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cosmicaura7 · 3 months ago

Text

EATING YOU OUT

Pairings : pedro pascal characters x reader

Genre : f/m, smut, oral (female receiving), overstimulation, edging

Synopsis : He is a devoted husband in every sense of the word. But when it comes to you, his pretty wife, there’s one thing he simply can’t get enough of.

Clint Flood (Freaky Tales)

Clint had always been a man of few words. He never needed them, not when his actions spoke louder, not when he could show you exactly how much he adored you with the way he touched you, worshiped you. And God, did he worship you.

You barely had time to register the way he pulled you into bed, hands gripping your thighs, parting them with a desperation that made your breath hitch. Clint had that look in his eyes, the one that said he was about to ruin you and the one that made your body tremble before he even laid a finger on you.

"Been thinkin’ about this all damn day." He muttered, voice rough with hunger as he pressed kisses up your inner thigh. His scruff scratched against your skin, sending shivers up your spine.

Your fingers threaded through his messy hair as he settled between your legs, inhaling deeply, like the scent of you alone was enough to drive him mad. His large hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer to his mouth and before you could say anything, his tongue was on you, slow, deliberate and savoring. "Clint…" You gasped but he only groaned in response, the vibrations making your thighs twitch around his head.

"You know better than to talk, sweetheart." He murmured against you, his tongue flicking over your clit in a way that made your breath stutter. "Just let me take care of you."

And he did.

Clint was relentless, devouring you with an obsession that left you weak. He licked, sucked and nipped, memorized every little sound you made, every little movement of your hips. He wanted you shaking, coming undone on his tongue, over and over, until you were too blissed-out to do anything but whimper his name. His grip on your thighs tightened when you tried to move away, too overwhelmed by the pleasure but he wasn’t letting you go, not yet. "Stay still, baby." He murmured, voice thick with need. "Ain't done with you."

Your back arched as his tongue worked you over again, teasing, torturing, until you were gasping, pulling at his hair, your body trembling under him. He ate you like a man starved, like he’d never get enough of you because he wouldn’t. And when you finally shattered, thighs clamping around his head, your body shaking with the force of your release, Clint only groaned in satisfaction, licking up every last drop of you like it was his lifeline.

As you lay there, boneless, breathless, he kissed his way back up your body, his lips brushing over your heated skin, smirking against your cheek. "Still with me, pretty girl?" He teased, his voice full of pride. You could barely form words, still floating in the haze he’d left you in. But Clint? He was already thinking about the next time because once would never be enough. Not when it came to you.

Dave York (The Equalizer 2)

Dave York had many obsessions, precision, control and more. The satisfaction of a perfectly executed plan. But none of them compared to you. And more specifically, the way you tasted. It was the one thing that shattered his discipline, made him reckless and made him a goddamn fiend.

Tonight was no different.

You barely had time to process before Dave had you spread out on the bed, your silk nightgown pushed up to your waist, his broad shoulders wedged between your thighs. He wasn’t even pretending to take his time, he needed this, needed you.

The first swipe of his tongue was slow, deliberate, a groan rumbling deep in his chest as he tasted you. “Fuck.” He muttered against your skin, his grip tightening on your thighs. “How do you get sweeter every time?”

Your fingers tangled in his hair as he devoured you, licking into you like a man starved. The heat of his mouth, the flick of his tongue, the way his scruff rubbed against your sensitive skin, it was too much. “D-Dave.” Your voice was already shaking, your thighs trembling around his head but that only seemed to spur him on.

He growled, a deep, needy sound, and wrapped his arms around your thighs, locking you in place. “Not done yet, sweetheart.” As if you had any say in the matter. He feasted on you, tongue circling your clit before sucking it into his mouth, making your back arch off the bed. You whimpered, thighs trying to snap shut but his grip was bruising, his strength impossible to fight.

“That’s it.” He murmured, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your swollen cunt. “Give me everything, baby.”

Your body obeyed, hips rolling against his face, chasing the high he always pulled from you. And when you finally broke, when pleasure crashed over you so violently your entire body trembled, Dave didn’t stop, didn’t let you go.

You tried to push at his shoulders, whimpering from overstimulation but he just laughed, pressing his tongue flat against your clit again. “Who told you we were done?” He murmured against your soaked heat. “I’ll stop when I’m finished.” And you knew, there was no stopping him now. You were his and he was going to ruin you.

Dieter Bravo (The Bubble)

Dieter had many vices.

Drugs? Sure. Booze? Of course. Attention? Absolutely.

But nothing compared to his addiction to you. Specifically, your pussy.

It was almost ridiculous how often he had his face between your legs. You could be doing anything, reading, scrolling through your phone, even talking to him about something completely mundane and suddenly, Dieter would get that look in his eyes. That lazy hungry gaze.

Like now.

You were sitting on the couch, dressed in nothing but one of his old t-shirts, scrolling through your emails. You barely noticed Dieter shifting beside you, draping himself over your lap, nuzzling against your thighs like a cat begging for attention. It was when he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh that you finally glanced down.

“D…” You sighed, already knowing where this was going. “I’m busy.”

Dieter hummed, completely ignoring you, nosing the fabric of your shirt up so he could kiss higher, closer. “You can’t really be that busy.” He murmured against your skin. “Not too busy for me, right, sweetheart?”

“You literally ate me out this morning.” You arched a brow.

“And? That was hours ago.” Dieter grinned, nipping at your thigh. You sighed but the anticipation was already pooling low in your stomach. Because you knew Dieter wasn’t going to give up. He never did.

With a content hum, he hooked his arms around your thighs and pulled, dragging you down until you were half-sprawled against the couch. You let out a soft yelp as he pushed your legs apart, settling between them like a man ready to worship at the altar of his favorite religion. “I love this pretty little pussy.” He murmured, eyes dark as he ran his fingers along your already damp folds. “I swear baby, I could die between these thighs and be the happiest man alive.”

“You’re insane.” You let out a breathless laugh.

Dieter smirked. “I’m just a man who knows what he likes.” And with that, he dove in. His mouth was hot, tongue slow and deliberate as he licked a long, teasing stripe up your slit before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking.

“Fuck, Dieter…” Your head fell back against the couch. He groaned against you, like he was savoring the taste, like he’d been starving for this. Because he was. He never rushed. Never got bored. Never stopped until you were a shaking, whimpering mess underneath him.

And tonight? He was taking his time.

Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

It was late aboard the Razor Crest, the hum of hyperspace a soft backdrop to the warmth cocooning you within your shared bunk. The dim glow of the overhead lights bathed the cramped space in shadows but none of it mattered, not when you were beneath him.

Din had you sprawled out on the thin mattress, his beskar discarded, his helmet resting on the shelf beside him. His dark eyes were fixed on you, hungry and full of devotion, as he pressed kisses along the inside of your thigh. His gravelly voice, thick with need, sent shivers through your already trembling body. "You're shaking, cyar’ika." He murmured, lips ghosting over your sensitive skin. "And I haven't even started yet."

Your fingers curled into the sheets as you whimpered, your body betraying you. The sheer intensity of his gaze, like you were the only thing in the galaxy that mattered, left you breathless. "Din, please." You whispered, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

A low chuckle vibrated against your thigh. "So needy." He murmured, dragging his tongue over your skin, slow and teasing. "You know I love it when you beg."

You gasped as his hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer, trapping you beneath his unyielding strength. And then he devoured you. His mouth was hot and relentless, tongue swirling, lips sealing over you with an insatiable hunger that left you writhing beneath him. You cried out, arching against him but his grip tightened, holding you down and forcing you to take it.

"You taste so fucking good, my riduur." He groaned against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your body. Your fingers flew to his hair, tugging, desperate for something to ground yourself. But Din only growled, doubling down, lapping you up like a man starved. His obsession with this, with you, bordered on madness. And you were helpless against it. Utterly and completely at his mercy.

Ezra (The Prospect)

Ezra has always been an indulgent man. The kind to savor his pleasures, to take his time. And when it comes to you? He’s downright ravenous.

It starts with a kiss.

It always does.

A slow, lazy thing, Ezra’s lips pressing soft and warm against yours as he pulls you into his lap. His hands, calloused and sure, trace the curve of your spine, skimming lower, gripping just enough to make you sigh against his mouth. "You’re too good to me, sugar." He murmurs, his breath ghosting over your jaw as his lips move lower. "Ain’t right, how lucky I got."

"And what did I do to deserve such praise?" You smile, threading your fingers through his hair.

Ezra hums, dragging his lips down the column of your throat. "Exist." And then he’s gone. Down, down, lower, his hands gripping your hips as he lays you back against the bed. The mattress dips beneath his weight, his broad shoulders parting your thighs as he settles between them.

And God help you, because you know what’s coming. Ezra is obsessed with your pussy. And he’s about to prove it.

He starts slow. Dragging his mouth along the inside of your thigh, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to the soft skin there. Savoring, worshiping and teasing. "You’re soft everywhere, sugar." He murmurs, voice thick with hunger. "But this? Right here?" His thumb presses against your slick heat, parting you, and he groans. "This is my favorite part."

Your breath catches as he dips his head, his tongue flicking out to taste.

And then Ezra moans like he’s the one being pleasured, like he’s just been given the most decadent meal in the universe. His good hand grips your thigh, holding you open, keeping you spread and vulnerable for his mouth. He licks deep, dragging his tongue through your folds before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking.

You jolt, your hands flying to his hair, thighs trembling around his head.

"Ezra!"

"That’s it." He rasps, pulling back just enough to press a wet kiss against your swollen bud. "Say my name, sugar." He licks again, slower this time, his tongue curling just right and you keen.

"God, Ezra!"

He groans against you, the vibrations sparking pleasure up your spine. His grip tightens, fingers digging into your flesh as he devours you, his mouth moving in slow, deliberate strokes, building you up, winding you tight. And then he flicks his tongue, fast and sharp, before sucking hard.

And you break. Pleasure crashes over you in waves, your body arching, thighs clamping around his head as you cry out his name. But Ezra doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. He keeps going, keeps licking, keeps sucking, dragging out every last tremor, every last pulse of pleasure until you’re shaking beneath him, gasping, whimpering. Only then does he finally pull away, his lips glistening, his eyes dark and blown with hunger.

"You taste like heaven, sugar." He murmurs, pressing a kiss to your trembling thigh. "Think I might need another bite."

And then he dives back in.

And you?

You’re gone.

Francisco Morales (Triple Frontier)

Frankie wasn’t ashamed of it. Hell, he’d scream it from the rooftops if he could. He was obsessed with his wife’s pussy. It was his, after all.

And right now, he was devouring it like a man starved. His broad shoulders were wedged between your thighs, his scruffy beard scratching against your inner thighs as his tongue worked you over, slow and deliberate, savoring the way you squirmed beneath him. Your back was arched, your fingers tugging at his curls, your breath ragged as you tried and failed to keep up with his relentless pace.

“F-Frankie!” Your voice hitched as his tongue flicked against your clit, his arms tightening around your thighs, locking you in place.

“That’s it, baby.” He groaned, his voice gravelly, deep, vibrating against your soaked cunt. “Let me hear you.” You whimpered, legs trembling around his head, but he just held you tighter, lapped at you harder, his tongue dipping deep, tasting everything you had to give him.

“Always so sweet, honey. Always so perfect.” You shuddered, your body tensing, that familiar heat building, rising, coiling tight.

And then Frankie sucked your clit between his lips, his tongue swirling, flicking, pushing you over the edge. Your cry filled the room as you came undone, your thighs clamping around his head, your entire body shaking beneath him.

But Frankie wasn’t done, not yet. “One more, baby.” His voice was thick with hunger, his hands spreading you open again, his tongue diving back in before you could even catch your breath.

And the only thing you could do was take it like a good little girl.

Harry Castillo (The Materialists)

The penthouse was dimly lit, the glow from the city skyline casting soft shadows across the bedroom. Outside, the world was still alive, cars honking, sirens wailing, people laughing in distant bars but here, none of that mattered.

Here, it was just you and Harry.

And Harry was hungry. His hands were possessive, large palms gliding over your bare thighs as he spread you open beneath him. The warmth of his breath tickled your skin, sending a delicious shiver up your spine. “Look at you.” He murmured, eyes dark with need as he settled between your legs. “My perfect little wife.” His lips pressed to the inside of your knee, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses up your inner thigh. Every inch he covered made your heartbeat hammer against your ribs, your breath catching when his nose brushed against where you needed him most.

“Harry…” You whispered, already trembling beneath his touch.

His lips curved against your skin. He loved this, loved how eager, needy and utterly wrecked you became under his hands. He had barely touched you and yet you were already coming undone for him. “You know I can’t help myself.” He murmured, pressing a kiss to the softest part of your thigh. “Not when you taste so fucking sweet.”

And then, he devoured you. His tongue was hot, skilled, and utterly merciless as he dragged it through your slick heat. You arched off the bed, a cry spilling from your lips as your fingers shot down to grip his hair, holding on as he took his time tasting you.

Harry groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core. He loved this. Loved the way your thighs tried to clamp around his head, the way you whimpered and gasped his name with every flick of his tongue. His strong arms wrapped around your thighs, keeping you spread for him as he feasted. Every slow, deliberate lap of his tongue had you trembling, your body coiling tighter and tighter with unbearable pleasure.

“Oh, god! Harry…” You gasped, hips bucking against his mouth. “I…I'm gonna…”

“Go on.” He growled against you, tongue pressing deep, voice husky with obsession. “Give it to me.”

And you did. Your body shattered, pleasure ripping through you so violently that you couldn’t even scream, just a silent, breathless cry as your vision whited out. But Harry wasn’t done. Even as you trembled beneath him, legs twitching, breath shaky, he kept going.

“Too much…” You whimpered, trying to pull away, but his grip tightened on your thighs, pinning you down.

“Uh-uh, sweetheart.” He rasped, looking up at you with hungry, darkened eyes. “I’m not done yet.” And then he dove back in, tongue relentless, dragging you into another devastating wave of pleasure.

You were his. His beautiful, perfect little wife. And he was going to worship you all night long.

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels (Kingsman)

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels prided himself on many things, his skill as an agent, his precision with a lasso, his ability to hold his liquor better than most men. But above all else, there was one thing he cherished, one thing he could never get enough of: you.

More specifically, the sweet little prize between your thighs.

And tonight? Tonight was no different.

You were sprawled across the bed, your body trembling beneath him, your breath coming in ragged little gasps. The silk sheets beneath you were already wrinkled, your fingers tangled in them as you tried to keep yourself together. But Jack had other plans. “Oh, honey.” He drawled against your soaked folds, his voice thick with amusement and hunger. “Ain’t no use runnin’ from me.” Your thighs jerked as his tongue dragged through your slick folds, his hands gripping the plush flesh to keep you still. He’d been down here for what felt like hours, working you over with that devastating mouth of his, taking his time like he had nowhere else in the world to be.

And for Jack, that was true. He had you all to himself, and he wasn’t going anywhere.

“J-Jack…” You whimpered, your voice wrecked and needy, barely a breath.

His cock throbbed at the sound, at the way you begged so prettily for him without even realizing it. He nuzzled against your swollen clit, letting his scruff drag against the sensitive skin before wrapping his lips around it and sucking.

You cried out, arching off the bed, your hands flying to his hair as your thighs instinctively tried to clamp around his head. But he was stronger and faster, he pinned your legs open with ease, spreading you wide for him. “Uh-uh, darlin’.” He murmured, looking up at you with dark, hazy eyes. “You know better than that. Let me see you.”

Your chest heaved as you met his gaze, your body quaking beneath him. He looked downright ravenous, his mouth and chin glistening with your slick, his pupils blown wide with hunger. “Prettiest damn thing I ever laid eyes on.” He muttered before diving right back in. His tongue worked you over, alternating between slow, teasing licks and deep, relentless strokes that had you seeing stars. He devoured you, like he was a man starved and you were the only meal he ever needed.

Your stomach tightened, pleasure coiling low, your muscles locking up as you felt yourself hurtling toward the edge. “Come on, sugar.” Jack murmured against you, his voice vibrating through your core. “Give me another one. Know you got it in ya.”

And oh, you did.

With one last flick of his tongue, you shattered. Your body seized, pleasure ripping through you as you sobbed his name, your vision going white-hot as waves of ecstasy crashed over you. Jack groaned against you, his grip tightening, holding you steady as he licked you through every last aftershock, determined to prolong your bliss for as long as he could. Only when your body finally sagged against the bed, spent and trembling, did he pull away. His lips were wet, his beard glistening, but that smirk was firmly in place as he crawled up your body, pressing his hard, aching length against your thigh.

“Think you got another one in ya, sweet thing?” He murmured, nipping at your jaw as one of his hands trailed between your legs, his fingers teasing your overstimulated clit. You whimpered, your entire body shuddering as a fresh wave of need coursed through you.

Jack grinned.

“That’s my girl.”

Javi Guttierez (The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent)

Javi Gutierrez had always been a devoted man. To his work, to his friends, to the things he loved. But nothing held his devotion quite like you did. Especially when he had you like this. Sprawled out on the bed, limbs trembling, thighs spread wide for him as he buried his face between them like a man starved.

He wasn’t even pretending to pace himself tonight. From the moment he laid you down, he had been relentless, tongue hot and wet as it flicked over your clit, his lips sealing around the swollen bud just to suck, pulling desperate whimpers from your throat. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you still even as your body tried to escape the pleasure he forced upon you. You were shaking. Shaking beneath him, body writhing against the sheets, fingers tangled in his thick curls, tugging, pulling, pushing. Not that he ever listened to your weak attempts to get away. If anything, your resistance only spurred him on.

He groaned into your soaked heat, the vibration sending another shockwave through your already overstimulated body. “Tan dulce, mi amor.” He murmured, voice muffled as he licked a long, slow stripe up your slit before sealing his lips around you once more. “I could stay here forever.”

“Javi…” You whined, thighs trembling in his grasp.

But the plea was cut off by a sharp gasp as he slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, his mouth never ceasing its delicious assault. His free hand splayed over your stomach, feeling the way your muscles tensed beneath his touch. “Give me one more.” He coaxed, voice thick with arousal, tongue circling your clit in slow, deliberate movements. “One more, cariño, I know you can.”

You didn’t stand a chance against him. Against his tongue, his fingers, the overwhelming hunger he had for you. And when you finally shattered, crying out his name, Javi moaned like he was the one coming undone, lapping up every bit of your pleasure as if he could drink you in. Even as you lay there, panting, skin glistening with sweat, body too spent to move, he still wasn’t satisfied. Because you were his favorite meal.

And Javi Gutierrez never left a plate unfinished.

Javier Peña (Narcos)

Nights with your husband had always felt like a dream, heavy with warmth, golden with affection. But tonight, something different simmered beneath the surface. Javier had been watching you all day. From the way your sundress clung to your curves as you folded laundry, to the delicate stretch of your legs on the couch as you flipped through a magazine, lost in your world. He looked at you like a starving man, slow, focused and reverent.

And now you were lying in bed, bathed in the soft lamplight of your shared room. A breath caught in your throat as he hovered above you, still fully clothed, yet somehow already unraveled by you. “Javi…” You whispered, fingers curling around the front of his shirt.

“Shh, baby.” He murmured, kissing the center of your chest with quiet, burning reverence. “Let me take care of you.”

You swallowed, heart racing, as he trailed kisses lower, slow and deliberate, fingertips skimming down your sides as if he were learning your body all over again. “You’re always so good to me.” He whispered, his voice rough and low. “Always so damn beautiful. You have no idea what you do to me.”

Your breath hitched as he settled between your thighs, warm palms spreading them gently but firmly, like he couldn’t wait another second to worship you properly. And when his mouth met your skin, it wasn’t rushed. No, it was worshipful, slow, focused and obsessed. You gripped the sheets, legs trembling as he groaned into you like he was the one being undone. As if the taste of you was the only thing he ever wanted, the only thing he craved.

“Javi, oh my god!” You gasped, your voice catching as your body arched beneath him.

He didn’t stop. Not when your fingers tangled in his hair. Not when your legs threatened to close around his shoulders. And especially not when you were trembling beneath him, so sensitive you could barely breathe. He pulled back just long enough to kiss your inner thigh and look up at you with that devilish proud smirk of his. “You shaking, baby?” He teased, breath hot against your skin. “I’m not done with you yet.”

And when he kissed you again, slow and deep, you realized Javier Peña wasn’t just obsessed with you. He was starving for you. And he wasn’t stopping until you melted completely in his hands.

Joel Miller (The Last of Us)

Even after all these years, after all the ash, blood and grief the world had dumped at your feet, Joel Miller still looked at you like you were the last good thing left on Earth.

And tonight, he touched you like it too.

The house in Jackson was quiet, the walls still and the fireplace crackling low in the distance. Joel had returned home from patrol just hours earlier, his hands rough and cold from the snow, his body tense, his eyes tired. But the second he walked through the door and saw you curled up on the couch in nothing but one of his old flannels, your thighs peeking out and lips glossy from your nightly tea, something shifted in him. That dark intensity in his gaze sharpened, zeroing in on you like you were a meal he hadn’t had in days.

And truthfully?

He hadn’t. Not the way he needed to.

Which is exactly how you ended up like this, legs trembling around his broad shoulders, your fingers tangled in his salt-and-pepper curls as he buried his face between your thighs like a starving man at his last supper. “J-Joel…” You gasped, back arching off the bed as he moaned against your soaked heat, his tongue lapping up everything you gave him like it was nectar, his hands gripping your thighs tight, holding you open and in place.

“Shhh, darlin’.” He murmured against your skin, voice rough and low, vibrating right through your core. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘til you’re shakin’ for me. You know that.”

He always said that. Every damn time.

And you always did.

Joel was obsessive in the way he worshiped you, taking his time, learning every inch of your body, every twitch, every gasp, every whispered plea. His beard scraped against the tender skin of your inner thighs and you felt it when he smiled, smug and greedy, like he could feel your pleasure in his own chest. He shifted slightly, dragging his tongue slow and deliberate, before sucking that sensitive spot in a way that made your whole body jolt.

“I-I can’t!” Your breath hitched.

“You can, baby.” He growled, tightening his grip, his voice wrecked with hunger. “Gonna come for me. Gonna soak my fuckin’ face like a good girl, huh?” You cried out, the coil inside you snapping, unraveling as your body shook beneath him, just like he wanted. Just like he always wanted.

Joel didn’t let up. He never did. He kept going until your thighs trembled and your lungs burned from how hard you were panting. It was only when your legs started to twitch from overstimulation that he finally pulled back, mouth wet and beard slick with you, eyes dark and blown wide. He looked like a man possessed. And you looked like a goddess completely wrecked. He kissed your inner thigh reverently, gently now, almost as if apologizing for how fiercely he’d devoured you.

Then he crawled up your body, slow and deliberate until his face was hovering above yours, eyes searching yours with that same intense affection that always managed to shatter you a little. “Don’t ever get tired of that.” He rasped, pressing his lips to yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “Could do that every damn day ‘til the day I die.”

“You say that like you haven’t already been trying.” You let out a soft, breathless laugh, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

“Damn right I am.” Joel grinned against your neck, pressing a kiss to your pulse.

Marcus Acacius (Gladiator II)

To the empire, you were his sweet delicate wife. A vision of beauty, grace and modesty, always draped in soft linen, eyes lowered in public and your voice rarely raised above a gentle whisper. The senators adored you and the noblewomen envied you.

But Marcus Acacius, Rome’s most brutal and revered general, knew the truth. He knew how you trembled in your shared bed. He knew how your soft moans sounded at midnight. He knew how you tasted when you were soaked and aching just for him.

And gods, he was addicted.

The lanterns burned low. The white marble walls of your bedchamber glowed gold in the candlelight, casting shadows that danced across their silken sheets. You sat at your vanity, brushing your hair, clad only in a thin white shift that clung to every curve. Marcus stood behind you, freshly bathed from the private spring, his broad body wrapped in a loose robe. His eyes devoured you through the mirror.

So soft. So sweet. So his.

You caught his gaze and smiled, shy and knowing. He stepped closer, large hands landing gently on your shoulders. You stilled as his lips brushed the shell of your ear.

“Lie down.”

Your breath hitched and obeyed. Marcus was slow with you. Reverent, like a man kneeling before his goddess. He pulled the thin shift over your head, letting it slip to the floor. You lay back on the cool linen sheets, your body already warm from anticipation.

He knelt between your thighs, his hands parting them with care but no hesitation. His eyes were dark with hunger. His voice, low and rough. “You don’t know what you do to me, carissima.”

You whimpered softly as his thumbs stroked your inner thighs, lips ghosting lower, breath hot on your already wet folds. Marcus kissed the inside of your knee. Then lower. Then lower still. Until his mouth found your aching dripping cunt. You cried out softly, hips jerking. But his arms wrapped around your thighs, keeping you in place as his tongue slid through your folds with slow, deliberate strokes. Your fingers gripped the sheets.

“Marcus…”

“Shhh.” His voice was muffled, buried between your legs. “Let me taste my wife.” He licked you like a man starved, like you were the only thing he ever wanted. And maybe you were. He didn’t rush. He worshiped. He kissed, sucked and flicked his tongue over your clit until your moans filled the room, your legs trembling against his shoulders.

“You’re shaking.” He murmured against you, voice dripping with satisfaction. “You feel how wet you are for me?”

You nodded frantically, hips lifting and chasing his mouth.

“Tell me.” He growled.

“You… you make me feel so good, Marcus. I…gods, I can’t!”

