts others before himself, and you love him for it. You'd never ask him to change, but you do wish he'd take a little more time for himself.

Wolffe's eyes drift over, and they catch yours.

"What are you looking at?" he asks, his brows drawn together.

You shake your head and look away, back out the windshield.

"Nothing,” you reply. “Just wondering when the last time was that you slept."

He snorts and looks back out the window.

"That's an easy one. I can't remember,” he answers, and you frown.

"That's exactly what I was afraid of."

He chuckles as he turns his attention back outside, and you let out a sigh, shaking your head. He's impossible.

"Well, then I'm making sure you sleep tonight," you state with finality, a plan beginning to form in your mind.

Wolffe raises his brow and glances over.

"Oh, are you now?"

You nod, your gaze fixed on the street in front of you. The turn to your apartment complex is coming up, but instead of turning left, you fly straight past it. Wolffe’s thumb stops moving on your knee, and you bite back a smile as you continue on, heading towards the city center. He doesn’t say anything, but he sits up straighter, his gaze narrowing as he watches the cityscape pass.

"Yes. It's the doctor's orders," you say, giving him a sidelong glance.

Wolffe lets out a hum and sits back, his thumb starting its gentle movements again.

"Alright, then," he concedes. "Where are we going?"

"To get some food. I'm starving, and I can't sleep on an empty stomach," you reply, and Wolffe grunts.

"So we're stopping for a snack? We have food at home," he points out, and you shake your head.

"No, we're going to the best restaurant in the city."

"What restaurant is open at two in the morning?"

You look over, grinning, and Wolffe gives you a flat stare.

"Wolffe, my love, it's Coruscant. There's always something open."

Wolffe doesn't respond, but he does squeeze your knee, his thumb resuming its movement, and a shiver runs through you. He knows just how to work you, and even though the two of you are dead tired and the adrenaline has faded, it doesn't mean he isn't going to try and get his way.

But you have your ways, too.

You reach over and place a hand on top of his. He laces his fingers with yours and brings your hand to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.

"Wolffe," you warn, but it's a weak attempt.

"Cyare," he answers, a knowing smirk on his lips. It’s barely there, a twitch of his mouth and a crinkle in the corner of his eyes, but it's there, and you know it's not going anywhere anytime soon. Not when the two of you finally have the chance to spend the night alone together and not under the watchful eye of his men. Or worse, Master Plo.

"Sorry, Commander,” you tease, your eyes flicking over to meet his. He raises a brow, and you grin. "Food first. Then we can talk."

"You drive a hard bargain, Doctor," he replies, but he doesn't sound bothered in the least.

"That's why you love me."

"Hmm, that's not the only reason," he murmurs. You give his hand a squeeze, and he brings it to his mouth again, placing a kiss against the inside of your wrist.

"I'm sure there are many. You'll have to tell me later," you say, feeling a blush spread across your cheeks.

"Count on it."

You turn another corner and drift down into a district lit with neon signs and glowing advertisements. It's busier here than the other places you've passed through tonight, and the sidewalks are filled with people. You’re forced to stop the speeder as a large group crosses the street, their laughter and loud conversations reaching you in the safety of the vehicle, and the two of you watch, waiting for them to pass.

“What are you planning?” Wolffe asks as he makes eye contact with two men who step too close to the speeder. They catch sight of him and immediately stop, backing away. He smirks.

"To surprise you," you answer, and he huffs.

"I don't like surprises," he replies, his eyes drifting over the crowd.

"Yes, you do," you say with a disbelieving laugh. You can name a few surprises he’s enjoyed in the time you’ve known him, and not all of them were of the sexual variety. Just most. "You just hate the idea that there might be a variable outside your control."

"I've got enough of those to deal with already," he grumbles, and you squeeze his hand.

"You're off duty. Just enjoy the evening."

He huffs, but you can see the corner of his mouth pull up, the dimple on his cheek becoming more pronounced.

"I'll admit, I've enjoyed some of the surprises you've come up with,” he says, giving you a sidelong glance.

A blush spreads over your cheeks, and Wolffe lets out a low chuckle. You shake your head and try to hide your smile.

"You're terrible," you murmur as you shift the speeder into gear.

"Maybe, but at least I'm honest," he replies, giving your thigh a squeeze.

"That's something I can't argue with."

The crowd clears, and you take off, zipping between the other speeders on the road. You turn and head towards the parking area, and the moment the speeder is secured, Wolffe is out of the vehicle and around to your side, opening the door and helping you out.

“What a gentleman," you tease, and Wolffe huffs, shutting the door and pulling you close.

"Don't go telling anyone. I have a reputation to uphold," he murmurs, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss against the corner of your mouth.

"I wouldn't dream of it," you whisper, tilting your head and catching his lips in a gentle kiss. He lets out a soft groan and his arms tighten, pulling you closer, his mouth opening slightly, his tongue darting out to swipe against your lower lip. You pull away, and Wolffe chases your lips, capturing them in a soft, brief kiss.

You chuckle and rest your hands against his chest, pushing him away. He goes with a slight stumble, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, his thumbs rubbing in gentle circles.

"Come on. I'm hungry, and you're drunk."

"Am not," he mutters, but the way his eyes flick back down to your lips says otherwise.

"Oh, you're not, huh? That's not why you're so affectionate right now?"

"No,” he grumbles, his lips pulled down into a pout. You snort a laugh, and he rolls his eyes, his expression relaxing. He leans forward and presses his forehead against yours. "All right, fine, maybe I'm a little drunk. But not so drunk that I can't keep up with you."

"We'll see about that," you say, pulling back. You let your hands linger for a moment before taking a step back and turning, making your way towards the restaurant.

The door chimes as the two of you step inside, and you’re immediately faced with a line of patrons snaking up to the counter and staff bustling back and forth. Wolffe makes a face as he scans the room.

"What is this place?” he asks, and you can hear the slight judgment in his tone.

“This is a restaurant, Wolffe," you reply, trying to hold back a grin. "I figured the best way to cure a hangover is with some greasy food. And you’ve never had a burger, so I figured we could fix that tonight."

"A what?"

You roll your eyes and take his hand, tugging him into the line. He lets you drag him along, and as soon as you find a spot, you turn and explain. Your hands run over his chest, and his come up, his fingers curling around your wrists, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin on the inside.

“It’s like a nerf steak, but better. It's a mix of ground meats, and there's this bread called a bun, and you put all these other toppings and stuff on it,” you say as you bounce up on your toes, bringing your face close to his. “It's good, trust me. You'll love it."

"So you're telling me this thing," he starts, gesturing with his head towards the board where all the food options are listed, "has all the same nutrients as a nerf steak, but the texture is completely different, and the flavor is...better?"

“Pretty much," you answer, giving him a wide grin.

Wolffe doesn't look convinced, eyeing the board with barely veiled skepticism. A laugh escapes you, and his gaze snaps down to you, his eyes narrowing.

"What?"

"Nothing, you just look so confused right now. I've never seen that look on your face before," you reply, grinning.

"I don't think I've ever been this confused in my life," he states, turning his attention back to the menu. His brow furrows. "What the kriff is a 'tater tot'?"

A loud laugh escapes you, and the sound draws a few eyes. You cover your mouth, trying to quiet yourself, and Wolffe shoots you a glare, his cheeks turning pink.

"Sorry, I'm sorry, but it's just so funny seeing you like this," you explain, and his face softens. He reaches out and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side.

"Well, I'm glad one of us is enjoying themselves."

"Oh, come on, you're having fun,” you murmur, poking him in the ribs. He jerks, and his glare returns, but his arm doesn't move. You laugh and wrap an arm around his middle, patting his stomach. "Don't worry. I'm going to order for us, and you're going to eat what I get. And then we're going to go back to my place, and I'm going to tuck you in."

Wolffe snorts, but the smile on his lips and the way he relaxes in your arms says it all.

"Oh, is that all?" he hums, and you can feel his hand sliding up and down your back.

"Mhm," you tease, running your hand up his chest, your fingers playing with the buttons on his fatigues. "That's it."

"Just tucking me in, huh?"

"Yup. Nothing else," you say, giving him a smile that is anything but innocent.

Wolffe's eyes narrow, and his fingers tighten against your hip, the pressure firm and steady. He's considering his next move, and judging by the look on his face, he's already made up his mind.

You take a step back and reach up, adjusting his collar, smoothing it out. You take your time, letting your hands run over his shoulders and chest, feeling the planes of his muscles. He holds still, watching you with dark eyes. You lean in, and he holds his breath, waiting for your next move.

You pat his shoulder, giving him a small smile.

"Well, maybe if you’re really good, I'll read to you," you tease, giving him a wink before turning to look at the menu, standing on your toes to see over the crowd.

Wolffe huffs behind you, and his hand comes up, wrapping around your waist.

"You're mean," he whispers in your ear, his breath tickling your skin.

"Mean? How so?"

"You're being mean to the man who just got out of a drunken brawl in your honor," he murmurs, and his hand tightens around your waist, his fingers pressing into your flesh.

"Well, when you put it like that," you begin, turning and looking up at him. You tilt your head and give him a sweet smile. "Would the man who got into a drunken brawl in my honor care for a milkshake?"

Wolffe looks down at you and sighs, shaking his head. His lips turn up in the corner.

"I suppose he wouldn't be opposed to the idea."

"Good, because I'm getting you a jorganfruit one," you answer as you fall back on the soles of your feet.

"Is it good?"

"So good," you say, nodding enthusiastically. His mouth twitches into a smile, and his arm slides up, wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you close.

"Then I guess I can't say no," he replies, and he presses a soft kiss to the side of your head.

You sigh and lean into him, his warmth surrounding you. Your head falls against his shoulder, and his arm tightens around your waist, holding you close.

It's the first time in weeks the two of you have been able to just exist, and you take a moment to relish the feeling of his body pressed against yours, the warmth of his breath on your hair. You can feel the eyes of the patrons on you, a few even openly staring, watching as if they're trying to solve some great mystery. It's not often they see a clone officer around here, especially one as decorated as Wolffe.

You're sure it's not every day they see one with his arms wrapped around a woman, holding her close, his eyes filled with nothing but warmth, either.

You can't blame them. The two of you are quite a sight, and while you know Wolffe's presence tends to make people nervous, you hope they can see him the way you do.

Strong, but soft.

Fierce, but tender.

Warm, and protective.

You tilt your head and look up, finding his eyes fixed on the crowd. He's scanning the room, his gaze roaming over the patrons, assessing the threats. It's a force of habit, and one that you're sure he'll never shake, no matter how many times you remind him that he's allowed to relax. Not that you can blame him. Tonight was a perfect example of the dangers of the world, and while you are grateful for the protectiveness he and his brothers show, you hope he knows that he can be vulnerable, too.

You reach up and place your hand against his cheek, gently guiding his gaze back down to you. You offer a soft smile, and you watch as the furrow in his brow fades, his features relaxing as his attention settles on you.

The line moves, and before long, you’re placing your order. Wolffe stands behind your shoulder, watching the man behind the counter as he takes your order with an unflinching intensity that you've grown accustomed to over the last year. He doesn't move, and he doesn't blink, not until the man hands you a cup and the receipt.

"Enjoy your food," the man says, shooting Wolffe a wary look.

Wolffe nods, but his eyes stay fixed on the man, watching as he turns and moves into the kitchen.

"Wolffe," you whisper, elbowing him.

He huffs, and a hand moves to rub at his side.

"What?"

"You were being rude."

"Was not," he mutters, his brows drawing together.

You raise an eyebrow, and his frown deepens.

"Fine, maybe I was," he says, turning his attention to the packed seating area. He scans the room again, his eyes moving from table to table, studying the occupants. They're mostly couples, a few groups of friends, but the place is busy, and Wolffe's unease seems to grow.

"See anything interesting?" you ask, bumping him with your hip.

"No," he replies as his eyes come back to rest on you. He leans down, brushing his lips against your cheek. "Just making sure no one gets any ideas."

You laugh and shake your head.

"No one is going to bother me, Wolffe."

"After the day we’ve had, I'm not taking any chances,” he grumbles, and you turn, stepping closer and looping your arms around his waist. He doesn't hesitate to pull you into his embrace, and the two of you stand there, watching as the food is prepared and the people come and go.

When your number is finally called, Wolffe's arm stays locked around your waist, his grip tight and sure as he guides the two of you towards the exit.

The walk back to the speeder is uneventful, but the air is cool, and the sky is clear, the stars shining bright overhead. You lean into his side, and he turns, pressing his lips to your hair, holding you close as the two of you walk back.

The streets are still busy, and the sidewalks are lined with people, the sounds of conversation and laughter floating around you. You can see the neon signs of the restaurants and bars that line the streets, the bright colors and flashing lights a sharp contrast to the calm night.

The two of you come to a stop outside the speeder, and Wolffe moves to open the door for you, but you skirt around him, snatching the bag of food from his hand. You hop onto the hood of the speeder and turn, grinning as he glares at you.

"Really?"

"I'm hungry," you say, shrugging and opening the bag.

He huffs, his lips pulling into a frown.

"And you expect me to sit here and eat on top of the speeder?"

"I don’t expect you to do anything. I'm going to sit here and eat my food," you state, and you take a bite of a fry, making a show of letting out a pleased moan.

Wolffe watches, and the longer he does, the more you can see the cracks forming. He glances around the parking lot, his gaze shifting from one car to another, his eyes flicking over every darkened corner and shadow. When he's satisfied no one is watching, he walks over, his steps heavy. He steps between your legs until his thighs are pressed against the hood, and he leans forward, his hands coming to rest on either side of your hips.

You swallow and look up at him, and he raises a brow. His face is impassive, but his eyes are alight with humor. You take another bite and grin, and his expression softens, the corner of his mouth turning up in the barest hint of a smile.

"Well, are you going to share, or not?" he asks, tilting his head.

"Hmm, I suppose I could," you begin, and you reach into the bag and pull out a fry, bringing it up to his lips. "Open."

Wolffe hesitates for a moment before leaning in, his mouth parting. You push the fry in, and his lips close, his teeth sinking into the potato. You try not to stare as he chews, his mouth moving slowly. He's not trying to be sexy, but the way his jaw moves, the way his lips press together, has you entranced, and a shiver runs through you, heat pooling low in your stomach.

He swallows, and his tongue darts out, licking his lips.

"Good?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

"Decent," he answers, his gaze fixed on your lips.

"Just decent?"

"Mhm. I could do without the grease."

"That's half the point,” you say, laughing softly.

“You’re a doctor, shouldn’t you be telling me not to eat garbage food like this?"

"No. I'm the Chief Medical Officer, not your mother. You can eat what you want," you retort, and you pull out a burger. You carefully unwrap it and offer it to Wolffe. "Eat this."

Wolffe stares at the burger in your hand, his expression flat.

"Why are you looking at it like it's poisoned?"

"Because it might be."

"Oh Force," you mutter, and you pick up a fry and shove it into his mouth. "Eat. Both. Or so help me, I will drag your sorry ass back to the infirmary and have the droids hook you up to a nutrient drip."

He gives you a look, but he takes the burger from your hand and bites down, chewing slowly. His expression softens, his eyes widening, and his eyebrows lift as he takes another bite.

"You're right," he says, swallowing. "It's good."

"I told you. I always know best."

"You're impossible," he mutters around his food.

"And yet you're still here."

"Where else would I be?" he asks, giving you a sidelong glance.

You can see the affection in his eye, the way his cheeks turn pink, and the smile that threatens to break out. He tries to hide it, but his walls have always been easy for you to see through, and you know him better than anyone.

"Oh, I don't know, off chasing after a new woman," you tease, and his expression turns sour.

"Don't be stupid," he grumbles, taking another bite.

"Well, why wouldn't you?"

"Because I have a beautiful, intelligent, infuriating woman who loves me right in front of me. And I love her," he states, the last words coming out a little softer than the others.

You blink, and he blushes, turning away.

"So that's why I'm here," he finishes. He reaches for another fry, popping it into his mouth.

A grin spreads across your face despite your best efforts to stop it, your cheeks warming. Wolffe never talks about his feelings. Not in the way most people do. He's a man of few words, and when he does open up, it's never as flowery or sweet as his brothers. But the things he says, the small moments when he lets his guard down and tells you the things he wants, or how he feels, are so much more meaningful.

He's told you he loves you before, but it's not something the two of you say often. You know it, and you think it, every moment you're together. The fact that the two of you even have the chance to have moments like these, where you can just be yourselves and not the faces people expect, is enough.

"I love you too," you say, your smile widening. Wolffe meets your gaze, his eyes soft.

"I know," he murmurs.

"Good. Because I'm going to tell everyone you said that."

"Don't you dare.”

You give him a shrug, and he scowls, taking another bite of his burger. You chuckle and reach for another fry, popping it in your mouth and chewing, looking out over the lot. It's a nice night, and you take a moment to enjoy the feeling of the breeze on your skin, the coolness a stark contrast to the warmth of the man between your legs.

You can't help the smile that spreads across your lips as you watch Wolffe, his cheeks stuffed with food. He's enjoying himself, and while he'd never admit it, the food is helping him sober up. His cheeks are less flushed, and his eyes are brighter, less hazy.

He'll sleep well tonight.

Wolffe catches your eye and smirks, and you smile back. The two of you finish your meal in comfortable silence, the occasional laugh or comment passing between the two of you. By the time the food is gone, the lot is all but empty, the streets quiet and still.

"That was good," he admits, crumpling the wrappers and tossing them into the bag.

"You know, that's what I said about the nerf steak, and the dumplings, and the soup, and the fish, and—"

Wolffe huffs and places his hands on either side of your hips, leaning down and nuzzling your neck. You squirm, trying to push him away, but he's stronger than you, and all it does is bring him closer.

"Alright, alright, I get it, you've got good taste,” he murmurs, and you giggle as he nips at your jaw. "Now, are we going home or not?"

You shiver, and a smirk pulls at his mouth, pressed against your skin. He knows exactly what he's doing, and you don't know whether you want to slap him or kiss him.

You opt for the latter.

You slide your fingers through his hair, the dark strands silky under your touch. He lets out a quiet groan and tilts his head, his hands moving to grip your hips. His lips are warm and insistent, and the faint taste of jorganfruit lingers on his tongue as it runs over your bottom lip. You let him, and he kisses you slowly, his hands running over your back, pulling you closer until there's not a sliver of space left between the two of you.

The two of you make out in the parking lot for longer than you should, your mouths moving lazily, your bodies flush against each other. Neither of you can bring yourselves to care that anyone could walk up and see the Commander of the 104th kissing his medical officer like a lovesick teenager, and neither can you bring yourselves to stop.

If anything, you think Wolffe is enjoying the display a bit too much. His kisses become bolder, more consuming, and his hands wander, running up and down your sides and over your ass. He presses until your back is flat against the hood of the speeder, and his thigh bullies its way between your legs, nudging the apex of your thighs. He doesn't do anything more, doesn't grind or move against you, but his intention is clear.

You pull back, and Wolffe makes a sound of protest, leaning forward and chasing your lips. You laugh and place a hand against his chest, gently pushing him back.

"Wolffe," you say, trying to put as much authority into your voice as possible. It's not easy when you can feel the warmth of his thigh between your legs, his breath hot against your mouth.

He doesn't move.

"Wolffe," you repeat, your voice dropping into a whine.

He doesn't answer. Instead, he tilts his head, pressing a series of slow, lingering kisses against your neck. They start behind your ear, his lips dragging over your throat, stubble scratching your sensitive skin. He's gentle, his touch almost reverent, and you let out a soft moan, arching into him.

He takes advantage of your distraction to move his thigh, pressing it snugly against your center. Your head falls back, and your hands curl around his arms, squeezing. You can feel the muscle flex beneath your fingertips, his strength evident even under the layers of clothing.

Wolffe presses another kiss to your skin, his teeth grazing your throat, and you know that if he doesn't stop, the two of you are going to end up doing something in the middle of a parking lot that will  have you seeing Fox for the second time tonight.

"Wolffe," you breathe, and this time, it's more of a gasp than a command.

"Cyare," he rumbles as he pulls back, his eyes dark and filled with something you know very well.

"Take me home."

His eyes narrow, and his hands tighten around your waist. He's not going to take no for an answer.

"Or we can stay here, and I can bend you over the hood," he murmurs, and your face grows hot.

"Wolffe!"

He chuckles, the sound low and gravelly, and his hands run over your back, smoothing out the wrinkles in your clothes.

"Just saying," he says, giving you a teasing smile. You push him away with a hand on his chest, and he goes willingly, backing away from the hood and offering you his hand.

"You're terrible," you chide as you take it, sliding off the hood and straight into his embrace.

"Maybe," he murmurs, and his hands settle low on your waist, holding tight. "But you like it."

You roll your eyes, but you can't deny the fact that you very much do like it, and the fact that the man holding you is the only person you've ever felt like this with. He's the one who can bring you to the edge of your control with just a few touches, a few words, a kiss.

He's the one who makes you feel wanted, and desired, and loved.

He's the one who holds your heart, and the knowledge of that makes your head spin, a dizzying mix of arousal and affection washing over you.

"Let's go home," he whispers, and the look in his eyes says everything.

He's thinking the same thing, and his control is waning, the tension between the two of you thick and heavy.

You nod, and Wolffe wastes no time. He guides you around the front of the speeder, opening the door and helping you inside. He takes the bag from you and tosses it into a nearby can before sliding into the passenger seat. You turn to ask if he's ready, but the question dies on your lips, replaced by a squeak as he pulls you into a kiss, his hands cupping your face, his fingers tangled in your hair.

It's brief, his lips brushing yours once, twice, before he's pulling away, leaving you breathless and wanting.

"Thank you for dinner," he whispers against your lips.

"You're welcome," you reply, breathless and smiling.

"But if we don't leave now, I'm going to fuck you in the backseat, and then we're really going to be in trouble," he growls, and you shiver, heat pooling between your thighs. He pulls back and gives you a look that says he means business, and you bite back a whine as he settles back into his seat, fastening the harness.

"Let's go," he orders.

You're quick to obey, starting the engine and taking off. The ride back is silent, but the tension between the two of you is tangible. It's heavy and demanding, and all you can think about is the man sitting beside you, the way his mouth feels, and his hands, and how good it's going to feel when he finally has you alone.

Wolffe’s hand, heavy and warm, comes to rest on your thigh.

You swallow and press your foot down a little harder.

The city drifts by, and it isn't long before you're flying down a street lined with artificial trees, their branches reaching towards the sky. A few blocks down, and you're turning, entering the parking area below your building.

You park and kill the engine, and the two of you sit in silence for a moment. The lights from the streetlamps filter through the windshield, casting the interior in a soft glow. You take a deep breath, and Wolffe turns, his eyes catching yours.

“Are you ready to go inside, cyare, or do you want to do this here instead?" he asks, his voice low and gravelly.

A blush spreads across your cheeks, but you can't find the words to respond. Instead, you unbuckle your seatbelt, and his mouth twists up in the corner, a smirk spreading across his lips.

"Alright then, let's go," he murmurs, and his hand slips from your thigh.

He's out of the speeder and around the front, opening the door before you can even reach for the handle. He helps you out, his hand steady and warm as he pulls you into his arms. He closes the door behind you, and then he's walking, leading you towards the lobby.

You follow him inside, and the man at the front desk does a double take, his eyes wide as they land on the pair of you. You offer him a small wave, and he waves back, his face slack with surprise.

"Evening,” Wolffe greets, low and gruff. His hand finds the small of your back, gently guiding you to the lift.

“Have a good night,” you call over your shoulder as the two of you pass.

"You too, Doctor," the man answers, his gaze still fixed on Wolffe.