“Oh, but you will.”

He grinned, lips slick with you and dove back in with even more hunger. His tongue flicked faster now, fingers spreading you open, licking deep until you were writhing, panting, with tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Your thighs shook violently and then you finally broke. You came hard, gasping his name like a sacred vow.

But Marcus didn’t stop. He lapped up every drop, sucking your clit until you sobbed from the pleasure, your voice hoarse from moaning out his name. “I love how you taste.” He whispered, dragging his tongue up slowly. “I’ll never get enough of you.”

And in that moment, as you lay boneless and quivering beneath your general, your husband, you knew the truth: Marcus Acacius may have conquered nations. But you were the only thing he would ever worship. And he worshipped you well into the night.

Marcus Moreno (We Can Be Heroes)

Marcus Moreno is a patient man. A disciplined man. A man of control. But when it comes to you? All that restraint shatters. Because he’s obsessed with you. With the way you fall apart beneath him. With the way your breath hitches when his lips graze your skin.

But most of all?

With the way you taste. It always starts the same way. A simple kiss, slow and lingering. Then another. And another. Until he’s got you spread out beneath him, his mouth trailing lower and lower. Until he’s right where he wants to be.

You whimper when he kisses the inside of your thigh, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. “Marcus.” You sigh, fingers threading through his dark curls. “Please…”

He shushes you, eyes dark with hunger. “Patience, sweetheart.” Then, with a slow sinful smirk, he devours you. He loves this, loves how your thighs tremble around his head and loves how your back arches, how you cry out his name like a prayer. He lives for this. For the way you come undone, legs shaking, body writhing, completely at his mercy. And he’s not stopping. Not until you’re gasping. Not until you’re clenching your fingers in his hair, babbling, pleading and begging. Not until you’re so overstimulated that you have tears in your eyes.

Only then when you’re thoroughly wrecked and limp beneath him, does he finally lift his head, his lips glistening, his expression utterly feral. And when he leans up, pressing a slow, deep kiss to your lips, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

He grins against your mouth. “Such a good girl.” He murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction. “Think you can give me another?” And despite the way your body still trembles you still nod.

Because Marcus Moreno?

He’s not done with you yet.

Marcus Pike (The Mentalist)

The soft glow of golden evening light spilled through the bedroom windows, casting warm lazy rays across the sheets that were still tousled from your earlier nap. The quiet hum of the city below faded into the background as your husband, Marcus Pike, leaned in the doorway, watching you stretch slowly across the bed like you were the most beautiful piece of art he’d ever laid eyes on.

His tie was already loosened, jacket tossed over the back of a chair, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. And that look on his face, soft and reverent, made your breath hitch.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You asked with a small, teasing smile.

“Like what?” Marcus stepped forward, slow and deliberate, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Like I’m about to be worshipped.”

He leaned down, bracing one knee on the edge of the bed as he brushed his knuckles gently along your cheek. “Maybe because you are.”

Your heart thudded at the low, husky tone of his voice, full of something tender, something hungry, something devoted. He kissed you then, slowly and deeply, like he had all the time in the world. The kind of kiss that melted your bones, made your skin tingle and reminded you just how safe and loved you were in his arms.

“Marcus…” You whispered, fingers curling into his shirt.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes serious but warm. “You know I could spend the rest of my life just appreciating you. Every inch. Every sigh. Every little sound you make when I touch you.” You’d been married long enough to know he meant every word. Marcus didn’t rush through intimacy, he savored it, savored you.

He was gentle but firm as he coaxed you to lie back against the pillows, his hands skimming down your sides as he took his time, memorizing every reaction you gave him. He kissed a trail down your body, murmuring soft words of praise, of adoration. His lips were warm, his stubble brushing over sensitive skin and every motion felt like worship. You gasped when he kissed your inner thigh, his breath warm and slow as he rested there, holding you like you were the center of his world.

“You always take care of me.” He murmured, pressing a reverent kiss just below your navel. “Let me take care of you tonight.” And you let him. You let him pour his love into you, every kiss and touch whispering the truth, that Marcus Pike loved his wife with every fiber of his being and that there was nowhere else he’d rather be than wrapped around you, worshiping you like you were his whole world.

And to him, you were.

Max Philips (Bloodsucking Bastards)

Marriage can change a man. At least, that’s what everyone told Max. He heard the horror stories, how the passion faded, how the excitement dulled, how men started avoiding their wives instead of worshiping them.

What a joke.

Because Max?

Max Phillips was obsessed with his wife. You were his pretty little thing, his perfect girl, his everything. And there was one part of you he loved the most.

It started like every other morning. You were barely awake, your body soft and warm against the sheets, wearing one of Max’s old t-shirts and nothing else.

Perfect.

His favorite way to wake up.

Max slid beneath the covers before you even registered what was happening. His hands pried your thighs apart, his breath hot against your skin.

"Max." You mumbled sleepily, shifting slightly. "What are you…?"

And then his tongue was on you. You gasped, your fingers clenching in the sheets as pleasure rocked through your half-asleep body. Max groaned against your heat, lapping at you like a man starving. He never got tired of this. The taste of you, the scent of you, the way your thighs tremble every time he sucked on that perfect little clit. It was everything. And Max was never satisfied.

By the time he was done with you, you were wrecked. Your body was trembling, your thighs still twitching from the aftershocks. You lay there, panting, eyes dazed as you tried to process what just happened. Max wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning down at you like the smug bastard he was. "Morning, sweetheart." He murmured, voice dripping with satisfaction.

"You’re insane." You groaned, throwing an arm over your face.

Max chuckled, leaning down to press a kiss against your still-sensitive core, just to watch you jerk from overstimulation. "You married me, baby." He reminded you, voice husky.

And as he slid two fingers inside you, grinning at your whimper. "You knew what you were getting into."

Maxwell Lord (Wonder Woman 1984)

Maxwell Lord was a man obsessed. To the world, he was a tycoon, a businessman, a man who commanded respect and wielded power like a weapon. But behind the closed doors of his penthouse, stripped of the expensive suits and the cutthroat deals, he was just a man desperate for you. And he had no shame in showing it. His mouth was already on you, hot and eager, his grip firm on your thighs as he spread you apart. The silk sheets crumpled beneath your trembling hands, your back arching at the first slow, deliberate drag of his tongue.

"Max…"

He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core. "You know better than to say my name like that, mi amor." He murmured, his voice a dark promise against your heat. "Not unless you want me to keep you here all night." His tongue flicked again, teasing, coaxing, tasting.

You did want that. You always wanted it. Your husband was relentless, worshiping you with a devotion that bordered on madness. It wasn’t enough for him to simply touch you, to make love to you, no, he had to devour you, to drown himself in you until he couldn’t breathe. And right now, he was starving. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you in place as his mouth worked you over, slow and indulgent, like he had all the time in the world. He loved doing this to you. Loved feeling you unravel beneath him, loved the way you gasped and writhed and whimpered his name like a prayer.

"You taste so sweet, cariño." He groaned, his voice thick with need. "So perfect for me." Your fingers tangled in his golden hair, hips lifting, desperate for more. But Max was in control and he wasn’t going to let you rush him. Not when he could keep you on the edge for as long as he wanted. Not when making you fall apart was his favorite thing in the world.

Lucien De Leon (The Uninvited)

The estate was quiet now. The party had ended hours ago, leaving only the soft hum of cicadas and the occasional creak of floorboards beneath your bare feet. Moonlight spilled through the wide windows of your bedroom, casting silver shadows across the expensive linen sheets, catching in your hair like a halo. You were already in bed, curled beneath the silk covers, a book forgotten on your lap. But your mind wasn’t on the pages.

It was on him.

You heard him before you saw him, his measured steps down the hallway, the soft clink of his belt being undone, the rustle of his jacket as he shrugged it off. When the door opened, your eyes lifted and there he was.

Lucien.

His shirt was half-unbuttoned, his dark hair tousled from his hands, always tugging when he was stressed or when he was thinking about you, which lately, seemed like all the time. "Still awake?" He murmured, voice low and rough with something darker.

"Couldn’t sleep." You shifted onto your back, watching as he stepped into the moonlight, eyes raking over your form like you were a goddamn miracle.

Lucien crossed the room in slow, measured strides. You could feel the heat radiating off his body before he even touched you. “I saw you tonight.” He murmured as he knelt beside the bed, his hand reaching to slowly push the sheets down. “The way you looked in that dress, smiling, talking to everyone, pretending like I wasn’t five seconds from dragging you out of that ballroom.”

“You didn’t say much at the party.” You shivered under his stare, the heat in his voice licking over your skin.

He tilted his head, his hands already trailing up your thighs, gentle and reverent. “Didn’t trust myself to.” His fingers curled beneath the hem of your nightgown, pushing it up. “You drive me fucking insane, mi amor. All night, I could barely think. All I wanted was to get you alone.”

“Lucien…” You gasped as his mouth brushed against your inner thigh, soft slow kisses that made your toes curl.

His eyes flicked up, wild and tender all at once. “I married the most beautiful woman in this world.” He whispered. “And I will never stop worshipping her.” And with that, he buried his face between your thighs. The first stroke of his tongue was slow precise, like he was savoring you, like this wasn’t something rushed or expected. It was an offering. A ritual.

Your fingers tangled into his hair instinctively, back arching as he sucked gently on your clit, tongue circling with maddening patience. Lucien groaned against you, like he was starving, like this was what he craved most in the world.

He loved this. Loved how your thighs trembled around his face, how your hips bucked helplessly, how you whimpered his name like a prayer. He gripped your thighs tighter, pressing you down as you started to squirm, overwhelmed by the waves of heat crashing through your belly. "You always taste so fucking sweet.” He growled, voice muffled. “My pretty little wife… this is mine."

“Lucien…” Your voice was breathless, shaking, your body already close.

But he didn’t stop. If anything, he doubled down, flicking his tongue faster, rougher, his hands locking you in place as he devoured you like a man possessed. You were shaking now, legs trembling uncontrollably, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of it. You came with a cry, your entire body clenching as the world shattered into stars.

But Lucien didn’t stop. Even as you begged, soft stuttering, “too much” falling from your lips, he kept licking, moaning like he was the one being pleasured, like your shaking body beneath him only fueled his obsession.

“I’ll stop when I’ve had enough.” He murmured darkly, kissing your overstimulated folds, then licking slow and deep again. “But I’ll never get enough of you.” And you believed him. Because Lucien De Leon didn’t just love you, he worshipped you. Every inch. Every tremble. Every shattered breath.

And tonight, like always, he would ruin you, slowly, thoroughly and completely. And you’d let him.

Every. Damn. Time.

Oberyn Martell (Game of Throne)

The warm Dornish night wrapped around the palace of Sunspear like a silken embrace, the air thick with the scent of citrus and salt from the nearby sea. The moon hung high, casting silver light through the open balcony doors, the soft billowing of sheer curtains whispering against the stone. But inside the grand bedchamber, there was only heat.

Oberyn Martell lay between your thighs, eyes dark with hunger, lips curled into a lazy, sinful smile as he pressed a teasing kiss to the inside of your knee. His large hands held your legs open with ease, fingers tracing idle patterns against your flushed skin. "Look at you." He murmured, his voice like honeyed wine, deep and thick with desire. "So beautiful like this, my love. Spread out before me like a feast meant only for my lips."

You shivered beneath his touch, your breath hitching as he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss against your thigh, dangerously close to where you needed him most. Your fingers tangled in the silk sheets, a desperate whimper escaping your lips as he deliberately avoided the place where you ached for him. "Oberyn." You gasped, hips shifting in silent pleas.

He hummed in amusement, his nose brushing against your inner thigh as he nipped at the sensitive skin, dragging his teeth along it before soothing the mark with his tongue. "Patience, sweet wife." He chided, though his own restraint was hanging by a thread. "I plan to savor you tonight."

And savor you he did.

His mouth descended upon you, his tongue flicking against your most sensitive spot with slow, deliberate strokes. The first contact sent a jolt of pleasure through your spine, your back arching off the bed as a breathless cry fell from your lips.

Oberyn groaned at the taste of you, gripping your thighs tighter as he buried himself deeper, drinking in every sound you made as if it were the sweetest melody. He licked, kissed, and sucked with expert precision, his tongue swirling in lazy circles before dipping lower, teasing, devouring.

Your fingers found their way into his dark curls, tugging desperately as the coil of pleasure within you tightened with every stroke of his tongue. He moaned against you, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure crashing through your body.

"Oberyn, gods, please!" Your plea was met with a low chuckle but he didn't stop. If anything, he doubled his efforts, his hands pressing your hips down to keep you from writhing away from the overwhelming pleasure. He wanted you shaking beneath him, wanted to hear his name fall from your lips like a prayer, wanted to ruin you with nothing but his mouth.

And when you finally shattered, when your body trembled and arched and you cried out his name like it was the only thing you knew, Oberyn didn’t stop. He licked you through it, drawing out every last tremor until you were boneless beneath him, your body twitching with aftershocks.

Only then did he pull away, his lips glistening with evidence of his devotion as he crawled up your body, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. "Perfect." He murmured, voice thick with pride and desire. "But I am not yet done with you, my love." And with that, the night stretched on, filled with whispered praises, gasping breaths, and the relentless worship of a man utterly devoted to his beautiful wife.

Pero Tovar (The Great Wall)

The evening crept in quietly, the golden light fading behind the hills and casting a soft glow through the cabin windows. The fire crackled gently in the hearth, and the cozy warmth of their little home wrapped around them like a thick quilt. Pero had been watching you for a while, admiring the way your hair spilled over your shoulders as you finished the last few rows of his sweater. His heart, often guarded and rough around the edges, softened completely in your presence.

And now, he couldn’t resist you any longer. He set the knitted sweater aside carefully, eyes smoldering with a kind of hunger that only you could inspire. "Lie back for me, cariño." He murmured, voice low and deep with promise.

“Now?” You blinked up at him, lips parting slightly as a soft, knowing smile played on your mouth.

He leaned in, brushing his nose against yours. “Now…” He repeated, his fingers already slipping under the hem of your dress, coaxing you gently to lie back across your bed.

You complied as you sank into the pillows. Pero wasted no time, kissing a path down your stomach, worshipping your body with every press of his lips. He loved how soft you were, how you trembled when his stubble grazed your inner thighs, how you sighed his name like a prayer. “Relax, mi vida.” He whispered, spreading your legs with reverent care. “Let me take care of you.” And he did, thoroughly.

His strong arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you steady as he indulged in the sweet taste of the woman who made a hardened soldier like him feel utterly undone. Every flick of his tongue was precise, every kiss intentional and it wasn’t long before your breathing grew shallow, your hips subtly lifting to meet his mouth.

“Pero, oh gods…Pero, I… I can’t…” You tangled your fingers in his hair, gasping as waves of pleasure built and rolled through you.

But he didn’t stop. He was lost in you. Obsessed with how you responded to his touch, the way your thighs trembled against his cheeks, how your voice shook when you whimpered his name. He was a man on a mission. And his mission was to worship every inch of his pretty wife until you were trembling beneath him, completely undone and thoroughly loved.

And when you finally reached that peak, body quivering, hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your cries, Pero held you gently through every wave, his own name echoing in your voice like a song. When you collapsed back into the pillows, boneless and breathless, Pero kissed the inside of your knee, then your hip, then your belly before crawling up beside you and wrapping you tightly in his arms.

You were still catching your breath when you turned to him, flushed and glowing. “You’re insatiable.” You whispered with a sleepy smile.

“Only for you, mi amor. Always for you.” Pero chuckled, brushing a damp strand of your from your face.

Reed Richards (Fantastic 4)

Reed had always been a man of intellect, of science, of logic. But when it came to you? All reason was lost. It wasn’t just love, it was obsession. An insatiable hunger that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with the way your body trembled beneath him when he had his head buried between your thighs.

Tonight was no different. Your fingers tangled into his salt and pepper curls, back arching as his wicked mouth latched onto the sensitive bundle of nerves that had you gasping out his name.

“Reed, fuck!”

He groaned against you, his large hands pinning down your trembling thighs, refusing to let you squirm away from his torturous pace. “You taste so fucking sweet.” He murmured, dragging his tongue in a slow languid motion, savoring you like you were the finest thing he had ever had.

And to him? You were.

His brilliant mind, capable of unraveling the universe’s deepest mysteries, was reduced to one singular thought, his neverending devotion to you. His pretty little wife. His obsession. His addiction. “More.” His voice was hoarse, desperate, his grip tightening around your hips. “Give me more, sweetheart.”

As if you had any choice. He devoured you whole, until your body shuddered, until your breath hitched and your nails raked against his scalp. And yet, even as you came undone beneath him, he wasn’t done with you. Not even close.

Reed pulled back only for a moment, darkened eyes drinking in the sight of you, flushed and wrecked, completely at his mercy. “I hope you don’t think I’m finished, darling.” His lips curled into a smirk, glossy with your slick. “We’ve barely even started.” And with that, he dove right back in.

Tim Rockford (Merge Mansion)

Tim Rockford had a problem. A serious, all-consuming, mind-numbing problem and it was you. More specifically, your pussy. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t get enough. It didn’t matter how many times he had you, he was always aching for more. Always desperate to taste you, to bury himself between your thighs and ruin you in ways that made you sob his name.

And tonight was no different.

You had barely crawled into bed when Tim was already reaching for you, big hands sliding up your thighs, warm and insistent. "Tim." You murmured, blinking sleepily as he pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh. "What are you…"

"You know what, sweetheart." He muttered against your skin.

A small gasp left your lips when he nipped at the soft flesh, dragging his mouth higher, closer to where you were already warm and aching for him. "You don’t have to." You breathed, even as your legs parted without hesitation.

"Yeah, I do." Tim huffed a low, wicked laugh. Because it wasn’t a choice, not anymore. Not when you were already so soft, so wet for him, just from a few teasing kisses. Not when the scent of you had him damn near losing his mind. He didn’t waste time, didn’t tease and didn’t make you beg for it. No, he devoured you, spreading you open with his fingers and dragging his tongue through your slick folds like a man starved.

"Oh, my God!" Your hands flew to his hair, fingers curling against his scalp as your back arched off the bed.

Tim groaned into you, lapping at your swollen, sensitive clit, slow and purposeful. He could feel you trembling already, thighs twitching against his shoulders, but he wasn’t stopping. Not until he had you sobbing for him. Not until you were shaking and soaking his face, pulling at his hair, begging him for something you couldn’t even put into words.

"You taste so fucking sweet, baby." He murmured, his voice thick with hunger. "Could stay here all night." And he meant it because Tim Rockford had a problem. And he had no fucking plans to fix it.

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manonsmartini · 14 days ago

Text

Tender Ruin — Lara Raj (18+)

✒️ explicit sexual content · g!p lara · dubcon · oral/face-fucking · worship · praise/degradation · emotional sex · hate sex · reader has a bf (ex) · resentment · miscommunication · emotional cheating · hurt/comfort · guilt · angst · bullying · sex as emotional release · implied exhibitionism · college au

Summary: Your boyfriend mocked her. You didn’t join in—but you didn’t stop him, either. You let it happen. And now she wants nothing to do with either of you. But one heated confrontation cracks everything open. The anger turns carnal. The silence, intimate. But guilt doesn’t vanish just because you finally touched her like you meant it. (10.6k words)

Lara’s alone, earbuds in, notebook half-open on her lap, nursing a strawberry juice like it’s the only sweet thing left in her day. Her foot taps a rhythm only she knows, and her shoulders are curled in like she’s used to taking up less space.

It’s a sunny day, it was loud, hot, and cruel. Your boyfriend is louder than usual. He’s cracking open a protein bar, chewing with his mouth open, talking about last night’s scrimmage like he scored the winning goal when he didn’t.

The rest of the table’s half-listening, half-scrolling, except you. You’re not really listening either, just staring past him, eyes landing every so often on the quiet girl across the courtyard.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, too loud, tossing the wrapper behind him, “Check her out, the emo’s at it again.”

A few heads turn. Lara doesn’t. She keeps writing, pen steady, expression blank, but the flick of her wrist slows just slightly.

“She’s always drinking those, right? What, is that her whole diet? Strawberry fucking Hi-C?”

The others chuckle, just because he’s the one who said it, not because it’s funny.

“She’s not bad at writing though,” someone else mutters, attempting neutrality.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” your boyfriend says, “Bet she just recycles songs anyway. All that effort just to be weird.”

Then, lower, not for everyone, just for the boys, “Freaks like her are always hiding something. You know. Wouldn’t be surprised if she showed up with a knife one day,” Another laugh echoed, and it was way too loud, too long. One of the guys even fake-shivers.

“Okay,” you say under your breath, half-hearted. Not angry, just tired. He doesn’t hear you, or maybe he pretends not to.

Lara still hasn’t looked up, she just flips the page, starts over, but you can tell, just barely, that her hand is shaking now. Her fingers tighten around the pen. Her jaw works in slow, silent circles like she’s clenching it from the inside out, but she doesn’t say anything, and that’s because she knows better—because boys like him don’t need reasons. They just need someone softer than themselves to crush in front of an audience.

He leans back in his chair, tossing his empty drink bottle toward the trash but missing. You go to say something, to point it out, maybe, but then Lara looks up, and everything stops. She meets your eyes. Only for a second, maybe less, but it’s enough. Because you were already watching her the whole time.

Your face was unreadable; you looked calm, perhaps even bored. But you didn’t look surprised nor angry; you weren’t laughing, but you weren’t leaving either. Just sitting beside him like you belong there.

That look burns; it needles under her skin, and not because you’re mocking her, but because you aren’t. You look at her like you know exactly what’s happening, and you won’t do a damn thing about it. And maybe worst of all, behind that still expression, she sees it: that flicker of interest, and she hates it, hates you, but hates herself more.

He always picked on her; it wasn’t personal, at least that’s what she told herself. Guys like him didn’t need reasons. They were loud because they could be, mean because no one stopped them. It didn’t matter if she was sitting alone with her headphones in or just passing by with a guitar case slung over her shoulder. Somehow, she was still a target.

“She always looks like she’s about to cry,” he once said, fake-pouting to his friends, “Like, bro, you can’t major in feelings. Just say you’re broke and move on.”

She never responded, that would only make it worse. So she let it roll off, or at least tried to. Wrote about it in fragments, lyrics that never made it to full songs. Lines like:

he touches gold and still spits it out / says it tastes like pity and dirt / but I’m the one bleeding from the mouth.

She didn’t write for anyone but herself, that’s what she kept telling herself. Until the day she left her notebook on the bench outside the music building.

Lara had been rushing, late for class, brain buzzing with a melody she couldn’t get down in time. By the time she realized she left it, the notebook was already gone, her stomach twisted at the mere thought that someone else had it. It wasn’t just lyrics in that book, it was thoughts. Ghosts. Some of her handwriting was so frantic she couldn’t even remember writing it. That notebook had pieces of her no one had ever seen. If someone opened it, really opened it—

And then you appeared. You approached her nonchalantly, not a smile in sight, you didn’t even say much, you simply held it out to her, “Lara? I think you left this.”

She blinked, took it slowly, half-expecting a joke, but your tone was even. Neutral. Your eyes didn’t move like they were mocking her. They were just… there. Present. Real. She cleared her throat, “Did you—did you read it?”

You hesitated before answering, “Just the first few pages,” you said, “To figure out who it belonged to.”

That was it. There was no teasing or any commentary. There was no violation. Lara stared at you a little longer than she should have, heart thudding, waiting for the punchline. One that never came.

For three days after, she played that moment over in her head. You’d look tired. Pretty. Kind, maybe. She wasn’t even sure how you found out that it was hers; the notebook didn’t have her name or anything that would link it to her unless you truly knew her—which you didn’t.

But since then, she started writing again. Not songs, not yet, just stray lines about you. Your face. The way you handed the notebook back like it was something valuable. The way she imagined your fingers brushing over the spine, maybe lingering just a little too long.

Lara didn’t know your name, but she knew your voice now; your cadence. But then she heard him. It was in the quad, the group was gathered, loud and sprawled out over a cluster of benches. She wasn’t close, not that she ever was, but close enough to hear your boyfriend’s voice, cocky and nasal.

“She left her little diary full of sad girl poems or whatever, and of course guess who found it?”

Laughter, but they weren’t yours. She froze.

“She probably sings to herself in the mirror. Bet she thinks she’s deep. Like, ‘I’m not like other girls, I write about pain.’ So original.”

More laughter. Again, not yours.

And you—you just sat there. Quiet. Still. That’s when Lara knew. You’d read it. You told him. You handed it back with those calm eyes and let him rip it apart behind her back, and worst of all, you’d looked at her like you understood, like you liked what you read.

Lara burned the pages she’d written about you. She didn’t write for a week after that. Didn’t look at you when you crossed paths again in the hallway. She didn’t let herself stare too long when you were out at night, clinging to his arm like you were scared of your own thoughts.

But she remembered your face. She remembered thinking you were different. And maybe you were. Maybe that was what made it worse.

It was a warm afternoon, but Lara felt cold. The sun touched the backs of her arms as she sat on the grass, headphones on but not playing. She wasn’t close to them, just near enough to hear when they got too loud, and they always got too loud.

Your boyfriend was in rare form today. You were sitting beside him on the concrete bench, legs crossed, one hand nursing an iced coffee that had already started to sweat. You weren’t speaking, just listening in the conversation, watching your surroundings.