You press the button for the lift, and it comes to a stop, the doors sliding open. Wolffe wastes no time in ushering you inside and hitting the button for your floor. He stands close, his hand still pressed firmly against the small of your back.

The doors slide shut, and Wolffe steps in front of you, his eyes intense as they meet yours. His hand moves, sliding over the curve of your ass, cupping and squeezing. You let out a surprised squeak, and he huffs, a smirk twisting his lips.

"What? You thought I'd be able to wait until we got upstairs?" he murmurs as his head dips, his lips hovering a hair's breadth away from yours.

"I thought you were going to try," you whisper, trying to hold back a shiver.

"Mm, no. Not tonight.”

You can feel the warmth of his breath on your lips, the closeness making your head spin. His hands move over your body, and his eyes roam over your features, his gaze heated. He looks hungry, his desire clear in the way his eyes linger on your lips as you reach out, your hands moving to the buttons of his uniform.

"I think I can agree with that," you murmur, undoing the first button. Your thumb runs over the small patch of skin bared at the hollow of his throat.

Wolffe grunts, his eyes fluttering shut. You can feel the shudder that runs through him, and his hands come up, his fingers wrapping around your wrists. He doesn't push them away, though, instead, holding them loosely as you undo another button, then another.

You take your time, savoring the feeling of his skin beneath your fingertips. You know he's struggling, the need for control warring with the urge to give in. He doesn't often let himself lose control, always focused on the task at hand, but tonight, he's off duty, and the man between the lines of command and the soldier has shown his face.

And he's desperate.

The lift dings, and the doors slide open, the sudden noise startling the two of you. Wolffe's grip tightens as he lets out a frustrated sigh.

"Fucking hell," he mutters, turning and guiding you into the hall.

You chuckle, and his hand squeezes your hip, his expression darkening.

"You think this is funny, huh?" he growls, his voice dropping an octave.

You bite your lip, but the grin spreads across your face, the smile bright and full. Wolffe's eyes narrow, and a hand moves, sliding over the curve of your ass. A yelp escapes you as his fingers dig into your flesh, the sensation shooting straight between your legs.

"Oh, it's funny," he mutters, shaking his head.

He pushes you forward, his hand guiding the two of you towards your door. It's only a few steps, but it feels like a mile, his touch firm, the promise of what's to come clear in the way his grip tightens the closer the two of you get. You can feel his presence looking behind you as you unlock the door, your hands shaky and fumbling.

He doesn't say anything, but the heat in his eyes is unmistakable, his desire evident. He's going to make you pay for that smile, and while a small part of you is nervous, the rest is excited, eager to see how he's going to get his revenge.

You open the door, and before you can even step inside, his arm is looping around your waist, lifting you off the floor and into his arms. He steps into the entryway and kicks the door closed, the slam echoing in the otherwise empty apartment.

"You're a fucking tease," he grumbles, kicking off his boots.

"Me? A tease?" you ask, incredulous. You squirm in his arms, and his grip tightens. "Who was the one who couldn't keep his hands to himself the entire night? Or the one who tried to seduce me in the parking lot?"

"You're one to talk. If you weren't such a damn menace, we would have been in here hours ago,” Wolffe counters, his grip tightening around your waist. He steps around his discarded boots and carries you into the kitchen, flicking one of the cabinet lights on with his shoulder. You kick off your heels as you go.

"You know, I think I remember you being the one to pin me to the hood of the speeder,” you point out, and you raise a brow, giving him a look.

Wolffe sets you down on the edge of the counter and places his hands on either side of your hips, leaning close. You lean back, and his hands slide over your thighs, gripping and pulling until his hips are pressed between your knees.

"Well, I'm not sorry,” he says as he dips his head, nuzzling your neck. “It was the best part of my night."

"It was?"

"Mhm."

"Better than the fight?"

"Much better," he answers, his breath hot against your skin. His teeth graze the spot just behind your ear, and you shiver. Your legs wrap around his hips, and your hands find his shoulders, curling around the fabric of his uniform.

"That's high praise, coming from the Commander," you tease, tilting your head and allowing him more access.

Wolffe chuckles and presses a kiss to the hollow beneath your ear.

"Mm, well, the Commander likes a good fight, but the man prefers spending his time like this," he murmurs, his hands moving up, sliding under the hem of your shirt.

His fingers trail along your sides, running over your skin in lazy circles, the touch firm. You can feel him everywhere, the warmth of his hands, his lips, the way his hips press against yours. The outline of his cock, hard and insistent, brushes the inside of your thigh, and you shudder, pulling him closer.

"Like this, huh?"

"Mhm."

"And just what does the man have in mind?" you ask, biting back a moan as his hands dip lower, running over the curve of your ass. He squeezes before continuing on, fingertips dancing over the tops of your thighs until they settle between them, his thumbs rubbing firm circles into your skin.

He lets out a thoughtful hum, the sound rumbling in his chest, his breath hot against your skin. It takes all your self-control to keep still, but the anticipation is delicious, the knowledge that he's going to do whatever he wants, and you're going to let him, a heady rush.

Wolffe pulls back, his gaze roaming over your face. Even his clouded cybernetic eye can't hide the lust, the way his eyes have darkened, the black almost completely consuming the brown of his iris. His cheeks are flushed as he studies you, and his lips are red and slightly swollen from where he's been biting them, trying to hold back the noises he wants to make.

"What does the man have in mind? Let me see," he murmurs, his fingers curling around the fabric. He pops the button of your pants and pats your thigh, and you obey, lifting yourself so he can tug the clothing down your legs. He drops them to the floor, his gaze returning to yours.

"Well?" you ask, a smile playing on your lips.

Wolffe doesn't answer. Instead, he reaches out and cups your sex, the fabric of your underwear a thin barrier between the heat of his palm and your aching core. His touch is gentle, barely there, and yet the pressure is enough to send a spark through you, your skin prickling. You swallow, and his lips turn up, the hint of a smile spreading across his features.

"Let's see," he begins, his finger tracing a line over the damp fabric, drawing a gasp from your throat. "First, I'm going to undress you."

His hands move, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of your underwear, fingertips sliding over the smooth expanse of your skin. He pulls the fabric down slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He watches as you shift and shiver, his expression calm, the only sign that he's not unaffected the slight tremble in his hands.

"Then, I'm going to taste you, get you ready for my cock," he continues, his voice rough.

His touch is slow, methodical, the drag of his knuckles and fingertips torturous. Your underwear slides down, and you let out a small whine, the fabric bunching around your thighs.

"And when you're all nice and wet, and you're begging for me, I'm going to fill you up, and fuck you, nice and slow," he growls, his hands running over your legs, sliding your underwear down and tossing them to the floor.

Your face grows hot, the blush spreading across your cheeks and down your neck, the heat creeping down until it settles low in your stomach. Wolffe's eyes track the movement, and he finds the hem of your shirt, pulling the fabric up and over your head, his hands immediately cupping your breasts over your bra.

"What do you think about that, cyare?" he asks, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, the fabric rough against your sensitive flesh.

You bite back a moan, and his brows raise, expectant. You know what he wants, and you can't bring yourself to deny him, not when his hands are already on your body, his fingers working the clasp of your bra.

"Yes, please," you whimper, reaching up and sliding your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

"See? That wasn't so hard," he says, his lips twitching. He unclasps the garment, and it falls open, the fabric sliding down and joining the rest of your clothes on the floor.

You're left bare before him, exposed, and Wolffe takes a moment to drink in the sight. His hands come up, his fingers tracing the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder. They run over the swell of your breast, his touch feather-light, the contrast between the cool air and the warmth of his skin raising goosebumps. He continues down, over the plane of your stomach, the ridges of your ribs, until he comes to rest against the flare of your hip.

"Perfect," he breathes, his gaze returning to yours.

His mouth is mere inches from yours, his breath ghosting over your lips. He doesn't move, and neither do you, the two of you locked in an intense stare. You're waiting, wanting, and it's a battle of wills to see who will give in first.

You lose.

Your head tilts forward, and Wolffe is there, meeting you halfway. His mouth closes over yours, the kiss gentle, tender, nothing like the rough, demanding way his hands grip your hips, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh.

It's the opposite of the words that tumble from his lips, the things he says, the filthy promises whispered between heated kisses. But it’s so him, the juxtaposition of the gentle and the rough, the soft and the demanding.

It's everything, and it's all you want, all you need.

Wolffe groans as your lips part, his tongue darting out, tasting the sweetness of your mouth. It's slow, his pace measured as he licks his way inside, his movements controlled and steady.

"You have too many clothes on," you murmur against his lips, and Wolffe huffs, pulling back.

"I guess I do," he says, his eyes roaming over your body, lingering on the curves and dips.

His gaze is so heated that it's nearly palpable, the intensity bringing a blush to your skin. He steps back and takes a deep breath, and you squirm as he stares, taking in the sight of you perched on the counter, spread out like an offering.

He reaches for his uniform, popping the buttons, his movements slow. The fabric parts, revealing the tight white undershirt, the thin material straining over the broad planes of his chest, dark hair peeking out from the collar.

You bite your lip, watching as he shrugs off the outer layer, his eyes fixed on you. The fabric slides down his arms, his muscles flexing as he works. His movements are fluid, easy, but each one is deliberate, his gaze never leaving yours.

"Wolffe," you groan, biting back a frustrated noise.

"What?" he asks, his tone innocent.

He drops his shirt to the floor, his fingers hooking into the fabric of his undershirt. He peels it up, slowly, his eyes shining with amusement as he exposes his toned stomach, the planes of his chest, and finally, the broad expanse of his shoulders.

"Are you in a hurry, cyare?"

"A little," you admit, the words coming out breathy.

Wolffe grins and steps closer, his hands finding your knees. He pushes them apart with ease, his palms sliding over your skin, his touch firm.

"I guess I can't blame you," he begins, his gaze drifting down to where your thighs have parted. "I mean, look at you."

"Wolffe, come on," you mutter, trying to close your legs.

His hands move, holding you in place. You don't stand a chance against his strength, the muscle of his arms rippling as he pushes you back, his palms running over your inner thighs.

"Shhh, let me enjoy the view," he chides, his eyes moving over your exposed skin.

You can feel his gaze like a physical touch, his eyes drinking in the sight of you, naked and bare before him. His hands run over your thighs, and then his thumbs are dipping into the apex, spreading you open.

"Look at how pretty you are," he rumbles as he brings his thumb up, running the pad gently over your clit, his touch barely there.

A whimper escapes, the contact not nearly enough to satisfy. You want more, but he doesn't give it, his thumb moving lower, dipping into the heat of your entrance. You shiver, and Wolffe makes a pleased noise, his eyes flicking up to meet yours.

"And I haven't even done anything yet," he teases, his thumb pressing into the sensitive flesh, circling your opening.

"Please, Wolffe," you whine, and his brows raise, the corner of his mouth turning up.

"Oh, I like the sound of that," he murmurs, his eyes darkening. "Please, what?"

You glare, and Wolffe smirks, his gaze dropping back to the apex of your thighs. He presses his thumb in further, his knuckle catching against the edge, and the contact sends a shiver down your spine. You bite your lip and squirm, heat coiling low in your stomach.

"Please, what? Use your words," he murmurs, his tone dripping with saccharine sweetness.

"Stop teasing," you hiss, trying to press down against his hand.

Wolffe's lips pull into a frown, and his grip tightens around your hips. He yanks you towards the edge, his hands keeping you from sliding off, and you cry out, a spike of arousal shooting through you at the rough treatment.

”Try again," he says, his tone dropping an octave.

You take a shaky breath and glare, and Wolffe's expression grows darker, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your hips. He's waiting, his eyes fixed on yours, the weight of his gaze heavy and expectant.

"Please, just...I want—"

"You want, what?"

"I want your mouth," you breathe, heat rushing to your face.

Wolffe hums, his thumbs rubbing circles against the inside of your thighs. The gesture is meant to be soothing, but it does nothing to quell the ache that has settled between your legs. He watches, waiting, and when he's satisfied with the desperation that's seeped into your expression, his lips curl up into a smirk.

"Good girl."

The praise sends a wave of warmth through you, and the blush spreads, creeping down your neck, the heat settling against your chest. Wolffe lets out a pleased rumble and leans forward, nuzzling your neck.

"That's what I wanted to hear," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on you, trailing slow, lingering kisses down the column of your throat. He pauses and sucks the sensitive skin between his teeth, biting and nibbling until a mark blooms beneath his lips.

He continues down, his mouth moving over the swell of your breast, his tongue flicking out, licking a path between the mounds. He pays the same attention to each one, his lips closing over your nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh.

A moan escapes, the sound loud in the silence of the apartment. Wolffe huffs a laugh and presses a kiss against your sternum, his hand sliding over your waist, his fingers dancing across your stomach.

"Let me hear you," he says as his lips drift lower, his tongue trailing over the line of your ribcage, his stubble scraping your skin.

He kneels, and the sight alone is almost enough to send you spiraling. Wolffe is the very picture of devotion, his hands warm and reverent as they run over your skin, his mouth gentle and sure as it moves over the soft expanse of your stomach. He presses a kiss just above the line of your hip, and you can feel the way his lips curl up, his eyes fixed on you.

"So beautiful," he breathes, his voice muffled against your skin.

His words are sweet, but the hand that grips your thigh, pushing it back, is anything but. It's demanding and firm, a wordless order to spread your legs. You obey, and the grin on his face is wicked, his eyes flashing.

"There we go, just like that," he murmurs as he leans in, his nose brushing against the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. 

His lips trail higher, his mouth warm and wet as he sucks the tender skin between his teeth. You can't help but squirm, the sharp sting of his teeth followed by the soothing sweep of his tongue sending a rush through you. When he sucks another mark onto the opposite side, you let out a whine, your hips bucking against his grasp.

"Don't move," he growls, his voice low and dangerous.

You still, the commanding tone enough to make you freeze. You've seen the way Wolffe can get when he's in the mood, and while it's fun to tease him, to rile him up, there’s something about the way he’s looking at you that says tonight isn't the time.

Tonight, he's not going to let you get away with a single thing.

"Yes, Commander," you whisper, and the sound that escapes him is sinful.

"That's my girl," he rumbles. His tongue darts out, sliding over the skin. "I knew you'd listen."

He gives you a few more languid kisses, his mouth moving slowly, deliberately, working his way up until his lips are brushing the apex of your thigh. Finally, the first kiss lands, a soft brush against your clit, the touch feather-light and barely there. You bite back a groan, your head falling back, but you keep still.

"Good girl," he praises, and you can feel the smirk against your skin as he presses another kiss, his lips dragging over the sensitive bud.

The feeling sends a spark of heat through you, the praise mixing with the gentle drag of his lips. He knows exactly what you like, but he seems in no hurry to give it to you. Instead, he's content to tease, his tongue darting out, giving a few long, lazy licks before retreating.

He repeats the process, his tongue moving over you in slow, methodical strokes. He laps at your entrance, lapping up the wetness that's gathered, the taste of you filling his senses.

It's not enough.

Not nearly enough.

Wolffe pulls back and blows a stream of air against your heated skin, the coolness making you squirm.

"Wolffe," you whine. “Please."

"Shhh," he says, and his thumb comes up, rubbing small, gentle circles over your clit. "Let me taste you. I told you to stay still, didn't I?"

You don't answer, and he leans in, nipping at the soft flesh. You let out a squeak, the sound turning into a moan as he sucks on the spot, soothing the sting with his tongue.

"Cyare," he begins, and his voice is stern, his grip tight.

"I know," you mutter, forcing yourself to relax.

"That's better," Wolffe says as his hands move, trailing over the inside of your thighs. His touch is firm, his fingers tracing the path his lips just took, his palms spreading your thighs wider.

He doesn't keep you waiting long.

Wolffe's tongue drags a path from your entrance to the tip of your clit, the feeling so intense that you nearly miss the way his thumb hooks against the hood, exposing the sensitive bundle of nerves. The next lick is followed by the gentle pressure of his lips closing over the bud, his tongue swirling. It flicks over your clit, once, twice, before dipping lower, the tip sliding inside your entrance.

"Oh," you gasp, your hand flying to his head, tangling in the soft strands.

"Mm, so wet," Wolffe groans, and his tongue slips deeper, the muscle pressing against the silken walls.

He works you open, his tongue curling and twisting, fucking in and out, the wet sounds echoing in the room. You can't help the noises that spill from your lips, the moans and whines mingling with the sound of Wolffe's mouth as he devours you, his hands keeping your hips firmly pinned against the counter.

You're lost in the sensations, the feeling of his tongue, the pressure, the heat of his mouth, the way he groans as his head moves, his eyes fixed on you. Your fingers curl, tugging at his hair, and the vibration of his answering groan has your head falling back, the breath stuttering in your chest. Arousal pools heavily between your thighs, oozing over his tongue. He laps it up, his pace quickening, his nose brushing against your clit.

He fucks you on his tongue until you're dripping, and then he pulls back, his breathing harsh. The sound is obscene, the wet, sucking noise enough to make your face flush hot. You watch as his lips part, his tongue snaking out, licking up the mess you've made. He doesn't miss a single drop, his movements measured and thorough, his eyes fixed on yours.

"You're perfect," he murmurs, fingers tightening their hold.

You open your mouth to speak, but no words come out, the compliment taking you by surprise. You're still getting used to his more open displays of affection, the things he says when the two of you are alone. The Wolffe that the world sees is nothing like the man who kneels before you, the soft, gentle side that he saves just for you.

You reach out, and Wolffe's lips curl into a smile, his cheeks pink and warm under your palm. He leans into your touch, his eyes closing as your thumb brushes over the scarred ridge under his eye. The moment is tender, a stark contrast to the things he's said, the way his hands have moved, his grip firm.

He looks at peace, and the sight has your heart melting, a warmth spreading through you, pooling low in your stomach. Wolffe's eyes blink open, and the warmth turns into heat, the flames stoked by the hunger that's crept into his gaze.

He wants, and you want him to have.

"Wolffe," you begin, but the rest of the words are lost as his mouth closes over your clit.

He sucks the swollen bud between his lips, the pressure firm and steady. He's relentless, the flat of his tongue stroking the length, the tip flicking and swirling. You’re overwhelmed by the intensity, and there’s no time to brace yourself before two fingers slide home to the hilt and curl.

"Oh, fuck," you gasp, arching into him.

A satisfied grunt rumbles through his chest, the vibrations going straight to the apex of your thighs. The suddenness of the intrusion, coupled with the heat of his mouth, the drag of his tongue, is enough to send a hot wave of pleasure through you, and your toes curl, the first tingles of an orgasm building in the base of your spine.

"More," you beg, tugging at his hair.

Wolffe lets out a soft noise, something between a groan and a growl, and his hand moves, slipping from your hip and sliding under your ass. His fingers dig into the plump flesh, the touch firm. Your back arches, and he pushes you forward, tilting your hips.

You have no choice but to lean back on your elbows, his strength too much for you to fight. Your head falls back, your neck strained to look at him, but the new angle leaves you spread wide open, his lips sucking eagerly.

"Oh, fuck, yes, just like that," you whimper as the pressure builds, the sensation coiling low in your core and spreading along your thighs.

He's merciless, his tongue and fingers moving with purpose, and his hands guide your movements, pushing and pulling you, your body pliant beneath his touch. He's completely in control, the position allowing him to do whatever he wants, and the realization sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, a gush of wetness dripping down his fingers.

Wolffe doesn't seem to mind, his nose buried against your skin, his tongue working. The sounds that fill the air are obscene, the slick, wet noises mixing with the filthy moans and groans that fall from his lips.

"You're so good, Wolffe, so good," you praise, a strangled moan escaping as he presses his fingers in deep. He curls, rubbing them over the spongy tissue, his mouth closing over your clit.

Your words seem to spur him on, his movements growing bolder. His grip on your ass tightens, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. He's relentless, his tongue and fingers working in tandem, his rhythm unwavering.

The coil in the pit of your stomach grows tighter, the familiar pressure building until it threatens to break. Your legs come up, wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him close, and Wolffe obliges, his hand leaving your ass to press his arm over your hips, pinning you in place.

You let out a choked noise at the show of strength, the muscles of his arm flexing as he holds you down. Your mouth opens, but the only sound that escapes is a series of short, breathless gasps. The fire spreads, burning through you until you're a quivering mess. It's too much, the combination of his mouth and his fingers and the way he looks between your thighs, his eyes dark and filled with something akin to adoration.

It's the thought that breaks the dam.

His lips wrap around the bud of your clit, and the first flick of his tongue has you toppling over the edge, the pleasure bursting through you. Your head falls back, your eyes screwing shut, and a long, drawn-out moan leaves your lips. You can feel yourself gush around his fingers, and Wolffe groans, his fingers picking up speed. Your thighs clamp around his head, and your nails dig into his scalp, and you hold on, a choked sob escaping as your body writhes beneath him.

Wolffe doesn't slow. He fucks you through the waves, his mouth working, his fingers rubbing against your walls, drawing the pleasure out and coaxing another, smaller orgasm from you. It crashes over you in a burst of sparks behind your eyelids, shooting down to your fingers and making your toes curl.

It's only when your hips jerk away from his mouth, oversensitive, that he finally relents, pulling back with a wet pop.

"Fuck, cyare," he breathes, and his voice is hoarse, his breathing ragged. "So beautiful."

"Wolffe," you croak, unable to formulate a proper sentence. Your head spins, and you have to force yourself to breathe, to relax, your heart racing. The release has left you feeling drained, and all you can do is lay there, gasping and whimpering as Wolffe's tongue gently cleans the mess you've made.

He pulls away, a wicked smirk playing on his lips, his chin glistening with your release. He looks proud and a little smug, but the effect is ruined by the dazed look in his eyes, the way he leans into the hand that cups his cheek. You watch, transfixed, as he stands, gently maneuvering you until you’re sitting up, your back resting against the cupboards.

“Good girl, take a breath," he whispers, running his hands over your legs, gently massaging the tense muscles.

You obey, taking a deep, shuddering breath. The oxygen clears the fog, and when you finally open your eyes, it's to the sight of Wolffe, his hands undoing the belt at his waist. 

"I need to be inside you," he says, the words a low, raspy growl, barely audible underneath the sound of the metal buckle clinking against the counter.

The noise has you swallowing, your mouth dry. You watch as he slides the leather out and sets it down, the thud of the metal buckle against the countertop making you jump. His eyes dart to the offending item, and a smirk pulls at his lips.

"Nervous?"

You shake your head, and his expression softens.

"Good. No need to be, not with me," he says, and the belt is forgotten, his hands returning to his pants.

"I'm not," you whisper, and your eyes move over his chest, taking in the dark hair and the smattering of scars, the dips and ridges of his muscles, the broad expanse of his shoulders, and the way his arms flex as he pushes the fabric down his hips.

"I know, cyare," he says, his expression gentle. He's watching you closely, his hands coming up, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No," you reply, the word coming out breathless. Your eyes are locked on the damp spot that's darkened the grey fabric, the bulge of his cock straining against the material.

"Then what do you want?"

"I want to see you."

Wolffe's breath catches, his eyes widening slightly.

"Okay then," he murmurs, his voice low.

His thumbs hook into the elastic band, and he pushes the fabric down, the hard line of his cock finally free. It's heavy, hanging between his legs, the tip flushed a deep red. The sight has your mouth watering, and your eyes follow the thick, pulsing vein that runs the length, the bead of pre-cum that has gathered at the tip, slowly dripping down.

"Like what you see?" he teases, reaching down and wrapping his fingers around his length.

"Always," you breathe.

You watch as he gives himself a few long, slow strokes, his fist closing around the head. The motion brings a bead of precome to the tip, and he spreads it down the shaft, the movement slow and deliberate.

"Are you sure you're not nervous?" he asks, his voice soft.

"A little," you admit, the words coming out shaky.

You know exactly how thick his cock is, but the sight of him standing between your thighs, the head level with your stomach, always takes your breath away.

"Shhh, I've got you," he says, stepping closer. "I'm gonna make you feel so good."

You nod, and Wolffe's hand leaves his cock, his fingers curling around your ankle. He lifts your leg, guiding it up and over his shoulder, his lips pressing a soft kiss against the inside of your knee. He reaches out and runs a knuckle down the length of your sex, the contact gentle and teasing.

"So beautiful," he murmurs.

His other hand moves to his cock, lining himself up. The head bumps against the inside of your thigh, and you gasp, the wet heat searing against your skin. It leaves a trail of precome, and the sight has your heart rate picking up, the anticipation coursing through you.

"That's my girl," he whispers, his hand sliding up, fingers brushing the swollen bud.

Your hips jerk, and the tip of his cock catches against your entrance, the slick head nudging at the opening. It's enough to make him grunt, the muscles in his neck straining, his hand squeezing the base of his cock.

"I'm gonna put it in, cyare, and I want you to stay nice and still, okay?"

"Okay," you agree, your hands gripping the edge of the counter.

He gives a few experimental thrusts, the head sliding against the wet heat, spreading your slick along his shaft. He pushes in, the first inch, and the stretch is immediate.

"Fuck," he hisses, and his hand drops, his thumb moving to press against the hood of your clit, rubbing gentle circles. "Just relax, sweetheart, take a deep breath."

You do as he says, sucking in a deep breath and forcing yourself to relax. The pain fades, replaced by the intense stretch, the pressure of his cock. He's not even halfway inside, and already you feel so full, the feeling almost overwhelming. It feels like it's been years since the last time he had you like this, his body pressed against yours, and it takes all your willpower to remain still, to keep from fucking yourself onto his cock.

"There you go," he says, and his tone is gentle, his expression soft. "Just like that."

He rocks his hips, the head sliding in and out. Each thrust is easier than the last, the silken walls loosening and allowing him deeper. Wolffe’s eyes flutter, his mouth falling open, his fingers moving against your clit. He's lost in the sensation, the tight, wet heat of your pussy clenching around his cock, and you can't help but stare, watching the way his brows draw together, a sheen of sweat already forming on his forehead.

"Fuck," he mutters, his voice strained. He grinds deeper as if trying to get as close as possible, the action drawing a whimper from your lips, and he stops. "You okay?"

You can only nod, tears prickling in the corners of your eyes as his tip kisses the end of you. It's too much, the stretch, the heavy weight of his cock, and yet it's not enough. You need him deeper, his skin against yours, his weight bearing down on you, pinning you beneath him.

"Words, cyare. I need words."

"Please," you gasp, trying to rock your hips.

He shakes his head and squeezes your hips, keeping you still. His jaw is clenched, and his eyes are shut tight, his brows drawn together in concentration. You can feel him pulse inside you, the throbbing a steady beat, his cock twitching with each squeeze of your walls.

"Wolffe, please, fuck me," you beg, a desperate whine escaping.

Wolffe's eyes open, and his gaze finds yours, his expression softening.

"There she is," he murmurs, the corner of his mouth turning up. "That's what I like to hear."

He presses a kiss to your ankle, and he doesn't take his eyes off yours as he pulls out, his length dragging against your walls. It's torturously slow, his movements measured and precise, and he keeps his pace, his hands gripping the soft flesh of your thighs, his palms hot.

"Such a pretty girl," he says, the words strained. He thrusts into you, a slow, steady roll of his hips. "So good for me, letting me take my time, letting me enjoy the way you feel."

"You feel so good, Wolffe," you moan, arching into him.

"Oh, I know," he grunts. "I can feel it."

His thrusts are steady, each one hitting the same spot, his pace never wavering. He keeps his movements slow, his eyes never leaving yours. He's watching you, gauging your reactions, taking note of every sound, every facial expression.

You've been intimate before, but tonight feels different, and you realize that Wolffe isn't in a hurry, not anymore. He's taking his time, enjoying the feeling of being buried inside you, of watching your reactions. The lines around his eyes and the creases in his forehead have smoothed out, his jaw no longer clenched tight. The tension has melted from his shoulders, replaced by something that looks suspiciously like contentment.

"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice low.

You can only nod, unable to speak, your mind a foggy haze.

"That's good, that's so good," he murmurs, and his lips turn up, his expression soft. "I like having you like this, all to myself."

You whine, and his smile grows, the tips of his canines flashing in the dim light. He's beautiful like this, his head bowed, his dark hair hanging in his face, a reverent, awestruck look in his eyes.

"Do you like this, too?" he asks, the words punctuated by a firm thrust, his hands gripping your thighs.

"Yes," you gasp, a moan slipping out as he hits a spot deep inside you, sending sparks down your spine.

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

"Good, because I think we should do it more often," he murmurs, leaning in.

"Yeah?"

"Mmhm," he breathes, and his nose brushes yours, his lips a breath away.

He's so close, the heat radiating off his skin. You can taste the sweetness of your release on his lips, and you want to lean forward and claim them, but he's just out of reach, and all you can do is stare.

"You're a tease," you whisper.

"I think I can live with that."

His eyes move, roaming over the exposed expanse of your body, and they linger on the place where his cock is buried, the skin stretched and glistening. He bites his lip, his hands gripping the soft flesh of your thighs, and his pace quickens, his hips snapping against yours.

The feeling has your toes curling, and you try to reach down, to stroke the bud of nerves that is aching for contact.

"No, no. Not yet," he chides, his hand grabbing yours and pulling it away. He brings your wrist up, pressing a kiss to the tender skin. "I'll get you there. Be patient."

You pout, and Wolffe smiles, a crooked, mischievous grin. He lets go of your hand, his palm coming to rest on your stomach. His thumb finds the spot, rubbing circles over the sensitive flesh, his gaze never leaving yours.

"It's not fair," you mumble, trying not to squirm.

"Mhm, tell me about it."

He presses down, his finger rubbing the spot in lazy circles, the pressure intense.

"How does it feel, cyare? To have my cock buried inside you, nice and deep?"

"Feels good," you breathe, arching into his touch.

"Does it?" he asks, and his eyes flicker down, watching as he pulls out. He pauses, the head caught against your entrance, the tip shiny with your arousal.

He stays there, the two of you joined by the very tip, his length coated in a mixture of fluids. The sight is obscene, the slick mess dripping from his cock and down his balls, the fluid coating the tops of his thighs.

"Look how messy you are," he breathes, his eyes wide.

"All for you," you murmur, and his eyes snap to yours, his lips parting.

"Fuck," Wolffe mutters.

He guides your leg off his shoulder, hooking his arms underneath both of your knees. He spreads you open, and the sight of his cock sliding in, the thick length disappearing into the mess, makes you groan, a fresh gush of wetness slipping from your entrance.

"Wolffe, please, I want more," you beg, trying to press closer.

“More, she says," he huffs a laugh, and his fingers dig into your legs, the pressure almost bruising.

"Yes," you moan, nodding.

"Then you're going to get more."

The words barely have time to register before his cock is slamming home, his hips pressing flush against yours.

You cry out, your back arching, and he wastes no time in setting a rough, unforgiving pace. His grip tightens around your legs, and he bends, leaning over your body, his hands planted on either side of your hips.

The angle allows him to drive deeper, and you can feel his pelvis grinding against your clit, the roughness of his pubic hair scratching against the sensitive skin. You try to move, to meet him halfway, but the position, coupled with his strength, leaves you immobile. All you can do is lie there and take it, his cock splitting you open.

"Oh, fuck," he grunts, his pace never slowing. His eyes are fixed on yours, the dark brown and grey shining with pleasure. "I could stay like this forever, just buried in that sweet cunt."

"Yes, yes," you cry, the words tumbling from your lips.

"Do you want that? Do you want me to fuck you all night, keep you full?"

"Please," you beg, arching into him.

"Fuck," Wolffe groans, his eyes falling closed. His pace picks up, his movements growing frantic, and he leans forward, his hands wrapping around the tops of your thighs. He uses his hold as leverage, tugging you towards him, the motion causing your head to knock against the cupboard.

"Sorry," he pants, and he reaches out, his hand cupping the back of your head, the gesture almost tender. "Fuck, I'm sorry."

"Don't be, please, just—"

"I've got you," he whispers, and his lips press against the side of your neck. "I've got you, sweetheart."

"Please, Wolffe, I'm so close," you plead, your nails digging into the skin of his forearms.

"I know," he growls, and his hips snap, the feeling making you gasp. "I'm right behind you."

His lips find the juncture of your neck and shoulder, his teeth scraping against the skin. He bites down, the pain sharp, and a cry escapes as he sucks, hard. The delicate capillaries underneath your skin break, a purple-red splotch blooming in the wake of his mouth.

"Oh, fuck," you gasp, his mark sending a fresh wave of arousal through you.

"Mm, there's my girl," he grunts. "I'm not going to last, sweetheart. You're going to have to come for me, okay?"

You nod, unable to form the words, and you reach down, your fingers finding the apex of your thighs He's pressed so close that your hand brushes the coarse hair covering his pelvis, the tips grazing the base of his cock.

"Come on. Let go," he urges, his breath hot against your neck.

Your fingers brush over the sensitive nub, and you're sent over the edge, your climax hitting so hard that the room begins to spin. You're barely aware of his voice, urging you on, praising you as your walls flutter and pulse around his cock.

"That's it, let me feel it," Wolffe groans, his pace growing sloppy, his hips jerking erratically. "Fuck, I'm gonna come."

You can feel the way his length pulses, his cock throbbing as his release builds, and then he's following after you, a long, low moan rumbling in his chest. He pushes in deep and grinds his pelvis against your clit, his movements frantic as his orgasm washes over him.

You're vaguely aware of his body jerking, his hips moving erratically, and then his release is flooding you, the warm liquid painting your walls. He fills you up, his seed leaking out and dripping onto the counter, the mess smearing over the smooth surface.

"Oh, shit," he hisses, his arms trembling. He sags, his forehead dropping against your shoulder, his breathing heavy.

You can feel the sweat-slick skin, his chest rising and falling, the movement uneven. He's shaking, his body trembling as his arms finally give out, and the weight of his upper body presses down on top of you.

"Hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Wolffe replies, his voice muffled. "Just...just give me a minute."

"Wolffe?"

He doesn't answer, and you reach up, your hand threading through his hair. It's damp, the locks plastered to his scalp, and you run your fingers over the soft strands, trying to soothe him.

"I'm fine," he says, his voice quiet.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," he replies, and his body shudders, his limbs growing heavy. You hear him inhale sharply through his nose, and then his arms are sliding under your back, wrapping around you. He's clinging to you, his embrace almost too tight, and you can feel the way his heart is racing, the rapid-fire beat thudding in his chest.

"Wolffe," you whisper, and his head shifts, his chin resting on your shoulder.

"It's okay, cyare. I'm alright, I promise."

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," he says, his voice soft. "I'm just..."

He trails off, his face turning, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to the spot where his teeth had been moments before. You shiver, the feeling making your walls clench, and Wolffe lets out a shaky breath, his hands gripping tighter.

"It's just...tonight was a lot," he murmurs, his mouth moving against your skin.

"Yeah," you agree as you run your fingers through his hair.

"It was intense, and I needed...well, I don't know what I needed, but this helped. Being with you, having you here, it helps," he says, his tone quiet. He pulls back, eyes glassy, his gaze searching.

"I'm glad," you say, swallowing.

"I love you," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the curve of your neck.

"I love you, too," you reply, a smile pulling at your lips.

Wolffe falls silent, his eyes closing, and you can feel his muscles relax, his body sagging. The exhaustion is finally catching up with him, the adrenaline of the fight, followed by the intense release, leaving him drained. He's spent, and the realization has a fondness blooming in the pit of your stomach.

He's always so tough, and it's rare that he lets his guard down, even when the two of you are together. It's not the first time he's shown you his softer side, but tonight seems different. Tonight, it's the most vulnerable you've ever seen him, and you can't help but admire him, the way his face has gone slack, his brows no longer drawn, his eyes no longer filled with pain.

"You're tired," you say, running a hand through his hair and pushing the damp locks from his face. "Let's get cleaned up, and then we can go to bed."

"I don't want to move," he mutters, burying his face against your neck.

"Wolffe, come on. Up," you coax, your hands running over his shoulders. You drag your nails down the back of his neck, and he shivers, his arms tightening around you.

"No. 'M comfortable," he mumbles, his mouth pressing against the soft skin below your ear. His lips drag over the shell, and he sighs, his breath hot against your skin.

“There’s no way that’s true,” you tease, and you pinch his side, making him jump.

"Hey!"

"Up, please. My ass is falling asleep."

"Fine," he huffs. He cracks his eye open and gives you a pointed look, and then he's shifting, pulling out, the mess of fluids following.

"Fuck, that's a lot," he murmurs, his hand reaching between your legs.

You shiver, the feeling of his fingers slipping against your slickened skin almost too much.

"Stop it, Wolffe," you chide, and you're rewarded with a grin, the look in his eye mischievous.

"Alright, alright," he relents, pulling his hand away. "Can't blame a man for wanting to play a little."

"You can play all you want in the morning," yo say, giving his arm a gentle squeeze.

"I'll remember that."

"You better," you retort, and he chuckles, the sound making you smile.

Wolffe finally straightens, his back cracking as he stretches. He rolls his neck, and a pained groan escapes, his face twisting into a grimace. You wince, and he lets out a tired laugh, his lips curling into a half-smile.

"I'm getting old."

"No, you're not," you argue, sitting up.

"I am. I can feel it. Next thing I know, I'll be one of those old men, complaining about my back," he says, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

"Well, if you'd stop being such an idiot and letting people throw you through tables, maybe it wouldn't be an issue," you mutter as he approaches with a damp washcloth, the fabric warm and smelling faintly of soap.

"Ah, you can't blame me. I had a good reason."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah," he says, and the look in his eyes is soft. He reaches out, running his thumb over the apple of your cheek. "I had a feeling I was going to get a nice reward for my efforts."

"Oh, did you now?"

"I did," he replies as he works, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "And I think I'll get a few more in the morning."

"I bet you do," you say, unable to hide the smile that's threatening to spill over.

"Now, hold still. Let me get this cleaned up."

You nod, and Wolffe's eyes move, his gaze drifting over your body. He takes his time, wiping away the mess that's coated the tops of your thighs, and his touch is gentle as he cleans between your legs, his motions measured and precise. When he's finished, he throws the cloth in the hamper down the hall and returns, scooping you into his arms.

"I'm not completely useless, you know," you say, wrapping an arm around his neck.

"Oh, I'm very aware of that," he replies, his lips twitching. "But I want to carry you."

"Alright, then," you murmur, unable to deny the warmth that spreads through you at the gesture.

Wolffe carries you through the apartment and down the hall, his steps slow and steady. The lights are dim, and the darkness is peaceful, the sounds of the city outside muted. It's late, and you know the two of you should get some sleep, but the thought is drowned out by the comfort that comes with being pressed against him, his arms strong and secure around you.

"Think we still have time for an episode of Love Island?" you ask as he nudges the bedroom door open.

Wolffe chuckles, the sound low and soft, and you smile, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

"Yeah, cyare. I think we do."

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[calypsocolada]

LOSER HAS TO FALL | hero x

(this is part two! click here for part one!) synopsis: maybe the top hero isn't as bad at flirting as you previously thought... authors note: helllooooo! second and final part to this lil series. i think i'm gonna write some more sometime soon about other characters. mainly lin ling <3, old e-soul, queen???? we'll see. hope you guys enjoy this! it turned out a bit longer than I previously thought and i'm sure there could be another part but... idk. we'll see how this one does! enjoy!!! wc: 4.6k cw: spoilers!, fem reader, use of y/n, angst, slightly suggestive, super duper brief mention of sewerslide, not proofread forgive me

click here for my masterlist!

It’d been just over a week since you heard from your father. He’d meant what he said. He was a lot of things but he wasn’t a liar. And you didn’t bother trying to reason with him. He was done with you. 

He had said many times before he only had a place beside him if you were a winner. And you weren’t one anymore. You lost. Pretty damn hard and pretty damn publicly. So you were dropped from your father’s hero association and quickly, a little too quickly to not be calculated, replaced by the next up and comer. 

You on the other hand had actually managed to get signed rather quickly. All thanks to Queen, who had taken pity on you after seeing you sat in the parking lot of the stadium way past when the tournament ended. You’d never really been left on your own. Every single step of your life was puppeteered by your father. You didn’t exactly know how to stand on your own just yet. 

But nevertheless Queen brought you to DOS and after less than a three minute talk you were asked to join the agency. It startled you a bit. Seeing as you were conditioned to think people who lost gained nothing in return. But you were still the top third hero and apparently MIckey, the head of DOS, saw that as a great achievement. 

“Oh, and before you go, Winner?” Mickey called, your hand paused as you turned. Mickey was sitting back at his desk, his hand reaching for his coffee cup. “Our surveillance system wasn’t able to pick up you and Hero X’s conversation.” He starts, you furrow your brow, turning fully to face him. 

“Our conversation?”

“During the tournament.” He supplies. You slowly nod your head. “That man he’s… a mysterious one. I haven’t been able to get a hold of him even for a moment.” Mickey tries to laugh off his words but it’s too hollow, too stressed sounding. “I even visited his floor but… it’s vacant. I’m just curious… since he didn’t speak a single word to anyone else the entire tournament, before and after. But he spoke to you… seemed like he said a lot.” 

“Well he…” You cleared your throat, trying to recall the short conversation. “He mocked me mostly. Then he…” You stopped yourself. He had asked you to dinner and for some reason that embarrassed you. “Yeah… he just mocked me. My hero name.” You averted your eyes. You felt Mickey’s eyes burn into you, you forced yourself to meet his eyes. It was clear he only half believed you, which was fine because you were telling a half truth.

“That’s all?” He asked. You nodded your head. Mickey swallows, nodding head head. 

“Well alright then, welcome to DOS, Winner.”

And welcomed you were. And marketed to. Though this time around you had a lot more say in the kinds of sponsorships and brand deals you took. You had asked a few times to change your hero name but it was always met with a resounding ‘no’. 

“If you change it now, it’s like starting all over!” Mickey had said to you over the phone as you were chauffeured back to the hero tower. 

“What’s so wrong with starting over?” You asked and felt disheartened when you heard Mickey’s laugh over the line. 

“Winner is a beloved hero and a household name. Everyone knows Winner. Millions of people have put their trust in Winner. Winners in the top three leaderboard of heroes. You can’t start over now.” Mickey listened as your car pulled up and your door was opened. 

“It doesn’t feel like me.”

“What does? Winner is a persona… she isn’t supposed to be you.” Mickey says and you can hear the exasperation in his voice and that part of you that never really got out of the habits your father instilled in you rolled over. 

“Alright,” You conceded. “I won’t ask again.” You said, stepping out of the car into the blinding sun, you shielded your eyes as Mickey over the phone all but cheered.

“Good girl.” He hangs up the phone, that familiar click turning your blood hot. You shoved your phone in your pocket and strutted towards the elevator. It dinged, the white doors pulling apart as you stepped inside and let it carry you up to your floor. It slowed to a stop and pulled apart again as you stepped out, something shining and catching your attention. The familiar sound of a coin slicing through the air as it flips onto a hand. The doors to the elevator pulled shut behind you as your eyes met X’s. He leaned against your kitchen island looking exactly as he had the day he beat you. The same tailored suit, slicked back hair and shit eating grin, although he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

“Busy day?” He asked nonchalantly, pocketing the coin he was fiddling with. You stared at him, mouth slightly agape. He raised his brows slightly, tilting his head. “Well?” He encouraged. You cleared your throat, there was something about him. Something like a demand for your attention. 

“Yes. It was busy.” You said. X snapped, two glasses materializing in his hands. 

“Share a drink?” He asks. 

“I… don’t have any wine-” He snaps again and a bottle clatters on the top of your counter. He turns, reaching for the bottle, popping the cork and pouring you both a glass. You hesitantly make your way towards him. He slid your glass to your side of the kitchen island and raised his glass towards you. Your fingers slid around the cold glass, slowly raising it to meet his. His eyes caress your face as your glasses clink. 

“To signing to a new association.” He says, tilting the glass towards you before pulling it towards his lips. 

“How did you-”

“I know alot about you.” he interrupts. “Also it’s all over the news.” He adds as you pull your own glass to your lips. You two meet eyes, taking sips. The third floor of the hero tower had never felt smaller than in this moment.

“What’s… your deal?” You asked as X leaned back, gulping down his glass, snapping as it refills itself. 

“My deal?” He echoes your words, smirking at you. 

“Yes,” You affirmed, setting your glass down. “Your deal.”

“You’re not still mad at me, are you?” He asks and you're glad you set your glass down because you probably would’ve sent it careening towards his head. 

“That implies that I even think about you.” You countered. X perked up at your words, he almost looked… thrilled at your sharp tone. 

“You don’t?” He asks, his voice… soft, almost lilting. You shook your head. 

“My boss does. He’s curious about the top hero.” You said, reaching for your glass again, taking a sip. X purses his lips slightly. 

“And you?” He asks, your eyes cut to his.

“And me?”

“Mhm.” He hums. “You're not the least bit curious about me?” If you could choose a hero name for this man, you would’ve gladly and quickly chosen shameless. 

“Who’re you? What’s your name?”

“X.” He answers simply. 

“You’ll call me by my real name but you won’t tell me your real name?” You asked. X took another long sip. 

“It’s better this way.” He shrugs. “Any other questions for me?”

“Why’re you here? In my home?”

“Well you know… you never answered me.” He runs his finger over the rim of his glass. 

“Hm?” You hummed before taking another sip of the wine. It was good wine, a familiar taste. 

“Dinner?” He grins over his glass. Your eyes cut to his again. Right… guess you never answered him. 

“No.” You said and X’s grin faltered for a moment before he smoothly recovered. 

“No? Just like that?” He dips his head, a strand of his hair falling in his face.

“Just like that.” You affirmed. X rose to his feet, he reached up, smoothing his hair back, he raised his hands in mock surrender. 

“I know how to take ‘no’ for an answer.” He smiles, the first genuine thing you’d seen from him. It was… actually a good look on him. He looked sly when he smirked. He looked down right handsome when he smiled. You walked him to the door, his hand reached out, clicking the elevator button as the cables came to life, pulling it up to your floor. The doors slide open and X steps in. 

“You know, I pegged you as someone who would barter just a bit for dinner.” You said, smirking yourself. X’s eyes snapped to yours. “I must not know you very well.” You waved, he parted his lips to speak just as the doors slid to a close. You stepped back, alone and overwhelmed. You… you had never flirted before. It wasn’t something you thought would come easy but… it came easy just now. It felt good to smile, to tease and argue with someone who didn’t anger easily. It was like he drew out a different side to you. A side of you that wasn’t marred down by lessons learned the hard way.

X sent over a thousand roses a week later. You came home from a mission, exhausted and staggering in pain and tripped up on them, almost sent sprawling on your tile flooring. You straightened, powers extending to hit the light switch. Every color rose imaginable littered the entirety of your apartment, every single surface had a vase with tens of roses inside. Your mouth dropped open in surprise as you winded your way through the apartment. Your landline rings, echoing through your apartment. You trip your way to the phone, yanking it up. 