That was the worst part. Lara always knew when you were watching. It made her skin crawl. She honestly believed in things like that; gut feelings, energy, that whole “sixth sense” kind of thing. So she knew the weight of your stare the way she knew how to tune a guitar by instinct. Even with her back turned. Even when your voice didn’t join theirs. She knew.

‘Stop looking at me.’

“She’s probably writing about me right now,” your boyfriend laughed. He was talking about her again, loud enough to make sure she’d hear, “Like, ‘he pierced my soul with cruelty.’”

He put on a fake-sincere tone, “Bro, I swear to god, I saw her carrying that same notebook again last week. That shit’s like… a personal burn book set to acoustic guitar.”

The group erupted in laughter. Not all of them, but enough, “She just gives off that dark and misunderstood but boring as hell vibe, y’know?”

“She’s like… if Spotify Sad Girl playlists had a mascot,” Lara didn’t flinch. She didn’t turn around. That’s what he would have wanted.

She clenched her jaw, thumb digging into her palm; she could take this, she thought. She could always take it. But when he said it—

“Why’s she always dressing like she’s in a cultural identity crisis?”

—That’s when she almost turned. Her neck twitched, her eyes burned, but she didn’t move. If she looked at him, it would be worse. So she looked at you instead, and you were already looking at her.

And fuck, it felt like shame. You didn’t laugh; you never did. But you never told him to stop, either and that’s just as bad as what he’s doing. The way she looked at you now, eyes sharp, like knives honed on disbelief, made something in your chest twist painfully. Because she didn’t see awe or apology or guilt in your eyes. She saw pity.

‘Why are you still sitting with him?’

Lara’s lips parted, but no words came out. She looked away fast, as if the act of seeing you had burned her, had confirmed what she already knew. You weren’t kind. You weren’t different. You just knew how to pretend.

And you? You didn’t know how to explain to her that you weren’t pretending. You didn’t know how to tell her that you’d read her lyrics, just a handful, just enough to know it was her and to see she was brilliant, to understand she was hurting. You didn’t know how to say you weren’t laughing because you agreed, you were laughing because you were scared.

Of him. Of her. Of the way she looked when the sunlight hit her eyes and it made your breath hitch.

‘She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. But she looks at me like I’m filth.’

And maybe you deserved that.

Lara stood up abruptly. The air shifted with her movement, like the room had changed. Her footsteps were steady as she walked away, but you could feel it, the tremor in the space she left behind. The bitter perfume of disappointment clinging to the air.

Your boyfriend leaned back, scoffing, “She’s so dramatic.”

You didn’t respond. You just watched her leave. And wondered how it was possible to miss someone who was never yours.

She didn’t mean to bump into you the next day. Lara had just rounded the building, trying to cut across the campus walkway near the back stairwell, head down, earphones in but not playing. It wasn’t until she looked up, saw him first, then you behind him, that her spine went rigid.

She almost turned around, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. You saw her a second too late, but he saw her instantly, “Look who it is.”

That same smirk and that same voice. That same ache in Lara’s temples from clenching her jaw too tightly.

You froze. “Let’s not—”

“Relax. I’m not gonna hit her,” he laughed, “Unless she’s got a song in there that rhymes with ‘restraining order.’”

Lara didn’t say a word.

Don’t give him anything. Not a glance. Not a reaction. He feeds on it.

You stepped forward. You reached for his arm, lightly, not enough to stop him, not enough to hold your ground.

“Come on,” you said softly, “Let’s just go. We’re gonna be late for lunch.”

But your hand slipped off when he stepped forward again, chest puffed slightly, posturing for a fight no one wanted, “Why do you always look so surprised to see me, huh?” he kept going, louder, “This is my campus too, sweetheart. You think you’re some tortured genius, walking around with your little emo notebook like anyone gives a shit?”

Still, Lara said nothing.

‘Just walk. Just walk away. You don’t owe him a goddamn thing.’

She didn’t move, but you did. You walked to her side, but didn’t say anything, not to her, not to him. You didn’t touch her, didn’t look at her; you just stood there. Close enough that your arm nearly brushed hers.

A little too close for him not to miss. A little too subtle for her to trust. But Lara noticed, of course she did.

She noticed the way your gaze didn’t leave him. The way your jaw was set, like you were biting your tongue hard enough to bleed. She noticed the way your body shifted, slightly angled, like you were trying to block his line of sight, like you were trying to make it harder for him to lunge if he ever got that idea.

But Lara also noticed how easily your hand slipped off his arm earlier. How quickly you gave up on pulling him away. She saw you do nothing when it counted, then felt you do something too late.

“You said you wanted sushi,” you said suddenly, eyes still on him. Your voice is quiet, almost pleasant, “Let’s go to the mall. They’ll have a table by now.”

He scoffed, “Are you serious?”

You didn’t respond. Just tilted your head toward the path. You still hadn’t looked at her. Lara didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

And then, as he turned with a final muttered insult, something she didn’t catch, something she didn’t care to, you followed. But not before Lara caught the barest flicker of your eyes, a glance over your shoulder. It wasn’t regret. It wasn’t guilt. It was something quieter. Something more raw. Perhaps it was shame.

Lara stood still in the heat of the sidewalk, alone now.

Her throat felt dry. Her pulse throbbed behind her ears. Not from anger, but from confusion. From the way her body had almost, almost leaned toward yours when you stood beside her. From the way your perfume had stuck to the air even after you left.

She hated that she remembered how it smelled. She hated that she thought, for just a second,

‘She stood beside me. Why?’

But most of all —

‘Why didn’t she stay?’

He always had something to say. Usually with his mouth full.

“So what, now you’re just gonna keep defending her?” he said, picking at his teeth with a toothpick he grabbed from the café counter, “The freak? I’m serious, babe, if I didn’t know any better I’d think you were the one who wrote those lyrics.”

You stared out the window. The glass was slightly fogged from the aircon. You drew your finger across it, “You’re not funny,” you said quietly.

“I’m not joking,” he replied, “Those songs? Corny as hell. It’s giving diary entries, like—‘oh no, my feelings, someone validate me.’”

He laughed, “You said she plays guitar too, right? Bet she only knows, like, three chords.”

“Stop.”

“Why?”

He leaned back in the driver’s seat, “I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking. You’re just too nice to admit it.”

You turned to face him, slow and steady, “I’m breaking up with you.”

He blinked. The air shifted. “You’re what?”

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” you said. Your voice was calm, almost soft, “I don’t like who I am when I’m with you.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

You didn’t flinch, “I said I’m done.”

A pause. He laughed again, but it was forced now, “You’re being dramatic.”

You opened the car door. “Hey—hey. You’re not serious.”

You stepped out. The heat hit you in the face. “Come on, you’re being crazy right now. Babe—”

You shut the door. He didn’t follow. Of course he didn’t. Not when you were walking away. He sat there like he was waiting for a punchline, like it would all undo itself with time.

It didn’t. He didn’t tell people you broke up with him, he couldn’t stomach it. He still acted like he was yours, like nothing changed. But you knew.

Lara always came here when she wanted to disappear; there was something sacred about this room, dust collecting on the windowsills, half-broken blinds letting in streaks of sun like gold knives. The silence was its own kind of music, broken only by the soft scratch of pen to paper or the muted hum of her voice when she thought no one was around.

Today, she was humming again, something slow and unfinished, perhaps even beautiful, in the right hands. You stood by the door, watching her before she noticed.

You didn’t mean to intrude, just walking past, just drawn in by the sound. But now you are here, her back to you. The ache you’d carried for weeks threatening to spill into something you didn’t have a name for.

You took a breath, stepping into the room quietly, hoping that this could be the chance to finally apologize to the girl, to take accountability.

“Lara,” you said. She turned. Her body stiffened immediately, like your voice was a slap. Her eyes darkened, mouth setting in that tight, unimpressed line. She didn’t even pause to pretend, “No.”

That was all she said at first. Not hi, not what, not what are you doing here.

Just: no.

You tried again, “I just wanted—”

“I don’t care,” Lara didn’t raise her voice; she didn’t have to, “You need to leave,” she said flatly.

“I just… Lara, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t say my name like that,” she snapped, stepping back like it hurt. You froze. She laughed, bitterly, “You and your boyfriend. You two always find a way to ruin things, huh?”

You opened your mouth, wanting to respond but nothing came out.

“I had one space,” she said, gesturing around the room, “One space that wasn’t crawling with people who stare. Or laugh. Or treat me like I’m fucking entertainment.”

“I’m not like him,” you said quietly. Her eyes flashed, “Aren’t you?”

You didn’t answer. What could you say? He’d torn her down in front of you, again and again, and you’d said nothing. You’d pulled him away, sure, once or twice, but did she ever see you stand against him?

“I didn’t tell him about the lyrics,” you tried. She stared.

“I just… I read the first page. That’s how I knew it was yours. I swear—”

“I said I don’t care.”

You blinked.

“I don’t care if you read them,” Lara said, stepping closer, “I don’t care what you told him. I don’t care what you think you came here to say.”

Then, softer, deadly quiet, “You don’t get to feel bad now.”

Your throat closed around something sharp.

“You don’t get to show up here like you’re not his,” Lara was so close now—she was close enough for you to smell the hint of citrus from her shampoo. Her eyes were wild in a way you hadn’t seen before, not dangerous, just frayed, like something inside her had been pulling and pulling and finally snapped.

You whispered her name again.

“Don’t,” She turned her back on you, and quietly walked toward the table, the notebook left open like a wound.

“You should go,” she said, “Before I really say something I regret.”

But you didn’t move; you were still staring at her, at the set of her shoulders, the trembling in her fingers. And for the first time, you realized: she hated you. That alone should have been your cue. You shouldn’t have followed her, especially not when she already told you to leave. Told you clearly. Told you twice. And yet you stayed.

You stood in that room like you had a right to be there, like your presence wasn’t the exact thing ruining it, “Lara, just—” you tried.

“I told you to go,” She still wasn’t looking at you.

Lara was sitting on an abandoned table, notebook on her knee, pen frozen mid-line. The chair meant for the table was pushed back, untouched. This was her place, her escape, and now you were in it, with your soft voice and your need to be understood.

“I’m not here to fight—”

“But you are here,” She looked up, and there it was, not sadness, not pain, but fury. Her anger looked controlled and quiet, but there was a certain finality to it, “You always ruin everything.”

“Lara, please.”

“No. No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to come in here and pretend you’re not him. You don’t get to want anything from me.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” She stood, finally asserting herself, “I don’t like you,” she said, “I never did.”

You blinked.

“I thought maybe you weren’t like the rest of them. But you are. You don’t listen. You don’t leave when people tell you to.”

Lara stepped toward you, just once, “You act soft but you make everything worse. You make me worse.”

Another step. Your breath caught.

“Get out,” she said again, but this time it was low. Different. Still, you didn’t move, so she did.

Lara crossed the space between you with two fast steps, her hands gripped your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks as she kissed you—if it could be called that.

Her mouth was hot and unrelenting, nothing tender in the way she devoured you. It was all teeth and frustration, a punishment passed through lips and tongue.

Her breath hitched, but not with affection; it was something closer to vindication. She’d wanted this for a long time, not because she liked you—but because she hated what you’d become in her eyes.

You didn’t kiss back, not at first. You just let it happen. That was what always seemed to bother people the most; you let things happen.

Lara’s hands were already roaming, gripping your tits, your waist, your hips like she meant to bruise you into memory. She pulled back just long enough to hiss against your lips.

“You and that fucking boyfriend,” she spat, “You’re perfect for each other—liars, cowards. But he didn’t deserve this,” Lara’s hand dragged down between your legs, “He didn’t deserve to fuck a body this pretty.”

You gasped, breathless and dazed, but still not fighting.

“And you—” she growled, pushing you back toward the table, “You don’t deserve to be fucked by a lousy dick like his.”

She shoved you roughly over the wooden surface, hands yanking up your skirt with zero ceremony. Your palms hit the cool table, legs parting slightly without conscious effort. Lara didn’t even stop to undress you properly—just pulled your panties to the side like they were in her way. Her other hand fumbled with her zipper, releasing the hard weight of her cock. And then—

She paused. Fingers brushed between your thighs and came back wet, making her breath hitch; you were soaked.

“Are you—” Lara scoffed, stunned for half a second, before anger took over again, “You wanted this?”

You didn’t answer, you didn’t need to. Your body did it for you. Lara laughed sarcastically, “Of course you did,” She gripped your hips hard, voice sharp as a blade.

“You’re worse than I thought,” she sneered, gripping herself at the base and slapping her cock against your folds, “Your boyfriend mocks me, calls me names, and here you are soaking for the same girl he hates.”

She leaned in, teeth grazing your ear, “Fine. Then I’ll give you what you want. I’ll ruin you for him.”

She aligned herself, cock twitching in her hand, dragging through your slickness again, slower this time, more cruel.

“He’ll never fuck you like I will,” And then she thrust in. One sharp, deep push—no warning, no tenderness, just heat and pressure splitting you open around her.

A choked sound escaped you as your body jolted forward, palms slipping on the polished wood. Lara didn’t hold back; she didn’t want soft, she wanted control and payback, and that’s exactly what you gave her.

“So fucking quiet,” Lara snarled, burying deeper, “Of course you are. Letting me do whatever the fuck I want. Just like you do with him when he says all that stupid crap about me.”

She started to move—rough, punishing strokes, slamming into you with the full force of her resentment. Each thrust knocked the air out of you, the table creaking under your body.

Every time she moved, her voice followed—cutting through the air, bitter and hot, “You let him touch you with hands that weak?”

She pushed in harder, “You let him fuck you with no idea what to do with a body like this?”

Her grip tightened, dragging you back to meet her, “He’ll never make you feel like this. Never.”

“I bet he doesn’t even make you come,” she growled, “But I will.”

Another thrust, it was too deep but it felt so good.

“I’ll make you forget his name,” Lara fucked you like it was a punishment. Like every thrust was a sentence, every snap of her hips a reckoning. And yet—god, you were melting for her. She could feel it. The way your walls clenched around her cock, wet and hot and tight like you were built for her rage. It pissed her off. It turned her on.

‘So fucking tight. So good.’

Her fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise, using you, dragging you back into each thrust like she couldn’t get deep enough. She didn’t even mean to last this long—but the way you felt, how easy you took her despite your silence, your docility—it made her want to ruin you more.

“You’re soaking,” Lara growled under her breath, not sure if it was to you or herself, “Fucking dripping for me.”

You couldn’t speak. Your head had dropped, your arms shaking as you gripped the edges of the table, lips parted in a moan you barely managed to swallow. You hated how good it felt. How right it felt. You hated how you didn’t do this sooner.

The stretch of her cock burned at first—ruthless, fast, deep—but now it just lit up every nerve ending you had, dragging moans from you without permission.

Your hips started moving back into hers, chasing her rhythm. Every time she pulled out, you followed. Every time she slammed back in, your thighs trembled and your eyes fluttered shut. And every time she noticed, she got meaner.

“Desperate little thing,” she hissed, “Bet you didn’t moan like that for him.”

Another thrust, “Bet he never even made you cum.”

Another, “I’ll show you how it’s supposed to feel.”

“Fuck,” you gasped—your first word—and it made Lara sneer.

“Oh? Now you’ve got something to say?” she taunted, voice low and cruel, “You don’t say shit when he’s being a dick in front of you. But this?”

She slammed into you again, deeper. Anger was laced with her voice when she said, “This you moan for?”

You bit your lip, stifling another one, but it was too late. Lara could feel it—your cunt fluttering around her like you were about to cum already.

“You’re fucking close, aren’t you?” she hissed, hips grinding into you now, angling her thrusts with a precision she didn’t know she had when she was this angry, “Gonna come all over me just because I said my dick is better than his.”

Your eyes rolled back. Her cock hit just right, dragging against that perfect spot, the tip pressing deeper than anyone else had reached—and you came, hard, without warning. Your body tensed, thighs shaking as you pulsed around her, crying out into your arm as she fucked you through it, not slowing down once.

Lara’s eyes widened, heart thudding in her throat as she felt your orgasm milk her cock. She shouldn’t enjoy it this much. She should hate this. She does. But you were also being so good right now.

And you kept clenching, kept dripping.

‘She’s still wet. Still needy.’

“You came already?” she mocked, panting now, “So fucking desperate.”

You were still coming down when she changed her pace into something slower, deeper, meaner. And you moaned again.

Lara’s hands slid up your back, gripping your shoulder, pinning you there like you’d try to run. She bent over you, hips rolling into you with deliberate cruelty.

“I’ll make you cum again,” she whispered darkly into your ear, “I want you ruined. I want you to remember my dick every time he touches you.”

You whimpered—because it was working. She was still fucking you and you were already climbing again. That coil tightening low in your belly, unbearable, as your body moved in sync with hers like it needed her to break you.

And then it hit you again—your second orgasm crashing into you, louder this time, messier. You clenched around her cock, thighs trembling as you pushed back into her like you wanted more, even through the aftershocks.

“Fuck…” Lara cursed, voice breaking, trying to hold back her own release. She wasn’t done with you yet. You barely had time to catch your breath.

Lara pulled out, only to grab you by the thighs—rough, possessive—and lift you like you weighed nothing. You took off your blouse, followed by your bra, as she positioned you on the table. The scrape of the table edge against your back, cold wood meeting flushed skin, made you gasp. Her hands moved without hesitation, pushing you down until your head tipped over the end, hair almost brushing the floor.

You blinked at the ceiling, and then at her.

Her shirt was half unbuttoned, chest heaving, pants undone just enough to give her access. Her cock stood slick and flushed, still hard. Angry. She loomed above you, watching how your lips parted when you realized what was coming next.

She pressed the tip against your mouth.

“Open,” she said. It was a demand, not a question.

You obeyed instantly.

She fed it to you slowly, almost mockingly—letting you feel the weight of it on your tongue, the heat, the stretch. Your breath hitched as she pushed deeper. Your back arched, hands grabbing for her shirt, her thighs—anything.

She didn’t let up, “Look at you,” Lara murmured, voice low, dangerous, “You let him kiss you with that mouth?”

She pulled back slightly, then pushed in again, harder this time, “You let him fuck you, call it love, and now you’re gagging on the cock of the girl he laughs at.”

Her rhythm grew relentless, “Gonna cum on your tongue, baby. I’m gonna cum so hard, all you’ll remember is my cock even when his tongue is in your mouth.”

Your throat tightened, eyes watering. You moaned around her, muffled and raw, while your own hands found your tits, rolling your nipples between trembling fingers as your hips shifted on the table, legs spread obscenely. You didn’t care. You couldn’t.

“You like this?” she growled, “You like being used like this, right where anyone could walk in?”

Laughter rang out in the hallway—students passing by, unaware of what was happening behind the door, or maybe not.

Lara didn’t stop, instead, she shoved her dick deeper into you, her voice thick with cruelty and heat.

“They’ll see you like this,” she whispered, “See you like the slut you are. Pretty little mouth stuffed full. Eyes all glassy. My cock down your throat like you were made for it.”

You choked on a moan. Her words sent a jolt down your spine.

She leaned down, pressing her body over yours, caging you in.

“You don’t even care, do you?” she taunted, “Bet you’d let me take you out there—make you kneel in the hallway, show everyone what you really are.”

You couldn’t answer. Your throat was too full. But your hips moved again, rutting into the air. Your fingers dug into her thighs, holding her in place—begging without words for more.

She laughed again, breathless this time, “You’d let me fuck you in front of him, wouldn’t you?” she said, hand gripping your jaw, “Make him watch me break you open. Show him how much better I’ll always be.”

Lara wasn’t done with you. Without a word, she stepped up onto the table, one knee planting beside your head, then the other. She straddled your face like she owned it—because in that moment, she did. The weight of her thighs bracketing your skull, the heat of her body settling just above your lips—it was dizzying.

“Keep that mouth open,” she muttered. Her voice was low, but the command snapped with tension.

You did, without even thinking, and she sank in again deeper than before.

She gripped your head with both hands now, thumbs pressed into your cheeks, holding you steady as her hips rolled forward. Her pace was deliberate—almost punishing. Every thrust filled you, every motion brought her closer, until your lips were flush with the soft curls at her base, and the scent of her was everywhere, overwhelming.

Your eyes watered. You gasped when you could, only to be filled again. But you didn’t pull away, not when this was the only place on Earth that you’d rather be.

You held onto her thighs, your body arching from the table as if trying to match her rhythm, as if you needed this just as badly. Lara looked down at you, eyes blazing.

“This what you wanted?” she hissed, hips snapping forward again, “Letting me use your mouth like he never could? Letting me take what he never deserved?”

You gurgled around her, choked on her rhythm—but she didn’t slow.

Outside, footsteps passed. Laughter again. A voice calling someone’s name down the hall. She didn’t stop. She didn’t even falter.

“They’re right outside,” she said, breath ragged, “One wrong move and they’ll see you. Mouth full. Face ruined. And you won’t even care, will you?”

You didn’t. Not with the way she was fucking you. Not with the way her words seared through your skin, the way her hands held your skull like something precious and breakable.

You moaned, or tried to, and she felt it—deep in her.

“That’s it,” she whispered, looking down at you like she hated how much she wanted you, “Take it.”

Lara’s movements become rougher, less controlled. Her grip on your head was much firmer than before, her breath stuttering, “Fuck—too good. So fucking warm. So wet. That mouth—” She moaned as watches you choke slightly, moaning around her cock, your body arched.

She grits her teeth, hips snapping forward with ragged intensity, “You fucking love this, don’t you?” she pants, “Letting me ruin you.”

The room is hot, thick with panting and slick sounds. Lara’s thighs are shaking slightly now, knees pressing into the table on either side of your head as she aggressively face-fucks you, “Fuck—you take it so well, like it’s all you’re good for,” she growled, sweat slick on her temple as her hips slammed forward without rhythm. Her hands gripped your jaw like a vice, forcing your lips wider, “You’re mine now. Not his. Never his.”

The tension in her body grew as she neared the peak of her release—the way her back arches, her thighs shake, her pace stutters.

Her thrusts were erratic, mindlessly fucked your face needily. She cursed again, louder this time, her abs clenching as her rhythm broke entirely. For a moment, all you could hear was her breath—ragged and frantic—as she threw her head back, practically pounding in your mouth.

‘Lara’s fucking me like she hates me. Like she owns me. And I want more.’

Lara pulls back a second, just enough to say, “Open your mouth. I want to see your fucking face when I cum.” She jerks herself quickly, before sliding her cock against your tongue one last time. She was moaning unapologetically loud now, almost involuntarily. And that’s when the tension finally snaps, Lara cums hard, her hips jerking forward once, then pulling back sharply.

Her cum spills across your face, some hitting the tongue, some dripping down your cheeks and chin, “Fuck—take it. Take all of it,” she growls, voice thick, watching her release hit your open mouth, “God, look at you. Just fucking made for this.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, jaw sore and lips swollen, but you didn’t move; you couldn’t. Not when she was still grinding forward on your tongue like she never wanted to stop. She sounded wrecked—raw and real in a way that made your thighs clench instinctively.

Lara stares down at the mess breathlessly, her pupils blown. Some cum was still clinging to her cock, some were dripping off your lips. She growls softly, dick still twitching, she pushes back into your mouth, sliding her tip between your lips again, smearing her release across your tongue, “Didn’t say you could stop,” Lara mutters, almost dazed, “Clean it up.”

Your breath is ragged. You’re still lying on the table, flushed, body slack, skin shining with sweat and semen. Your chest rises and falls. The taste of her lingers in your mouth, thick on your tongue, dripping down your jaw. You can’t move.

Lara’s standing still. Towering over you. Eyes locked on your body—your face, your parted lips, your ruined thighs. Her own breathing is uneven, the final threads of release still curling around her spine. Her pants are still down, her cock wet and twitching, glistening at the tip.

You blink up at her slowly; there’s no shame in your eyes, not anymore. Just heat, a soft daze, and for the first time today, she doesn’t look angry. She simply moves. It’s quiet—the drag of fabric, the faint creak of the table. She positions herself, but not in front of your face like before, but between your legs. Her hands slide under your knees, lifting them just enough to spread you open again. You flinch.

She notices, then paused, but Lara leans in anyway. Her lips brush your inner thigh first. A kiss—slow and damp. And then her mouth finds your cunt.

You gasp.

There’s no rush now. Her tongue is steady, unhurried, warm. She tastes you like she’s drinking, like she’s savoring. You’re still messy—slick and swollen and overstimulated—and yet she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter. If anything, she groans into you, low and quiet, like she's been craving this; like she’s starving.

Your fingers twitch against the table. Your hips lift, just slightly, and she follows. Lara presses her tongue deeper. Licks up the wetness she helped create. Sucks at your clit so slowly, you swear your vision whites out.

You’re shaking again—but differently now. This isn’t about punishment, not anymore. It’s not about your boyfriend. It’s not about revenge.

This is just Lara. Mouth between your thighs, tongue worshipping what she just wrecked, and it’s… almost gentle.

She makes a sound low in her throat, like she’s breathing you in. Your name leaves her mouth, barely formed, like she’s quietly worshipping. And something inside you unspools. The air shifts.

The tension that once clawed at your spine softens, curls inward, exhales. You feel her hands tighten, not to restrain you, but to anchor. Her mouth moves slower, more purposefully now, as if she’s chasing not just your release, but something else too. Forgiveness. Closeness. Maybe even clarity.

You meet her eyes briefly, and there’s no smirk, no smugness, nor bite. What you saw was something open. It was wounded and wanting. And it breaks you.