“Am I pushing my luck?” X asks, you could hear the smirk in his voice. You swallowed hard, thinking about the clean up, about what the hell you were going to do with all these roses. 

“Twenty would have been too many.” You remarked. X laughed, his laugh was warm and amused. You heard his fingers snap and suddenly all but one rose was gone, right on the table next to the phone.

“Better?” He asked, as you reached for it, thinking the moment you got close enough it would disappear but you picked it up, turning it over in your hands. 

“I don’t understand your powers.” You said, tucking the phone between your cheek and shoulder as you walk the rose towards the kitchen.

“Yeah, no one does.” He says, his voice almost warm against your ear. You reach into the cupboard, grabbing a glass, half filling it with water.

“Tell me about them.” You say, placing the rose in the water. 

“You wanna know more about me? Let me take you out to dinner.”

“We’re back on that, huh?” You ask, feeling something warm spread through your body.

“Well, here I am… bartering for dinner.” He says and that warmth goes a bit hot. You swallow. 

“I don't get it. You’re an enigma. Everyones talking about you, about X. No one knows a damn thing, you don’t talk to anyone else in the association. What’s your fascination with me?” You ask, sliding onto the counter. It’s quiet for a moment. 

“You’re fascinating.” He answers simply, voice serious. 

“You never answer any of my questions.” You sigh, leaning back on your hand, looking back towards the skyline outside your apartment window. 

“I think… it’s pretty clear.”

“What?”

“My intentions, Y/n.” X says and your heart actually flips in your chest. You clear your throat. 

“Make them clear for me.” You say, voice soft. It’s quiet for another moment. What’re you getting yourself into?

“I want to take you on a date. I find you… alluring. Always have. I told you at the end of our fight I was a big fan.”

“Of Winner.” He was a fan of Winner, that wasn’t you. 

“No. Not the hero you pretend to be on commercials and tv shows. The one I see on the news smiling as she saves the day. The one that still introduces herself as if she’s not a top hero.” You swallow dryly at his words. Did he understand you? Was he seeing past the manufactured ‘you’?

“It’s… only polite to introduce yourself.” You covered, trying not to sound as affected as you felt. Even you didn’t entirely know who you were yet. There definitely still was a part of you, probably a part you could never entirely rid yourself of, that was still competitive. You wanted to be the top hero and you wanted that title to be something only you accomplished. To show your father you weren’t useless and still had worth.

“I have a feeling you're going to turn me down again.” X’s voice breaks you out of your thoughts as you purse your lips.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Why’s that?” He asks, you think it’s pretty obvious. 

“I want to be the top hero. I could’ve been the top hero.” You start, glancing over at the rose on your countertop. “I’m going to spend a lot of my time this year training up so I can wipe the floor with you at the next competition.”

“Ah. So it’s like that, huh?” He asks, that smirk coming back, you could practically see it. 

“Enjoy it while you can.”

“Y/n, are you thinking this declaration of war will deter me in any way? Because… Quite frankly, now I want that date with you more than anything. I like a woman who knows what she wants.” Your brows shoot up in surprise. You were sure your words would put an end to the chase X was running.

“You’re insatiable.” You half laugh, half scoff in surprise. 

“Satiate me then. It’s one date.” He bartered quite well. When did just dinner turn into a date? And it was just one date. Something you’d never been on. Plus this could be your one and only chance to get actual answers about him. Everyone has a weakness, and you needed to find out what that was if you wanted a fair fight.

“Alright. One date.”

“Be ready in an hour.” X answered smoothly, you shot up. 

“Now?”

“Mhm. I’ll be there in an hour.” He hummed and the line went dead. You hopped off the counter and for an hour you rushed around. You took a shower and blow dried and styled your hair. You pulled on a dress that Queen let you borrow for a gala a few weeks ago and stopped in the kitchen, taking two shots to calm your nerves. Just as you set the shot glass down the elevator doors dinged and X stepped inside your apartment. 

“You didn’t give me much time, asshole.” You called out to him as he rounded the corner, he stopped in his tracks and so did you. He wasn’t wearing a white suit, nor did he have white hair. You didn’t know who this man was. “Who the hell-“

“It’s me.” He says, reaching up to push his glasses further up on the bridge of his nose. He had clean black hair, pushed sideways out of his face, black rimmed glasses and a fitted black salaryman suit. He looked like an office job worker, someone that would bump into on the street in a hurry to get back to the office. You furrowed your brows. He snaps his fingers and in a blink of an eye the white suit materializes, his black hair smoothing into white. He snaps again and he’s back to normal. “Most hero’s need a disguise to hide behind.” He reaches up, running a hand through his black hair. You realized you hadn’t said a word and cleared your throat. “Oh no… did I lose my appeal?”

“So this is who you are?” You ask and his face softens slightly, he nods his head. “You’ll show me this but won’t tell me your real name.”

“I’ll save that for the second date.” He smirks and that smirk was enough to make you realize it really was him, the two could coexist in your mind purely by the way he smiled. You relax slightly, your creased brow calming. 

“I really don’t get you.” You said but your voice wasn’t sharp or annoyed.

“Figured maybe you had a thing for brunettes.” His words draw a laugh out of you as you roll your eyes. 

“I don’t know what my thing is.” 

“Well I hope you like sushi.” He raises his arm. You hadn’t even noticed he was holding a take out bag. 

“I thought you knew a place?”

“Mhm. Your place.” He smirks, crossing the floor to the kitchen island, ripping open the bag to start pulling out the food. “I wouldn't get a moment of peace with you out in the public.”

“Why's that?” You asked, crossing the floor to lean on the kitchen island, his hands, once smoothly removing the food, shakes a bit at your closeness. He clears his throat. 

“You’re a top hero… everyone will know you. Not to mention you’d be on a date… looking like that.” His eyes drag down your body then back up to your face. You glare at him. “Pushing my luck again?” You nod your head and he laughs, snapping as two glasses and a bottle of wine appear on the table. 

“If I had known we’d be staying in I wouldn’t have bothered with this dress.”

“I’m glad you bothered. And I’m glad I’m the only one to see you in it.”

“I wore it to a gala. A lot of people saw me in it.” You remarked, reaching for the wine but he’s quicker than you. He grabs it, pouring you a glass. 

“You hate being flirted with, don’t you?” He asks, pouring his own drink. You thought about that for a moment. It’s not that you didn’t like to be flirted with, it was more so there was still a part of you that hated that he beat you. And sometimes being antagonistic to his flirting seemed to be a small payback. You shrugged, taking a drink. 

“I wouldn’t say I hate it. Maybe you’re not as slick as you think.” You say and find yourself smirking into your glass. X cocks his head slightly, eyes devouring your expression. You flush under the scrutiny of his gaze and wonder if your words pushed him to try harder.

“See this is why I bartered for dinner. What other woman would tear me down at every given opportunity?” He asks, his face all amusement and light. You bite your lip, hiding a smile.

“I guess… maybe I am a bit mad at you.” You say as he starts dividing out the food.

“Why’s that?”

“You beat me.” You say and feel a bit out in the open at your response. You couldn’t hide the vulnerability and you’d never been good at keeping secrets and for some reason you felt disarmed by him. He showed a side of himself to you that no one else knew about. 

“I did.” He smirks and you glare at him. He laughs it off and reaches for his glass. “But that’s because you didn’t want to win for yourself, right? You wanted to win for your father.” Your mouth goes dry. “Look, it's not hard to see how hard he pushed you. When you first became a hero you were everywhere. In every tournament and talk show. You were in movies and on cereal boxes. Everyone knew who you were purely because of how much you worked. There’s not a single other hero, aside from Nice, that worked as hard as you. And we all know what happened to him.” That’s right. You remember seeing that on the news. The hero Nice killed himself because of the pressures placed on his shoulders. You remember your father laughing at the tv. Claiming not every hero can take the pressure. It made you angry. You pop some sushi into your mouth. 

“It… it wasn’t all bad.” You say, avoid eye contact. “I wouldn’t be where I am today if my father hadn’t pushed me.”

“Your father shoved you. Not pushed. And no one thinks about your father when they think about Winner. They just see you.”

“They see the persona he created.”

“Sure. He may have created Winner but what’s an empty persona without someone to fill it?” He asks. You swallow, slowly meeting his eyes. “Your success is yours alone. Your father never fought against villains or in tournaments. You did.” 

“You really do sound like a fan.” You try to lighten the moment, the tension between you two has gotten a bit thicker. 

“I’m a big fan. I already told you that.” He smiles. You blow out a laugh. “And if your heart is really in it, I think maybe you could beat me.” 

“I don’t know about that.” You laugh, gulping down the rest of your glass. “You snap your fingers and stuff appears like magic. You beat most everyone in the tournament in mere seconds. I could put up a fight but I don’t think I’ll win.” You say as X snaps his fingers and his other persona walks around the kitchen island to stand in your space. You turn, looking up at him.

“You wanna know my weakness?” He asks, somehow he was even closer. You swallowed dryly, tried to push down the heat rising within you, failing miserably as your cheeks warm up. You nod your head and watch a ghost of a smirk on his face form. He reaches for your hand, warmer than your own as he guides your hand to his chest, holding it right over his heart. “I’m still human. You pierce right here and that crown is yours.” Your heart skipped a beat, his hand enveloped yours, he towered over you. You couldn’t find words, your eyes were locked with his. There was so much confusion. Your head and heart were at war. Nothing winning over lust. Because you’d never met someone so invested in you. Not Winner. You. “Did I push my luck again?” He asked for final time. 

Your hand shot to his tie and yanked him down forcibly against your lips. He made a surprised grunt of a noise, probably due to your strength. Sometimes you forget the extent of your powers. X didn’t waste much time in reveling in surprise though, he recovered swiftly. His hands are on you in seconds, sliding down to your hips, pulling you closer.

This was a horrible idea. You’d be facing this man in a tournament for top hero. 

Your hand ran through, messing up his hair, the other sliding against his cheek as his hand reached out, knocking things off the counter out of the way as his arm wrapped around your hip. He easily pulled you up onto the counter, parting your knees with his hand as he stood between them, body pressed against yours. Your dress rode up dangerously high on your thighs, his hand sliding up your thigh.

You wanted to be top hero. You wanted to be top hero. You wanted to-

He trailed his lips away from your own, kissing down your jaw to your neck. You sucked in a breath. You felt as though someone set you on fire. You supposed it was X.

He wouldn’t even tell you his real name. He was trying to get into your head. This is how he’d win again. 

“God… you wreck me..” He murmured against your neck. Who knew four words could make any shred of doubt about this moment completely evaporate. That little voice in your head had shut right up. You melted against him, hands yanking his lips back onto your own. You kissed him hard enough to bruise because your frustrations had passed into lust and you had to one up him in some way. Your hand slid beneath the shoulders of his suit jacket and pushed it off. He didn’t protest and even smiled against your lips. You fumbled with his tie, huffing as you pulled away from his lips to get a better look at the damn thing as it gave you trouble. He raised a brow watching you struggle. 

“What the hell?” You mumbled, he didn’t take his hands off you to help. “What kind of knot is this?”

“The regular one.” He answered with an amused expression. You shot him a glare, letting go. 

“Take off your tie.” You demanded and at your tone his hands flew to his tie, unknotting it with sly ease. You took over, whipping it off him. You blew out a sharp breath. 

“This is a new side of you.” X said, voice breathy and you met his eyes. 

Sometimes you got frustrated and angry. When you worked for your father your frustrations were seen as a weakness and what anger you had, your father had a whole reserve of. So usually you were able to take it out on the training dummies or run around the gym until you collapsed. You weren’t entirely sure what was making you angry here. Maybe the lack of control, your feelings of inferiority against X. 

You close your eyes, shaking your head. He’d done nothing wrong that you could see and you were misplacing your frustration. This just wasn’t something you were ready for. 

“This isn’t going to work.” You said after a moment. X’s thumb gently moved against your thigh. You couldn’t get out of your own head about all of this. About whether he was using you. “What… do you have to gain from this?” You ask and X’s hands pause on your skin. 

“I have nothing to gain but your time.”

“Bullshit.” You scoff. 

“Not everyone’s out for blood.” He says, reaching up and tucking your hair gently behind your ear. You met his eyes. “I think we both want similar things, judging by the way you kissed me.” You flushed at the memory. “I’m at your mercy, Y/n. What you say goes.” 

“If you're using me to— to get something I’ll kill you.” X smiles at your words, he drags his thumb gently across your cheek and leans in. “I mean it-,” He cuts you off, pressing a kiss to your lips. He kisses you tenderly, trying to make you forget those pesky worries. 

“I’ve been warned.” He whispers against your mouth. You breathed out shakily, flexing your hands tightly to keep from yanking him on top of you. He slowly pulled back, eyes looking over your flushed face. His hands slid onto your hips, easing you off the counter. “Walk me to the door?” He asks.

“You… you can stay. We can eat.”

“I don’t think we’ll do much eating if I stay.” He answers, his eyes eating up your face. You slowly nod your head, quickly fixing your dress, leading him to the door. You ruined the night, you felt it deep in your bones. You weren’t ready so you ruined things. He reaches for the elevator button. 

“Sorry.” You intone, a few steps behind him. His hand pauses, he doesn’t press the button. You look guiltily at the ground. “I ruined the date.”

“You didn’t.” He laughs and your eyes shoot up to him. “On the contrary, I had fun. Can we do this again?”

“You’re joking.” You respond tonelessly, bordering on surprise. 

“Nope. I’ve fallen quite hard. I think I need another night like this with you.” You can’t help but blush. “I’ll call you.” He presses the button and it dings, the doors sliding open. He turns and meets your eyes. You walk a few steps to the door, hand shooting out to grab his tie once more. You pull him to your lips again, a silent confirmation that you wanted to do this again too. You pulled away and let go of his tie just as the doors slid closed. You wouldn’t say you fell because only losers fall, but… it was sure something close to it. 

[houndofllove]

SAY YOU WILL — guilty pleasure

cw. explicit (18+). situationship. simon x f!reader.

i know this one took a while, thank you for waiting.

#04 crossed wires | masterlist | #06

Simon taps his foot on the floor a total of three times before he stops.

A nervous habit that he can’t break these days, his self control slowly waning. He’s already knocked on the door, now left waiting in the fluorescent light of your complex’s hallway wishing that someone would just dim the lights for a moment.

Beyond the door he can hear the shuffle of your slippers over the wooden floors, scuttling about from what he can only guess to be from sofa to table to kitchen on repeat, trying to clean up at the last minute.

He imagines you swiping crumbs off the pillows, putting plates in the sink that have been sitting around since last night. You’re always something of a whirlwind around him, energy bursting in flames like you’ve had nowhere else to put it since you met him. It’s strange that you like him so much when he’s more like water, itching to put out any flame it comes across.

Simon is grateful for the moment that your own panic gives him. A moment to collect himself. He imagines the things he’ll say when you open the door, if you ask about what he’s been doing. Nothing much. Missing you. Things that aren’t real answers.

When he considers that maybe nothing he says to you will ever be true, that he’ll always be covering up the festering welts of flesh sitting under his skin waiting to take him, he grips the bag of takeout so hard he hears the paper tear. 

“Simon!”

The door bursts open and you’re a beautiful fluster, giving a sheepish smile while he only has seconds to school his furrowed expression.

In front of him there’s something he can only see as a dream. You’re a softer version of yourself tonight, stripped down to the more intimate layers he’s yet to see of you. Because while he has seen you without makeup, in nothing but his own t-shirt, when it’s your own things, your own home and your own timings it all feels different. 

A pair of joggers sit low on your hips and the shirt you wear is so stretched out at the neck that it hangs off of one shoulder. In your hurry to get to the door on time a faint sheen of sweat covers your forehead, and your eyes have got this low, heavy but sparkling look in them which Simon recognises only appears when you’ve had a few drinks.

“Hey, love.” 

He leans down to kiss your cheek, slowly shuffling forward to close the door behind him as you tuck yourself into his body. Your face nuzzles into his chest, something akin to a puppy or kitten, and then your hands are reaching for the food in his hand, unbothered by the wrinkled and torn paper.

“You smell nice,” you giggle, and then when you take a step back to give him space to take his shoes off you look him up and down, biting your lip. “And look very handsome. Were you out before you called?”

Turning away to take the food to the table, Simon physically feels his lips turn, his brows creasing. Then the lump in his throat returns and he swallows hard before he musters up a vague response: “Yeah, kinda.”

“Well,” you start, your face hidden by the open cupboard as you reach up for plates. “Must not have been fun if you’re here with me.”

When your eye catches Simon’s it’s full of humour, your teeth showing from the cover of your lips, half a laugh already formed there. It nearly hurts him how infectious your laugh is; how even though just walking down the street felt like years of emotional torment you can easily pick up the pieces he wasn’t even aware he was leaving behind.

First you’ll start with your smile, which has him folding no matter what, and then he knows where the night will end. And it will feel good.

Already a little tipsy and his head slightly throbbing, the light from your cooker hood casts a strange halo of light around you as you get the food ready to dish up. Simon knows that it's fitting that you look like an angel tonight.

An angel. Him. Where does he stand? Does he even deserve to?

“Simon?” The concern on your face when he finally focuses is entirely undeserved. All of this is undeserved, but he takes it anyway. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. Repeats the phrase in some desperate attempt to soothe himself. 

“You look really pale.”

“I’m okay,” he insists, offering a small but flat smile, waving a hand. Unconvincing but he tries anyway.

“Don’t wait up then,” you say instead of pressing him further. “What do you want? Rice or noodles?”

Don’t wait up. Don’t wait. Don’t.

An hour later and the TV speakers roar with explosions, colours of brown and yellow and red splashing over where you sit curled into Simon's chest. Colours of war. Somehow, when Simon tilts his chin down to check that you’re still awake, the flutter of your eyelids suggesting that you’re more tired than you’ll let on, he sees that they look good on you. A dichotomy. The softness of your palms doesn’t hint at these things; they don’t even make space for the violence that has dictated his life. There is nowhere for the dirt to get trapped between the cracks.

But you look good. And maybe it means that he can stay, in all his filth and drowning guilt, without spreading it any further.

On the small chipped wooden table in front of the sofa the licked-clean plates sit in waiting to be taken to the sink, next to them the beer bottles now empty, condensation peeling at the corners of the labels. There’s one loosely in his grip too, his thumb brushing over the lifted slip again and again, slowly scraping it away as he fidgets uselessly as the movie drones on.

A war film—almost like you chose it on purpose. Historical events retold in modern movie sets with fake paint splattered over soldiers faces, events misconstrued for the sake of ease. Simon’s never been one to nitpick; he’s never even been the person to sit down for once and actually watch these kinds of things with his full attention to pick out the inaccuracies.

The scene changes, and when Simon sees it his breath hitches, a strangled sigh which he fails to keep down. Your head lifts up from his chest, eyes low as you peak up at him.

“You okay?”

His mouth goes dry. “Yeah.”

You poke your tongue into your cheek, trying to make out his expression and then eventually with an amused huff you laugh. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh, you so are.” Sitting up now, your hair scruffier than when you’d first laid down you stare at him with wild confusion. “What is it? Tell me.”

“It’s nothing,” he tries, but nothing about it successfully draws your attention back to the screen. He thinks he could say it now: risk the ending of this arrangement with a few simple words. There’s no way to predict or map out your answer, no use for military strategy when he doesn’t know you yet. Which direction you’ll take is a mystery. Simon himself can’t even understand what it is that’s bothering him more: his incredible fuck up or the fact no one in the movie is holiding a gun correctly or even wearing the right uniform.

Anxiety makes him stiffen and eventually he nods towards the TV. “It's–” He points a finger from where the rest hold the bottle, and then drops his hand. “He’s not holding it right.”

You swivel your head back to the screen where soldiers are moving through a forest. “Not holding what right?”

“The gun.”

You raise an eyebrow in amusement. “And you would know, because?”

Simon clears his throat awkwardly, scrambles for reasoning. “I’m interested in history.”

“Oh,” your mouth drops into a perfect ‘o’, one that Simon quickly wishes he could place his own over. Swallowing all your sounds. A good distraction, maybe even the best one. Or the easiest. “You’re one of those guys?”

He nods even though he doesn’t quite understand, watching as you look him up and down.

Then you lick your lips, something in your eyes growing brighter. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

Before he can explain himself you're crawling onto his lap, the glass plucked from his grasp, discarded somewhere behind you. Your hands brace on his shoulders as you bracket the spread of his thighs with your own, your smile cunning. He doesn’t try to suppress the shudder, sinking further into the cushions instead, tipping his head back on the lip of the sofa.

You hum, your face the closest it's been to him all night. “I think that's really hot.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re into nerds?”

“I’m into you,” you laugh, tucking a stray hair behind your ear and finally dipping to connect your lips together. He sighs into it, something too soft for him, softer than what he could ever deserve but he lets himself take it anyways. That’s what his arrangement is between you anyway: for him to take and you to give for as long as you can keep the other happy. It doesn’t matter here if he’s a good man. If he deserves the comfort and passions of someone else. Pretending, ignoring, living. That is enough for now.

Snaking a hand around behind your back he trails his fingers up through your hair, tugging at the scalp gently. The moan you release into his mouth has him doing the same, swallowing it up greedily as you shift your hips trying to find some leverage–

“God.” Simon curses when you grind down onto his lap, cock already pushing at the zipper of his jeans as his hand keeps you pressed to his lips. The word is enough to set you off like a trigger, no sign of you holding back as your hands wander over his body. Up his chest, smoothing on his neck and back down, reaching at the hem of his sweater and shirt at the bottom. A desperate yank as you try to hike them up and off of him.

“Simon,” you gasp, as if you’ve just come up for air from under the water. Hungry for life. “Simon–”

His name said as a mantra is the only motivation he needs from then on. Hands on yours, a brief aching pause where your mouths part and you’re clawing his clothes off, then him doing the same to yours. It’s entirely messy, a tangle of limbs as you rush through it, trying to sneak kisses in between. You manage to get his jeans down to his shins, and Simon has you in nothing but your panties.

Bare, your fingers trail over the hot skin of his stomach, tracing over the rough ridges of scars and muscle. It has him tensing, his grip on you tight, a hot, tightening coil threatening to finish him off then and there.

“Wha’d ya want, love,” he says against your lips, stealing another desperate, biting kiss before you can murmur your reply.

“You,” you groan. “You, just you. Fuck–”

Simon releases the grip in your hair and moves to your chin instead, fingers pinched at either side of your cheek to keep you in place while his other hand snakes down your body, nails dragging down your skin until he slips down your underwear.

All he finds is slick. Your cunt pulsing at his touch, your hips already trying to grind down and find sweet relief.

“Yer so wet f’me already.” He looks down at where part of his hand is obscured by the flimsy fabric and then back up at where your eyes have gone darker. Your breath wet and hot and heavy as he holds you, controls you. “Y’like this? Like me touchin’ you?”

“Yeah, ah–” You whine when he sinks a finger into you and he watches in strange delight as your brows crease and eyes shut. “Yes.”

The way you rock against his hand is addictive, each brush and jolt moving over his hardness as you chase your high. He adds another finger while you’re kissing again, tactfully moving his thumb towards your clit as he feels you tightening around him.

“Oh,” you cry. “Oh, I’m–”

“Close, swee’eart. I know,” he coos.

Any response from you gets cut off when the orgasm pulls you under the water, gasping as your pussy grips around his fingers so tightly, Simon fighting against it to keep working you up, keeping you high off your feet for as long as possible.

His mouth swallows up all your noises. His fingers cup your cunt as you buck against his hand, the dregs of your release fading.

“Fuck,” you murmur, your forehead sweaty as you rest it against his, catching your breath, panting into his mouth. His hands smooth over your sides, fingertips dragging, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“You feeling okay?” He checks, meeting your heavy gaze halfway.

“Uh-huh,” you nod slowly, hands settling on his shoulders as he lifts his hips up, tugging his boxers down enough for his cock to free itself. There’s no words exchanged when you take him into the sweat-slick palm of your hand, stroking him patiently.

His hand finds your cheek, thumb tracing over the wrinkles at the corner of your eyes, ignoring the way he pulses into the warmth of you for the sight of your relaxed face.

“Si,” you whisper, your breath lingering over his skin.

“Yeah?”

Your wishes are easy to fulfil. Moving on instinct, lifting you until your back meets the couch cushions, hair in knots, bashful, turning your cheek to press into a pillow as Simon hovers over you. Hands planted at each side of your head, lips moving down to kiss your cheek as he fits inside. A sweet mewl. A throaty groan. Ankles digging into his sides, his hips, tightening and in turn forcing him to slow. Too caught up in the moment, trying to chase a meditative high.

He hears it better like this, when he’s laving over the dip of your collarbone, salt on his tongue, the way your breath comes short. The almost silent desperation of your desire. Please, he hears. Oh, please. Please. Moves again, changes the angle and feels the way your body grips onto that feeling for dear life. 

Louder now, sinking deeper into waters he’s dragged you into, one of your own itching fingers reaching down to where he connects, drawing quick circles over your clit until your back is bowing. He plummets down there with you, buried face in your neck as he spills over your stomach, fingers coated in his own spend as he tugs himself to completion.

The weight on his chest lifts as he keeps you beneath him, both gasping for breath, both searching for light. Oh, sighed by both of you. Then a small laugh from you which makes him untangle himself from the heat of your skin, looking down confusedly until the laughter catches him, and he’s chuckling lightly in the amber glow of your living room.

“That was good,” you nod happily, a finger between your teeth as you grin up at him.

“Yeah?”

“I’m not one to lie,” you huff, looking down at where he rests, spent at your mound, come splattered over your stomach. “Care for a shower?”

Simon presses another kiss, this time into the hollow at the base of your neck before getting off the sofa, knee popping as he does. His arms wrap around your body, and then he’s hauling you up, hands on the globe of your ass as he carries you into the bathroom.

Easy things. Carrying you. Giving into your desires. Taking the clothes off your body and washing the sweat off your skin. These things are as easy as lying right now. Things he’s happy to do.

[slightly-knot-insane]

HIIIII OMLL BUT LIKE IMAGINE merman × Fem reader where the merman washed up to the sea and reader takes care of him at her home and studies him bc she's never seen a merman before then during that reader touches a part of his tail and he thinks she's initiating sex and you can do whatever you want with that 🫶

Dehydrated

[ m!merman x fem!reader ]

content: nsfw, praise, blowjob, p in v, squirting

Walking by the sea has always calmed you down. Especially far away from the hot tourist spots, when the sun sets and the shadows grow long. You are a local, so you know many hidden beaches. But you never expected to find one of the merfolk unconscious on one of them! You heard legends of them, but you never believed any of those fairy tales. But even after rubbing your eyes, there was a pretty merman in front of you. And he seemed unwell. Maybe he laid on the beach in the sun for too long.

He is also unexpectedly tiny, barely the length of your forearm. But his physique isn’t childlike. He simply looked like a small adult man - a doll-sized merfolk. 

"Are you okay?" you ask him, but he doesn't respond, his face and scales alarmingly pale and flaky.

With no one around to help you, you pick him up like a sleeping child and start walking toward the sea. You put him in the shallow water and splash him several times. Nothing, still out cold. He seems a bit heavier, though.

You aren’t sure what else he could need, but you are also scared of going back home so late at night - your phone battery is also almost empty. So you decide to take him home immediately, while there is still some light left.

Once you're in your apartment, you place him in your bathtub, because that seems the most logical action. You run to your kitchen to get some sea salt and mix it with the tap water, filling your bathtub. The merman is still out cold, but his lips quickly regain some colour, which is good news. You let your bathtub fill up to his face, making sure he doesn't — drown? Can merfolk drown? Are they more like fish or marine mammals? In any case, you need to change out of your wet clothes.

Once you return to the bathroom, you scream. Instead of a doll-sized person, now there is a huge merman lying in your bathtub, his tail too long to fit the bathtub, and his elbows almost touching the floor tiles. Did he grow? How so? How so fast? But at least he looks so much healthier. He is still asleep, though. You can't hear him breathing, but you can see his gills moving slightly. He looks content.

You approach him to admire his iridescent scales. They are so beautiful, so shiny. You glide your finger across his side to feel their texture, and you explore their edges and curves. And then you find... a slit, of sorts. It is also covered by scales, but in a different pattern. You try to see what is underneath it, and touch a fleshier kind of body part. Suddenly, a webbed hand wraps around your wrist. A wide-awake merman looks at you and smiles with a rather toothy grin.

"I'm s-sorry...", you utter in shock.

"That's okay," he replies as he pulls you onto him. "You saved me and you are curious. Let me introduce myself."

He turns your head toward his not-so-empty-anymore slit. An eel-like phallus, far more flexible than any dick you've ever seen, emerges and bends toward you. You were curious, but not that curious. Or maybe... But you weren't given a lot of time to think - the merman pushes your mouth on his cock.

"I will teach you..." he huffs as his wriggling cock explores your mouth, "everything... you want... about merfolk... Just... aahhh..." He shivers as you actively start sucking him off. "Such a good human... yes... good girl... I will teach you everything to be a good merfolk fucktoy."

Soon, you end up naked in your bathtub, intertwined with a merman you rescued only hours ago. He fucks your mouth, your tits, your thighs. Once he reaches your pussy, he fucks it so good, so hard, you squirt all over him. He is utterly shocked.

"Oh fuck... oh, I'm sorry... it was just so good," you apologize, shaking from your orgasm.

The merman takes you by your hips and, with dark mirth in his eyes, growls: "Again. Beautiful human liquid. I want it more. I was just getting dehydrated again."

Your new roommate stays with you for several days. He quickly learns how to make you squirt. Hard and long. He enjoys it far too much to ever let you leave his embrace without getting him all wet. Even after he recovers and returns to the sea, he insists that you regularly visit him so that he can exit the water to fuck you on the beach and see you climax. And, after your every passionate beach date, you both make sure to rehydrate.

[whatwooshkai]

https://www.tumblr.com/whatwooshkai/787344159706120192/i-havent-really-done-anything-for-pride-month-but

May I offer up Optiratch (Optimus Prime x Ratchet)?

“Patience, old friend,” Optimus murmurs, nuzzling his face deeper into the cables of Ratchet’s neck. “Mhm. Five more minutes.”

“Do not ‘old friend’ me,” Ratchet grumbles, trying to get his leg underneath him enough to push at Optimus’ broad chest. Predictably, it does nothing. “Shift change is in five minutes!”

“The world will not end if you’re a little late, my dear,” Optimus says, hugging Ratchet tighter.

“That’s what you think,” Ratchet growls. The more he contorts in his efforts to escape, the tighter Optimus holds him.

Ratchet has never once been and never will be at the mercy of his Prime- and he’s not above fighting dirty.

Jamming his fingers into the crook of Optimus’ elbow, he hooks two under sensitive wires and tugs.

Optimus yelps and his arms fly open, giving Ratchet the perfect opportunity to swing himself off the berth and out of arm’s reach.

“Well, since that’s over, I’ll be going now,” Ratchet says triumphantly, checking his internal chronometer. He’s still got two minutes, if he hustles he can-

-a grappling hook wraps tight around his waist, sending him flying right back into Optimus’ waiting arms.

“That was low,” he mutters once he’s got a secure hold on Ratchet again.

“That was necessary,” Ratchet snaps back, squirming to try and get an arm free. “I have to go to work!”

Just then, a comm crackles through from First Aid. .:Ratchet, where are you:.

Ratchet growls his displeasure, while Optimus gives a resounding purr in return. “Pain in my ass,” he mutters. .:Prime-shaped obstacle blocking my way. I should be there soon:.

.:No worries!:. First Aid chirps. .:Take as long as you need, you’re all good:.

Ratchet growls again, and feels Optimus smile against his backplate. “That sounded like you don’t need to rush, my love.”

“No, I actually needed to be there an hour ago-”

“Mhm, no,” Optimus drawls, curling tighter around Ratchet.

Ratchet is not giving up. No, no, he’s simply biding his time. Soon, he’ll escape.

Just five more minutes.

[shintaru]

Sugar talking, your eyes only

🪼 m.list ♡ taglist ♡ recent fics🪼

Synopsis ~ Sending him 🌶️ pics when he’s busy

Tagging ~ @bfwooin @sylith @i-nssomniia @zyart-jpg @wthphe1n

*click*, *click*, *click*, you take a few photos of your chest in a white lacy bra. You scroll through them and send the best ones to your boyfriend. The read receipts pops up instantly. “I got your black card in my bra 😏” You send the text immediately noticing the ellipses but they disappear as quickly as they arrived. You start getting self conscious letting your mind race wondering if he didn’t like the photo.

Your thoughts are interrupted when you feel your phone vibrating. Unlocking your phone you return back to your messages with Wooin seeing he’s sent quite a lot. You look over everything one by one. The first message he sent was “Trying to get me to come home early? How cute. I’m omw” the text makes you smile. “So he did like the photo” you thought as you read over the next message.

“Here enjoy~ 👅” with a lot of photo and video attachments. The attachment of images started with only showing the tint in his sweatpants then with each swipe they became more erotic. To photos with different angles of his cock out. He even sent a few live images of him pumping his fist around his cock. There was even a live image of him tapping his cock on his phone camera.

Then you made it to the videos that had volume…The video starts with him freeing his cock from his sweatpants after that he’s swirling his thumb over his tip in circular motions before he slowly rolls his fist down his length. He lets out a low groan “F-fuck, Y/N” he says while letting out a breathy moan. He slides his hand back up his length, twisting it when he reaches the tip.

He’s slow with the motion at first he then begins to pick up the pace. After a while he slows down again he drags his hand slowly down his length and back up one last time. He cums a lot getting some all over his tattooed hand. He pumps his fist a few more times around his length letting out low groans trying to ride out his release. Those tattoos get you every time he looks way too good with them.

You read the last text he had sent after the attachments. “Touch yourself to these for me while you wait” you grab your vibrator from your nightstand drawer while turning it on to its highest setting. After you free yourself from the consignments of your clothing you place the vibrator to your clit. You begin to feel hazy as your release slowly builds up.

After some minutes your body begins to shake uncontrollably and you’re finding it hard to hold your vibrator in place. Your thighs tremble violently as you try to keep them open. Your release hits you hard making you squirt. Your hole clenches around nothing; you moan out your boyfriend's name as your body continues to convulse against your mattress. You didn’t notice Wooin watching you from the foot of your bed until he spoke “That’s hot! I hope you’re ready for more cause I’m not waiting”

Please be patient with me 😭 I know I write slow but this is what my drafts and queue are looking like… I’ll get them all done eventually!

[fanartsofliliput]

The implied mother-daughter relationship in this movie makes me ill. here is a ficlet with them <3

If there is no canon about Rumi growing up beside that one scene store bought is fine!!!

She looked like her father so, so much, that kid. Almost nothing like her mother.

It hurt to look at her. So Celine didn't. Celine just smiled in her general direction, braided her hair, so bright, so unlike her mother's black, and kept singing. She kept singing their old songs, kept returning to her best friend's grave, and kept raising their little girl, their half-demon.

She kept wishing for a better world, one where her adopted daughter had a real mother, and she - her friend. She kept wishing for a world where her friend never fell in love, never gave birth, never died.

She kept wishing that her friend would be still here, on the nights Rumi couldn't sleep, on the days she cried so, so loudly, scared of her own skin, striped and unnatural - Celine kept wishing.

And she kept shushing the voice in her ear, a familiar, dangerous voice, that was whispering ever since her friend smiled happily at her, presenting her boyfriend and looking so, so happy.

Celine would never listen to it that much. Only when she felt the endless hole in her soul trob particularly sharply.

She loved her girl, she really did. But love isn't enough, sometimes. Sometimes it doesn't smooth over all the cracks.

Sometimes daughters sing only because you taught them to. Their eyes are black, bottomless voids that reflect light with uncanny swiftness, pupils constricting in at the ends and out in the middle, glowing in the dark.

For Celine, love was telling her to hide her stripes, curling sweetly under her ribs, it was reminding her to sing and hum and talk with her human voice, sweet and high, not with the vibrating bass of her demon half, rumbling in the little lungs, purring at hugs and kisses and all the loving touch.

That loving touch was taken away quickly every time she showed her inhumane nature - jerked away from amber eyes hands, broken hugs whenever Rumi purred, soft fingers not touching her stripes whenever she needed sunscreen.

Love wasn't a miracle. It couldn't fix all.

Rumi's eyes shined in the darkness, two little moons in the corridors without lightning. She loved singing low notes, screaming to the metal songs in her room. Her hands kneaded soft dresses and skirts unconsciously, clawed at the uncomfortable ones, trying to scratch them off. She hated all strong scents, sneezed and coughing at the galas her second mother forced her to attend.

Rumi tried to be human, she really did. But her father's legacy was rooted deeply, roots hooking in her veins, claws scraping her bones from inside out. She moved like a yearling tiger, softly and desperately trying to be smooth - even tigers are clumsy in teenage years.

Celine loved her girl, she really did. But as Rumi aged, she closed her doors. She moved her furniture around herself and made escape planes on the back of her mind. She touched her daughter less and less, smiled at her papers and pushed the new talents higher and higher, refusing to think about how far the stripes have progressed.

Old, dying star, pushed forward new constellations, letting them shine so, so brightly that it blinded her, and visited her dead. She sent them off on tours, on trips around the world, and stayed home, guiltily feeling relief.

Celine just needed the Hunters to win, to continue her legacy and reach further than that, so she could stop feeling guilty every time her daughter looked at her, and she couldn't look back.

Just a little more, Celine told herself. Just a couple more shows, and Rumi gets rid of her stripes and her amber eyes and all of her demon habits.

Rumi smiled from the screens with unhumanly sharp teeth, sanded down to the standard, and sang with her human voice, making herself take higher and higher notes, and hid her stripes from everyone but her mother.

The tension grew and grew, just like the stripes on her daughter's skin, just like the fans of her songs, and Celine felt it suffocate the remains of her relationship to her daughter.

They never see each other, those days. One would think it would be easier.

But Celine just worries. Will her girl finally break, snap, shatter her humanity on one of her shows? Will she break the Hunters trying to show herself, all of it? Will the demons kill her little girl, caught her under some rooftop and present Celine with her head one of those days?

Rumi will succeed, she's destined for it. But Celine still worries.

Her little girl, her daughter. The last part of her best friend. Soft hair, sharp chin, dark eyes. Purring under her hands, bright amber eyes, creased in happiness.

High notes and low notes. A good song needs both.

Celine sings their old songs and feels like crying every time there isn't another voice joining her.

She visits her dead, thinking of a man's hands kneading her best friend's belly, of dark, low lullabies in the night Rumi couldn't remember. Celine couldn't bring herself to like him, but he made her friend happy. So she let him live.

Celine stops checking on her girl's progress. She knows she will only go up, and it feels pointless to stalk their socials now. Instead, she sends Rumi pictures of her burnt pancakes and badly sewn sheets.

When she visits her dead one night, Rumi comes back, stripes all over and a burning yellow eye filled with pain. She asks for death, for a release, but Celine is so, so selfish.

Her daughter is crying, and Celine can't even touch her cheek when she sees the stripes there. Her hand hangs in the air, unsure, awkward, and drops back down.

Love isn't a miracle. It cannot heal all.

She still flinches when Rumi screams that she doesn't love her. Not all of her.

Celine can't even argue - she trembles all over, staring strictly at her best friend's daughter's feet.

When Rumi leaves, Celine's knees give out. She cries in the charp cold air, guilty and remorseful, and tries to breathe through it.

She stumbles back home only after the barrier comes back up, feeling old and empty.

When Rumi stumbles into her front door with her band, red-eyed and still smiling, Celine pours them tea and looks on, as they devoir half her pantry and fall on her spare couch, falling asleep immediately.

Mira and Zoey don't flinch from already fading stripes on her daughter skin, they just trace them with their fingers while falling asleep. When Rumi starts purring, half-asleep already and clinging to Mira's body with all her limbs, Zoey just eeps in awe and burrows her way into the cuddle.

Celine thinks of her daughter's childhood and feels an old guilt rising up. She doesn't push it down this time, just covers the girls with a blanket and goes to sleep herself.

She thinks of bright amber eyes and still flinches. But she doesn't close her door that night.

[riemanifests]

How do you not let it get to you nothing is happening? I've been constantly changing affirmations, trying to understand how to manifest what I want, how to accept my desires and I feel burned out.

you don't need to be putting so much effort to manifest so breathe. more and more effort is not going to make it happen, more relaxation and less of a grip is going to help you manifest. and i get it trust me sometimes even today it frustrates me, so you can let it get to you can be angry for a moment, let it affect you and feel your feelings, but then when that moments over what do you do? you get back up and you get back on track and you continue persisting. you don't prolong the moment and you don't just give up after, no you let it out and release it then return to that idea of i know i can do this and i know this is mine, so i will keep persisting. if you are constantly changing affirmations that sort of tells me you're not even being consistent. there is no magic or perfect affirmation, just keep it as simple as possible and stick to one. but again if you're reaching the point of burn out relax. breathe. stop putting pressure on yourself because this isn't something you hustle manifestation is something you're already doing, so that alone should tell you okay i don't have to do too much like the figuring out the when the how and even the actual manifesting part is not your job, your job is to claim it and continue claiming it. let everything else do its own thing and just try to relax. also be consistent with the affirmation you're using, and make sure it's an affirmation that actually makes you feel great or that actually idk aligns with you. like honestly you don't need to affirm unless you waver a fuck lot but again the method is there to help you so choose one that truly does help. how to manifest? claim it and stick to that claim.

[fattorimunin]

I’ve started trying to translate some of the pieces I’ve written into English.

If you notice anything that needs improvement, please feel free to let me know—I'd be happy to have your help.

————

My little monster

***

Link first saw him in the midst of a battle.

The battle was not going well. The enemy was cunning and devious, sending swarms of ghosts to attack from the rear. Link's army, caught between these surprise raids and the oncoming horde, was struggling to hold its ground. The frontlines were battered and bruised, and the medics were scrambling to evacuate the wounded back to the camp. Every chaotic footstep felt like it was stomping on Link's chest.

"Tighten the left flank! Don't get bogged down! Cover the central unit and get the wounded out of there!"

He had no choice but to give the order to retreat. Too many wounded, too little gain. They couldn't afford more pointless casualties.

And that was when he saw a figure he would never forget.

It was just a child, or so Link thought. Nine years old? Maybe eleven or twelve?

A baby-faced boy with plump cheeks and an intense focus in his bright blue eyes. Long lashes framed those eyes, and though his face was still soft with youth, it was easy to imagine how striking he would be when grown. Just one look at those cheeks made Link want to pinch them.

The child wore green and had a festival mask tilted over his head—the kind parents buy for their kids during town fairs. He was darting through enemy soldiers with alarming agility. Link's heart nearly burst through his throat.

"Kid! Hey, you there! It's dangerous, get over here!"

Anyone with a shred of humanity would instinctively want to protect a child. But the Hylian boy didn’t even acknowledge Link. That green-clad figure vanished into the enemy ranks.

"Link, what's wrong?"

Princess Zelda was helping the medics when she saw him panicking.

"No... Your Highness, there's a child over there—a Hylian child! I have to save him!"

The cities of Hyrule had long been evacuated due to the war. There shouldn't have been any civilians, let alone a child. But the battlefield was no place for debate.

"It's too dangerous. That child will die out there," Impa said, rushing over with a deep frown.

"I have to go. Please hold the line for me, Your Highness."

Without waiting for a reply, Link dashed toward the enemy's stronghold.

Impa looked ready to shout after him, but Zelda raised a hand.

"Let him go. I trust Link."

The two women returned to the fray, defending the wounded while Link vanished into the chaos.

He swung his sword through the crowd. His blue scarf now soaked red with blood—both his and theirs. The enemy numbers were thickening, but he didn't slow.

Then, something odd happened.

The monsters charging him began to look terrified. They ran, eyes wide with horror, ignoring Link entirely in their desperate flight.

This wasn't right.

Link was trained to notice even the smallest shifts on the battlefield. As a commander, he had to.

Breaking through the disarray, he reached the enemy base—only to find even more fleeing monsters.

And then he saw it.

The green-clad child wielded a heavy broadsword, longer than two-thirds of his height. A blade like that should be impossible for a child to use, yet the boy swung it like a feather, dancing through the battlefield.

Blood painted the blade. Corpses and body parts littered the ground. The child, mid-strike, decapitated the enemy commander with a clean swing.

Death was but a crimson flourish around him.

Thick blood soaked into his green tunic, dripping along the curves of his body. As the boy sheathed his sword and turned, Link met his eyes.

Those eyes...

They did not belong to a child.

They were cold, ancient, reflecting a weariness far beyond his years. Like still water under moonlight. No joy, no fear, no anger—only fatigue.

"Who are you...?"

Link instinctively tensed. Was this a new monster? A trap?

The child said nothing. He barely glanced at Link, brushing past him.

"Wait! Who are you? Why are you here?"

Link grabbed the boy's wrist, intending to carry him back for answers. The stronghold was nearly empty now, but that meant it could easily become a deathtrap if reinforcements arrived.

He couldn't risk uncertainty. He had to take the boy back.

And that was his mistake.

The boy's eyes flickered, just for a moment.

Link had seen that look before. In Twilight’s Hyrule, where feral cats roamed.

That was the exact look one such cat gave him after he accidentally stepped on its tail.

He hadn’t meant to! They always snuck into the tents, purring and begging for food. He was just distracted.

And just like that day—

Thwack!

A tiny fist smashed into his face with stunning force. Link staggered, dizzy, releasing the boy.

In a flash, the child bolted.

Stumbling back to the camp, Link found the battlefield oddly quiet. Most of the monsters had scattered. The wounded were safely back. He staggered into his tent, slumping against the wall.

It hurt. Not a battlefield injury, but the sting of humiliation. A child had punched him. And escaped.

"Link, you're back! Everyone made it out safely. Was it you who killed the enemy commander?"

Lana rushed in like a songbird, clutching her magic tome.

After Link had disappeared into enemy territory, the tide had turned. The monsters had scattered, retreating or wandering aimlessly.

He opened his mouth to respond, but Lana shrieked at the sight of his face.

"Ahh! Link! Your face!"

Others rushed in. Zelda gasped, hand over her lips.

"By the Goddess! Link, what happened to your face?!"

Link grabbed a hand mirror and looked. His once-pristine face—the one fit for statues in every Hyrule plaza—now bore a swollen, bruised right eye. A clear fist-shaped mark.

"What’s going on?!" Zelda demanded, worried.

He touched the bruise and sighed.

"Sorry…… I tried to bring the kid back. He hit me and ran."

Zelda disappeared for a moment and returned with an ice pack and balm.

"You got punched……by a child?"

"Yeah."

"In a monster-infested stronghold? That poor kid must have been terrified. I hope he's okay."

Lana sighed, resting her cheek on her palm.

Holding the ice pack to his face, Link replayed the whole encounter.

That child wasn't normal. Not an enemy, not an ally, just something else entirely.

And leaving something like that on the battlefield……

No commander could sleep easy after that.

He had to tell the others.