You cum with a sob. It’s quieter than before—no loud slap of skin, no degrading words curling in your ears. Just Lara’s mouth, still on you, her arms locked around your thighs, holding you down like she’s afraid you might float away. You clench around nothing. Your body trembles. She doesn’t stop until you’re shaking in full.

And when she reluctantly pulls back, her mouth is wet with you. Her lips are swollen, cheeks flushed. She breathes for a second, watching you.

Lara’s hands were still on your thighs, her breath cooling the skin between your legs as she looked up at you. But it wasn’t taunting anymore. Not hungry or spiteful or punishing. It was quiet. Something softer.

You were still catching your breath when she leaned in again, not to devour, but to kiss.

She starts kissing her way up. Your inner thigh. The crease of your hip. Your belly. Each kiss is slow, warm, almost as if she’s worshipping your body. Her hand strokes your side—thumb brushing your ribs, palm dragging up to your breast. She mouths over your sternum, the space between your tits, your neck.

And when she finally crawled up your body, meeting your gaze, you saw it—something in her had cracked open. The rage had drained out of her, and what was left was raw and tender. Lara pauses above your lips, as if observing your reaction, gauging if you wanted this, then she kisses you.

But this time, it’s not rough. There was no biting or vengefulness or rush. It’s deep. Tender. Open. A kiss that doesn’t ask for anything. A kiss that lingers. Her fingers threaded gently into your hair, not to pull, not to dominate—but to hold. She moaned into your mouth like she was drunk on you, like kissing you was the only thing that made sense.

She whispered your name.

It wasn’t a command this time. It wasn’t even a plea. It was just the way it sounded in her head when she thought about you. Honest. Quiet. Bare.

Your hands hesitantly rise, unsure, before they find their way tangled in her hair. Lara exhales into your mouth, then pulls back just far enough to whisper, “I still hate you.”

You smile, “I know.”

Then she lines herself up again. You don’t even look down—you just feel it. The weight of her cock between your thighs. The way her tip nudges your entrance, slick and eager. But she doesn’t thrust yet.

She looks at you, and for the first time, you see her hesitate. You nod at her quietly, just once, and she finally pushes in slowly; it was so slow it aches. Lara groans—deep, low, like she’s falling apart. Your mouth parts. Your body clenches around her, still sensitive, still warm. She buries herself to the hilt.

No punishment this time, no taunts. Just her, fully inside you, as you gasp into the open air between your mouths.

“Fuck,” she mutters, “You’re perfect.”

You tilt your hips up. Pull her closer. Her mouth meets yours again, this time with more urgency—but it’s not angry. It’s aching.

She begins to move.

Her hips moved slowly, like she wanted to feel everything. Like she wanted you to feel her—not just the stretch or the weight, but her. All of her. She kissed you as she fucked you, her hand cradling the side of your face, her body pressed flush to yours.

And you realized, maybe she’d needed this just as much as you had. Not the payback, not even the dominance, but the closeness; the kind you can’t take back.

Lara moved like she was afraid to break you. The stretch of her was familiar by now, but the way she eased into you, slowly and steady, pausing just to breathe against your mouth, it made you feel like it was the first time. Your hands were in her hair, pulling her closer, and she let you. She let herself be held.

Her forehead pressed to yours as her hips rocked into you, her rhythm was patient. You gasped, and she caught the sound with her lips, kissing it away before it could settle in the air.

“I hate how much I wanted you,” she whispered, voice ragged with emotion, “Still do.”

But she was trembling, not from anger—something else. The way you clenched around her made her groan, low in her throat, and she slowed even more, grinding deep instead of thrusting fast.

Her cock dragged perfectly along your walls, her pelvis flush against yours with every roll of her hips, sending sparks up your spine with how tender it felt—how full.

You arched into her, moaning softly into her ear, and she gasped like it surprised her, “You feel…” she started, but didn’t finish. Instead, she kissed you again, slower now, her tongue curling against yours like she was trying to say what she couldn’t.

Lara buried herself deep and just stayed there, breathing you in, “I didn’t think I could touch you like this,” she said against your neck, her voice raw, “Not like this.”

Your fingers slid down her back, nails grazing over her skin, and she shivered. You weren’t begging. You weren’t crying. You were with her—meeting every roll of her hips with your own, slow and in sync.

Your moans were soft, breathy, the kind that only came from being fucked just right. Not pounded, not used—known.

Lara gritted her teeth, trying to hold herself together, but you could feel her approaching the edge. Her eyes were wide, almost scared, like she didn’t know how to be gentle and still want something this much.

You cupped her cheek. And for the first time, she let herself look at you. Not the enemy. Not the brat. Just you. Just this.

She rocked into you deeper then, her pace tender but relentless, and you felt your body cresting toward something warm and quiet and whole. Your legs trembled around her hips, your body arching as pleasure built again—but this time, it didn’t break you. It held you.

Lara was whispering something you couldn’t quite make out. Your name, maybe, or perhaps just, “Please.”

And then you cum—shuddering around her cock, burying your face in her neck, clinging to her like you’d fall apart without her.

She didn’t stop, she just held you through it and kissed your temple. Lara slowed just enough to let you feel everything. And for a moment, she wasn’t angry anymore. She was yours.

The world felt hushed after. No rush of blood in your ears, no desperate hands, just warmth.

Lara stayed inside you for a long time, as if moving would make the moment vanish. Her body was heavy, but it didn’t weigh on you. It grounded you. Her breath was soft against your collarbone, her arms caging you in like a shield instead of a trap.

Neither of you said anything.

You could feel her heartbeat in the way her chest pressed against yours; it felt fast, unsteady even. She was still catching up to what just happened, and maybe, so were you.

Your hand moved first. Fingers brushing her hair out of her face, thumb ghosting across her cheek. She flinched at the softness of it, like it embarrassed her. Still, she didn’t pull away.

Instead, she kissed your shoulder. Then your chest. Then the underside of your jaw. Not like before, not to provoke, not to claim. Just… kissing. Like she wanted to remember the taste of peace before it slipped away.

And it was slipping. You felt it in the silence. In the way her eyes flicked to the side, avoiding yours.

She slowly pulled out of you, careful and quiet. You winced at the loss, the soreness blooming, but didn’t say anything. Lara reached for a discarded shirt, yours, maybe hers, and gently wiped between your thighs, her touch tentative, unsure if she was allowed to care this much.

Then she lay beside you, her head next to yours on the table’s edge, like she couldn’t bear to go far but didn’t know how to stay close either.

You stared at the ceiling. So did she.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said,” she murmured. You didn’t ask which part. You weren’t sure you were ready to hear it. Or ready to forgive it. But still, you whispered, “I know.”

Lara looked at you then. Really looked. And for a second, her face softened like she might cry, but she didn’t; she swallowed it down, tightening her jaw.

Her fingers brushed yours. A silent offer. Not an apology, not a promise. Just a question: Are we okay? You didn’t answer. But you didn’t pull away. And that was enough, at least for now.

But the quiet between you was no longer peaceful. It pulsed with the weight of what hadn’t been said. With the memory of doors slammed and voices raised and all the ways you’d hurt each other.

Still, Lara stayed close. Still, you let her.

Even if tomorrow, none of this made sense, right now, she was warm, and you were tired, and your fingers were still laced together in the room that’s now filled with memories.

The silence afterward was soft, not heavy. No longer bruising.

Lara had her forehead against your shoulder, one arm still loosely around your waist. Your hand brushed up her spine, slow and aimless, just letting the air settle between you. Her breathing had evened out, but she hadn’t moved since the last kiss.

Eventually, reality began to hum back in; the sound of a distant door, the flicker of fluorescent lights, the faint chill of the classroom.

“We should…” you murmured, voice hoarse, “probably get dressed.”

Lara made a low, reluctant sound, it’s not quite agreement, but not quite in protest either. Eventually she sat up, her hair was tousled, her shirt half-buttoned, and her mouth kissed red and slick.

You both dressed in silence. Not the kind that punished, but kind that lingered. You fastened the last button on your blouse, smoothing it out with suddenly nervous fingers. She was facing away from you now, buttoning her pants, her back rising and falling with quiet breaths.

You hesitated. Then, “Would you… maybe want to get dinner?”

She turned slightly, eyes sharp. You clarified, quickly, “I mean, I could buy you dinner. Or make you something. If you ever felt like coming over.”

Lara blinked. You pushed through the knot in your throat, “We don’t have to—I just. I think we should talk. Clear the air. That’s all. But only if you’re open to it. If not, I get it.”

You weren’t sure what kind of answer you were hoping for. You only knew your voice shook more than you wanted it to.

Lara didn’t speak right away. She just looked at you. Something in her gaze shifted; it was not soft exactly, but it was no longer guarded. Maybe it was curiosity or exhaustion; perhaps it was something in between.

Then she looked away and picked up her jacket, “Where do you live?” she asked, quietly.

You paused, silently giving yourself a high five in your head, “Fifteen minutes from here. Give or take.”

She nodded once, adjusting her jacket like it was armor again, “Text me the address.”

You couldn’t help the way your heart kicked in your chest, “You’re coming?”

She shrugged, but her voice was almost… teasing, “I never said I wasn’t.”

And just like that, the moment folded inward. The silence returned, but this time, it wasn’t avoidance. It was a promise.

Your apartment smelled like garlic and rosemary. The pasta was almost done, the sauce thickening as you stirred. You had changed into a clean T-shirt and loose pants, something that made you feel a little more grounded. Presentable. Normal, even if nothing about tonight had been.

Then came the knock. You wiped your hands and crossed the room, pulse ticking as you opened the door. There she was. Lara.

Still in the same clothes, though her hair was pulled back now. Neater. Her eyes met yours without flinching, but something in her posture, in the subtle tension of her jaw, told you she was just as unsure as you were.

“Hey,” you said, offering a smile, “Come in.”

She stepped past you, eyes scanning the place, the soft lighting, the little dining setup you’d fussed over more than you cared to admit. You tried not to hover.

“I made pasta,” you added, unnecessarily, “Figured it’s hard to mess up.”

Lara looked at the plate you set down, “Smells good.”

You both sat. At first, the clink of forks and the low hum of the stovetop were the only sounds between you.

You chewed, swallowed, and searched for something light, “So… do you cook?”

Lara lifted an eyebrow, “Does microwaving count?”

You huffed a laugh, “Only if you survive eating it.”

“I mean, I’m still alive,” There was the smallest smirk on her lips, but it faded quickly, her eyes drifting toward her plate again. You kept eating, slower now. Letting the silence breathe but not stretch too long.

“Thanks for this,” she said finally.

You glanced up, “For dinner?”

“For… not making it weird.”

You offered a small smile, “It is a little weird.”

She let out a breath, a soft, short huff of agreement, “Yeah.”

Another silence, thicker this time. And then, because you couldn’t put it off anymore, you set your fork down gently.

“I meant what I said earlier,” you said, “I do want to clear the air.”

Lara fully looked at you then. She wasn’t hiding, not bracing either; just… looking. You shifted in your seat, fingers loosely clasped in front of your plate.

“I don’t know what this is, Lara,” you said honestly, “But I know what it wasn’t. That sex, the way it happened, it wasn’t just about you being angry. And it wasn’t just about me being an asshole.”

She stayed quiet. So you kept going.

“I think we’re both scared. Or pissed. Or—I don’t know. But I don’t want to pretend it didn’t mean anything. And I don’t want to hurt you. I never wanted to.”

Her expression stayed unreadable, but her throat worked like she’d swallowed something hard.

“You didn’t hurt me,” she said, slowly, “You just… hit something I was trying not to look at.”

You exhaled through your nose, “I get that.”

“I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s easier if you hate me.”

That hurt in a way you didn’t expect.

You reached out, just enough for your fingers to brush the table near hers, “I don’t hate you, Lara.”

She looked down at your hand, then back at your face, “Maybe you should.”

And it was such a lonely thing to say, it made your chest ache. You didn’t reach for her yet. You just looked at her and said, soft but firm, “I won’t.”

Lara didn’t respond right away. You could feel the air between you cooling, not from disinterest, but from hesitation.

You took a slow breath, “I should’ve said this earlier,” you began, “And I don’t expect it to fix anything. But… I’m sorry.”

Her brows pulled together, almost confused, “For what?”

“For him,” You swallowed, “For letting that go on for so long. For pretending it wasn’t that bad. Even when it was.”

Lara’s eyes flickered. You could tell she wasn’t expecting that. You pressed your palms together, grounding yourself, “I think I kept waiting for him to turn into someone he never really was. And I was so tired of fighting that I started telling myself it wasn’t worth making noise about anymore.”

You paused, “But it was hurting me. And… it was hurting how I looked at you.”

That pulled her attention sharply.

“I hated how he treated you,” you said, “How he’d make digs and put his hands on me like he was proving something. And I still stayed. I didn’t defend you when I should’ve. And I want you to know that that was cowardly. And I’m sorry.”

The silence felt louder now. Lara leaned back slightly in her chair. She blinked like she was still processing. Then her voice came, soft, but edged with something surprised, “So you’re… not with him anymore?”

You nodded, “I ended it. I told him last week.”

Something shifted behind Lara’s eyes. A flash of something like relief or confusion, perhaps it was both, “You didn’t tell anyone,” she said.

“It didn’t feel like a story worth telling. Just something I should’ve done sooner,” You let that settle, then added, quieter, “And if I’m being honest… I think I’ve been thinking about someone else for a while now.”

Lara tilted her head, “Yeah?”

You looked at her then, really looked at her, and for once you didn’t deflect, “Yeah.”

She blinked. Slow. Cautious. Like she wasn’t sure whether to believe you, or whether it was fair to.

“I thought maybe I was just projecting,” you said, smiling faintly, “Because you’re…you. Loud, magnetic, impossible to ignore. But it wasn’t just that. I think I noticed how you saw me. When he didn’t.”

Her face softened.

“And it scared the shit out of me.”

Lara leaned forward, elbows on the table now, eyes locked onto yours, “Still scared?”

You met her gaze, and for the first time in a while, felt something honest settle in your chest, “A little less.”

Lara didn’t say anything at first. But you saw her eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes, like she was trying to decide if she should cross the line that had already been erased hours ago.

You didn’t wait. You reached out, gently took her hand across the table, “You can… come sit with me, if you want.”

She stood slowly, then rounded the table and sank beside you on the couch, knees brushing yours. You weren’t touching yet, but the heat was there, humming in the small space between you.

Then, finally, your hand found her jaw. You kissed her slowly, deep, nothing like the first time in that classroom. No breathless anger, no punishing urgency. Just the press of lips that had wanted this too long, too quietly.

You kissed her like you were trying to say everything you hadn’t. She kissed you like she wanted to believe you meant it. And you did.

Your arms slid around her waist. You pulled her close, impossibly close, until her chest was pressed to yours, your fingers gripping the back of her shirt like you were scared she’d disappear. She felt it.

Lara pulled back just a little, just enough to look at you, and you didn’t realize how tightly you were holding her until her voice came, low and almost hesitant, “You’re really not letting go, huh?”

Your breath hitched. You tried to laugh, but it came out smaller than expected, “No,” you whispered, “I’m not.”

Lara’s face shifted, something unspoken unfolding in her expression. And then she pulled you right back in, one hand sliding up your spine, the other curling protectively around your shoulder.

You buried your face in her neck, breathing her in, clinging. For the first time since everything exploded, since the yelling, the fucking, the fallout, it felt like peace. Like maybe this was what you’d both been chasing. Not just pleasure. Not just closure. But each other.

Lara’s thumb traced your cheekbone like she was trying to memorize you. You looked up at her from the couch, eyes soft, breath already shallow from the way her hands had lingered, not with hunger this time, but something deeper. Something like awe.

You reached up, touching her face, tucking her hair back behind her ear, “Come here,” you murmured, voice barely a breath. She leaned down slowly, and when she kissed you again, it was different. Gone was the sharpness, the desperate edge. This kiss was warm and steady. Like you were hers, and she was yours, and the rest of the world could wait.

She carried you to your bedroom, carefully, like you might break if she wasn’t gentle. And when she laid you down, it was with a look on her face you’d never seen before, like she’d found something she never thought she deserved.

Your hands moved beneath her shirt, pushing the fabric up with quiet desire. You kissed every inch of skin you uncovered, her stomach, her ribs, the space just under her breasts. You worshipped her body, slow and unhurried, until she finally let you pull the shirt over her head.

And then her gaze dropped to you.

She sat back on her knees beside you, silent, eyes drinking you in like she was seeing something sacred. You felt the air change again—thick with adoration, not lust. When her fingers reached for the hem of your shirt, she hesitated, her touch featherlight.

“Is this okay?” she whispered. You nodded, already breathless.

She peeled your shirt up with slowly, carefully. Her eyes didn’t leave your skin as more of it was revealed. And when she saw you—truly saw you—her breath caught, and her thumb traced the dip between your ribs like it meant something. Like you meant something.

Lara bent down and pressed a kiss to your chest, just over your heart.

Her fingers moved to your waistband next, tugging gently at the soft fabric of your pants. You lifted your hips for her, letting her pull them down, leaving you bare and open in front of her. But you didn’t feel exposed.

You felt seen.

She sat there for a beat, just looking at you like she didn’t know what she’d done to deserve this moment.

Then she touched your thigh, warm and steady, and leaned forward to kiss you again.

This time slower. This time sweeter. Like she didn’t want to stop. You lean into her, pressing kisses on her skin.

“You’re beautiful,” you whispered against her, your lips brushing over her collarbone, “I wish you could see yourself the way I do.”

Lara exhaled shakily. Her fingers curled into the bedsheets on either side of you.

You kissed your way up to her mouth, “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on.”

She looked like she was going to argue, like some part of her didn’t believe you, but you didn’t let her.

You kissed her again, soft, open, aching, and guided her gently between your legs.

This time, she entered you with a tenderness that stole the air from your lungs.

There was no rushing nor any sharp words, just the warmth of her body above yours, the feeling of her forehead pressed to yours as she moved slowly inside you.

She kissed you through every thrust, your lips, your jaw, the tip of your nose. Her hands cradled your face, like she couldn’t stop touching you, couldn’t believe you were real.

And in the spaces between her movements, she whispered your name like a prayer. You clung to her, hips rising to meet hers, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes. Not from pain. Not from guilt. But from the overwhelming way she was holding you, like this wasn’t just sex.

Like it was love. You moaned her name, your voice breaking, your hands sliding up her back, “Don’t stop,” you whispered. “Please, Lara—”

She didn’t. She moved with you, for you, until you came again, shuddering, clinging to her, your face buried in the crook of her neck. And she stayed with you, moving gently, as you rode the waves together.

Afterward, she didn’t pull away. She stayed wrapped around you, her lips against your temple, your thighs tangled. No words, just breath and heartbeat and warmth.

And the quiet, terrifying possibility that maybe, just maybe, this was what it meant to be loved.

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cherryknotsclub · 2 months ago

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my dream blunt rotation but it's pedro pascal characters and i'm the blunt being passed around <3

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #general acacius x reader #general acacius smut #reed richards x reader #reed richards smut #agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey smut

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isabelckl · 2 months ago

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whiskey & honey 2

ranch girl ellie williams x city girl fem!reader

every summer since you were fourteen was spent in Ellie’s family ranch. your mothers are best friends, which only made it harder to understand why you and Ellie were never even friends. or maybe the question isn’t about friendship at all.

masterlist

You hated how much space she took up in your mind last night, you barely got any sleep. It was early, judging by the soft light creeping through the blinds, but the house was already humming faintly with the scent of coffee and the quiet murmur of life.

Dragging yourself out of bed and down the stairs after a few morning routines, you barely registered the kitchen until you heard it.

“Morning.”

You froze mid-step.

Ellie. Her voice was low and rough, yet somehow still steady. She stood near the sink, already dressed in her usual ranch gear — boots, denim, the sleeves of her button-up rolled up to her elbows, sun catching the red in her hair.

And just like that, your sleepiness evaporated.

“Morning,” you replied, a bit too fast, trying to sound casual as you slid into the seat across from her at the table.

Celine, Ellie’s mother, stood by the stove flipping something in a pan, smiling over her shoulder. “You’re just in time. Pancakes today. You still like blueberry, right?”

You nodded, mumbling a soft, “Thank you,” as she placed a plate in front of you.

“You know,” she said as she poured coffee into a chipped mug, “your mother told me she’ll be coming by the end of the week. I told her I’d keep you alive until then.”

You snorted lightly, cutting into your pancake. “She hasn’t replied to any of my messages.”

“She’s not worried. She knows you’re in good hands here.”

You smiled at that, grateful for the warmth in Celine’s voice — and for how easy she made it feel, like coming back didn’t have to be awkward.

Still, you kept stealing glances across the table. Ellie was quiet, chewing slowly, staring at her plate. She didn’t seem to notice your glances, or if she did, she didn’t show it.

“So,” Celine said suddenly, pulling your attention back, “do you have a boyfriend now?”

You almost choked on your orange juice.

“What? No. No, I’m… I’m focusing on school right now.”

You kept your gaze on your plate, but your heart had other ideas. It skipped, flipped, maybe even died a little — because when you glanced up, Ellie’s eyes were on you.

Not for long. Just a second. But it was enough.

Celine grinned, clearly entertained. “Ah, to be young again. Don’t worry, Ellie’s the same. My little lesbian daughter — too busy pretending she doesn’t care to actually flirt with anyone.”

“Mom,” Ellie muttered, but there was no real heat in it. She rolled her eyes and took another bite.

You tried not to smile.

Celine raised an eyebrow, her teasing now a full sport. “I just hope she finally makes a move on that girl she likes.”

Your fork paused mid-air. You blinked.

“She likes someone?” you asked, trying to keep it light — casual. Totally-not-curious casual.

Ellie stood up, brushing crumbs from her jeans, shaking her head with a faint laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Don’t listen to her,” she said, placing her plate in the sink. “I’m heading to the town center. Gotta grab a few tools for the fence.”

And just like that, she was gone.

You watched the screen door close softly behind her, the tension she left behind still lingering in the room like morning mist.

Celine just hummed and took a sip of her coffee. “She’ll come around.”

You weren’t sure if she was talking about Ellie in general, or Ellie and you.

Either way, you weren’t ready to ask.

“Ellie!” you called out, hurrying down the front steps, your voice rising just as she stepped into the truck.

She turned, squinting against the morning sun. Her brows lifted slightly as she caught sight of you jogging toward her, your white tank top clinging to your frame, denim jorts hugging your hips. Your hair was still a little damp from your shower, curling at the ends.

“I wanna come with you,” you said, breathless, slowing to a stop near the open passenger door.

Ellie stared at you for a beat, her eyes flicking down — from your top to your waist and then back up to your eyes.

“It’ll be boring,” she said, tone flat but not unfriendly.

You smiled anyway, shifting your weight on your bare legs. “No, it won’t be.”

She leaned slightly out of the truck, resting one arm on the open window, the other on the steering wheel. “You know what, Mom’s home today. You should spend time with her.”

“Well,” you said, not missing a beat, “your mom was actually the one who suggested I go with you.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly catching the lie.

Ellie just looked at you for a long second, quiet, unreadable. Then she shifted slightly, the corner of her mouth twitching.

You stepped closer, voice softening. “Please?”

Her expression faltered. She bit the inside of her cheek, looking away for a moment like she was trying to hide something. You almost squealed when she gave the smallest nod.

“Fine. Get in.”

You grinned, climbing into the passenger seat before she could change her mind. The door creaked as it shut behind you, the worn leather seat warm from the sun. As Ellie turned the key, the truck rumbled to life, and you buckled your seatbelt, trying not to look too thrilled.

The ride started in silence.

Ellie kept her eyes on the road, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting against the open window. Wind rushed through the truck, pushing your hair back as you stared out at the coastal road — hills rolling off into the distance, flashes of seafoam blue sparkling in between tree lines.

You tucked your knees up a bit, turning your face toward the breeze. It smelled like salt and pine.

“I missed this,” you murmured, eyes scanning the blurred scenery.

Ellie flicked her gaze toward you, just for a second. “Missed what?”

“The town,” you replied. “Just… the air, the view. Everything.”

She was quiet for a moment.

“That the only thing you missed?”

Your heart stuttered. You glanced sideways, catching the faintest smirk pulling at her lips. Her eyes stayed on the road, but you could tell she was listening.

You bit your bottom lip, stalling.

“Well, uh… the tourist spots,” you began, fumbling a little. “The food. And the locals here are just so kind.”

Ellie made a small sound in her throat — something between a chuckle and a scoff.

You didn’t ask what she meant by it.

She didn’t say anything else.

But her fingers tapped idly on the steering wheel, and the sun kept catching in her hair just right, and for the first time in a while, the silence between you didn’t feel like a wall.

The rest of the ride passed in silence. Comfortable in a strange way. You kept your gaze out the window, watching as the landscape shifted from wide open fields to scattered homes and small-town life. A small smile tugged at your lips as the breeze played with your hair. You didn’t know why exactly — maybe it was the view.

The truck turned into the town center, slowing near the only hardware store in miles. It was a squat building with red paint and an old wooden sign that read “Miller’s Supply & Feed.” The sun was high, beating down on the cracked pavement. A pair of kids rode by on bikes, their laughter echoing off the storefronts. A woman passed by walking her golden retriever, waving at Ellie as she parked.

Ellie lifted a hand in return before killing the engine. “Let’s make it quick.”