[twistedheartsclub]

The Alphas Claim Male X Female Reader

⚠️ Non-consent • Psychological Manipulation • Obsession • Power Imbalance • Forced Mating • Emotional Trauma • Predatory Behavior • Dark Werewolf Lore • Pack Mentality • Control & Possession

It was a warm Wednesday afternoon, the air thick with the scent of sunscreen and juice boxes. Most of the children had gone home. Only a few lingered, gripping backpacks too big for their bodies, voices high with afterschool fatigue.

Y/N stood just outside her classroom door, her hands nervously clasped in front of her. She spotted him instantly—the man. Broad, severe, and far too intense to be standing in front of a kindergarten classroom. He wore all black. Boots. A dark coat despite the weather. He looked like he belonged behind tinted glass, not beside the sandbox.

The children ran to him—Ines and Leo, twins with sharp eyes and sharper tempers. They clung to him like shadows, babbling over each other.

She cleared her throat. “Excuse me, sir?”

His head turned. Slowly.

Her breath caught—his eyes, they were almost too bright. A strange, unnatural gold that held her still like prey. Y/N smiled, soft but practiced.

“I’m Ms. Y/N. I teach Ines and Leo. I was wondering if I could have just a moment of your time.”

He didn’t respond. Just stared, one brow slightly raised.

She pushed on, pretending her throat wasn’t dry.

“There was a small incident at recess today. Leo pulled Ines’s hair and she bit him. I separated them quickly, and we talked about it—privately, of course. I, um… I offered them a popsicle in exchange for peace.” She looked embarrassed. “Not my usual method, but it worked.”

Nothing.

She forced another smile, gentler this time. “I just wanted to make sure everything’s okay at home. They’re bright kids, but there’s clearly something they’re working through—”

“You’re human,” he said.

The words were blunt. Cold. Not a question. A judgment.

Y/N blinked. “I—uh—yes?”

He looked her over like she was a creature from a zoo. Harmless. Soft. Insignificant.

“I’ll speak to them,” he said at last. “You don’t need to concern yourself with things beyond your understanding.”

Her brows pinched. “I… I’m just trying to help.”

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, and Y/N felt her spine lock in place. He smelled strange—not cologne, but something older. Like earth. Wildness. Blood.

“I said,” he murmured, leaning just close enough for her heart to skip, “don’t concern yourself.”

Then he turned to the twins, who both stood silently now. No more giggles. No chatter. They climbed into his truck like soldiers returning to a commander.

And just like that, he was gone.

Y/N stood rooted in place, watching the tail lights disappear down the road.

She told herself he was just a rude man. A cold guardian. Maybe a little too controlling.

The gravel crunched beneath the tires as he pulled into the long drive that led to the pack house. It was tucked into the thick woods just beyond the edge of town—where no streetlights reached and the trees grew wild and dense. The kind of place humans avoided unless invited. And they were never invited.

Leo and Ines sat in the back, silent now. They knew better than to speak when their uncle was this quiet.

The front door opened before he reached the steps. His sister—Marisol—stood barefoot on the porch, wiping flour from her hands onto a dishtowel.

“Took your time,” she said with a smile. “Everything alright?”

He opened the door, jerking his chin toward the twins. “They fought again.”

From inside, her mate Ruben groaned with amusement. “What was it this time? Who gets the bigger stick? Who wins in a death match over juice boxes?”

“Hair pulling and biting,” he muttered, stepping inside and removing his coat. “The girl bit him hard. Drew blood.”

Marisol gasped, though not out of fear. “Ines is turning out more wolf than I thought.”

Ruben chuckled from the kitchen. “Just like her mother.”

“I handled it,” the male lead said.

He didn’t say how. He didn’t say who approached him.

But Marisol glanced at him. That knowing look—the kind only siblings could read.

“You met her, didn’t you?”

He didn’t respond. Just raised a brow and walked toward the den.

She followed. “The teacher. Y/N.”

“Human,” he said flatly.

“Yes, obviously. But not stupid.” She folded her arms. “She’s kind. Gentle with the kids. And patient—Leo’s still learning how to regulate when he shifts too close to the surface.”

“She bribes them.”

“She rewards them,” Marisol corrected sharply. “She makes sure no child feels like they’re bad. That’s rare.”

“She asked questions.”

“She’s a teacher,” Marisol snapped. “It’s her job to care.”

He exhaled through his nose, low and controlled, and rubbed his jaw with a calloused hand. “Humans ask questions. Questions lead to trouble. That’s why we stay quiet, stay out of sight.”

“But you don’t want to stay out of her sight, do you?”

That made him pause.

Marisol smiled to herself. “You’re circling.”

“I’m not,” he said. Too quickly.

She tossed the towel onto a chair and headed back toward the kitchen. “Well, if you’re not, good. Because I’d hoped they’d move up grades with her. She’s the kind of woman who makes the kids feel safe.”

Safe. That word echoed.

He turned away, jaw tightening. He’d seen her eyes—round, hesitant, too trusting. He didn’t like the way they made his chest ache.

Dinner was being laid out by the pack members. Roasted meat. Wild herbs. The scent of blood and rosemary filled the house.

He sat at the head of the table.

“She doesn’t know what we are,” Marisol said softly as she passed behind him.

“No,” he agreed.

But he knew what she was.

Sweet. Unaware.

Breakable.

And in a world like theirs…

That kind of softness never went untouched for long.

The scream didn’t come from her mouth.

It came from Leo.

The boy lunged first, snarling through milk teeth as he tackled his sister to the ground, wild and fast like a dog off-leash. Ines shrieked back, her small fists clawing at his face. Their bodies rolled in the dirt, a blur of sharp elbows, flying hair, and the low growl that froze the air in Y/N’s lungs.

“Hey!” she called out, heart racing. “Hey, stop—STOP!”

She rushed forward, slipping slightly in her sandals as she tried to wedge herself between them. She grabbed Leo by the waist—he was stronger than he should’ve been, bones too dense, arms too solid—and just as she tried to separate them—

A flash of pain bloomed down her forearm.

Teeth.

It happened fast.

She gasped but didn’t cry out. Her body went rigid, a thousand thoughts racing through her—dirt, sweat, spit, blood.

Still, her voice stayed steady. Gentle. Firm.

“Alright. That’s enough.”

The twins froze.

Leo’s lips trembled when he saw what he’d done. Ines went pale. There was a long, bloody scratch running from Y/N’s elbow to her wrist, swelling already where tiny teeth had broken skin.

She didn’t yell.

She didn’t even flinch.

Y/N stood slowly, dusting herself off with her free hand. Her flowered dress fluttered in the soft wind, a smear of dirt on the hem. She looked down at the twins, eyes soft but commanding.

“Come on, both of you. Let’s go inside.”

Their heads bowed. They followed her in silence.

Inside the classroom, Y/N sat them down at the quiet table near the art shelf. She opened the first aid kit with her good hand and wrapped the wound in gauze, ignoring the burning pulse beneath her skin.

“I’m going to call home,” she said calmly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Her voice remained gentle, despite the blood staining her bandage. “You’ll sit right here and think about your choices.”

“But—” Ines began.

“No,” Y/N said. “No ‘but.’ Someone needs to know what happened today.”

They sat. Wide-eyed. Too still.

Y/N stepped outside the classroom and pulled out her phone. Her thumb hesitated for only a second before pressing Marisol’s name in her contacts. The phone rang once.

Twice.

Then answered.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mrs. Araya,” Y/N said, forcing a small, polite smile into her tone. “It’s Ms. Y/N from school. I’m so sorry to bother you, but there’s been another incident.”

The silence on the line was heavy.

“Ines and Leo got into a fight. Again. And I tried to separate them… but I was accidentally scratched. And bitten.”

The silence deepened. Thicker. Her chest tightened.

“I’m okay,” she added quickly. “But I think it’s time someone came by. Maybe their father or uncle too.”

“We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Click.

Y/N stood frozen for a moment, staring at her phone. The air felt colder suddenly.

She turned and flagged down another teacher at the fence, asking if she could watch her class while she waited with the twins.

By the time she walked back inside, the children hadn’t moved. Leo’s hands were clenched. Ines was biting her lip hard.

They knew who was coming.

So did Y/N.

And for the first time since she started teaching…

She wasn’t sure if she should be afraid.

The classroom smelled like glue, crayon wax, and something else.

Blood.

He smelled it before he even opened the door.

Inside, the twins were hunched over a table with a puzzle between them—an illusion of peace, though he could see the tension in their little shoulders. Ines kept glancing up. Leo didn’t touch the pieces—his fingers just hovered, trembling slightly.

Marisol rushed past him first.

“¡Mírame! Look at me,” she demanded in a low, sharp voice. “What were you thinking? You bit your teacher? Are you wolves or wild animals?”

She took their faces in her hands, checking their eyes, their jaws, inspecting them for any trace of what they’d done. Her voice broke into a scolded whisper only they could hear, words laced with instinct and warning.

Ruben entered next, towering as always, his presence commanding but not as still as his brother-in-law’s.

“Someone better explain,” he muttered, arms crossed. “What happened?”

Then the silence shifted.

She turned.

Her.

The teacher. The human.

She stood near the bookshelf, one hand cradling her bandaged arm, the other gently tucked under her elbow. Her hair was down—soft waves that brushed her collarbone—and her summer dress made her look more like a garden than a threat.

But her blood said otherwise.

Sweet.

Warm.

Close.

His nostrils flared.

“Ms. Y/N,” Ruben said. “Are you alright?”

She smiled, always with that damn smile—like kindness could fix what beasts broke.

“I’m okay,” she said gently. “They just got a little too rough. These things happen.”

Marisol glanced sharply at her brother. He said nothing.

“I did want to bring something up,” Y/N continued, hesitant but composed. “I’ve been thinking... maybe it would help to look into human methods—some behavioral guidance or a child therapist? Maybe even something simple like calming activities or focus tools. Some children respond well to small doses of natural supplements.”

He could hear it.

Her heartbeat.

Faster now. A nervous flutter beneath porcelain skin.

“Pills,” he said, voice cutting through the room like a blade. “You want to drug them?”

She blinked. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Therapists,” he added, stepping forward. “To sit them down and tell them to breathe through it when the beast inside is clawing through their ribs?”

Y/N stood frozen, her lips slightly parted, confused.

“They’re children,” she said softly.

“No,” he replied. “They’re wolves.”

Silence fell.

Ruben cleared his throat. Marisol gave her brother a warning glance.

Y/N said nothing. But she didn’t step back either. She just looked at him—really looked.

And he could hear her body’s betrayal.

Her words were calm, but her pulse screamed.

Fear. Submission. Curiosity.

She didn’t know. Not really. But some part of her did. The animal in her blood—dormant, human, useless—still knew to be afraid.

He inhaled again. Her scent curled inside him like smoke.

“I’ll be taking them home,” he said. “Now.”

No one argued.

But as he walked past her, he slowed. Just enough to lean in.

“You bleed too easily,” he said low, so only she could hear. “Be careful where you offer your softness, Ms. Y/N. Not every creature deserves it.”

He walked out, children in tow.

But her scent followed him all the way home.

The clearing smelled of fresh blood and pine. Deer carcass stripped clean, fire crackling low beneath a hanging pot of wild herbs. Laughter passed between wolves in human skin—packmates stretching sore muscles and basking in the afterglow of the morning hunt.

Children wrestled in the tall grass. The older ones sparred with dull blades. It was peace, the kind only predators understood after a successful kill.

He sat near the edge of the circle, quiet as always. Watching. Listening. His hearing stretched far beyond the noise—catching heartbeats, distant birdsong, the crunch of meat between teeth. But none of it stirred him.

Not the way she did.

Y/N.

Three days since he last saw her.

Three days since her blood touched the air and the image of her in that damn flowered dress rooted itself in his mind like a curse.

Marisol was laughing at something Ruben said when her phone rang—sharp and sudden in the natural quiet. She glanced at the screen, then stood, stepping aside to answer.

The conversation was brief.

Calm voice. Male. Older.

Her posture changed by the end.

When she returned, she didn’t sit. Her eyes flicked to her husband first, then slowly to her brother.

He raised a brow. “What?”

She swallowed. “We’re to have a meeting with the principal.”

That silenced the firelight chatter. Even the pups froze mid-play.

Ruben shifted in his seat. “Did something happen?”

“Not with the children,” she said carefully. “He just wants to meet. Us. In person.”

“With all of us?” her brother asked, already rising.

She gave him that look—the one that said you know exactly why.

“I assume Ms. Y/N made some mention. Maybe not about what they are, but... enough to concern him.”

He let the words settle. Let them echo through his ribcage.

Humans weren’t stupid. They were slow. But slow things still had instincts. And instincts, if prodded too often, became suspicion.

“Did she say I threatened her?” he asked, voice low.

“No,” Marisol said, but her voice had gentled. “She’s not like that.”

“She called your parenting into question,” he growled, stepping closer.

“She suggested options because she cares,” she snapped back. “She doesn’t understand what they are, but she knows they’re different—and she’s trying to help the only way a human can. With structure. With heart.”

He stared into the fire for a long moment, jaw tight.

“They’ll ask questions at this meeting,” Ruben muttered. “They always do.”

“She’s not the danger,” Marisol said, voice lowering. “But you keep pushing her, and she will start pulling threads.”

A beat passed.

He turned and began walking toward the house.

“Where are you going?” Ruben called.

“To get dressed.”

“For what?”

“For the meeting.”

The classroom hummed with soft voices and laughter. Blocks clacked. Plastic pieces scattered across the floor as Leo and Ines played a matching game with two other children. Y/N knelt beside them, hands folded in her lap, offering gentle guidance.

She smiled, but her heart wasn’t in it today.

Her blouse fluttered faintly with every breath. Pale blue cotton, loose at the wrists. Her long skirt pooled at her knees. Her braids were still damp from her morning shower, curled slightly against the heat. She looked like peace.

She wanted to be peace.

But her arm still ached from the scratch three days ago.

And the principal had seen it happen again this morning—Ines screaming, Leo striking out blindly. Y/N had wrapped her arms around them both, calming them with her voice, never raising it once. She hadn't even intended to report it. She never did.

But Mr. Hughes had witnessed everything.

And he had called the family.

She hadn’t planned on a meeting. Hadn’t wanted one. When she tried to gently protest, to say “It’s under control”, the principal gave her a look like this is beyond your kindness, Ms. Y/N.

So now she sat quietly in the side chair of his office, legs crossed at the ankle, back straight, hands pressed in her lap like a child waiting to be scolded.

Then came the sound.

The click of the front doors.

The low thud of heavy boots in the hallway.

Her eyes flicked up just as the family entered—Marisol first, a soft smile on her lips, followed by her husband, taller and firm. And then him.

Him.

The uncle.

His presence swallowed the room.

Black shirt rolled to his elbows. Broad shoulders. Bare throat. Nothing delicate or approachable about him. He didn’t look at her at first—but she felt him watching.

Her small smile faltered.

She dropped her gaze, pretending to adjust the edge of her skirt. Her fingers trembled slightly. She hated that.

She hated that he could still make her feel so much with a single look.

Chairs scraped across tile. They sat around the table.

He pulled out his chair last.

The weight of him sank into the room.

Mr. Hughes, tall and gray-bearded, cleared his throat and folded his hands on the desk. “Thank you all for coming. I’ll get to the point quickly—there have been repeated incidents involving Ines and Leo. While I understand some behavior is age-appropriate, what I witnessed today goes beyond the usual sibling scuffle.”

Y/N kept her eyes down, her braid falling over her shoulder.

“We understand,” Marisol said, calm and diplomatic.

“I’m not here to accuse,” Mr. Hughes continued. “I’m here to collaborate. Ms. Y/N has done a wonderful job de-escalating things quietly in the past, but today I felt it necessary to bring this to your attention personally.”

“I appreciate that,” Ruben said. “We’ll speak with them again.”

“Good,” Mr. Hughes nodded. “But it may also be time to explore supplemental solutions. A behavioral specialist, maybe. We have access to excellent child psychologists—”

“I thought this was a school,” the uncle interrupted.

Y/N's eyes darted up.

His voice was like cold steel dragged over stone.

The room stilled. Marisol exhaled quietly through her nose.

“It is,” the principal said firmly, “but we’re also responsible for the emotional wellbeing of our students.”

“They’re not fragile,” he replied, staring directly at Mr. Hughes now. “They don’t need soft words and fidget toys. They need discipline.”

Y/N didn’t speak.

But he turned his gaze on her anyway—sharp and heavy. Her pulse thudded in her neck.

“You’re quiet today, Ms. Y/N,” he said.

“I didn’t ask for this meeting,” she answered softly.

His eyes narrowed slightly, as if surprised by her honesty.

“I’m not upset with them,” she added, trying to sound calm. “They’re spirited. It’s my job to help them channel that. I just… didn’t expect it to escalate again so soon.”

“Did they hurt you?” he asked.

She blinked. “I—no. Not really. Just a scratch.”

“Let me see.”

Her breath caught. “What?”

“Your arm. Show me.”

Mr. Hughes cleared his throat. “That won’t be necessary—”

But she’d already begun to lift her sleeve, nervously, revealing the faint pink line across her skin. It was healing, but still visible.

His jaw ticked.

She quickly lowered it again.

“I’ve had worse,” she murmured, “and I don’t blame them.”

He didn’t respond. But the heat in his stare said more than words could.

Mr. Hughes shifted his attention back to the family. “I just ask that we all remain communicative. Ms. Y/N has shown nothing but compassion and care.”

“Too much of it,” the uncle muttered.

Y/N looked down again.

She didn’t see the way his gaze lingered on her mouth.

Didn’t see how his fingers curled beneath the table.

Or how her scent made something hungry inside him begin to rise.

The room was thick with tension. Y/N tried to breathe through it, her hands folded tightly in her lap, but her chest was tight. The air was too still. Too sharp.

Caelum hadn’t looked away from her since she lowered her sleeve.

And then, with a cold edge in his voice, he turned back to the principal. “So you’re telling me my niece and nephew are too violent for your school?”

“I’m saying,” Mr. Hughes replied, keeping his tone even, “that this is a public institution with expectations for behavior, and I will not tolerate injury to my staff—intentional or not.”

“They’re five,” Caelum snapped.

“They drew blood,” Hughes snapped back.

“Children roughhouse. They bite. They scream.”

“Human children don’t growl like feral dogs,” the principal said, louder now. “Or leave scratches deep enough to scar.”

Caelum stood, the chair groaning as it scraped across the floor. “Careful, old man.”

Y/N's breath hitched.

Mr. Hughes rose too—taller than she expected, for once looking like the man who used to be a military officer and not just the kindly grandfatherly presence who ran morning announcements.

“Oh, I see it now,” he said coolly. “The temper. The need to dominate. No wonder those kids act like wild animals—they’re just reflecting what they see at home.”

Caelum’s hand twitched at his side.

Y/N’s eyes went wide. Her heart raced.

Marisol rose next. “Enough,” she said, voice tight. “You’re pushing.”

“I’m protecting my staff,” Hughes said. “And clearly, your brother is incapable of civil conversation. Or respect.”

“I respect what’s earned,” Caelum growled.

“That’s not respect, Mr…?”

“Caelum Araya.”

Mr. Hughes nodded tightly, as if mentally filing the name away. “Well, Mr. Araya, consider this official. Ines and Leo will be transferred to another classroom. Effective immediately.”

Y/N’s head shot up. “Wait—what?”

The room went completely still.

“They’ll be placed under a different teacher’s care,” Mr. Hughes continued. “Ms. Y/N has done her best, but the emotional toll and the risk to her safety are too high. I won’t allow it to continue.”

“No,” Marisol snapped, standing so fast her chair tipped. “Absolutely not.”

Her husband stood too, trying to calm her with a hand on her shoulder. “Mari—”

“No,” she said again, eyes blazing. “She’s the only one who’s ever gotten through to them. They listen to her. They like her. She likes them. You think putting them with a stranger will help?”

“It’s not up for debate,” Mr. Hughes said, voice like a gavel. “The decision is final.”

Marisol looked at Y/N then—something pained and deeply protective in her face. “I trusted you,” she whispered. “And now you’re giving up on them?”

Y/N stood slowly, voice barely above a breath. “I’m not. I—I never wanted this.”

But Caelum was already watching her again. Unreadable.

Mr. Hughes gathered his papers. “The matter is closed.”

“Then we’ll be pulling them,” Caelum said.

Everyone turned.

Ruben’s brow creased. “Brother—”

“They won’t be returning here at all,” Caelum said, looking right at Y/N now. “I don’t want them near someone so… fragile.”

Y/N’s chest cracked. Just slightly. But she said nothing.

Mr. Hughes looked between them. “You’re free to make that choice.”

The meeting dissolved.

Marisol’s fury was quiet now, simmering under her skin. Ruben tried to calm her again as they left, her sharp whispers echoing through the hallway.

Caelum lingered.

He said nothing more.

But as he passed Y/N, close enough that she caught the heat of his skin, he leaned in one last time.

His voice was a breath against her braid.

“You bleed too easily.”

Then he was gone.

The classroom felt cold.

Not just from the weather.

From the silence.

From the eyes on her back.

From the truth she couldn’t say aloud.

She knelt down on the soft rug by the cubbies, helping Leo zip his backpack while Ines clutched her favorite stuffed rabbit to her chest. Neither child spoke. Their cheeks were red from crying, but they were trying to be brave—trying to be like their mother taught them. Or maybe like their uncle, cold and unreadable.

Y/N’s fingers trembled slightly as she helped tie Ines’s shoe.

She didn’t dare lift her head. Not with Marisol pacing near the bookshelf. Not with Ruben speaking low in the corner. Not with him standing by the door, arms folded, jaw clenched.

She’d burst if she looked at him. At any of them.

So she stayed small.

Stayed on her knees.

“Okay,” she whispered, forcing a gentle smile. “Remember what I taught you, alright?”

Ines sniffled. Leo wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Don’t fight too much,” she added softly. “Even when you’re mad. Especially when you’re mad.”

She cupped their cheeks, gently. Let herself hold them one more time.

They flung their arms around her at the same time. Crying into her blouse, clinging like they knew something bigger was happening—something even grown-ups couldn’t fix.

She held them. Not too tight. Not enough to make it harder.

Then she slowly pulled away.

“I love you both,” she said, and her voice cracked—just a little. “Okay? Just remember that.”

They nodded, tearfully.

Y/N stood.

The weight of that movement crushed her. Like standing up from a grave she hadn’t meant to dig.

She turned toward the exit. Her legs felt like wet clay.

Marisol was standing in her path.

They locked eyes for the briefest second.

Y/N gave her a small, quiet smile. Not angry. Not cold. Just… resigned.

“Goodbye,” she said softly.

She moved to pass—but Marisol turned with her, guilt rising sharp behind her voice. “Y/N, wait—”

But she was already moving.

The security guard at the door—kind, expressionless—stepped beside her, escorting her out like she was a stranger. Like she hadn’t built a home in this classroom. Like she wasn’t walking away from something she loved.

Marisol’s throat closed. “Damn it,” she muttered.

The children cried softly behind her.

Caelum hadn’t moved.

He just watched as the door shut behind the woman who smelled like lilacs and ink and a kind of purity that didn’t belong in their world.

But still, he wanted her.

More than ever.

The car ride was strangely quiet. Not silent—just... stilled. The twins sat strapped in, staring out the windows like their reflection might explain what had just happened. They didn’t speak unless spoken to. They didn’t fight.

For once.

When the car finally pulled into the drive and the doors opened, they bolted out, blaming each other before their feet even hit the ground.

“She started it!”