You nodded, hopping out and following her as she pushed open the store door. A small bell jingled above, announcing your arrival.

Inside, the store smelled of cedar and old leather. The walls were lined with tools, ropes, seeds, paint cans, and forgotten calendars. Fans rotated lazily from the ceiling.

“Ellie Williams,” came a warm, raspy voice from behind the counter.

You looked over to see an older woman, hair in a frizzy bun. She leaned on the counter, a newspaper folded under her arm.

“Hey, Miss Della,” Ellie said, walking up towards the counter. “Just need a few things for the fence repair.”

“Your grandpa’s old list or one you made yourself?” Della asked with a wink.

“Bit of both,” Ellie replied.

You took that as your cue to wander, eyes scanning the cluttered aisles. There were dusty jars of nails, old crates of hammers, and signs with fading price tags. The sun streamed through the windows, casting lazy golden light across the shelves.

You stepped back without really thinking, tilting your chin up to look at a row of post-hole diggers that looked like medieval torture tools.

And when a warm hand touched your waist gently, steadying you before you could knock over a box of bolts.

You startled slightly, turning your head.

Ellie was there, close behind you.

“Hey…” you breathed out, blinking up at her.

“Uh—” Her voice caught a little. Her hands hovered on your back, not moving away yet, but not holding either. “Sorry. You almost backed into me.”

You straightened, heat blooming in your cheeks, brushing it off like nothing happened. “You got a list, or are we just winging it?”

Ellie blinked, then nodded. “Yeah. I got a list.”

She pulled a crumpled paper from her pocket and handed it to you. You took it without thinking, skimming the scribbled words.

“…Half of these I don’t even know how to pronounce,” you muttered, furrowing your brow. “What’s a cross-brace tensioner?”

Ellie let out a low chuckle behind you, the sound soft and raspy. “You don’t need to know. Just need to find it.”

You handed the paper back, feeling a little stupid, but she didn’t tease you further. She just walked toward the next aisle, boots thudding softly on the worn linoleum.

You followed, watching as she picked through items with practiced ease — checking nails for rust, comparing screw sizes, running a hand over a pack of wire mesh.

At one point, she bent down to inspect a row of fencing staples, and your eyes, traitorous and disloyal, lingered a little too long on the line of the back of her hands.

She stood again, holding something. “You ever built a fence?”

You snorted. “Do IKEA shelves count?”

She smiled — a real one, wide and faintly amused. “Barely.”

A couple walked in behind you, probably tourists, judging by the way they whispered and pointed at some rustic-looking tools like they were rare artifacts. You stepped out of the way, moving closer to Ellie without thinking.

Miss Della reappeared at the end of the aisle. “Got everything you need?”

“Almost,” Ellie said, picking up a few more items.

“I’ll ring you girls up in a minute. Take your time.”

You felt your chest thrum at the word girls, the way Della said it like you were a pair. You glanced at Ellie, but she was crouched again, grabbing one last pack of screws.

By the time you reached the counter, arms half-full of supplies, Ellie moved behind you to carry the heavier items. Her hand brushed yours briefly, and again, it lingered just a second too long.

You tried not to look at her.

But you could feel it — the quiet electricity threading between your steps, her presence heavy and warm at your back.

“Got a pretty little helper today, huh?” Della teased, sliding the items across the scanner.

“Yeah but she’s more of a tourist,” Ellie replied dryly, but she wasn’t smiling this time. She looked at you instead — something unreadable flickering in her eyes.

Did she just agree that I'm pretty? You thought for a minute.

You gave her a smirk anyway. “Tourist with great taste in company.”

That earned a small snort from Ellie.

Outside, the sun was brighter now, bouncing off the windshield as you both loaded the truck. Ellie took the driver’s seat again, resting her elbow out the window. You leaned back in your seat, letting the breeze hit your face.

And for a moment, with the ocean in the distance and Ellie beside you, everything felt soft.

Almost like summer had waited just for this.

They were halfway back when you spotted it — the little roadside food stand near the edge of town, right before the curve that led back to the countryside. It was painted a fading peach color, with a handwritten chalkboard that read: Fresh Fruit Pops • Lemonade • Corn in a Cup.

“Wait, wait!” you blurted, sitting up straighter. “Can we stop there?”

Ellie glanced at you, then at the stand. “Seriously?”

You nodded, already unbuckling. “I haven’t had their mango ice pop in forever.”

She sighed, but pulled off anyway.

You hopped down from the truck, walking toward the stand as your flip-flops crunched over gravel. A teen girl behind the stand smiled, waiting for your order. But as you reached for your pocket, your stomach dropped.

“Oh, crap,” you muttered, patting your shorts. “I… didn’t bring any money.”

You looked over your shoulder, suddenly flustered. “Wait, I think—let’s not. It’s fine. I’ll get one next time.”

But before you could fully turn, Ellie was already walking up beside you.

“Which one?” she asked, reaching for her wallet.

You blinked. “What?”

She glanced down. “You said mango?”

You hesitated, teeth tugging at your lip. “Yeah. But you don’t have to—”

Ellie handed over a few bills and nodded to the girl. “One mango for her. Coconut for me.”

You watched her with wide eyes as she took the pops and handed you one without a word.

“…Thanks,” you mumbled, your fingers brushing hers as you took it.

She shrugged, already unwrapping hers. “You can Venmo me in twenty years.”

You laughed under your breath as you walked back toward the truck, biting into the cold pop. “This is better than I remembered.”

Back on the road, you rolled the window halfway down, elbow resting on the sill, sweet mango dripping slowly over your fingers.

“…Hey,” you said, licking a drop off your thumb. “Are you doing anything after this?”

Ellie glanced at you, sunglasses slipping down her nose. “Not really. Why?”

You turned your body slightly toward her. “Wanna go to the shore? Just for a bit?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You want to?”

You nodded. “I’ve been dying for sea water and sand on my feet. That’s, like, a vacation essential.”

She let out a soft breath, then smiled faintly. “Alright. You’re lucky I keep towels in the truck.”

You grinned at her, then turned your gaze back to the road, giddy.

The shoreline was almost empty when you got there — just a few parked cars, a couple lying on a towel far off, and a kid playing fetch with his dog down the other end. The sun was still high, casting everything in gold, and the waves were gentle today, barely brushing the shore.

You kicked off your sandals the moment your feet hit the sand.

Ellie leaned against the truck, arms crossed, one boot propped against the bumper as she watched you step closer to the waves. She didn’t follow, just stood there — like she always did, a quiet observer. Her sunglasses shaded her expression, but you could feel her gaze tracking you.

You giggled as the water came close and leapt back, holding your popsicle above your head dramatically like it might melt if touched by sea.

You ran back toward her, sand clinging to your ankles.

“I’m changing,” you announced, tugging off your tank top in one motion, revealing the bikini you had on underneath.

Ellie straightened up immediately, eyes darting away so fast it was almost comical. Her jaw tightened slightly, but she said nothing.

You were oblivious to all of it.

“You look so out of place right now,” you teased, gesturing at her boots and denim. “You’re, like, allergic to summer.”

Ellie glanced at you — just once, briefly — then looked back at the water.

You took that as your cue to run, laughing as you dashed back into the tide, the bikini sticking to your skin now, the wind dancing across your shoulders.

“Don��t go too deep!” Ellie called out, voice a bit louder now. “You don’t even know how to swim!”

You turned, already knee-deep in the water, giggling. “I’m fine!”

She sighed loudly but didn’t move from her post.

You laughed again, twirling a little as the water splashed against your legs. This — the salt, the sand, the sun on your skin — this felt like home. Not just the town, not just the sea.

But the feeling.

And for a second, the thought of turning back — running toward her again — felt impossible to resist.

But not yet.

tag lists:

@wwefan2002 @sulliefimmie @the-sick-habit @c1sne @darkdanixoxo @elliewillamsgf @momoloverr @piastorys @jester-loverre @adoreasellie

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pedrosyouknowwhat · 6 months ago

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Falling from grace

You fall from grace as a group of raiders destroy your lavish community, taking in you as a macabre spoil of war

Warnings: Dark dark topics, noncon, abduction, mentions of killing a whole community, raider! characters, psychological, physical and sexual abuse, sexual slavery

Pairings: Dark! Joel Miller x reader, Dark! Javier Peña x reader, Dark! Marcus Acacius x reader, Dark! Oberyn Martell x reader, Dark! Agent Whiskey x reader, Dark! Dieter Bravo x reader, Dark! Frankie Morales x reader

Chapters:

Who owns you?

Clean

Someone's

Feather light touches

Defiled

Miller's

Breaking in (Part 1)

Breaking in (Part 2)

Breaking in (Part 3)

surrender

thunder

Drabbles

Period drabble

Before punching Acacius

Oscar Isaac Crossover

Aftermath?

cumplay

Headcannons

Feel comfortable to request any idea you’d like to see play out in the story; I’ll try either to integrate it or create a hc or drabble about it!

Love, Red

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lanawoodswrites · 5 months ago

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The feeling of his hot breath over my chest as he whispers of how he loves me and my body.

I didn't know what the feeling of man felt like until I felt him, the feeling of being able to be fucked and made love to at the same time.

I couldn't bear to be apart from him in any way.

It was like I was addicted to him, he was ecstasy, the feeling of alcohol that burned down your throat, you hated the taste but loved the way it made you feel.

- xoxo 💋

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stargrltara · 6 months ago

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𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒌𝒆𝒚

·.✧ ✦ ✧.·

MDNI 18+

MOONLIT BEAMS PAINTED THE APARTMENT IN AN ETHEREAL HUE, your body thumping on the couch beneath you, wooden floorboards creaking lightly as the sound echoed across the four walls. Your fingers drew lazy circles around the neck of the bottle of whiskey, before taking a deep swig, your throat setting ablaze at the burn of the alcohol.

The thudding at your door was unfortunately familiar. It’s like clockwork, once a week, maybe twice if he’s feeling eager. You love it, your body loves it. He always comes to you specifically, maybe other women but you’re never sure since the way he pleasures you sometimes makes you feel like the only woman in the world. Sometimes.

“—Open the fucking door.” a voice emerged from behind the door, an impatient edge in his tone. You huffed at his inconvenient timing before pushing yourself off the leather and moving to open the door.

Your arms crossed over your chest, blocking the entry as you just glared up at him through narrowed eyes. “You’ve got impeccable timing.” your tongue rolled sarcastically as you shifted slightly for him to shrug past you; and he just scoffed ignorantly.

“..what do you want, Jason?” you bit the inside of your cheek in anticipation as you leaned against the now closed door as he stood in-front of you, his broad frame towering over you and creating a gloomy shadow to rake over your body.

“You know what I want.” his voice was stern, almost assertive as if he left no room for debate. His crimson helmet glistening as soft beams reflected through the windows and his auburn eyes slithered along the shape of your body. The way your hair was slumped over your shoulders, only slightly covering your toned collarbones. Down to the baby tee you threw on along with the shorts, and those slippers you begged him to buy you; the pink bunny ones with the cute little bows.

He didn’t miss the way your eyes were faintly drooped, as if were a little intoxicated. You shifted in your stance at his staring, the silence thick and tension swamping your lungs. Your lips pressed toegther before you spoke up, speaking over the constant trickling rainfall slapping against the glass windows. “I don’t think so, honey.”

Right, you were standing your ground this time, playing ‘hard to get’. I mean, you seriously weren’t gonna let Jason take advantage of you everytime he’s horny after patrol. But the way he looked, just peering down at you with his rugged exterior.

His jet black hair sticking to his forehead as he discarded his helmet, the cool steel placed in the palm of his hand as he raised a single brow at you. His bronze jacket wrapped around his shoulders and his suit drenched in water. “That whiskey messin’ with your head?” he scoffed, head cocking to behind him gesturing to the bottle left on the coffee table.

You scoffed right back at him, shrugging past his broad figure, elbows colliding with his muscle as you sat at your couch, taking the bottle in your grasp. “You gotta ask more politely.” He narrowed his eyes at you skeptically, loud steps ricochet along the walls, “Ah, I see.”

His steps inched closer until he was standing with crossed arms above you, your piercing eyes fluttering fiercely at him: undoubted fire behind your orbs, the ember now seeping down every place in your body.

“—was never one for manners, doll.” he muttered low and rough, the nickname rolled off his tongue so effortlessly, as if it was just a conscious act. He tilted his head at you, playing into your game he landed on the couch with a thump, plopping next to you and taking the bottle from your hands, fingers brushing sending electric jolts to spark through both of your bodies.

He took a long swig from the bottle, lips dancing at the rim before pulling away, the alcohol burning his throat and sending chills down his body, hairs on his forearms raising. “..maybe you should consider learning.” your breath stammered watching him drink the whiskey, the action so alluring and attractive yet so tough.

Jason's eyes flicker to you as you scoot closer to him on the couch, you find yourself melting into the pit of lust and desire; his body tensing in response to your proximity.

He tries to maintain his stony expression, but it's obvious that your presence has an effect on him. He takes another sip of his whiskey, his mind warring between the desire to keep you at arm's length and the overwhelming need to pull you closer.

He turns slightly in his seat, facing you more directly, his eyes watching you closely as you close the gap between you. “No, thanks.” he gruffed coldly, fingers tighten around the whiskey bottle, the scent of your skin and the sound of your voice washing over him like a wave. His mind grows hazy, his thoughts swirling in his head as his attention is primarily focused on you.

Your eyes rolled at him, but there was undeniable tension and yearn in the rough of his voice. His abruptness and blunt tonecaught you off guard when he spoke, “Keep rollin’ your eyes at me ‘n i’ll make them stay like that.”

And suddenly, you felt the whiskey adjusting your mind; almost tormenting you as you could feel yourself giving into Jason’s games. The way his legs widened at his slouch position on the couch, big arms stretching to rest behind your head. He noticed your blazing gaze, the fire in your eyes almost burning through his skin.

Silence corrupted the atmosphere like a plague, and you shifted closer and closer until the barrier between your bodies was broken and you felt the warmth of his figure washing chills down yours.

He placed the whiskey down on the coffee table with a loud thud, your gaze faltering for a bit before he leaned in and ran his palm down your soft cheek. His fingertips grazed over your skin so lightly, and you couldn’t help but connect your lips with his.

The kiss started slow, deliberate and passionate. Your lips interlocked with each others, his tongue stroking yours ever so lightly. Though, the air grew thicker, and so did his desire.

He snaked his hands down your chest, finding your waist before pulling you into his lap; grip firmly on your hips. Your lips stayed connected , but you pulled away for air, taking a short breath and letting your eyes rake over his sharp features; lips parted and his eyes full of lust and hunger.

He couldn’t wait for you, he was eager. His palm pushing the back of your head into his as he kissed you again. Although, this time it was different, rough, even. His tongue darted out to lick your jaw and throat while he grazed his hands down to your hips as you began rocking against his.

The growing erection his pants became more and more harder by the second, and you could feel it. The dangerously massive length underneath you pushed against your heat.

You easily melted in his touch, your guided movements and sloppy kissing becoming more primal, more intense. You deepened the kiss, head pushing further into his and he groaned into your mouth rawly. That familiar sound sending electric waves into the pool forming in your stomach, fueling the heat and hunger.

His hands snaked up to pull at the hem of your shirt; struggled rapid movements. He became impatient and ripped the fabric off of you, “—what the fuck?!” a short gasp escaping your lips in shock at the sudden movement. “I’ll buy you a new one, doll.” he grunted after noticing your expression at the ripped shirt.

You nodded, mind too hazed to even worry before he leaned into your neck, laying warm, open mouthed kisses on your sensitive skin. Breathy gasps left your mouths while you were grinding harder on his clothed abdomen.

Jason pulled you off of him, laying you on the couch and leaning over you, admiring your beauty as you looked messy, intoxicated. Thick fingers pushed a hair behind your ear before he pulled off his shirt, tossing it onto the ground and unbuckling his belt.

Before you knew it, you were both naked, and he licked a long stripe from your throat down to the valley of your breasts all the way down to your abdomen, and he stopped right above your cunt. He spread your thighs gently, kissing the soft flesh. “mm..”

You let out light moans, but you were also eager for the his dick, so you interlocked your fingers in his hair and pulled him up. He glared up at you, brows furrowed. “..I want you, Jason.”

He chuckled dryly, jet black hair tickling your stomach. “Patience, doll.” he muttered lowly, another small kiss above your cunt, he was teasing you, making you desperate until you’d give in. “Patience..” he whispered again, eyes slithering down to your soaked cunt.

His tongue darted out, licking your warm folds, and laying sweet kisses there. He continued to tease you, to make you sigh in frustration and lust.

“—jasonnnn..” you whined, knowing he wasn’t gonna give you what you want, but to your surprise, he began to spread your folds, licking a stripe on your bud. “ohh— fuck..” you let out a breathy moan, his tongue dancing on your clit.

Jason was feral. He was lapping at your cunt, teeth grazing over your clit only making you wetter. His hands gripped on your inner thighs, keeping you in place and attempting to reduce your squirming. “Quit movin’ , baby.” Maybe the whiskey was making you feel more, making you feel every single inch of his mouth on you.

Your fingers were clasped onto his head, manicured nails scratching his scalp and pulling on his hair for some sort of relief. Your gasps and hiccups were loud, moans even louder. “—fuck!!” he was brutal, his pace was so rapid and he was eating you out like you were his final meal.

Your moans only fuelled his ego, and he spat onto your cunt, the saliva hitting you cruelly before shoving two thick digits inside of you. You sucked his fingers in so well, your walls tightening around him while he continued to abuse your clit with his tongue.

His tongue was relentless and rapid, carrying no mercy for your state. You were literally seeing stars while he devoured you, pushing his head deeper into your juices and sucking on your bud. You were squirming, and his hands clasped down onto your thighs even firmer, bruising.

He groaned into your cunt intensely, almost animalistic while your gasps were short and breathy. He curled his fingers inside of you, plunging them in and out repeatedly while you were moaning so loudly you were sure your neighbours weren’t pleased.

You couldn’t control your squirming when he was shoving his head into you and lapping at you so roughly and sloppily. He pulled away, glaring up at you as you propped yourself up on your elbows. His chin glistened with your juices, the city skylights reflecting on his strong, features. Though his brows were furrowed as if he was irritated at your moving. “—told you to stop fuckin’ movin’ .” he grunted lowly, eyes narrowing at you.

“..i’m sorry, jay— it’s just..” your chest heaved while you gasped for air, he didn’t even let you finish your sentence before he continued to destroy your cunt. “mm— so good! “ A whimper escaped your lips as his tongue ate you out like a man starved, and your moans grew louder and louder.

You were screaming his name, losing control and a whimpering mess. He scoffed into your cunt when he heard your breathy gasps grow louder and harder, knowing you were closer and knowing you were completely at his mercy restrained beneath him.

His fingers worked faster, plunging in and out harder as he pulled his head back to watch your expression; mouth formed in an ‘O’ shape while your head completely thrown back.“—lemme hear ya’“ he murmured lowly, staring at you intensely while his thick digits abused your cunt.

Your walls squeezed him so perfectly, his pace was so fast yet so amazing. Your moans grew pornographic, and lustful as your hips lifted up and down from the couch, you were so close. “C’mon, sweetheart.” his voice was nothing but a blur, your mind too hazed to comprehend his words.

Your orgasm hit you hard, moans and gasps bouncing off the walls as he watched you turn into a melting mess underneath him while your cum spilled from your cunt, seeping down onto the couch. “..there we go.” he groaned in satisfaction before leaning down, sucking and licking all of your juices, before his tongue flicked over your sensitive bud, not caring for the state you’re in.

He forced you to take raw intensity of the aftershocks, working you through them as your hands darted down to push him away, overstimulated. His hands flew up to yours, pinning them to your stomach as he kept his filthy pace on your clit; groaning into you.

Once he was done, he pulled off with a soaked chin, you were completely wrecked. Hair a mess, eyes all puffy from whimpering and crying and your breath panting. You were surely too tired to even actually fuck him, but to your surprise, he grabbed you by your ankles and flipped you over onto your stomach.

You let out a grunt as the man flipped you over roughly, “Don’t worry, i’ll go easy on ‘ya.” was all he said before slamming into you. Your walls clenched him in uncontrollably, and you were already soaking wet. Lewd slaps and slick filled the atmosphere.

Your groans turned into moans, which faded into short gasps and whimpers as you felt yourself getting closer. Jason’s fingers dug into your hips, lifting you up slightly from the leather as he hit deeper into your cervix. As he hit your sweet spot, he groaned almost pornographically at the feeling of being so deep inside of you. “You feel that, baby?”

You could only hum a strained groan in response, mind fuzzy and dumb from his raw, filthy thrusts. “What was that, doll?” His digits snaked up your hips, and to your lower abdomen where he felt his bulge inside your stomach. A low, gruff chuckle erupted from his throat as you gasped at the feeling of his fingers pressing into it. “Fuckk..” he grunted, “‘m gonna fill this pussy up so good.”

You gasped his name softly as you felt yourself getting closer, and he hummed in a faux sympathetic tone. “Jason— jay.. so.. so close..” your eyes rolled back, and your fingers dug into whatever you could manage to grip onto.

“That what you want, baby?” His cock was hitting your sweet spot so deliciously, so deep and hard. “..you want me to put a baby in you?” His pace fastened, asks he let out a guttural moan at your pussy fluttering around his cock, earning for his to twitch in response.

He pulled out before you could orgasm, and he flipped you onto your front, staring right into your puffy eyes from tears hinting at the edges. “—Want you to look at me while you come.” he panted, chest heaving and hair sticking with sweat. He immediately drove back into you, nestling himself so sweetly inside. His hands gripped your sides as he pulled you onto his thrusts, skin slapping.

Your eyes kept shutting, the whiskey was getting to your head and you felt a slight buzz; cock drunk. His fingers down, “—fuckin’ look at me.” grasping onto your chin roughly so your eyes can shoot open. His expression was focused, brows furrowed and bottom lip bit between his teeth as he tried to his back his moans.

Though, it was short lived as he leaned down, hands now holding you tight as he mating pressed into you, and your nails came at his back, scraping mercilessly as your mouth fell into an ‘O’ shape.

“mm..” he let out a moan. Then another. And then another which was deeper, more primal. He dug his face into your neck, “So fucking perfect.” he muttered, inhaling your scent and licking a stripe to your ear while he let out all his grunts, moans and slight whimpers.

“—Right there, jay !!” you moaned loudly, and he pulled his head out of your neck to glare into your eyes. His emerald orbs glistening in the dimmed lighting.

He moaned lowly, many gasps of pleasure escaping your lips while hispace getting uncontrollably faster; his tip twitched inside of you, your walls squeezing him in. “Gonna be a good girl ‘f me?”

You whimpered, nodding as you glare at him through drooping eyes, tears dried at your flustered cheeks. “Go on then, come on my cock.” he gasped as he felt your juices spill from inside of you, now coating the leather. The moan you let out was almost dangerous, it was loud and came from the heart. You were sure the windows and mirrors were gonna shatter.

“Shit..” he groaned as he painted your walls white, orgasm hitting him hard. So hard that his head collapsed onto your neck, and your fingers came up to scratch the back of his hair. Small mutters and praises of sweet nothings left his lips while he moaned at the feeling of your nails on his scalp.

After moments of intensity, he pulled out slowly, glaring down at the mess that was left before he sighed and ran his fingers through his hair.

“..do we have to clean this up?” he muttered, brow raising as a low chuckle left your throat, though you were so exhausted. “..’s not gonna clean itself, idiot.” He patted your hip, allowing you to rest knowing he fucked you dumb as he cleaned the area. The small gesture making your heart pound as you watched him through half lidded eyes.

He stopped abruptly, thinking for a moment before glaring down at your state, an amused smirk on his pale lips.

“—Can we order take out?”

·.✧ ✦ ✧.·

a/n: guys im bad at dialogue im sorry

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wendichester · 16 days ago

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⋆. 𐙚 ˚ whiskey eyes,

summary. you run into another hunt while decompressing from a hunt. except this one is oddly charming and kind.

pairing. sam winchester x hunter!reader ( gn )

wordcount. 669 genre. fluff

warnings. flirty!sam, alcohol use (casual drinks), mild language

The bar smells like beer and old wood, like something scraped out of a time before smartphones and functioning air conditioning. You don’t mind. It’s quiet enough to think, loud enough to be alone, and the bartender’s too tired to ask questions when you pay in cash.

You’re on your second whiskey when he walks in.

Tall. Broad. Hair falling in those ridiculous soft waves like he should be doing shampoo commercials instead of hunting monsters. But you can tell—by the way his eyes sweep the room, by the way his shoulders stay tense even as he makes his way to the bar—that he’s one of yours.

You don’t expect him to sit next to you. You definitely don’t expect the smile.

“Buy you a drink?” he asks, voice low and sweet, and you're so caught off guard by the offer that all you manage is a blink.

“You offering?” you say, tilting your head. He’s cute. Dangerous, probably, in the way only kind men tend to be.

He nods, eyes crinkling with a warmth that shouldn't be legal on a face like his. “I am. Unless you’ve already had your fill.”

You smirk. “Of whiskey or charming strangers?”

His smile twitches a little wider. “Both?”

You pause, considering. Then you slide your glass toward him slightly, a silent invitation. “What the hell. Surprise me.”

He signals the bartender, orders something smoother than you were expecting, and when he turns back, you realize he’s still studying you. Not like he’s trying to figure you out. More like he’s memorizing. Tucking you into his mind just in case.

“Sam,” he says, offering his hand.

You take it. It’s warm and calloused. “I know who you are.”

His brows lift. “Oh yeah?”

“You’re kind of... hunter-famous.”

Sam chuckles, sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess that explains the staring.”

“Mm. Partially.” You take a sip of the drink he bought. It’s smoother than your usual pick. Good. Warm. Kind of like him.

“So,” you say, swirling the glass, “what’s Winchester doing solo in a place like this?”

“Following a case,” he says. “Just wrapped it up.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And the celebrating?”

He shrugs. “More like… decompressing.”

You hum. “Long one?”

“Ugly one.”

He doesn’t elaborate. You don’t ask. You both know the kind of mess that lingers after a hunt like that.

There’s a beat of quiet. Comfortable. His knee brushes yours under the bar.

You look at him sideways. “You always this friendly with random hunters you meet at midnight?”

His lips quirk again, and this time there’s something more in it. A hint of mischief under all that soft-spoken charm.

“Not always,” he says. “Just… tonight. Just you.”

You shouldn’t like the way that makes your chest flutter. But god, it does.

“You’re bolder than I thought,” you murmur.

He ducks his head a little, that smile still lingering. “Don’t tell my brother.”

You laugh. “Cross my heart.”

His gaze lingers on you now, heavier. He looks like he wants to say something else—maybe ask where you’re headed next, or if you’d want to split a room—but he doesn’t push. Just drinks. Watches you. Smiles that same soft, fond smile like he’s never been more content to sit beside someone in silence.

You’re the one who finally breaks it. “I leave in the morning.”

He nods. “Me too.”

And just like that, it settles: this is one of those nights. A moment between lives. A quiet little detour with a stranger who almost wasn’t.

He nudges his glass toward yours for a toast. “To clean kills and kind company.”

You clink. “To friendly strangers and good whiskey.”

And then you sit with him a little longer. Until the bartender yawns, and the jukebox cuts out, and you know it’s time to go.

You don’t exchange numbers. You don’t need to.

If you’re lucky—and you know you are—you’ll see him again. You’ll both pretend it’s a coincidence. And maybe next time, you won’t leave the bar alone.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; support my work .ᐟ

#sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x you #sam winchester fluff #sam winchester fic #supernatural #spn #.docx #d : whiskey eyes

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missyorkswhore · 2 months ago

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Alright… headphones on, volume max. Nighty night ✨❤️

#pedro pascal #pedrohub #din djarin #the mandalorian #joel miller #javier pena x reader #joel miller x reader #javi gutierrez x reader #frankie catfish morales #agent whiskey fic #dave york x f!reader #dbf joel miller

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atlabeth · 1 year ago

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too sweet

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: a night out makes hotch realize a few too many things.

a/n: me??? writing for criminal minds again out of nowhere??? what is going on. and i do not have an answer i was just in a hotch mood bc he's fine asf and i finally have the confidence to write for him here we are lol. hope u enjoy this short lil thing

wc: 2.4k

warning(s): alcohol consumption, a sexual joke or two, written in one go so might be a mess! aaron is all in his head but this is basically all fluff

Hotch can’t focus.

Mostly because he can’t stop glancing over at you. Normally it’s not a problem—he’d lost count of how many times he’d distracted himself from mounds of paperwork by meeting your eyes through his office window, often accompanied by a smile that made even his heart beat a little faster—and especially now, it shouldn’t be a problem.

You and Derek have had some kind of bet going on during the past few nights out—you didn’t believe he was as charming and suave as he claimed, and Morgan was all too happy to prove you wrong.

You bet that he couldn’t get at least five numbers every night, and come last Thursday, Morgan took the win at the end of the evening with a smile on his face. As punishment, the first round of their next night out was on you.

And that’s nice, sure. Hotch is always thankful that his team can still joke around and have fun with each other despite everything they have to deal with each day. He hopes they keep the light in their eyes as long as possible, especially the younger ones. He’s fine with being the stick in the mud, the one who never smiles, the iron willed chief that scares local uniforms.

Hotch is not so fine with the way he feels right now.

It’s a busy night at the bar, which is understandable. Hotch is sure half the precinct is out alongside them, celebrating the BAU finally solving the case that had torn them to shreds over the past week. You, Reid, and Garcia put the threads together an hour into scouring through evidence, and the unsub was cuffed before noon.

Certainly something to celebrate—there’s a reason the whole team agreed to go out tonight and leave tomorrow. Even Rossi decided to join when he learned you would be buying, but he’s already abandoned them in favor of catching up with some old friends. Hotch even thinks they might have another round in their future because of their solve, courtesy of the local chief. They had a long night ahead of them.

But you haven’t gotten the drinks yet, and Hotch wonders how long it’ll take even after you do. Because some officer is trying to talk you up, and you’re smiling and laughing along and giving him every bit of your attention.

Hotch recognized him the moment he set eyes upon him, even in plain clothes. He’s some joke of an officer from the station, and he’s been trying to get your number—or even just get your attention—throughout their whole visit. Always sidling up to you during debriefs, specifically giving you any information or evidence he finds—Hotch has overheard him asking for your number more than once.

Hotch has been so focused on the case he’s not even sure if you’ve rejected him or not, and the mere thought is enough to annoy him. If he wasn’t equally as sure of your ability to defend yourself and afraid of overstepping with you, he would have stepped in.

But it makes sense. The officer is young and handsome, you’re young and pretty—not to mention you have a way of lighting up any room you step into. Hotch spent the whole first month of your employment wondering why you would want to do a job like this. He’s spent the rest of it thankful that you did.

You’re sharp as a whip, naturally, but you’ve also done wonders for the team atmosphere. It’s hard to feel down with a smile like yours beaming his way. The job weighs you down like it does everyone, but you still manage to lift everyone’s spirits on the jet ride back before they jump into the next case. It’s impressive.

It’s also trouble. You’ve been part of the BAU for almost two years now, and Hotch has spent just as much time tearing his eyes away from you as he has working. It’s wrong, and it’s wholly inappropriate in terms of your working relationship—he’s your boss, for god’s sake.

But sometimes, Hotch will be beating himself up over one thing or another on a case, and you’ll plant yourself in his vicinity and refuse to leave until you’ve helped him work through it. If you ever tire of the FBI, he thinks you have a second calling as an elementary school teacher.

Sometimes the hotel they’re staying at will have truly shitty coffee, worse than they’re used to at the BAU, and you’ll already be in the lobby with a tray full of the team’s orders. Hotch never recalls telling you his order—you just figured it out, and you remembered it.

Sometimes his gaze will drift your way, and he’ll find you already staring at him. You look away just as quickly as he does, and it makes him wonder.

Hotch has made a living off of studying the behavior of others. More often than not, he finds himself profiling his co-workers just out of instinct. His job is to know what others are thinking.

But god. When it comes to you, Hotch doesn’t think he’s ever felt more unsure in his life. Especially when you look at him the same way he wants to for weeks, then act nothing but proper another day; when you fall asleep against his shoulder on the jet one night and entertain some desk jockey another night.

It makes him feel like a highschooler again, trying to figure out if Haley really liked him or if she was just playing around, and it’s more embarrassing than it should be. Especially when he’s still dealing with the lingering emotions from the divorce.

“Hotch.” JJ’s voice is enough to break him out of his trance, and he blinks as he turns to her. At least someone paid him the mercy to dispel his thoughts, even if only for a temporary time.

“What?”

“Did you hear a single word I said?” she asks, a slight smile curving on her lips.

“Of course,” he responds. “The chief’s over there talking with the commissioner. He’s the same guy who made your life difficult the last time we were in Milwaukee.”

JJ’s eyebrows shoot up, and she nods. “I didn’t think you were listening.”

“I think he just got lucky,” Morgan cuts in, his gaze darting over to you momentarily. “I think you were too focused on our drinks.”

Reid frowns. “I don’t think he was focused on the drinks. He’s—”

“Just making sure they’re still coming,” Hotch interrupts, and he straightens his tie. Today really has been a long one—usually, he’s better at covering these things up. “And I wasn’t lucky. I was listening.”

“Trust me,” Morgan says with a laugh, “I’m watchin’ her until I’ve got a glass in my hand. She’s not getting out of this after the way she bragged this whole month.”

“The stupidest thing to make a bet on,” Prentiss remarks, “especially with you.”

“She said she just wanted to prove you wrong,” Reid contributes. “She thinks you’re too cocky.”

Morgan grins. “It’s not cocky if you can back it up.”

Hotch’s attention goes back to you, and you’ve finally gotten their drinks. You’re loading them onto a tray like you’re the bartender yourself, and his brows crease. Maybe he should have gone up with you.

“Do you think she needs help?” he asks. How obvious is too obvious? Why does it feel like his brain only works at half power whenever it comes to you?

“She’ll be fine,” Prentiss says. “And if she needs it, that guy talking her up can help.”

“Jason Rodriguez,” Reid remarks. “He hung around her the whole time we were trying to pinpoint a location, and he wasn’t any help, which makes sense because he's practically desk-bound at the precinct. I’m surprised she got any work done.”

JJ chuckles. “I’m surprised he hasn’t given up yet. He’s been following her around all week, like some lost puppy.”

Morgan shrugs. “I dunno. She seems pretty into him.”

“I don’t think ex-frat boys are her type,” Prentiss says wryly. Hotch doesn’t think so either, but he doesn’t say anything. Contributing to this kind of conversation is certainly too obvious.

“I doubt we’ll be back here for a while. She might as well.” Morgan smiled. “She probably needs a win after such an embarrassing loss.”

Thankfully, before Hotch has to keep pretending not to care about this topic, you walk over carrying a tray of cocktails—and you’re alone. The subject of their previous conversation seems lost in the crowd, and he feels a dangerous amount of relief.

“Are you all talking about me?” you drawl.

“You know we are, sweetheart. Thought you were never gonna get here.” Morgan sits up, smiling at you. “What’d my win get us?”

“Long Island Iced Teas,” you muse as you set the tray down. “Enjoy it, because I’m gonna be working some overtime to make up for all these.”

Morgan grins as he takes his drink. “You should’ve never doubted my skills.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t need any help,” Prentiss says. “You’ve done this before, huh?”

“Bartended my way through college.” You slide into the booth next to Hotch, just a bit too close for a bit too long, and he hopes that no one can see his chest still for a moment. It’s impressive that he still hasn’t figured out how to lessen the effect you have on him. “I’ve probably got better hands than you, Morgan.”

“Do we need to make another bet?” he asks. “Because I’d love to clean out your wallet.”

“Maybe wait another month before you prey on any more poor, defenseless agents,” you croon, and Morgan laughs.

He pivots the conversation away from you when you pick up your drink and take a sip, and you look at Hotch. Whenever your gaze is on him, you make him feel like he’s the only person in the room. He’s sure you never look at anyone else that way, but Hotch wonders how much of that is his mind trying to justify his imagination.

“I’m surprised you agreed with this,” you say, mercifully interrupting his thoughts. “I thought you’d want us to go back tonight.”

“You all earned a night out after the work you did,” Hotch says. He thinks about taking a drink, but he decides against it, at least for now. He can barely trust his sober mind.

“You’ve earned it too,” you say. “We wouldn’t be anywhere without you, Hotch. You keep us all together.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think I ever would’ve connected the dots like you and Reid can with Garcia. I hate unsubs with secret codes.”

“I’ve always liked puzzles,” you muse. “There’s nothin’ like it when it all finally clicks.”

Hotch hums, and for a moment, he’s silent. Your gaze remains fully on him, and that might be why he has trouble thinking. It’s too easy to get lost in your eyes.

“What did that guy say?” Hotch finally manages to ask, because he honestly can’t help it. Morgan’s points actually worried him a bit, and he wonders what that says about him. Ex-frat boy certainly isn’t your type, but someone forgettable for a one night stand isn’t the most absurd thing in the world.

Your brows knit together as you drink some more. “What guy?”

“The officer you were talking with,” he says. “He seemed to like you.”

He’d been flirting with you since the moment you stepped into the precinct, actually, desperate for your attention, but Hotch didn’t really want to say that. He’s sure you noticed either way, if the rest of the team did.

“Oh. Him.” You shrug. “He’s nice, I guess. Definitely a looker. But he’s got nothing beneath that hair.”

“Morgan’s surprised you didn’t bring him back,” Hotch says. He wonders if he’s pushing too much, and again, he feels like a highschooler testing the waters. Do you know what you do to him? What you reduce him to?

You shrug as you take a sip. “If he knows what’s good for him, he knows he doesn’t have a chance. My attention’s on someone else.”

Prentiss calls your name and you get drawn back into the middle of the team’s conversation, and thankfully, Hotch has a chance to digest your words—and the stunner of a smile you flash at him before you get pulled into their talk.

His decision to not drink seems even wiser, now. Hotch has to loosen his tie, and he ignores Reid watching him. It’s futile trying to hide anything from Spencer Reid—the kid already knows everything.

Again, it's dangerous how much satisfaction he gets from it—from knowing you never really paid that officer a second thought. You didn’t smile at him the way you smile at Hotch. You don’t smile at anyone the way you smile at Hotch. He thought he was imagining it at first, or that he was just a bit too stuck up, but it was the honest truth. You paid him special attention, and he couldn’t blame the warmth in his chest from the thought on any alcohol.

He tunes back into the conversation just to hear Morgan demand you pay for his next drink.

“You’re lucky I’m feeling generous,” you say.

He puts a hand to his chest. “Generous? You’re just paying what you owe me.”

You laugh and shake your head. “Pick your poison, pretty boy.”

“How do you feel about tequila?”

You make a noise of disgust and shake your head. “As long as I don’t have to drink it.”

“You’re just paying, sweetheart.” Morgan’s eyes dart to Hotch, and he nods as he grins. “One for me and our fearless leader.”

Hotch shakes his head. “Someone has to get us back to the hotel.”

“That’s what cabs are for!” Prentiss exclaims. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Hotchner. You deserve to let a little loose.”

“It takes most people an hour to process a drink,” Reid contributes, “so you’ll be fine before we leave if you want to drive.”

“Come on, Hotch,” you say, and you nudge his shoulder. “You might as well—I’m paying.”

“...Fine,” he says, and the whole team cheers. Even Reid smiles.

“Y’know, you can smile tonight, Hotch,” you say with one of your own before you down the rest of your drink and stand up.

And one actually tugs at his lips. It feels a lot hotter in this bar with your eyes sparkling and you beaming right at him, and he fights the need to shed his jacket. Your grin somehow grows.

“That’s what I came out to see,” you remark as you pick your wallet back up from the table. “I expect another when I get back, Hotch. There’s a lot to celebrate tonight.”

Yeah, he thinks as he watches you go. There just might be.

#me ignoring all my wips for a hot man?? it's more likely than you think #also ive listened to too sweet on repeat for like 3 hours i dont want to take my whiskey neat anymore #aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner imagine #sadie writes

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cosmicaura7 · 2 months ago

Text

BREEDING KINK

Pairings : pedro pascal characters x reader

Genre : f/m, smut, breeding kink, unprotected sex, creampie, overstimulation, dirty talk,

Synopsis : He has been thinking about it for a while now, having a baby with you. The thought consumes him and he can't keep it to himself any longer.

Author's Note : Enjoy this in the meantime since I'm on my period hehe😜

Clint Flood (Freaky Tales)

Clint Flood isn’t a man of flowery words. He doesn’t have to be.

He speaks with his hands, with the way he stands in front of you in the doorway like a wall, shielding and solid, eyes burning like headlights through storm fog. When you wear his shirt around the house? He growls under his breath. When you curl into his lap after a long day, kissing his neck while he runs his calloused hands down your back? He always ends up whispering it.

“Gonna put a baby in you.”

You never laugh. Because when he says it, he means it like a promise.

Tonight, it’s no different. The moment he walks in, sweat on his brow, bruises on his knuckles and streaks of dried blood on his arms and hands, he looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever needed. You’re already waiting in the bedroom, sprawled out in nothing but soft cotton underwear. You don’t say a word, you just spread your legs and tilt your chin, daring him.

His chest rises hard. His boots are off in seconds. He crawls over you like a man starved, kissing you rough, deep and worshipful. His hands slide over your hips, gripping them with reverence and hunger. “You know what this does to me, baby?” He grinds out, voice thick with need. “Lookin’ at you like this. Waitin’ to be filled.” You moan as he pushes inside you, slow and deep. His thrusts are powerful from the start, steady, possessive and built to last.

“You feel that?” He breathes into your neck, hips meeting yours again and again. “That’s how I know you’re made for me. Your body, hell, this womb, it’s all mine.” You gasp his name, clutching his back. He doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t let you drift too far.

He keeps you grounded with his weight, his words. “Gonna fill you up so good.” He murmurs, voice breaking. “So deep you won’t stop thinking about it. Walkin’ around with my baby in you, that’s all I want.” He starts to tremble as you tighten around him. You feel the change, the urgency, the desperation that hits when he’s close.

“You want it, sweetheart?” He pants, forehead pressed to yours. “Wanna be mine like that?”

You whisper yes over and over until he groans, thrusting deep and finally lets go. The warmth floods through you. Clint shudders hard, his arms wrapped tight around you, breath hitching in your ear. “Take it…” He rasps. “Take all of me.” He stays inside you even after it’s over, holding you as if letting go would break the spell. His lips press softly to your temple.

“Gonna keep you full.” He whispers. “Make you round with me.”

“You already have.” You cup his cheek, smiling into the hush of your shared heat.

Dave York (The Equalizer 2)

There’s something in Dave’s eyes tonight. He’s been tense all day, something about the way he walked through the front door, jaw tight and shoulders rolling like he was shaking off bloodlust. The kind of energy that made your heart race for two reasons, danger and desire.

You didn’t ask questions.

You just waited in the bedroom, lights low, legs bare and wearing that lace he always fingers like he might tear it off. When he finally walks in, the air thickens. He says nothing at first.

Just stares.

Then slowly, like a storm rolling in, he approaches, boots heavy, gaze locked. His voice is low when he speaks. “You been thinkin’ about it too?”

“About what?” You blink, heartbeat jumping.

He leans down until his lips brush your ear. “About me filling you up. Finally making you mine.” Your body jolts at the heat in his voice, hungry, possessive and needy. That calm control he usually wears is cracking and what’s underneath it is feral. He undresses you in silence. There’s a kind of reverence to it, like he’s peeling away everything that doesn’t belong between the two of you. And when he pushes you back onto the bed and lines himself up, his voice is thick with restraint.

“I’m not pulling out.”

You already knew. He’s been hinting for weeks, hands low on your belly after sex, muttering “It’d be so easy, baby. So fucking easy to knock you up.” And now he’s shaking as he slides into you, one arm braced by your head, the other gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise.

“This pussy was made for me.” He grits, moving in long deep strokes. “All soft and wet, begging to be filled.” You moan his name, lost in the heat, in how full he makes you feel. “That’s it.” He pants. “Take me. Every inch. Gonna breed you so good, sweetheart. Gonna fuck a baby into you so deep you’ll feel me every time you move.”

The words hit you like lightning. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him deeper. He groans, raw and broken, and his rhythm falters. You know he’s close, you can feel it in the way his body trembles. “Gonna give you all of it.” He whispers. “Every last drop. So you’ll carry me. So no one ever questions who you belong to.” When he finally comes, he does it with a deep primal growl of your name. You feel the warmth flood inside you, hear the ragged way he breathes as he stays buried to the hilt as if his body won’t let him leave you. You kiss his cheek, chest heaving.

He strokes your stomach, hand spread wide and possessive. “We start tonight.” He says softly. “You're gonna take. I know you will.”

And somehow, you believe him.

Dieter Bravo (The Bubble)

It always starts with a look.

That Dieter look, smoldering and theatrical, as if he’s the lead in a tragic romance and you’re his co-star, the one woman who will destroy or save him. Tonight, he’s pacing the bedroom barefoot in a silk robe, ranting in half-curses and half-whispers, until he finally turns to you. “I’ve thought about this all day.” He says, eyes wild and sincere. “You. Pregnant. With my baby.”

Your pulse skips. He’s been like this lately, dramatic and obsessed. Every time he touches you, he groans about how “fertile” you look, how “his seed should live in you like holy fire.” It's unhinged. It’s so Dieter. And it turns you on more than you can admit.

“So why haven’t you done anything about it?” You sit on the edge of the bed, head tilted.

That’s all it takes.

He immediately pounces. Clothes are gone in a blur of motion, his hands fumbling and shaking as he drags your underwear down. “You don’t understand.” He groans, kissing your thighs and your stomach. “You belong to me. And if I don’t come inside you soon, I’ll die. I will literally collapse and perish.”

“Then do it.” You whisper. “Fill me.”

He shudders. And when he slides inside you, it's with reverence, like he’s praying. His hips move deep and slow at first but his words? Those come fast and desperate. “You’re so warm… your body wants this, wants to keep me in. God, baby, I need to breed you.” You cry out, his rhythm getting rougher and more frantic. He cups your jaw and stares down into your eyes like he wants to memorize your face at the moment he claims you. “I want you round.” He moans. “Glowing. So when people look at you, they know that’s Dieter Bravo’s fucking baby in there.”

His name sounds like a plea in your throat as he drives deeper, faster and loses rhythm in his obsession. His hand slides down to your belly, holding it possessively. “I want to watch you grow.” He breathes. “Want to paint paintings about how gorgeous you look carrying my baby. Want to make a documentary about it, hell, a trilogy.”

You’re breathless and slowly getting overstimulated, but you don’t want him to stop. And he doesn’t, not until his body tenses and he groans into your mouth, pressing deep, giving you everything. You feel him release, his whole body trembling as he stays locked inside. “Don’t move.” He begs. “Keep me in. Let me give you a baby.” When it’s over, he collapses dramatically on top of you, panting. “If that didn’t do it, I swear to God I’m buying a fertility clinic.” You laugh weakly. But when he gently strokes your belly and kisses it again and again, you know he’s dead serious.

Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

There’s something different about him tonight. He’s already stripped out of the beskar by the time you return from bathing, his gloves folded and helmet placed carefully beside the bed. The air is still thick with anticipation and heavy with purpose.

You meet his gaze. He’s seated on the edge of the bed, forearms braced on his thighs, breathing slow and deep. “You said you wanted a family.” He says simply. “I’m ready.”

Your heart stutters. You knew he thought about it, knew how carefully Din Djarin considers every step, every word. He never promises lightly. But now he’s looking at you like you’re his path forward, his home. The one vessel he trusts to carry his blood, his future and his legacy. You come to him silently, straddling his lap. His hands grip your hips, reverent and rough, as if grounding himself.

“Are you sure?” You whisper, nose brushing his.

He nods once. “I want to see you full with me. Want to know you're carrying what we made.” His voice shakes, controlled and low, like a storm held back by sheer force of will. And then he lifts you, gently laying you back on the bed like something sacred, worships every inch of you with his mouth and hands before finally pushing inside. The stretch, the heat and the sheer weight of him has your legs trembling. But it’s his words that undo you.

“So perfect like this. Taking me so well.”

“You were made for this, made to carry our ads.”

“No one else gets this. No one touches this. Only me.”

His pace is deep, slow and claiming. Not rushed but intentional. Every thrust feels like a vow. Your nails drag down his back as he presses a hand to your stomach, breathing harder and rougher. “Right here…” He groans. “Gonna fill you up. Watch your body take it, keep it.”

You gasp his name as he buries himself fully, over and over, grinding in so deep you swear you can feel it in your bones. “Say it…” He pants. “Say you want me to breed you.”

“I want it!” You cry. “Want you to fill me, Din. Want to carry your child.” His rhythm falters, body shuddering. And then with a deep guttural moan, he comes. You feel the heat of it spill inside as he holds himself there unmoving, forehead pressed to yours, panting hard.

“Don’t move.” He whispers. “I need it to take. Need to know I gave you everything.” You nod, blinking away tears. Because this is how Din Djarin loves, with purpose, with power and with a future in mind. And wrapped in his arms, filled to the brim, you believe him when he says.

“This is the way.”

Ezra (The Prospect)

He watches you like he’s starved, not for food, not for air but for you. Something deeper and something primal. It’s always been in his eyes when he looks at you like he’s survived hell and you’re the only thing worth living for now. You lie back in the narrow bed of your shared dwelling on this godforsaken moon, atmosphere humid, faint hum of the old purifier rattling in the corner. Ezra stands at the foot, shirt half-open, scarred hands on his belt.

There’s a tension in the air that goes beyond lust. It’s been building for weeks, ever since you told him you wanted to stop using the meds and that you wanted to try to have children. He climbs over you like a man crossing a ravine, careful, reverent and trembling with need. “You sure?” He rasps, voice raw with hope and warning.

You reach up, cupping his jaw. “Put a baby in me, Ezra.” Something in him breaks at that. He kisses you hard, desperate and consuming, and then he's inside you in a single thick thrust. You gasp, nails digging into his back as he sets a slow, grinding rhythm, burying himself to the hilt with every thrust.

Ezra’s breath shakes as he lowers his forehead to yours. “Gonna take.” He whispers. “You’re gonna take, sweetheart. Know you are.” You moan, wrapping your legs around him, forcing him deeper. He groans, low and pained, like the pleasure’s almost too much. His hand slides between your bodies to splay over your belly. “Wanna see you round with me.” He says, eyes wild now. “Heavy, glowing, want you walking slow 'cause you’re so full.”

“Ezra…” Your voice cracks, wrecked and dizzy.