“I did not! You pulled my hair again, you liar—”

Their voices vanished inside as the other pack children came running. Excited yelps echoed, paws thumped against tile as the kids shifted mid-sprint, some still learning how to hold their forms. The home smelled like cooked meat, soil, fire, fur, and—underneath it all—old stone and older bloodlines.

Marisol, Ruben, and Caelum walked up the steps slower, the weight of the meeting still hanging in the air.

Then they were greeted.

Not by a hug. Not by warmth.

But by a firm whack to the back of Caelum’s head.

Smack!

“Ow,” he muttered lowly, teeth grit.

Doña Liana stood at the top of the steps, apron dusted with flour, a wooden spoon in one hand and a glare sharp enough to cut a man down at the knees.

“You need to control yourself,” she barked, poking the spoon at his chest.

“She was—”

“She was trying to help, Caelum.” Another jab of the spoon. “You stormed into a human place like a wolf mid-change. What were you thinking?”

“I didn’t raise you to act like a beast in public,” she added, voice rising.

No one dared interrupt.

Not even Marisol, who was currently busy trying not to laugh.

“Doña,” Caelum said tightly, “with respect—”

“Don’t you ‘with respect’ me, niño. I wiped your ass and made you memorize the Old Tongue before you could walk in a straight line.”

He looked away. Not in submission—but in silence. Which was the closest he’d come.

Doña Liana exhaled. “Idiota. She was a good teacher. Sweet thing. Didn’t flinch when you growled, did she? That’s the kind of spine you’re lucky to see in a human.”

“She’s fragile,” he muttered.

“She’s better than most of the grown mutts in this house,” Liana fired back. “You just don’t like what she makes you feel.”

Ruben cleared his throat, wisely stepping in. “We’ll figure something out, Liana. The kids are still young—”

“They’re wolves,” Caelum cut in. “And she was treating them like humans. Giving them stickers and bedtime speeches.”

“And it worked,” Marisol said, finally speaking. “They adored her. Do you think they hugged anyone else like that? They never even hugged me that tightly.”

“I don’t know how I’m going to teach them,” she sighed, moving toward the kitchen and pouring a glass of juice with trembling hands. “I have too much on my hands. Three more pups on the way. Patrol issues. One of the omegas just shifted early. And now the twins are emotional messes.”

The kitchen filled with the buzz of old wood floors and children playing in the yard.

Doña Liana stepped closer to Caelum and peered up into his face, squinting as though searching for a splinter she’d long left buried in his soul.

“You keep pretending you don’t want anything, Caelum,” she whispered, too low for the others to hear. “But I saw the way you watched that girl. The softness in your jaw. You want her.”

“She’s human.”

“She’s something, alright,” Liana murmured. “And if you’re not careful, you’ll drive her so far she won’t be soft for anyone ever again.”

Dinner was loud, as pack dinners always were—children laughing with their mouths full, pups gnawing bones beneath the table, voices layered over clinking dishes and the soft hum of a record player spinning something old and slow.

Marisol sat at the end of the table, rubbing the back of her neck with one hand, barely touching her food.

Ruben tried to coax the twins to eat more. They just picked at their rice.

Caelum sat in silence, cutting through his steak like it had wronged him.

It wasn’t the food that made the meal feel wrong. It was the hole at the end of the table—the one Y/N’s name had left in every heart that still dared to feel something.

“I’ll start homeschooling them again if I have to,” Marisol muttered. “But gods, I don’t know how I’ll manage it.”

“Don’t,” Liana said simply.

Everyone looked up.

“Don’t exhaust yourself. Hire someone.”

Marisol blinked. “What? A tutor?”

“A private teacher. Someone who understands children and wolves.”

Caelum’s eyes flicked up. Suspicious.

“I know someone,” Liana went on, dabbing her mouth with a linen cloth. “An old friend. She taught pups for years before moving out of state. She’s retired now—but I think she’d come if I asked.”

“She’s one of us?” Ruben asked.

Liana nodded. “One of the oldest families in the northern territory. Sharp as a whip. Gentle, too. Firm, but not cold.” Her eyes slid briefly to Caelum as she said it.

Marisol looked relieved. “If you trust her, I trust her.”

“She helped raise your cousins,” Liana added. “Taught them discipline without ever raising her voice. And she’ll know how to work with their... particular needs.”

Caelum leaned back, chewing slowly. “What’s her name?”

Liana smiled like she was keeping a trick up her sleeve. “You’ll meet her soon enough.”

He didn’t like that answer.

But Liana didn’t care.

She poured herself a glass of red wine, raised it in a quiet toast, and said softly, “To the children. May they be stronger than we were.”

Everyone raised their glasses.

Even Caelum—though his mind was far from the toast.

Because even as they spoke of replacements, tutors, and moving on…

His thoughts never left Y/N.

Not her scent.

Not her voice.

Not the look in her eyes when she said goodbye.

It had been a long week.

Shoes lost. Plates broken. Pups shifting mid-sprint and accidentally knocking over furniture. Marisol had bags under her eyes and a permanent knot in her neck. Even Ruben looked exhausted, and he was made of brick and ritual.

The children, already restless, had grown more wild in Y/N’s absence. Even the twins—once drawn to her voice like it was song—had started ignoring instructions, squabbling again, snapping at anyone who tried to redirect them.

But that morning, everything changed.

A black sedan pulled into the gravel driveway.

And she stepped out.

A tall woman in her late sixties with steel-grey hair twisted into a flawless chignon, posture as straight as a blade. She wore a dark skirt, clean blouse, and carried a single leather-bound satchel. Her boots were polished. Her eyes were unreadable.

“Doña,” she greeted warmly, embracing Liana with surprising familiarity. “Still as loud as ever.”

“You’re lucky I still have my hearing,” Liana retorted, kissing both her cheeks. “Come in. The savages are waiting.”

The woman stepped into the pack house and the noise dropped immediately. Children stiffened. Even the air seemed to straighten its spine.

“This is Señora Beatriz Del Monte,” Liana announced proudly. “She’s taught more wolves than half of this territory’s alphas have pups. She’ll be handling lessons going forward.”

Marisol stepped forward, offering a handshake. “Thank you so much for coming. We’re grateful—truly.”

Beatriz nodded once, firm but not unkind. “Children need structure. Compassion, yes—but also order. Chaos grows in silence. I plan to silence it.”

She turned to the children, who were now gathered loosely in the main room, some sitting on the rug, others on cushions.

“Ines. Leo,” she called.

They sat up straighter.

“I understand you’ve lost a teacher. That’s unfortunate. I am not her. You will not cry in my class. You will not scream. You will not shift without permission. You will raise your hand when speaking. You will learn to control what makes you different—not pretend it doesn’t exist.”

A long pause.

Then she smiled. “We begin with discipline. Then poetry.”

Somewhere in the back, a pup whimpered.

Caelum stood against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching everything unfold with a carefully unreadable expression. Beatriz’s presence was impressive. Effective. Familiar.

But it was cold.

It was not her.

Y/N would’ve knelt. Let the twins hug her first. Offered a popsicle if they behaved.

This woman offered rules and consequences.

Order.

But not love.

The lesson began. Beatriz handed out copied packets and had them write their names ten times for handwriting practice. When someone groaned, she didn’t raise her voice—she just placed a hand on their shoulder and whispered something old and wolfish in their ear.

They obeyed.

Even Caelum had to admit—it worked.

But as he looked at Leo—face tight, shoulders curled inward, jaw clenched—and Ines, whose eyes darted to the doorway like she was waiting for someone else to arrive...

He knew.

They didn’t want this.

They wanted her.

The summer festival buzzed around her in gold and orange light. Laughter echoed from the carousel, the scent of kettle corn and barbecue thick in the warm breeze. Paper lanterns floated overhead, and music thumped low and steady through the park.

Y/N walked hand-in-hand with her fiancé, her other hand holding a lemonade. His fingers were warm, thumb brushing hers every so often. He was tall, kind, clean-shaven. A government job. He liked her friends. Brought flowers to her parents. Said “I love you” often and meant it.

He made her laugh.

And she had just done so, head tilted back in that easy, open way, when something collided with her legs.

“Mrs. Y/N!”

Little arms flung around her waist—tight, strong, so familiar.

She blinked, startled, then looked down. “Ines?”

Ines grinned up at her with missing teeth and wild curls. Leo was behind her, arms crossed, trying not to smile—but his eyes lit up the way they used to every time she brought out the storybook bin.

“Ines! Leo!” she laughed, crouching down in her sandals, the breeze catching the hem of her light sundress. Her newly cropped hair brushed her cheek as she hugged them back. “You two got so big! Look at you!”

“You cut your hair!” Ines squealed. “Why?”

“Because it’s hot,” Y/N teased.

“You look different,” Leo said with a quiet scowl, glancing toward where her fiancé had been.

Y/N smiled gently. “I’m still me.”

They didn’t respond. They didn’t have to.

They bombarded her with questions instead.

“Are you still teaching?”

“Do you still have stickers?”

“Do you remember that time we buried my shoe in the sandbox and blamed the wind?”

“Are you married now?”

She laughed again, crouching lower to their level. “One at a time! And no—I’m not married yet. But yes, I remember the shoe.”

“You were the best teacher,” Ines whispered suddenly, like it was a secret.

Y/N’s smile faltered. But only for a second.

Before she could answer, a shrill, frustrated voice rang out across the crowd.

“Leo! Ines! Where are you—”

The mood shifted.

Their bodies stiffened.

Across the booths, Señora Beatriz emerged from the crowd like a thundercloud—her face set, her voice harsh. Her tight gray bun hadn’t loosened even slightly in the summer heat. Her blouse was pressed. Her expression was murder.

Ines and Leo both looked up at Y/N, silently pleading.

“I think you have to go back,” she said softly.

“Nooo,” Ines groaned. “She makes us do handwriting twice.”

“She yells when we color outside the lines,” Leo muttered.

Y/N smiled gently. “I know. But she’s trying her best. And rules are important, remember?”

Ines looked down at her shoes. “But you were nicer. You were real.”

That shattered something in her chest.

But she didn’t cry.

Instead, she pulled them both into a hug.

“I love you,” she whispered into their hair. “Be brave, okay?”

Then she pulled back, smoothing their shirts, brushing off crumbs.

And with the kind of calm she was known for, she stood.

Beatriz stormed toward them, her eyes narrow.

“There you are! What on earth do you think you’re doing, running off like that?!”

The twins flinched.

Y/N placed a soft hand on Beatriz’s shoulder before she could reach for them.

“They just missed someone,” she said simply.

Beatriz scowled. “They’re wolves. Not children. They need discipline.”

“They’re both,” Y/N replied quietly.

She looked down at Leo and Ines, gave a final smile, and stepped away just as her fiancé returned.

He placed a hand on her back. “Everything okay?”

She nodded. “Just ran into some old students.”

As they walked away, she didn’t turn around.

But if she had, she might have seen Beatriz herding the children back toward their booth…

…and Caelum, standing beneath the shadow of a canopy, watching from afar, expression carved from stone.

Watching her.

Still soft.

Still warm.

Still his.

Even if she didn’t know it yet.

Pack House – Dining Room, Three Nights After the Festival

The dinner table had always been loud.

But tonight it was warfare.

Plates clattered. Forks hit the floor. Ines knocked over a pitcher of water with a bored flick of her hand. Leo snarled when another pup touched his shoulder. Even the younger children were jumpy, instinctively glancing at the twins before speaking—as if gauging whether they had permission to breathe.

The food was barely touched.

Señora Beatriz sat rigid at the head of the table, her spine like iron, her lips pursed so tight they might have sealed shut. Her napkin lay untouched in her lap. Her knuckles were white on the wooden arms of the chair.

The twins ignored her completely.

They whispered to each other, giggled when she cleared her throat, and mimicked her movements behind her back when she rose to refill her glass. When she gave a stern command—“Sit still, Leo”—he stood and bowed in mocking silence, grinning when the pups around him snorted with laughter.

Then, when Ines scribbled in red crayon across her napkin and Beatriz reached to take it—

Ines hissed.

Actually hissed.

Beatriz froze.

So did the room.

Ruben slowly lowered his glass. Marisol set down her fork. Doña Liana raised one sharp brow.

Caelum said nothing—but his hand curled into a fist beneath the table.

And then—SNAP.

Beatriz stood up so fast the chair screeched against the wood floor.

“That’s it,” she snapped, trembling with restrained fury. “I didn’t retire to be mocked by wolves who don’t know respect from rot.”

“Señora—” Marisol started.

“No. I’ve worked with orphans, ferals, pups fresh from rogue territory. Never—never—have I been disrespected like this.”

The children said nothing. But Leo smirked. Ines blew a raspberry into her cup.

“Get someone else,” Beatriz spat. “Someone they’ll obey. Someone who thinks coddling is a cure. I’m done.”

She grabbed her satchel. Her boots hit the floor like war drums.

“I won’t be humiliated by children who have rejection in their bones.”

She stormed from the room.

The silence she left behind was heavy.

The twins looked smug.

Ruben exhaled, slow. “This isn’t working.”

“No kidding,” Marisol muttered, rubbing her temples.

“She was never the right one,” Liana said simply. “Too much steel. No scent of warmth. You can’t tame fire with a bigger flame.”

“Then who?” Ruben asked. “They ran off one. Drove off another.”

“They don’t want a teacher,” Liana replied, glancing toward the children, whose faces had dimmed now, laughter gone. “They want her.”

Marisol looked across the table.

Caelum hadn’t moved. He still stared down at his untouched food, jaw tense.

And in his mind, there were no dinner candles.

No screaming pups.

Just Y/N.

Walking away.

Soft dress brushing her knees.

Hand holding a stranger’s.

Smiling at someone who wasn’t him.

The local farmer’s market was in full bloom—wooden stalls bursting with fresh herbs, sun-warmed fruit, and handwoven baskets. Laughter floated on the breeze, mingled with the scent of basil, cinnamon, and ripe tomatoes.

Y/N stood by a produce stand, squinting against the morning sun. Her hair was loosely pinned up, a few strands brushing her cheeks. She wore a soft linen dress and simple sandals, her fingers carefully selecting a firm tomato.

As she reached forward, a shoulder bumped into her—gentle but firm.

“Oh—! I’m so sorry—wait, is that…?”

Y/N turned and blinked. “Marisol?”

Marisol's face lit up like a match. “Y/N! Oh my goodness, it is you!”

She wrapped Y/N into a tight, genuine hug before pulling back, her eyes trailing down instinctively—catching the glint of the ring. A diamond, bright and too perfect beneath the sun.

“You’re glowing,” Marisol teased, linking her arm with Y/N’s. “You look… happy.”

Y/N laughed, soft and shy. “I am. He proposed a few weeks ago. Right before school let out.”

“Really?” Marisol gasped, leading her gently away from the stand toward a nearby bench shaded by a flowering tree. “Tell me everything.”

Y/N sat, cradling her basket of vegetables on her lap, cheeks flushed with excitement. “He planned it during a weekend trip. We were hiking, and at the top of the ridge—he pulled out the ring. I didn’t even see it coming. I said yes before he finished asking.”

As she beamed, Doña Liana, who had been silent behind them, sat beside Marisol with a slow, deliberate sigh.

Her sharp eyes never left the ring.

“Oh, that’s…” Liana began, lips pursing. “Fast.”

Y/N blinked, glancing at her. “It was a surprise,” she admitted. “But we’ve been together for almost a year.”

Marisol laughed quickly, nudging her grandmother, clearly sensing the tension. “You know how it is—when it’s right, it’s right.”

“Mmm,” Liana muttered, still staring at the ring like it had personally insulted her lineage.

“I’m taking the summer off,” Y/N added, trying to shift the conversation. “I thought I’d rest before wedding planning picks up.”

“Well,” Liana said suddenly—cutting, direct, and terrifyingly cheerful, “since you have nothing important to do, come stay with us this summer.”

Y/N’s brows rose. “Stay—?”

“Yes,” Liana nodded once. “Come to the house. Take care of the children. Tutor them. Guide them. We’ll pay you more than your average salary.”

Y/N blinked. “I—wait, what?”

“You’re good with them,” Liana continued flatly, tone clipped but sincere. “They miss you. No one else has lasted. You’re… different.”

“I’m honored,” Y/N said, voice soft, eyes wide, “but I don’t know if—”

Before she could finish, Marisol reached across the table and took her hands, eyes pleading and warm.

“Please, Y/N,” she said, almost whispering. “They need you. They’ve been lost without you. I’ve never seen them like this. You’re the only one who’s ever gotten through.”

Y/N hesitated, caught between politeness and panic.

“But—my fiancé,” she started, heart racing.

“Bring him,” Marisol said quickly. “Visit on weekends. Or have him drop you off. You don’t have to live with us. Just spend time with the kids again.”

Doña Liana gave a small, victorious smile. “It’s only summer. A temporary job.”

Y/N looked down at her ring.

Then at Marisol’s eyes, full of hope.

Then—just for a moment—at Doña Liana’s unreadable face.

“…I’ll think about it,” she said carefully.

But even then…

The net was already closing around her.

Y/N’s Apartment – Two Days Later

The late afternoon sun slanted through the windows, painting golden stripes across the living room floor. Y/N sat curled up on the couch, barefoot in leggings and a soft sweater, her engagement ring catching the light as she stirred sugar into her tea.

Her fiancé stood in the kitchen, pouring himself a second cup of coffee, his collared shirt rolled at the sleeves—he always dressed sharp, even when he wasn’t going anywhere important. He moved with quiet ease, the kind of man who made life feel like a safe routine.

“So… what do you think?” she asked softly.

He turned to look at her, eyes warm but thoughtful.

“I think it’s sudden,” he admitted. “But not a bad idea.”

“You’re sure?”

“You’ll be off work for the summer anyway,” he said, sitting down beside her and gently brushing her hair behind her ear. “And I’ll be gone for three weeks—might be good for you to stay busy. Get out of the city. Clear your head.”

She smiled faintly. “They did ask very sweetly.”

“You always lit up when you talked about those kids,” he said, lacing his fingers with hers. “And if it’s just two months… why not?”

He paused.

“If anything, it might help with the wedding stuff too. You’ve been stressing yourself out more than you realize.”

She blinked. “I have?”

“You try to do everything yourself,” he said with a small smile. “We could hire a planner, you know. Take the burden off your shoulders.”

Y/N exhaled softly, her shoulders finally relaxing.

“I’d like that.”

He kissed her forehead, lingering there for a moment. “So. You’ll go?”

“I think so,” she murmured. “If you’re okay with it.”

“Of course I am. I trust you.”

Those words sat heavy in the quiet.

He would drop her off next week—then be gone for work, as planned.

She would be gone for two months.

Two months in a house she once left with sadness in her heart.

Two months with wolves she didn’t truly understand.

But at the moment, it felt harmless. Familiar.

So she picked up her phone and dialed Marisol.

The line rang only once.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me,” Y/N said gently. “I’ve thought about it.”

A pause. And then, hope bursting on the other end:

“You’ll come?”

Y/N smiled. “I’ll come.”

The gravel crunched softly beneath her sandals as she stepped out of the car, the morning sun warm on her shoulders. Her fiancé kissed her temple, arms wrapped gently around her waist.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” he murmured into her hair.

Y/N nodded with a soft smile. “It’s just two months. And you’ll be back before I know it.”

He gave her a fond squeeze, then took the suitcase from the trunk and carried it up the path beside her. The house stood as grand and weathered as she remembered—tall stone, climbing ivy, shutters that had seen generations. It loomed and welcomed all at once.

She hugged him again on the porch, slower this time.

“Call me when you’re settled?”

“Of course,” she promised, already fishing her phone from her pocket.

He kissed her knuckles, lingering over the engagement ring like it anchored them both.

Then he walked back to the car, climbing into the driver’s seat and leaving the window rolled down, his eyes never fully leaving her.

She stepped to the door and raised her hand, knocking softly.

It opened almost instantly.

Doña Liana.

Her silver hair was pinned up in the same impeccable bun. Her posture, unyielding. But she smiled.

Tightly. Too wide.

“Oh, look at you,” she said, gaze flicking briefly to the car behind Y/N. Her eyes narrowed, her mouth thinned. “Still with him?”

Y/N gave a gentle laugh, choosing not to take the bait. “Yes, still with him.”

“Mmm.”

But then her face shifted—softened—and she reached out to touch Y/N’s cheek, surprisingly tender. “We’re glad to have you back, mija. Come in. You must be tired from the drive.”

She stepped aside, and Y/N rolled her suitcase through the threshold.

The air inside smelled like cedar, rosemary, and lemon polish. Clean, bright, and unnervingly still.

The door shut behind her with a solid click.

Doña Liana took the suitcase from her without asking and began leading her down the hall.

“Your room’s upstairs, same hall as the children. I put you close. Figured you’d want to keep an ear out.”

“Oh,” Y/N said softly. “Thank you.”

“You’ll have a bathroom attached, and I made sure there’s space if you need to hang any clothes.”

As they reached the top of the stairs and turned down the hall, Y/N could hear laughter from the playroom—a squeal, a bark, the slap of bare feet on polished wood.

Her heart skipped.

The twins.

She hadn’t seen them yet.

And though she tried to stay calm, her chest tightened with nervous excitement. Would they still like her? Still want her? Would they remember—

She didn’t have time to spiral.

Because a shriek of joy echoed from the hallway ahead.

“Mrs. Y/N!”

And suddenly—two bodies slammed into her legs.

“Mrs. Y/N!”

The squeal came before she could register the thunder of feet, and in the blink of an eye, she was nearly toppled backward as Ines crashed into her waist, arms flung tightly around her middle. Leo was only a second behind, a little more reserved, but no less fast—throwing his arms around her shoulder, half-tackling her with the kind of clumsy affection only children could manage.

Y/N gasped, laughing as she staggered to keep balance. “Hey! Hey—oh my goodness, look at you two!”

“We thought you weren’t coming!” Ines wailed into her stomach.

“Abuela said you were too busy,” Leo added accusingly, but his grip never loosened.

“I’m here now,” Y/N said softly, kneeling down between them so they were eye-level. Her hands gently brushed hair from their foreheads, her eyes a little watery. “And I’ve missed you. So much.”

They didn’t say anything else. They just stared at her like a miracle had wandered into the hallway.

Behind her, Doña Liana stood silently, watching. She didn’t interrupt.

Not yet.

The hug lasted a long time.

Y/N finally pulled back. “Okay,” she said with a watery smile. “Let me get settled first, alright? I promise we’ll spend time together after.”

“Are you living here?” Ines asked, her eyes wide.

Y/N nodded gently. “Just for the summer. I’ll be helping out and doing lessons with you.”

Leo’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. “You’re in the house now?”

“Starting today,” she smiled.

Ines squealed, grabbed Leo’s hand, and they ran down the hall screaming:

“She’s staying! She’s STAYING!”

Y/N watched them go, her heart tight with something strange and tender.

It wasn’t like school.

This was their space. Their world.

And now… she’d stepped inside it.

Doña Liana gave a short breath behind her, something between amusement and approval. “You made an impression on them,” she said, almost grudgingly.

Y/N stood, brushing her skirt smooth. “I was just their teacher. That’s all.”

Liana’s gaze pinned her, sharp and ancient.

“No one is just anything in this house.”

She turned and walked toward the stairs. “Come. You need to see your room.”

The door to his study creaked open with a slow groan. Caelum stepped into the hallway, one hand still holding a pen, the other braced at the back of his neck, fingers massaging the knot that had been sitting there since morning.

The house was loud.

Unacceptable.

Children screaming, footsteps pounding like a stampede. He’d tolerated it for hours, but now it was vibrating through the floorboards. It sounded less like play, more like—

“She’s STAYING!”

The twins’ voices shrieked down the corridor, echoing toward him like a warning bell. Then—

“She’s living here! She's really HERE!”

His spine stiffened.

He stepped fully into the hall just as Ines barreled straight into his leg. Leo slammed into his side a second later, clutching his arm like it was a tree trunk.

He looked down, startled.

Both children were red-faced, breathless, glowing.

“What are you yelling about?” he snapped, not harsh, but commanding.

“She’s here!” Ines cried, eyes wide.

“She’s staying the whole summer!” Leo beamed.

Caelum’s jaw clenched. “…Who?”

“Mrs. Y/N!” they said in unison.

Time cracked for a moment.

Behind him, his study door creaked in the silence he left behind. Inside was a cold mug of tea, a half-finished letter, and a small wooden frame still face-down in his drawer—a photograph of two children sitting in a classroom, their heads leaned against a woman with kind eyes.

The scent hit next.

Lilac. Skin. Rain-washed paper.

It was faint—but fresh. Lingering on the twins. Embedded now in the wood of the house.

She was in it.

“Inside voices,” he said, but the words were hollow. He wasn’t scolding them anymore—he was anchoring himself.

The twins didn’t hear him. They took off again.

“She’s going to read to us again!”

“She’s gonna teach us how to do spelling without yelling!”

He heard Marisol before he saw her—the light tap of sandals on polished floor, her laugh already lined with victory.

She turned the corner, smiling. “I told you they’d lose their minds.”

Behind her trailed a line of women, pack mothers and omega caretakers—five of them, all carrying various bags, baskets, folded clothes, and wrapped bundles. One had an ironed set of sheets, another held a tray of room essentials—lotion, hairbrush, a little basket of new tea.

They were preparing her room.

Caelum’s gaze swept over them slowly.

“You brought the den mothers,” he muttered.

“They volunteered,” Marisol said sweetly.

“They’re in her space.”

“They’re setting up her space,” she corrected.

One woman walked by with a box labeled Y/N – Closet (Summer) and gave Caelum a polite smile before disappearing up the stairs.

“Tell me you didn’t plan this behind my back,” he said, eyes narrowing.

“I didn’t.” Marisol grinned wider. “Grandmother did.”

That name stopped the conversation flat.

Caelum turned slightly, eyes flicking toward the far end of the hall. He could feel Liana’s shadow in the house even when she wasn’t in the room.

“Why?” he asked tightly.

“She wants the children to be calm,” Marisol said.

He raised an eyebrow.

“She wants you to stop pacing the woods at night,” she added, softer.

That silenced him.

Marisol stepped closer, her voice dropping. “She didn’t come back because of you, Caelum. Don’t flatter yourself. She came because she’s kind. And because we asked.”

He didn’t respond.

“She’s engaged,” Marisol added, even quieter now.

Caelum’s jaw ticked, but he said nothing.

Marisol studied him, then looked down the hall where the children had vanished.

“She’s only staying for the summer. Two months.” Her gaze flicked up again. “Don’t make her regret it.”

Then she turned and followed the women upstairs.

Caelum stood alone in the hall.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

He just listened.

To the sound of sheets being tucked.

Laughter from the twins’ room.

And somewhere above him…

her voice.

Reading aloud.

Soft. Familiar.

His hand curled into a fist again—but this time it didn’t feel like rage.

It felt like hunger.

The evening air was warm and soft, the grass cool beneath her sandals as she stepped away from the house. A few stars were beginning to pierce the sky, and the scent of leftover woodsmoke drifted from the firepit near the back veranda.

She paced slowly across the yard, phone raised high, squinting at the screen with growing frustration.

No bars. No signal.

“I swear it worked just yesterday,” she muttered, walking in a wide arc along the stone path, trying to find just the right pocket of air where her fiancé’s voice might slip through. “Come on... just one call.”

It had been a week since he’d dropped her off. He was supposed to be halfway across the country for work, but they promised to speak every couple days. Except her messages hadn’t gone through since this morning. And now—nothing. Just a spinning wheel and dead silence.

She sighed, adjusting the cardigan draped around her shoulders. A flutter of unease tickled her chest. Was it the poor reception?

Or something else?

“I think you’re walking in circles.”

The voice came from behind her—deep, rough, amused.

She spun.

Caelum.

He stood in the shadows near the edge of the house, arms crossed over his chest, a single brow raised. His sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms, jaw shadowed with stubble. He looked relaxed.

But she knew better.

“I didn’t hear you,” she said softly.

“I wasn’t trying to be loud,” he replied. “You looked… focused.”

She lowered her phone, offering a sheepish smile. “Just trying to call my fiancé. The signal’s been weird today.”

He didn’t respond.

Not for a second.

Not even a blink.

“You get used to it,” he finally said. “The hills around here interfere sometimes. Mountains hold grudges against cell towers.”

Y/N gave a small laugh, unsure if it was meant as a joke. “Is that the reason? Or did one of the kids download too many games on the Wi-Fi?”

Still no smile. Just the steady pull of his eyes on her face.

“You’ve been busy,” he said instead. “Teaching the others. Making all those lesson packets.”

“Marisol asked me to help the teens too,” she replied, brushing hair behind her ear. “Some of them are really smart. Just need structure.”

“You used my printer.”

Y/N froze for a half second. “I—I didn’t think you’d mind. The den mothers said it was fine.”

“I don’t,” he said simply.

A pause.

Then: “You’re settling in.”

“I guess I am,” she said softly. “The kids are happy. And I like teaching again.”

Another beat.

The silence stretched.

Then—unexpectedly—his voice dropped lower. “You look… different.”

Her eyes lifted to meet his. “Different?”

He nodded slowly. “More tired. More… calm.”

She smiled faintly. “That’s what teaching five extra kids will do to you.”

His gaze dropped briefly to her phone. “You’ve been trying to reach him a lot today.”

The way he said him was cool. Dismissive. But not careless.

Y/N tilted her head. “Yes. Why?”

“No reason.”

But something in his tone made her fingers tighten on the phone.

“Is everything okay?” she asked gently, trying to read him.

He didn’t answer her question.

Just stepped closer, slow and deliberate.

“You don’t belong in the city,” he said instead.

Y/N’s throat tightened. “Excuse me?”

He stopped just close enough that the scent of pine and something darker curled around her.

“You smile more here. You sleep better. The children cling to you like they’re starving. And you… you walk like you’re allowed to take up space now.”

“I walk the same,” she said, trying to keep her voice light.

“No,” he said softly. “You walk like someone who hasn’t been told no in a while.”

She didn’t know what to say to that.

Didn’t know what it meant.

But her phone buzzed suddenly—bright and loud between them.

One bar. A message.

Her heart jumped.

She looked down quickly—

1 Missed Call – Fiancé

Before she could tap to call back, Caelum’s voice slid between them.

“You won’t reach him again tonight.”

Y/N looked up, brows furrowing. “What?”

He tilted his head slightly.

Not smiling. Not threatening.

Just… certain.

“Some places don’t like being shared,” he murmured. “This house… the land… the bloodline... They remember what belongs. And what doesn’t.”

Y/N’s lips parted.

But he was already turning, walking back toward the darkened porch.

“You’ll figure it out soon enough.”

Then the door closed behind him, leaving her alone in the quiet yard—phone buzzing weakly in her hand

Caelum’s POV

The dream came without warning.

No scent. No shape.

Just her.

Y/N.

She was in his room. In his bed.

Dress half undone, eyes wide with a pleading softness he didn’t deserve.

Her voice broke the silence—not with words, but with breathy, fragile sounds. Whimpers like surrender. Whispers like need.

She was beneath him, hands clutching the sheets, her hair sprawled like silk across his pillow. Her bare shoulders trembled, lips parted, a red flush on her throat where he’d kissed her, bitten her.

She looked like something his.

“I can’t,” she whispered, even as her hips arched toward him.

“You already have,” he growled against her skin. “You’ve belonged to me since the moment you bled for them.”

And when he sank into her—hot, tight, so devastatingly soft—she cried out.

Not in pain.

In recognition.

Her body knew him, even if her mind denied it.

She begged—don’t stop, I shouldn’t, he’ll know—but his wolf snarled behind his eyes, pushing deeper, harder, claiming her in a way no human man ever could. Marking her. Filling her.

The scent of her sweat mixed with summer air and pine and it drove him mad. She wept and moaned his name like it was the only one that mattered.

She was his.

She was—

Morning.

He sat bolt upright, chest heaving.

The scent of her lingered like smoke behind his teeth. His skin burned. His claws ached just below the surface of his fingers.

The wolf inside him snarled once—low, thunderous—before falling quiet again.

But the ache remained.

He rose, dressed in silence, and descended the stairs like a man trying not to explode.

The house was quiet, the early sun streaming gold through the wide kitchen windows.

And then he heard her.

That soft cooing laugh. The one she only made when she forgot anyone was watching.

He turned the corner and stopped.

There she was.

Barefoot on the back porch. Strapless sundress clinging softly to her waist, the skirt fluttering gently in the breeze. Her hair was twisted up lazily, little strands escaping around her face.

She was holding a baby.

One of the newer pups—the youngest daughter of an omega—wrapped in a soft blanket and cradled to Y/N’s chest as she gently bounced him, humming something old and low.

She wasn’t just soothing him.

She was glowing.

Maternal.

Feminine.

Meant.

His wolf surged behind his ribs, clawing toward the surface with a guttural growl only he could hear.

Mine.

He blinked slowly, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

Across the room, Marisol appeared, holding a basket of folded clothes. She followed his stare, her eyes landing on Y/N. Then she looked at him.

Her smile faded.

Because she saw it.

The sharp heat in his glare.

The dangerous stillness in his chest.

The unspoken, unbearable want.

She moved closer to him, voice quiet but warning.

“Control it,” she murmured. “You said this was just for the kids.”

He didn’t answer.

Not with words.

Just one sharp inhale through his nose—and the slow, hard grip of his hand tightening around the edge of the counter.

And still, outside...

Y/N laughed softly as the baby gurgled against her shoulder, swaying gently, completely unaware of the storm building behind the glass.

The porch glowed beneath strings of warm golden lights, the soft creak of wood under bare feet mixing with the distant chirp of summer crickets. Y/N sat on a cushioned bench, a thick romance novel opened across her lap, the pages slightly curled from use.

The children played quietly around her—Ines and Leo drawing side by side, whispering like co-conspirators. Two of the other pack kids built a lopsided tower with smooth stones. Someone giggled behind her, darting off into the tall grass chasing fireflies.

It was peaceful. Real. Like a memory she hadn’t lived yet.

She turned a page, smiling at a particularly cheesy line of dialogue.

Then a voice drifted toward her from the doorway: “Y/N, come inside!”

She looked up.

Isela, one of the women from the pack, stood with a glass of wine in hand and a teasing grin.

“There’s finally a bottle open and gossip flowing. You can’t hide on the porch all night with your little love story.”

Y/N laughed, carefully folding the corner of her page and setting the book aside. “Alright, alright. Just let me tell the kids—”

“Oh, please. They won’t notice you’re gone,” Isela waved her in. “They’re too busy trying to see who can fit the most markers in their mouth.”

Y/N glanced back at the twins. Leo was already grinning guiltily.

With a laugh, she followed Isela inside.

Part TWO posted soon__PART TWO HERE

@cutelittlesugarfairy @lilyalone @alebrasil0101 @amanduhh1998 @bananaasfordewin @rachfart @hopingtoclearmedschool

[batlcver]

His eyes lift up as Eros returns, what else? Well, tossing a thing of flea medicine into the cart and returning his phone to his pocket- a silent thank you for people who do reviews otherwise he wouldn't have known which brand was good-, he looks over what's already in there. He just said a list a second ago and it was already gone out of his mind.

❝Uh, I got the brush, shampoo, nail clippers, and the medicine...❞

Hand on his hip as he runs a hand through his hair. Trying to recall his list from before they came to this aisle. Pointing at each thing as if it was a way to check off things from a list that didn't exist.

❝Uh...❞

That kind of seemed like everything? Aside from toys and treats of course, that he was saving for last otherwise everything else would slip his mind. Though it seemed like that was already happening regardless.

❝Toys and treats are all I can think of. I don't know though, I guess if I remember something later I'll just come back tomorrow. Or order it online, one of them.❞

It seemed like a pretty well stocked cart, nothing really that screamed it was missing something. Aside from maybe a blanket, but he had so many of them at home there was really no reason to buy another. Plus the ones at home had his scent on them, that was something important for dogs to get used to, probably. Shrugging as he pushes the rather heavy now cart through to the aisle Eros had mentioned before, trying to part it in the middle of the aisle just so the little guy could check out both sides without the cart blocking something he might want.

❝That's why I asked you to get a basket. Put the toys and stuff in there instead, cause I feel like if he wants like one of those biscuits that come in just the plastic wrapper it'll just break to pieces in here. You mind?❞

Holding his hand out for the handle of the lead. This part he wanted to be active in, plus Eros mentioned getting stuff for Agape, they could go down the aisle together, but the little guy seemed so excited already sniffing at everything he could reach.

     For the most part, Eros just sort of watched. It was easier that way, staying out of the way. Just giving little nods and ‘hm’s when the other spoke. Easier than talking his ear off or getting in the way. Sure, his opnion was wanted, but all the same, right? Especially with bigger stuff going in the cart. What was Eros going to do? 

     Not like he was weak either, but he was way smaller. And being small like that meant that he wasn't going to be the best help with anything.

     “ Uh – forty might be… too – okay… s'already in there. ”

     He's quiet for a moment, staring at the crate box and then down at the nameless puppy. They share a look before he seems to get excited by the sound of things going into the cart and he was running over to see what it was. How cute… curious about the world around him. About all the sights and the sounds. About the people, too. 

     Well, guess it was at least going to give him plenty of room to run around and do puppy things in.

     He gave a small nod when Mason told him he was heading towards one of the other aisles. Getting a basket was easy enough, he could carry way more in there than there would be room for in the cart now. Shouldn't skip on getting him the good stuff or anything like that.

     “ Alright – be right back. ”

     Eros turned on his heel to head towards the front again, finding his way to the baskets and then stopping when one of the salespeople started talking to him and wanting to give attention to the tiny ball of fur at his feet. After a few pets and scritches, they gave him a sample treat and sent the pair back on their way. A little wave and he was headed down the grooming aisle to find his boyfriend again.

     Which – given how Mason was, even if the store wasn't empty, it wouldn't be hard to find him.

     Another little wave as he came back into the aisle and looked over whatever had been gotten at the time they were apart. At least he didn't need too much help with anything on that end. It was – relatively straight forward. 

     “ Alright, got th' basket. Sooo uh – what did we need after this stuff, I kinda spaced out since we got distracted by one of th' ladies. ”

[helloclancy]

midwest indigo can be so personal

[hadesknockedupintheunderworld]

Not main tagging this rn but it like lowkey kind of fucks me up how many of Jill's scenes with Clive you could give to another character and it would either fit that character better, or it just kind of dawns on you how little it would change the overall story if you removed the connection to Clive and Rosaria from her character and just left her time in the Iron Kingdom forced to fight in the war for the sake of innocent people (and her consequent struggle over killing)

[satori-runa]

—Come and love me

Summary: Mr.Crawling has different ways to love you.

Tags: Smut, Praise Kink, Cockwarming, Body Worship, Mutual Mastubation, Female reader, fluff, Spoilers for ENDING 04

Words: 1,8k

MDNI, ADULT CONTENT UNDER CUT

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Mr. Crawling is someone who craves the comfort of human touch, but he’s always considerate of your boundaries. No matter how much he yearns for affection, he puts your comfort first, often suppressing his own desires to ensure you’re at ease.

Still, he can’t help but get a bit whiny when you return after a long day outside. On the days when you ask him to stay home, he becomes lonely and restless, waiting impatiently for you. He often lies on your bed with his head nestled on your pillow, inhaling your scent to soothe himself until he hears your footsteps approaching the front door.

The moment you step inside and praise him for being well-behaved, he lights up completely. Mr. Crawling has a serious praise kink, and it’s evident. Mr. Crawling is practically addicted to your praise; it’s like his own personal drug. The second you open your mouth and let a sweet, honeyed word slip out, he’s already trembling with delight. He reacts instantly, a visible shiver of pleasure rolling through his body, mouth going wide as he drinks in every syllable. It’s not just about the words themselves but the way you say them—soft and genuine, like you really mean it. It makes him feel so loved, so needed.

He can’t hide how badly he wants it, how desperate he is for your approval. Even the smallest bit of praise, like a simple "Good boy," can have him biting his lip, his breath hitching as if you’ve touched him in the most intimate way. The effect is almost comical; his face flushes, and he looks like he’s on cloud nine, squirming slightly like he can’t quite contain himself. He craves it so deeply that he actively seeks it out, doing whatever he can to earn your compliments. Of course he deserves a treat for his good behavior.

The treat he prefers most is one he chose himself. Nothing satisfies him more than when you settle into his lap and cockwarm him, taking him by surprise as you sink down onto his length. The sudden feeling of you enveloping him never fails to draw out a choked gasp, his hips twitching up instinctively as he tries to control himself. He loves this position more than anything—the closeness, the intimacy of it. He holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, his arms wrapped tightly around you, clinging as if you might slip away if he lets go. He’s reluctant to release you unless you explicitly ask him to; he’d keep you there forever if he could.

He savors the way your body fits perfectly against his, the softness of your skin against his cooler touch. He buries his face into your neck, breathing in your scent, his lips grazing your pulse as he shudders at the feeling of your warmth surrounding his cock.

He tries so hard to stay still, knowing you need this quiet moment of comfort, but it’s almost impossible for him. His hips shift ever so slightly, his cock throbbing inside you, and he can’t help the tiny, desperate movements he makes, even if they’re unintentional.

He can’t keep his hands to himself either. His fingers are restless, wandering across your body like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you. He takes moments to worship you, pressing his lips to your collarbone, your shoulders, any spot he can reach. His kisses are soft but hungry, lips parting as he drags his tongue over your skin, tasting the salt of your sweat. He lets out a needy, broken moan as his hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, feeling them harden under his touch. He’s inexperienced, a little clumsy with his movements, but the eagerness behind it is undeniable. He’s trying so hard to make you feel good, his breath coming out in hot, ragged pants as he watches your reactions intently.

It’s not always sexual, at least not in the way he intends. Sometimes he just wants to feel you, to savor the heat of your body pressed against his, to revel in the way your warmth spreads through him. He loves the sensation of your skin against his own, the soft give of your flesh under his fingertips. But he can’t help himself; even when he’s just trying to hold you, he ends up teasing you without realizing it. His hips roll up slightly, and he groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your chest. He’s so sensitive, so easily overwhelmed by the feeling of you wrapped around him, that every little movement you make drives him wild.

He’s not practiced or skilled, and it shows in the way he fumbles, his touches uncoordinated but full of raw desire. He pinches your nipples a little too hard, a whimper escaping his lips when he realizes it, but instead of pulling back, he leans in closer, mouthing at the swell of your breast like he’s making up for it. His hands grip your waist, fingers digging into your hips as he struggles to keep himself from thrusting up into you. It’s like he can’t decide if he wants to savor the moment or chase after more, and it leaves him caught in this desperate, needy place that only you can pull him out of.

When it comes to mutual masturbation, it’s a different kind of intimacy, one that he’s hesitant about at first but quickly grows to crave. He hates touching himself when he’s alone, but with you, it’s different. You’re right there with him, your hand entwined with his, guiding him through the motions. He watches you, excited and breathless, his own hand trembling as he mirrors your movements. There’s something incredibly intimate about the way you both touch yourselves together, a shared vulnerability that makes his heart race.

He loves it when you talk to him through it, whispering sweet nothings, telling him how good he looks, how well he’s doing. It makes the experience bearable—no, more than that—it makes it beautiful. He’s not embarrassed when he’s with you: he’s not self-conscious or insecure. He’s just caught up in the moment, in the way your bodies move together, the way your breath hitches and syncs up with his.

When your hand finds his, coaxing him to stroke himself while you do the same, he whimpers softly, his fingers twitching against your palm. It’s overwhelming for him, the sensation of his own touch combined with the sight of you doing the same. He can’t stop himself from moaning, a needy, broken sound that escapes his lips as he watches you, completely captivated by the sight. "Me like you." You might whisper, and it takes everything in him to comply, the combination of your voice and your gaze making his whole body tremble.

You can tell how much he loves it by the way he leans into you, pressing his forehead to your shoulder as he touches himself with your guidance, whimpering in between. He’s panting, mouth open, like he’s too lost in the pleasure to look at anything else. The moment you reach out and wrap your hand around his, helping him stroke himself, he lets out a desperate moan, his entire body shivering as he clutches onto you. He’s a mess, but he’s your mess, completely undone by the shared pleasure and the feeling of your touch.

Mr. Crawling can be so eager when it comes to pleasuring you in return, that it borders on frantic. He doesn’t always take his time—sometimes, when he’s overwhelmed with excitement and craving you desperately, all of his usual patience flies out the window. He’ll drop between your legs, pulling you closer with a roughness that’s uncharacteristic for him, but it’s not out of aggression: it’s pure, unfiltered need. His hands are trembling as they grip your thighs, his breath hot and uneven against your skin. He’s already panting, like he can’t believe you’re letting him do this, and it makes him that much more impatient.

He dives in without hesitation, his mouth pressing against you hungrily, almost clumsily, as if he can’t bear to wait a second longer. His tongue flicks out, sloppy and uncoordinated at first, but it’s the urgency behind it that makes it so intoxicating. He’s lapping at you like a man starved, the sounds he makes—soft whimpers and desperate groans—filling the room. He’s inexperienced, but there’s something endearing about the way he tries so hard, so eager to please you even if he’s not entirely sure what he’s doing. He’s guided more by instinct than skill, following your reactions like they’re the only thing that matters.

He keeps glancing up at you, his face excited and yet almost pleading, as if he’s searching for reassurance that he’s doing it right. When he sees your pleasure written across your face, it only spurs him on. He loses himself in it, licking at you with a feverish intensity that makes it clear just how badly he needs this. He doesn’t bother with precision: he’s messy, licking you with broad, hurried strokes, his lips sucking at your clit with a desperate fervor. He moans into you, the vibrations sending little shocks of pleasure through your body, and you can tell he’s getting off on this as much as you are.

His grip on your thighs is almost bruising, like he’s afraid you might pull away. He’s whimpering into you, his tongue moving erratically, like he’s trying everything at once, too caught up in his own excitement to settle into any kind of rhythm. It’s overwhelming for him—the taste of you, the feel of your skin under his hands, the sounds you make when he hits a particularly sensitive spot. He’s panting between licks, his mouth never straying far from you, desperate to keep going even when he’s gasping for breath.

He’s a little too rough at times, sucking at your clit with a bit too much pressure, but the enthusiasm in his actions makes it hard to fault him for it. He’s learning from your reactions, his own inexperience showing through in the way he fumbles a bit, but it only adds to the intensity of the moment. When you tug on his hair, moaning out his name, he practically whines, grinding his face into you with renewed fervor. He’s almost overwhelmed by his own need, licking and sucking like he can’t get enough, like he’s trying to memorize every part of you with his mouth.

If you try to guide him, threading your fingers through his hair and tugging gently to slow him down, he lets out a frustrated, needy sound, shaking his head as if to tell you he doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t want to pace himself. He’s too lost in the moment, too eager to please, to care about taking his time. He’s devouring you like he’s afraid this is his only chance, like he’s desperate to prove how much he wants you, how much he loves being here, between your legs, giving you everything he can.

.