“I've been in the dirt too long.” He murmurs. “Time I plant something that grows, something real.” His rhythm stutters. He grips your hips harder and panting like a dog in heat. “This body’s mine. Gonna leave you full of me. Breed you properly. Let this place know who you belong to.” You clench around him, and he shudders, head falling to your shoulder with a ragged cry. And then he spills into you, thick and hot and endless. He stays buried, pulsing, his arms caging you in like he’s trying to keep every drop inside. His voice is soft now, broken in your ear.

“We make a new life.” He whispers. “Right here, in this soil.” You kiss his temple. Because you know he means it. And in the silence of this lonely moon, Ezra holds you like he’s finally found his home, growing deep inside you.

Francisco Morales (Triple Frontier)

You don’t realize how tightly you’ve been held until he’s inside you again.

Francisco is the kind of man who carries everything on his shoulders, the mission, the danger and the never ending guilt. But when he comes home, when he’s with you, he softens only in one place, the way he touches your body like it’s holy, like it’s the only safe ground he’s ever known.

And tonight, he’s different. His hands tremble as they slide down your hips. His mouth lingers on your stomach longer than usual. And when he pulls back to look at you, eyes dark and steady, you know what’s coming before he says it. “Let me do this.” He murmurs. “Let me put a baby in you.”

Your breath catches. He’s never said it aloud before but you’ve seen it in the way he always presses a hand to your lower belly after you make love, the way his eyes linger on the curve of your body, possessive and almost… aching.

“I want something that’s mine.” He says, forehead pressed to yours. “Ours. Something real. Permanent.” You nod, heart racing and that’s all the permission he needs. He spreads you open slowly, reverently. His hands are strong, sure but careful like he’s preparing a place to bury something deep, something that will grow. And when he finally pushes inside, it’s not rushed or rough.

It’s purposeful. Each thrust is deep and anchoring. He keeps eye contact the whole time, jaw clenched, brow furrowed in focus. Like he’s thinking about every movement, every drop he plans to leave inside. “You’re gonna take all of it.” He grits out. “Gonna keep it all in until it takes.” You moan, body clenching and he groans low in response, that sound he only makes when he’s close to losing control.

“You don’t even know what you do to me.” He mutters. “You open up so perfectly. So ready to be filled.” He wraps an arm beneath your lower back, angling your hips to take him deeper until he’s hitting that spot that has you gasping his name like a prayer. And when your body starts to tremble around him, he snaps. “Gonna breed you.” He growls. “Fuck, I’m gonna fill you so deep it takes. You’re gonna be carrying me, every time someone looks at you, they’ll know you’re mine.”

You cry out, and with a strained, guttural moan, he spills into you, hard and hot pulses that have him twitching and shaking above you. He stays inside, pressed close, panting against your neck. Neither of you move. Then you feel his hand slide between your bodies, cupping your belly again, like he’s willing the future into existence.

“We’re gonna build something.” He whispers. “Right here. Starting tonight.” And you believe him because Francisco never says things he doesn’t mean.

Not in the field.

Not in your bed.

And definitely not with your body under his, soaked in sweat and filled with his seed.

Harry Castillo (The Materialists)

There’s nothing casual about the way he touches you. Not when the rest of his life is a performance, smooth suits, sharper smiles and perfectly-timed handshakes. But not here, not when you're beneath him, silk sheets tangled around your thighs, wearing only the diamond necklace he bought you last anniversary.

Here, Harry Castillo is all hunger.

"You know what I want." He murmurs against your skin, lips dragging from your collarbone to your breast. "You’ve known." His voice is thick like honey and bourbon but there’s an edge to it now. A need he no longer bothers hiding, especially not tonight.

You thread your fingers through his dark curls and whisper. “Then take it.” And he does. He slides down between your thighs, hands gripping like he owns every inch. There’s always a finesse to Harry but when he’s inside you, all control blurs into desperation.

“Been thinking about it for weeks.” He groans, pushing in slow and deep, making you feel full. “You, heavy with me and absolutely glowing. Want to watch you swell, watch the world know I filled you.” Your breath stutters. He starts moving with long grounding strokes that keep you teetering right on the edge. He pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other bracing your hip, making you take him all with each roll of his hips.

“You’re gonna take every drop, baby.” He growls. “And you’re gonna keep it. No excuses. No pills. No getting out of it.”

You moan beneath him, back arching. “Want it. Want to be full of you.” That breaks whatever control he had left.

He kisses you roughly, moaning into your mouth as he fucks you harder, faster and deeper, like he’s trying to brand his name inside you. “Gonna watch you waddle through the penthouse.” He pants. “In your little heels, showing off what I did to you.”

You shudder, crying out as you tighten around him and he loses it. Harry spills inside you with a sharp groan, staying deep, hips grinding as he rides the high. He twitches, still inside, and lets out a raw exhale that sounds almost reverent. “Mine…” He breathes, kissing your shoulder. “You’re mine. And now everyone’s gonna see it.” He doesn’t pull out.

Instead, he lowers your legs gently and lays on top of you, keeping himself buried as long as possible. His hand slides across your stomach, as if imagining the future already taking root. "You want luxury?" He murmurs. "Let me give you the rarest one, a legacy." And in the soft glow of gold lamps and city lights, you know he doesn’t mean money.

He means you.

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels (Kingsman)

The door shuts behind him with a quiet click and you barely have time to turn around before your back’s pressed to it, his broad frame towering over yours. “Been thinkin’ about this all day, sugar.” Jack drawls low in your ear, his voice thick as molasses. “You, all spread out… waitin’ for me to fill you up.”

You gasp as he grinds his hips into yours, the buckle of his belt pressing into your stomach. “You serious?” You whisper, heart racing.

Jack leans back just enough to meet your eyes, tilting his cowboy hat up with two fingers. His gaze burns through you, hazel eyes dark with intent. “I ain’t jokin’.” He says, slow and deliberate. “Wanna put a baby in you real bad. Want you swollen with me. Want the whole damn world to see what we did.”

You shiver because this isn’t one of his usual flirt-and-smirk games. There’s something real behind it, something hungry. You nod in desperation. He smiles, slow, wide and wolfish. Next thing you know, he’s got you on the bed, boots kicked off, shirt unbuttoned, suspenders hanging at his sides. He kisses you like he owns you, tongue hot and eager, hands rough on your waist.

“Gonna fuck you proper.” He mutters as he slides inside, thick and pulsing. “Gonna knock you up the way God intended.” Your head falls back as he sets a steady rhythm, hips grinding deep, every thrust designed to hit exactly where it counts. You can feel it, his need and the way he holds back from going feral.

“Y’feel that?” He pants, resting a hand low on your belly. “That’s where I’m gonna leave it. Right there and deep.” You moan his name, gripping his arms as he thrusts harder. “Gonna make you a mama.” He growls. “Gonna keep you in pretty dresses and rub your feet while you're carryin’ my kid. No more missions. No more pills. Just you, barefoot in my kitchen with a baby in that belly.” The way he says it like it’s the most sacred erotic thing in the world sends you over the edge.

And that’s all it takes.

Jack lets out a broken groan, burying himself as deep as he can go. He twitches and jerks before spilling into you with raw unfiltered need. He doesn’t stop. He grinds in slow circles, coaxing every drop deeper while whispering filth in your ear. “Gonna make sure it takes, sugar. Know it will. You’re made for this, made for me.” He stays there, heavy on top of you, chest rising and falling against yours. His palm lingers over your belly like he’s already imagining the bump, the glow, the baby booties on your shared ranch porch.

And then he smirks.

“Reckon we better start thinkin’ of names.”

Javi Guttierez (The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent)

He worships you like a collector worships his rarest piece.

Javi Gutierrez may have once obsessed over movie memorabilia but ever since he put a ring on your finger, all his attention shifted fully and forever to you. His hands know every line of your body like a poem, like the script of a film he’s memorized frame by frame. But lately, there’s a different kind of need in his eyes. Something deeper and more possessive.

“You don’t know…” He whispers one night, lips pressed to your stomach. “How badly I want to see you full, round and carrying our child.” You freeze, heart stuttering. He lifts his gaze to meet yours, eyes soft and voice low. “Would you let me? Make something real with you?”

You nod. You don’t even think, you just feel. The answer’s always been yes. That’s all he needs. He climbs over you with careful reverence, like you’re breakable porcelain and holy at once. When he enters you, he moans like he’s been starving, slow and deep, filling you until he’s flush against your thighs.

“You take me so well.” He murmurs. “It’s like you were made to.” You gasp as he begins to move, rocking into you with controlled desperation. His hands tremble slightly as they cradle your hips, like he’s holding onto something sacred. “I’ve imagined it.” He breathes. “You, glowing. The way you’ll look in the morning sun. My child inside you. Ours.”

You whimper, clutching his back. And he groans in response, hips thrusting harder now, deeper. “That’s it, cariño.” He whispers, teeth grazing your shoulder. “Let me fill you. Let me plant it inside. I’ll worship the life I put there.” Your whole body tenses and his rhythm falters, because he can feel you getting close. “You want this too.” He says, more statement than question. “Want me to breed you. Leave you dripping, aching and all mine.”

You shatter around him with a cry and that’s all it takes. Javi buries himself to the hilt with a low ragged moan, his whole body shuddering as he spills into you. He whispers your name like a prayer, forehead pressed to yours, hands never leaving your skin. He stays inside you, even after the heat fades. One hand drifts to your belly, gentle and awed.

“It’ll be my masterpiece.” He says. “But not as perfect as the real thing.” He smiles, cupping your face.

Javier Peña (Narcos)

He doesn’t say it out loud the first few times. But you feel it in the way he lingers inside you after he’s come, slow, grinding, deep and refusing to pull out. You feel it in the way he rests his hand on your belly afterward, silent and still, like he's imagining something. And then one night, after a particularly rough case, after too much whiskey and not enough sleep, he breaks. He comes home at midnight. Tired, bruised and reeking of smoke and Bogotá rain. You’re already in bed but when he crawls in behind you, kisses the back of your neck and slides his hand between your thighs, you know he needs more than comfort.

“Wanna see you pregnant.” He mutters, voice hoarse. “Wanna see you round and full with my baby.”

“Javi…” Your breath catches because it’s not just dirty talk, there’s a hidden ache within it.

He flips you gently, settling between your thighs. His fingers push in deep, testing, spreading and preparing you with practiced care. “Let me do this.” He says. “Let me leave somethin’ behind. Just one good thing.” Then he’s inside you, deep and hard, with a pace that screams need. His forehead presses to yours, his hand cradling your hip, keeping you still as he rolls into you over and over, desperate to stay buried.

“I fuckin’ need this.” He groans. “Need to know you’ll carry a piece of me. After all this shit...”

You cup his face, arching into him. “I want it too.” You whisper. “I want all of you.” That’s when he loses it. He grabs your thighs and fucks you deeper and rougher, grinding into your sweet spot until you’re shaking, until you’re clinging to him and crying out. He watches you fall apart beneath him, then follows with a strangled moan, spilling inside you so hard he shudders.

He doesn’t move for a long time. Just stays there, breathing hard, forehead pressed to your shoulder, arms locked around you like you’re his last tether to this world. Finally, he murmurs. “If I died tomorrow... I’d want to know you were carrying somethin’ that mattered.”

You stroke his back, heart aching. “You’re not going anywhere.” You whisper. But part of you knows, if anything ever did happen to him, you’d still carry him forever. Maybe even literally.

Joel Miller (The Last of Us)

The world outside is broken.

But inside these four walls, inside this tiny cabin with its creaking floors and warmth that smells like pine, Joel loves you like the world never ended. It starts soft, always does with him. A brush of his calloused thumb along your cheekbone, a kiss to your temple, a murmur of “Hey, darlin’.” spoken low and tired after a long day on patrol. But tonight, something’s different in the way he touches you. He’s reverent and slow, as if he’s bracing for something bigger than just pleasure.

When he finally presses his body over yours in bed, his voice cracks near your ear. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout it.” He murmurs, breath hot against your skin. “You… carryin’ my baby.”

Your breath catches. “Joel…”

He hushes you with a kiss, slow and grounding. “I know the world’s gone to shit.” He says. “But if there’s one thing worth keepin’ alive… it’s us. You. Me. What we could make.” You wrap your arms around his shoulders and nod, heart pounding.

And then he loses himself in you. The thrust of his hips is deliberate and deep. His weight pins you down, like he needs you still while he gives you every part of him. His hands cradle your thighs, keeping you open for him, spreading you wide so he can press as deep as your body allows. “Gonna fill you up.” He growls softly. “Real deep and make sure it takes.”

You moan and he groans in answer, kissing down your jaw, your throat. “Wanna see you round, baby. Full of me. Belly tight with somethin’ we made.” Each thrust is possessive, each word gritted out between clenched teeth. His rough fingers drift to your lower belly, pressing gently like he’s already imagining it, already claiming it. Your climax hits fast, his voice, his body, his need, it’s too much. You cry out, body trembling.

Joel follows with a low growl, burying himself to the hilt, shuddering hard as he spills inside you. He doesn’t pull out. Not for a long, long time. “Just stay like this.” He breathes. “Wanna keep it in. Let it settle. Let it stick.” Later, when you lie tangled together beneath a wool blanket, he traces slow circles on your belly with his calloused palm.

“You’d be a good mama.” He whispers. “Strong and soft. Everything this world needs.”

You blink at him, heart breaking open all over again. “And you’d be a good dad like always.” He swallows hard, nodding once. And then he holds you tighter, like you’re the only thing left that matters.

Marcus Acacius (Gladiator II)

He returns from the battlefield still wrapped in blood and glory. The roar of Rome follows him but when he steps into your chambers, he softens. For no one else would Marcus Acacius remove his armor with such aching slowness, for no one else would he kneel unless it was for his dear wife.

“Come here.” He murmurs, voice low and gruff from shouting commands all day. “Let me look at you, wife.” You cross the marble floor barefoot, silk brushing your thighs. He reaches for you like a starving man, pulling you into his lap on the edge of the bed. His hands are rough and calloused from sword and shield but they tremble slightly where they cup your hips. “I dream of it.” He says into your neck. “You, swollen with my child. My seed in your womb. My heir in your body.”

You gasp softly, fingers curling into his thick curls as he lifts your shift and parts your thighs. He lays you down like you’re sacred. “Do you want it?” He asks, gaze burning. “To carry my name, my line and my legacy in you?”

Your answer is breathless. “Yes.” That’s all he needs. Marcus covers your body with his own, worshipping you with lips and tongue and hands. He spreads you wide, not just to take you, but to mark you, to claim you.

His thrusts are deep and purposeful, each one a silent vow. “You’ll look divine with my child inside you.” He groans, hand splayed possessively over your belly. “I’ll give you twins. Sons or a daughter, fierce as you.” You moan under him, body arching into every stroke. “I’ll fill you again and again.” He growls. “Until it takes, until the gods themselves look down in envy at what we’ve made.”

You fall apart with a cry and he follows, burying himself to the hilt as he spills into you with a guttural groan, strong hands gripping your thighs, holding you still, locked against him. Even after, he doesn’t pull away. He stays sheathed deep, his weight heavy, warm and protective.

“You will be my legacy.” He whispers into your hair. “And I will protect you and what grows inside you with my life.”

Marcus Moreno (We Can Be Heroes)

He’s never rough with you. Even when his desire runs hot and fast, when his breath shudders and his hands tremble from holding back, Marcus touches you like he’s afraid you’ll break. Even though he knows you won’t. Even though you’ve shown him time and again that you can take everything he gives and still reach for more.

Tonight, it’s quiet.

Just the two of you. Dim light, soft sheets and the sound of his voice low in your ear. “You know what I want?” His fingers trail slowly along your bare stomach, reverent and slow, as if the idea alone deserves to be worshipped. “I want to see you carrying our baby. Our future.”

“I want that too.” You swallow, already aching for him.

Something changes in his expression. The way he kisses you becomes more intense, deeper and more needy. His body covers yours, not to dominate but to cocoon, to shield you, even in intimacy. “I think about it all the time.” He admits. “How you’d look glowing and heavy with my kid. Something of ours.” A breathless chuckle. “A little brother or sister for Missy.” You moan softly as he slides into you, his movements slow, controlled and deep. He holds your hips still, angling just right, like he’s memorized every inch of your body, like he knows how to make you take him in completely.

“Gonna fill you up.” He whispers. “Make sure it sticks.” The words aren’t crude, they’re sacred and said with aching devotion. Every roll of his hips is steady, measured and intentional. Not just to give you pleasure but to plant something in you. A hopeful future with him and his daughter, and soon enough another baby or two.

“I want to leave part of myself with you.” He breathes, voice thick with emotion. “I want you to carry it.” Your breath hitches, hands digging into his back. He feels your body tighten around him and it’s too much, he gasps your name and comes deep, staying pressed to the hilt as he empties into you. And then he stays there, doesn’t pull away. Just holds you close, his hand resting over your lower belly.

“I’ll take care of you.” He murmurs. “You, Missy and our baby. Always.”

Marcus Pike (The Mentalist)

He’s always been the kind of man who thinks before he speaks, thoughtful, measured and kind. Marcus never rushes anything, not when he’s planning, not when he’s kissing you with that slow patient passion that leaves your knees weak. But tonight, there’s a different kind of urgency in him.

The kind he’s been quietly hiding until now. “I’ve been thinking.” He says, hands resting low on your hips as he looks at you beneath the glow of the bedside lamp. “About us. About the future.” You know that look, the way his eyes flicker down to your belly, his fingers flexing slightly. He swallows, then he finally says it. “I want to put a baby in you.”

Your breath catches. He sees the way your lips part, the way your thighs shift. He leans in close, voice dipping low. “Let me make you mine in the most permanent way.” He whispers. “Let me give you everything.” His mouth finds yours, soft but desperate, as he lays you back on the sheets. He takes his time undressing you, kissing the skin he reveals inch by inch. You feel treasured and worshipped.

And then he’s inside you, not fast, not hard but deep and purposeful. His hands cradle your hips, your waist, then splay across your belly like he’s imagining it, what it would look like rounded, full with his child. “You’d look so beautiful pregnant.” He groans. “You’re already perfect but… like that? Carrying my baby?” You moan his name and he leans in to kiss you again, slow and open-mouthed. “Want to fill you up.” He breathes. “Want it to take. Want to see you glowing.”

Every thrust now is deliberate and careful, like he’s afraid to spill a single drop outside of you. You feel it in the way he presses deeper, groaning into your ear as your body tightens around him. You fall first, gasping his name as you shudder beneath him. He follows seconds later, pulsing inside you with a broken sound, holding still as deep as he can while his seed spills.

Marcus doesn’t move and doesn’t pull out. Just wraps his arms around you and buries his face in your neck, whispering promises that sound like vows. “I love you. I want this life with you. All of it.” And you know he means it.

Max Philips (Bloodsucking Bastards)

“You know, sweetheart…” Max says, loosening his tie with a flourish as he shuts the bedroom door. “For a guy with eternal youth, you’d think I’d be patient.” He’s not, especially not tonight, when you’re sprawled on the bed in nothing but his oversized dress shirt and that wicked little smile he can never resist. It’s enough to bring out the predator behind his sharp grin. His hunger isn’t just for blood, it’s for you, for your body and for what he wants from your body.

And tonight? He’s decided.

“I want to knock you up.” You blink at him, heat prickling in your cheeks but you don’t look away. And that alone makes him growl. “I mean it.” He says, climbing over you, bracing his hands on either side of your head. “I want you so full of me, you feel it for days, weeks and maybe even months.”

His fangs flash as he smirks, but the look in his eyes is real, almost reverent. “I want to see this gorgeous body round and soft and slow. With my kid inside you. Half vampire, half you.” He leans down, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Beautiful and dangerous.”

You gasp as he slides into you, thick, hard and hot. He doesn’t give you time to adjust, doesn’t even ask. Because you want it, he knows you do. His thrusts are deep, deliberate and claiming. Max kisses you with biting intensity, sharp teeth grazing your bottom lip as he groans into your mouth. “Gonna fuck it into you, sweetheart.” He pants. “Breed you like I own you. Because I do, every inch of you.”

You wrap your legs around his waist and he loses it. One hand grips your hip, the other sneaks between your bodies to rub circles against you, coaxing you closer, begging your body to take everything he gives. He wants it to stick, wants it to grow. When you cum around him, he nearly unravels, shuddering above you, swearing under his breath as he spills deep, pressing his hips flush to make sure nothing escapes. He stays inside you, panting.

Then, with a small smile, he kisses your forehead and whispers.

“Next time? I’ll keep going until your legs give out.”

Maxwell Lord (Wonder Woman 1984)

Max has always been a man driven by dreams. Some of them may be greedy. Some of them are mostly dangerous. But you are the only one he’s ever held like a prayer. Now, after the chaos, the regrets, the redemption… you’re all he wants to build his life around. And tonight, he’s done pretending.

You see it in his eyes when he watches you undress, slow and deliberate, his gaze reverent like you’re made of something sacred. His fingers trace your hip bone, gentle but trembling slightly. “I want to give you everything I have.” He whispers. “Everything I am.”

You lean in, lips brushing his, voice low. “You already have.” But that’s not enough for Max.

“No, cariño…” He murmurs, hands sliding down to your waist. “I want it to stay. Inside you. I want to put a child in you. My child. Our child.” Your breath hitches. And then he’s kissing you, hard, deep and desperate, like he’s sealing a promise with every touch. When he lays you back on the bed, he worships every inch of you. He doesn't just want your body, he wants your future, to help build your legacy. Something that will live on long after the world stops spinning.

“Gonna fill you up.” He growls softly, pushing into you, slow and thick and deep. “Gonna make sure it takes.” His rhythm is steady at first but his control is fraying. His hand grips the curve of your belly possessively, like he’s already imagining the swell.

“You’ll look so beautiful.” He pants with such need and hunger. “Glowing, full and carrying the future I thought I ruined.” You wrap your legs around him, grounding him in your heat, your need. You tug him deeper, until your hips meet and his composure shatters. He groans your name, his thrusts growing rougher and more frantic, as he fucks you with purpose. Not just to feel good. Not just to chase pleasure. But to breed.

“I need you pregnant.” He rasps. “Need to see you grow with what we made. Need it more than I’ve ever needed anything.” And when you finally cum hard, crying out his name, he follows with a broken reverent sound, spilling deep inside you. Holding himself there, grinding slow and low until he’s sure it’s all buried where it belongs.

When it’s over, Max doesn’t move. He just stays inside you, arms around you, voice rough with awe. “I want our child to have your heart.” He whispers. “They’d be the most precious treasure I’ll ever have next to you.”

Lucien De Leon (The Uninvited)

The moonlight spills through the window, casting long shadows across the room where only you and Lucien exist. The old manor is silent now, save for the soft crackle of the fireplace and the sound of Lucien’s breathing, slightly uneven as his eyes drink you in. You’re splayed out on the plush velvet sheets, your silk nightgown hiked high on your thighs, the delicate straps slipping down your shoulders. He’s kneeling between your legs, still partially dressed, shirt undone and hanging off his shoulders, chest rising and falling with quiet restraint. His dark curls are tousled from your fingers, his lips flushed, pupils dilated as he looks at you like you’re something holy.

“Lucien…” You whisper, breathless already. “What’s going through that mind of yours?”

His voice is a gravelly murmur, rich and low. “You already know.” You do. You’ve seen it in his eyes every time he finishes inside you, how he holds your hips down, how he groans your name like a man lost in a prayer, how his hands linger on your lower belly like he’s claiming it.

But tonight, it’s different. He’s been more intense and more deliberate. You gasp softly when he leans forward, pressing slow kisses along your inner thighs then up your stomach, pausing to rest his lips just beneath your navel. “I want to see you full with my child.” He says, voice trembling with hunger and devotion. “Want to look at you and know I’ve put something inside you that can never be undone.”

Your fingers thread through his hair as his mouth returns to your skin, worshipping every inch. “Lucien…�� He groans at how you say his name, like you’re giving him permission to lose control.

“You were made to carry me.” He whispers, kissing higher, his hand splayed possessively over your abdomen. “My wife. My everything. You don’t know what it does to me, thinking about you swollen and glowing, knowing it was me who did it to you.” You arch beneath him, your body already aching for him. He hooks your thighs over his arms as he lines himself up, pausing, always asking with his eyes before he takes.

“Tell me you want it too.” He says, voice ragged. “Tell me you want to be mine like this.”

“I’m already yours.” You breathe. “Give me everything, Lucien.” He sinks into you slowly and fully with a groan that sounds half pained and half desperate. His eyes squeeze shut like he’s overwhelmed by the feeling of you wrapped around him. But it’s not just about pleasure, it’s always more. It’s about belonging, bonding and possession.

He moves with deliberate control, slow and deep, his hands cradling your hips as he thrusts into you like he’s trying to etch himself into your very bones. Every stroke is filled with purpose, with need and with love. “Gonna fill you.” He pants, forehead pressed to yours. “So deep you’ll feel me for days. Gonna make you mine in every way.” Your nails dig into his back as your pleasure rises. You’ve never felt more wanted, more cherished and completely his.

And when he finally spills inside you, he doesn’t just groan, he whimpers, breath hitching, trembling as if the act of giving you his seed is a sacred offering. He doesn’t pull away, instead, he stays pressed to you, deep inside, kissing your damp temple and whispering broken words into your hair. “You’ll take me, won’t you?” He murmurs, thumb brushing your belly again. “Let me give you a piece of me. A future.”

You nod against his neck, already lost in the idea of having his child. “I want it too…” You whisper. “I want all of you.” And Lucien, for all his darkness, his scars and haunted past, glows like a man redeemed by love, by need and by the family you’re about to make.

Oberyn Martell (Game of Throne)

You wake to silk sheets and the weight of his arm draped lazily across your waist, the Dornish heat wrapped around your bodies like a second skin. But even in sleep, Oberyn clings to you, palm splayed over your belly, thumb absentmindedly stroking just below your navel.

As if it’s already begun.

He murmurs something in Dornish into your skin, lips brushing your shoulder. His voice is low, smooth and drowsy with lust and longing. “You feel so soft this morning.” He purrs. “Like you’re ready to be filled again.” You turn to meet his molten gaze and notice he’s already watching you.

He always is.

“I already have eight wonderful daughters and as much I love each and every one of them…” He says, trailing kisses down your collarbone. “I want more with you. I want them born out of love and passion, made purposefully.” The words send heat curling through your belly. He rolls atop you, pressing your thighs apart with one hand, the other cradling your jaw as if he fears you’ll vanish if he doesn’t anchor you there.

“I want to see you swollen with my child.” He whispers against your lips, voice thick. “I want the entire court to see who you belong to. To see you glowing, ripe and sacred.” His thrust is slow, but deep and claiming, like every movement is meant to ensure that you take.

“You’re already perfect.” He groans, grinding his hips in tight circles. “But gods, the thought of you heavy with my seed… carrying the next Sun of Dorne.” His control snaps. He sets a punishing rhythm, his hands gripping your hips as he drives into you again and again, chanting your name like prayer between curses in Dornish.

“You’ll take all of me.” He growls, voice shaking. “Every drop, I’ll spill into you until there’s no room left. Until you’re made to carry me.” Your moans blend with his, the sounds of skin meeting skin filling the room like music.

When you come, he holds you down, lets you flutter around him and then thrusts deep, hips locked tight to yours as he pours into you, moaning against your mouth. He stays there, panting and body trembling, his release warm and endless. Then he pulls back just far enough to press his forehead to yours, his hand gently spreading over your belly again. “I hope it took.” He whispers.

Pero Tovar (The Great Wall)

The wind howls outside your tent, thick with desert dust and the quiet hush of a distant, dying battlefield. But inside, there’s only firelight and the weight of him. Pero towers over you, chest heaving, hair clinging to his damp forehead. The moment your armor came off, the moment you let your soft hands ghost over his bruised cheek, he snapped. “You ride into war beside me.” He growls, fingers sinking into your hips. “Fight like a soldier but you’re still mine and I want the world to see it.”

You tilt your head, breath hitching, watching him through hooded eyes. “Then claim me.” That’s all it takes. He surges forward and kisses you like he’s starved, like the only way to make the ache stop is to ruin you with need. Clothes scatter as your back hits the furs and then he’s there, thick and hot between your thighs, dragging the head of his cock against your slick folds, slow and deliberate.

“I’ve been thinking about this for days.” He murmurs, low and rough. “Burying myself so deep inside you you won’t be able to walk without remembering I own you.”

“Do it…” You whisper. “Put a baby in me, Pero.” He shudders, a full-body tremor, and then drives into you, a savage moan ripping from his throat.

“I’m going to breed you.” He snarls, fucking you hard and deep. “Gonna keep you stuffed full of my seed until you take. Until I can see it and feel it growing inside you.” You cry out, each thrust rocking you into the bed, your nails clawing into his shoulders. He lifts your legs, presses your knees back to your chest, getting deeper, rutting into you like it’s the only thing he was ever meant to do.

“You think you’re done after this?” He growls, eyes wild. “No, hermosa. I’ll fill you again and again. I’ll breed you until you beg me to stop.” You come undone around him, trembling, calling his name like a plea and he follows with a broken animalistic groan, spilling himself inside you in wave after wave.

When he collapses over you, still inside and still throbbing, he doesn’t move. He just cradles your face, his voice hoarse. “You’re mine. And soon, you’ll carry proof of it.”

Reed Richards (Fantastic 4)

You’re seated on his lap in the couch inside his lab, surrounded by the hum of machines and half-drawn schematics but Reed isn’t thinking about equations, not at the moment. His hands splay across your bare stomach, thumbs brushing side to side. He’s been quiet for minutes, just content with feeling you.

“What are you thinking about, genius?” You kiss the corner of his mouth.

His eyes flick up to meet yours, soft and dark with intent. “You…” That’s not surprising. He shifts beneath you, pressing up against your core. “Specifically…” He says, voice husky and low. “About how perfectly your body is calibrated to carry mine.” Your breath catches as he leans in closer, brushing his lips over your jaw.

“I’ve run the numbers.” He murmurs. “Mapped out the ideal conditions for conception. Your cycle, my genetic markers, even optimal positioning. But there’s something even better than science.” He lifts you gently, guiding you down onto his length, slowly and reverently.

“It’s this.” He groans, bottoming out inside you. “The way you take me. The way your body pulls me in. Like it wants to keep me.” You moan, hips rocking instinctively. Reed’s hands grip your waist tightly. “I think about it all the time.” He confesses, voice unraveling. “You, full of me. Your belly round with our child. I’d document every stage. Not because I’m obsessed with data…” He thrusts hard, making you gasp. “But because I’m obsessed with you.”

You bury your hands in his hair, breath stuttering as he thrusts again, precise and deep. “I want to watch you grow.” He whispers. “Want to chart how your heartbeat syncs with theirs. Want to hold you while you carry the future.”

“Reed…” You whimper, your body trembling around him.

His arms wrap around you as he grinds up with a strained groan, burying himself in one long final thrust. “I’m coming.” He growls. “Gonna fill you up. Let it take. Let you carry my brilliance and your beauty in one perfect form.” He pulses deep inside you, holding you tight as he spills into you, a soft gasp catching in his throat. His body quivers beneath you, overwhelmed and undone. And when he finally speaks again, it’s barely more than a whisper against your throat. “We’re going to make something extraordinary.”

Tim Rockford (Merge Mansion)

You were supposed to be helping him sort through another stack of case files. That’s how this started, papers spread across the oak desk, a storm flickering outside the stained-glass windows of the mansion. Tim had removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and got that concentrated furrow between his brows. You’d only meant to walk behind him, gently kiss his cheek. But the moment you whispered. “You’ve been working too hard, baby.” something in him snapped.

Now you’re bent over that very desk, the cool wood against your stomach a shocking contrast to the molten heat of Tim’s hands gripping your hips. His belt hangs loose from one of the brass handles. Papers are fluttering off the desk, forgotten because he’s not thinking about murder or mystery, or Maddie’s grandmother anymore.

He’s thinking about you. His voice is low, gravelly, thick with something darker than usual, it was filled with desperation and need. “Look at you.” He groans behind you, dragging his fingers down your spine before gripping your waist with both hands. “God, sweetheart. You were made for this.”

“For what?” You pant, already shaking.

“For me…” He growls. “To take me. To carry my child.” You gasp at his words, you’ve heard him whisper fantasies like this before, late at night, in bed with your legs trembling around his waist. But tonight he sounds different, he was serious and completely feral. He thrusts into you again, deeper this time, groaning like the pleasure is almost too much. His chest is pressed to your back, his lips brushing your ear. “You like when I say that, don’t you? When I tell you I’m gonna fill you up so good, you’ll have no choice but to take.”

You moan, head falling forward as your hands scramble to hold onto the edge of the desk. Tim’s hand slides from your hip to your belly, palm splayed protectively over your lower stomach. “Want to see you swollen with my baby.” He says, almost reverent. “Want people to look at you and know you’re mine.”

Your whole body pulses at his words. His voice is hot and possessive but there’s love underneath it, filled with worship and devotion. He’s not just claiming you for the sake of control, he’s building a future in his mind. One where you’re barefoot in the kitchen of that damned mansion, glowing with life, your hands resting on a bump that he put there. He’s breathing harder now, thrusts becoming erratic. “I’m close, sweetheart. You’re gonna take every drop. You’ll be dripping with me.”

“Do it.” You whimper, rocking back into him. “I want it, Tim. I want you to put a baby in me.” The way he groans your name in that moment is primal and almost beautiful. He spills into you with a ragged cry, his arms tightening around your waist as if he could anchor you to him forever. You can feel the warmth of him deep inside you, the weight of his body still trembling behind you as he rides the aftershocks.

Neither of you speak for a moment. Then, softly, so softly you almost miss it, Tim presses a kiss to your shoulder and murmurs. “I hope it takes.”

You twist around just enough to meet his eyes, which are wet and glowing with something raw and real. “So do I.” You whisper. And when he kisses you, desperate and slow, full of promise, you know this isn’t just a fantasy anymore. He means it.

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manonsmartini · 25 days ago

Text

Play Pretend — Sophia Laforteza

✒️ Fake dating · Rivals to lovers · Theatre au · Mentions of classism/nepotism · Coming-of-age vibes · Narration-heavy

Summary: Two rival theatre actresses agree to fake date for publicity. But as rehearsals blur the line between performance and reality, old resentment gives way to unexpected longing—and neither of them is acting anymore. (3.9k words)

You should’ve known she’d be casted.

The moment the audition notice went up for “Bahaghari,” a new independent sapphic play, something in your chest tightened. Not from nerves, at keast not entirely. It was mostly from experience. You could already picture the poster: your name in lowercase, hers in bold, stylized font. Laforteza. Even her last name performed.

You weren’t surprised when the cast list confirmed it. Sophia Laforteza, lead. Again.

Still, when she walked into the first table read, wearing a denim jacket too clean to have ever been secondhand, your stomach curled.

“Hey,” she said softly, tucking her hair behind her ear. She smiled like you were friends. Like history hadn’t built a wall between you.

You gave her a nod. Not cold. Not warm. Safe.

She sat across from you. Of course.

Her script was neatly annotated. Color-coded. Yours was a mess of scribbled notes, receipts, and coffee stains. The kind of chaos that comes from juggling rehearsals with part-time shifts and cramped apartment living.

The director began introductions. Sophia’s gaze stayed on you. Always just a second longer than necessary.

Sophia didn’t expect her voice to tremble when she introduced herself, “I’m Sophia. Uh, playing Eliza.”

She tried not to look at you, but the gravity pulled her in anyway.

In her eyes, you hadn’t changed. You still wore that tired confidence like armor. Still carried yourself like you belonged, even when the world refused to make space for you.

Sophia wanted to tell you how much she admired that. But she couldn’t even ask how you have been without sounding fake.

You didn’t smile. you never smiled at her. Not really.

Back in your teen years, Sophia used to sneak into small black box performances just to watch you. You were electric then—untamed, magnetic. It made Sophia ache in ways she didn’t understand at fifteen. Her mother called it envy.

It wasn’t.

Sophia looked at you now and felt the same ache. But deeper. Sharper. Lonelier.

The read-through was fine. Good, even. Lines flowed. Blocking made sense. The chemistry was there. You hated that it was there.

Afterward, during the production meeting, the director floated a suggestion.

“Since this is an indie production, we’ll need help promoting. Socials, vlogs, maybe some behind-the-scenes stuff. You two are the romantic leads… it wouldn’t hurt to build a little hype. Nothing crazy. Just—something authentic. Flirty. People love queer stories that feel real.”

Someone joked, “You two should fake date for clout.”

You laughed. A dry, incredulous sound. But then Sophia—of course she smiled, like it wasn’t the most ridiculous idea in the world.

“I mean,” she said, “if it helps the show.”

You wanted to say no, to walk out. But this play could change your trajectory. A breakout role. Finally.

So you said, “Fine. Just don’t get used to it.”

Her smile faltered for a second. Just a second.

Sophia held onto the softness of your voice when you said “fine.” Even if the rest of you was stiff and closed off. She told herself it was just for the play. Just press. Just art.

But at night, she replayed rehearsal moments in her head. The way your voice cracked at the end of scene four. The way your fingers brushed hers during a blocking adjustment. None of it made it into the script notes. But all of it mattered to her.

She posted a photo of you both drinking iced tea on the studio floor. Captioned it “Post-rehearsal recharge with my favorite scene partner 🤎”

You didn’t like the post. You didn’t comment. But you let her take the picture. She told herself that meant something.

You hated how well she played her part. The charm, the sweetness, the effortless smiles that made fans believe she was just like them. You’d worked your whole life to be seen; to be taken seriously. Sophia just existed and the world watched.

Still, when she wrapped her arms around you for a behind-the-scenes photo and whispered, “Tell me if I’m overstepping,” something in you flickered.

You didn’t pull away.

It’s past nine when rehearsal ends, but Sophia lingers in the back corner of the studio, sitting cross-legged on the floor, her script spread out in front of her. Everyone else has gone. Even the director.

You’re supposed to leave too. You have work in the morning. A borrowed train card in your coat pocket and a half-eaten granola bar in your bag. But something keeps you still.

She doesn’t know you’re watching.

Sophia hums softly, tracing her highlighter over the same line three times. Her hair is a little frizzy at the crown—humidity or sweat, perhaps both. Her sneakers are scuffed at the toes, which surprises you. You thought she replaced things the moment they wore down.

Then she speaks. Not the script. Her own words.

“God, I always trip over this one,” she says to no one, “The part where Eliza asks if love is supposed to feel this lonely.”

Her voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard it. Not projected, not polished. Just… her. Small and honest.

You step closer without thinking, “Isn’t that the best line in the whole play?” you ask, voice half a whisper.

Sophia startles slightly, looking up. She blushes, embarrassed, but she doesn’t hide the script.

“I guess I’m still trying to figure it out,” she says. “What that kind of loneliness feels like.”

You sit down beside her, keeping a respectful distance.

“You’ve never felt it?”

She shrugs. “I’ve felt… pressure. Expectations. But being lonely? I don’t know. Maybe I don’t let myself stop long enough to notice.”

You look at her then—not the theatre darling, not the girl with inherited grace—but someone who’s tired. Someone who keeps trying to earn a place she was already given, because she’s scared of what it would mean if she didn’t.

She turns to you suddenly, eyes earnest.

“Can I ask you something?”

You nod.

“Do you actually think I don’t deserve to be here?”

The question guts you. She’s aware.

You want to say yes. You want to cling to the narrative that keeps you safe—that she has it easy, that you’ve worked harder, that her softness is a mask.

But she’s not soft right now. She’s real.

You take too long to answer.

“I think…” you begin, voice careful, “I used to think you were only here because of your last name. And maybe part of me still does. But tonight—when I watched you during your scenes… I didn’t see your mom. I didn’t see the version of you I thought I’m bitter about.”

Sophia stares at you.

“I just saw you,” you say. “And honestly, it kind of ruined everything.”

You don’t realize how close you’ve leaned in until your knee brushes hers. She doesn’t move away. Both of you didn’t move closer though, but still, something shifts in your chest.

And for the first time, it’s not resentment blooming there.

It’s something warmer. Depending on how things played out, it was something dangerous.

In rehearsals, things shifted. Dialogue blurred. Stage kisses lingered. You told yourself it was method. Told yourself you didn’t notice the way she looked at you during every monologue, even when the script didn’t call for it.

She gave too much. She made you feel too much.

And the worst part? You started to believe it wasn’t fake. That maybe, just maybe, she was reaching for something real.

She stayed late after rehearsal one night, pretending to adjust lighting gels. Sophia sat on the edge of the stage, legs swinging, watching you work with quiet reverence.

She wanted to tell you everything. That her mother hated this play. That she hadn’t taken this role to impress critics or directors or social media.

Sophia had taken it for you. For the girl who once made her cry from a single monologue whispered in the dark.

Instead, Sophia just said, “You were incredible tonight.”

You didn’t look at her. “You say that every night,” she replied.

Sophia swallowed the lump in her throat, “That’s because it’s always true.”

You hear her name before you hear the words.

“…her mom’s helping fund the whole thing anyway. Sophia’s doing it for exposure.”

You’re standing in the hallway outside the rehearsal studio, holding a cracked water bottle and three hours of exhaustion in your bones. The voices belong to two crew members—chatting, careless. They don’t know you’re there.

“She doesn’t even need this play. But it’ll look good on her resume. And honestly, she and the other lead—what’s her name?—they’re not even close. It’s probably just for the clout.”

They laugh. You stay still. Not angry. Not surprised. Just… tired. Tired because you already knew.

You’ve always known Sophia could walk into any room and people would part like she was born to be there. You, on the other hand, had to learn how to take up space without asking permission.

You push open the door to the studio. She’s already there, sitting on the floor, tying the lace on her shoes. She looks up at you with that open face, soft eyes. Like she doesn’t know what it’s like to beg for a chance.

You sit across from her, silence thick between you.

“We need to run scene seven again,” she says gently.

You nod. No small talk. No fake couple chatter. You just want to get through rehearsal and go home.

Sophia felt it the moment you walked in. The distance. Like a wall had been rebuilt overnight and she had no idea how or why.

She watched you move through rehearsal like your body was a room she wasn’t allowed in. The chemistry was still there—technically. You hit your cues, you said the lines. But your eyes didn’t linger. Your hands didn’t tremble when they touched hers.

She didn’t know what she’d done. Afterward, she tried to catch you before you left.

“Hey,” she said, breath catching. “Did I… do something?”

You turned around, eyes dull with something like disappointment.

“You’re not doing this for the art,” you said quietly. “You’re doing it because you can. Because this play is convenient for you. You get to be praised for showing up. The rest of us have to scrape to get noticed.”

Sophia opened her mouth, then closed it. There was a pressure in her chest that she didn’t know how to name.

“It’s not like that,” she said. “I care about this. I care about—”

You looked at her, tired and small, “Don’t pretend you care. It’s insulting.” And without wasting another second, you left.

She stayed in the empty studio for a long time, staring at the spot where your shadow had been.

You knew you were cruel. The words came out sharper than you intended. But something broke when you heard those voices. And it had been building for weeks.

The touches. The long glances. The way Sophia looked at you like she was seeing something beautiful, something important.

You’d almost believed it. And that was the worst part.

You’d almost let yourself fall for someone who was only pretending.

The next few rehearsals are quiet. Efficient. Cold. You don’t post any more photos. You stop responding to on the old ones. Fans still tag you in edits, calling you soulmates, calling you perfect. You want to tell them they’re wrong.

But you don’t.

You just rehearse. You cry when the script tells you to. You kiss her when the scene demands it. And each time, you pretend not to feel her lips shaking.

The theatre was cold tonight. The kind of cold that settled in your bones, even under stage lights.

Sophia sat in the wings, out of sight but close enough to hear your breathing through the lav mic clipped to your collar. Her own hands were still trembling from the last scene. Her cheeks hadn’t quite cooled from where your lips had barely touched hers.

It was just blocking. She told herself that over and over.

Now came scene ten. The monologue.

She’d read it a hundred times in the script. She knew each word like a prayer. But the moment you stepped into the stage light and took that first shallow breath, Sophia felt something shift.

You were quiet for a moment, and then you began.

“I waited. I waited for you to choose me. But you never looked my way unless there was a script between us.”

Your voice cracked—not theatrically. Not with intent. It cracked like a dam splitting down the middle.

Sophia leaned forward, instinctively.

She knew the lines. Knew how your voice was supposed to rise at the fifth line, soften at the eighth. But you weren’t following the beats anymore. You were unraveling them.

“I pretended it didn’t hurt. I told myself you touched everyone that way. That your eyes just… looked through people. But I wanted to believe you saw me.”

Sophia’s throat closed.

The others backstage watched, riveted. A few whispered, awed at your delivery. But Sophia couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Because what if it wasn’t just acting?

What if the shaking in your hands, the way your chin tilted up like you were trying not to fall apart—that wasn’t performance?

What if you meant it?

Your eyes were glassy now, but your voice held steady.

“I don’t want to be someone you just practice love with.”

The silence after that line stretched too long.

No one called “line.” No one stopped the run.

Sophia pressed her palm against her chest. It hurt. It physically hurt.

You stood there, shoulders drawn tight like you were holding yourself together with sheer will. Your breathing uneven. And then the tears came. Slow, silent, real.

Sophia bit the inside of her cheek. She wanted to run onstage and hold you. Break the scene. Break the rules. But she stayed hidden, letting the stage keep its illusion.

Letting you cry without her.

When the lights dimmed and the scene ended, applause broke out from the tech crew and the assistant director. Someone called you a genius. Someone else said it gave them goosebumps.

Sophia didn’t say anything.

She stayed in the wings, hands clenched in her lap, until you walked past her without looking.

She wanted to believe it was just the script that broke you.

But she knew better.

Opening night is a week away, and Sophia hasn’t slept properly in days.

She doesn’t tell anyone that she cried in her car after the last full run. Or that she nearly walked off stage when you performed your monologue with tears that didn’t feel fake.

She scrolls through old photos on her phone, the ones she never posted. A photo of you eating rice crackers in the dressing room. You mid-laugh. You resting her head on Sophia’s shoulder, eyes closed, trusting.

She wanted it to be real. All of it.

She wanted to say it.

That she didn’t care about the press or the PR. That this wasn’t just about building chemistry for a role.

She had fallen. Quietly, painfully, completely.

But now, she didn’t know how to prove it without making things worse.

Sophia’s mother calls, asking her how the show is going. Tells her not to get too attached to independent work. Says these things don’t last.

Sophia almost asks, “What if someone I love is in it?” But she doesn’t. She couldn’t.

She just stares at her reflection under the dressing room lights, wondering why honesty always felt harder than performing.

The lights feel warmer than they did during tech. Brighter. Hungrier.

Sophia stands in the wings, watching you center yourself before the opening scene. The theatre isn’t packed, but the front two rows are full—students, critics, some of your friends from school. Her mother is not here. She didn’t expect her to come.

Sophia’s heart beats too loudly for the quiet around her. She’s run the scenes, the lines, the beats, but nothing could rehearse the weight she carries now.

She’s been pretending all her life. Except for tonight, she really doesn’t want to. Not on this stage. Not with you.

You tell yourself it’s just another performance. That the scene ahead, the final confession, the one where Eliza lays her heart bare, is only a scene.

But your palms are cold. Your mouth dry. And when Sophia walks out to join you for scene eleven, something in your chest stirs and refuses to settle.

She’s radiant tonight. Not polished, not perfect. Real. Her hair tucked behind her ears, a nervous tremble in her fingers. Her eyes meet yours as she takes her place across from you, and for the first time, she doesn’t look like a rival.

She looks like a girl trying not to fall apart.

She was supposed to follow the script. The stage manager whispered the cue. The line was ready.

But when you turned to her, eyes already glassy, Sophia felt her breath catch. She had watched you cry in rehearsal. Had felt every word you poured out like it was her own confession. And now, standing this close, she couldn’t lie anymore.

Not even with a script.

So when the moment came for her to speak, Sophia went off-book.

“You think I don’t care,” she said, softly, shaking. “But I do. I care so much I forget how to breathe when you look at me.”

Someone backstage inhaled sharply.

You didn’t flinch. You stayed in it. Listening.

“I took this role because of you. Not to prove anything to anyone. Just so I could be near you. Just so I could… maybe matter.”

The audience didn’t know this wasn’t scripted.

Sophia didn’t care.

“It was never just play pretend,” You watched as Sophia’s eyes glazed with unshed tears and what looked like bold honesty, “It was never just an act for me.”

She breaks character. You can feel it. Not in a way that ruins the scene—no, in a way that makes it more alive than anything you’ve ever performed.

She’s speaking to you, not your character. Sophia, not Eliza. And something cracks open inside you.

“I thought you were pretending,” you say, voice quiet but steady. “I thought I was the only one who didn’t know how to fake it.”

Sophia’s breath catches. You step closer.

“Turns out… you were the only one being honest.”

Your voice trembles at the end—not from nerves, not from fear, but from something else. Something deeper. Like you’ve been holding your breath through the entire show, through every shared glance and staged kiss and carefully measured silence.

And now, finally, you’re exhaling.

There’s a beat of stillness after the line. Just the sound of your heart in your ears, and the faint hum of the lights above. The theatre is quiet. No movement from the wings. No music cue yet. It’s as if the world is holding its breath with you.

And it felt like a singular beat was released, just as Sophia takes a step closer to you.

Her eyes are glassy, but steady. Her hand lifts slightly, like she’s about to reach for your face—then pauses, giving you the chance to lean in first.

You do.

You close the space between you, carefully, slowly, as if you’re afraid the moment will shatter if you move too fast. Her lips meet yours, soft and tentative, like a question. And when you don’t pull away, when you kiss her back, real and certain, she answers you with a quiet exhale against your mouth, like she’s been waiting years for this.

The kiss deepens just enough to make your knees go a little weak. It tastes like unsaid things. Like hope. Like a promise. And when it ends, your foreheads touch.

Neither of you speak. There’s no need.

The lights dim to black, warm and slow, swallowing the stage in silence.

But long after the applause begins, long after the final cue fades, you’re still holding her hand.

And this time, it’s not for the audience. It’s for her.

The applause has faded. The stage is empty now, the kind of quiet that feels sacred. Crew members murmur softly as they strike the set, careful not to disturb what lingers in the air.

Sophia doesn’t leave.

She stands just outside your dressing room door, still in costume, arms crossed tightly across her chest—not in defense, but like she’s holding something in. Like if she lets go, the weight of the night will spill out of her all at once.

She’s rehearsing things in her head. Words she never found the courage to say, over and over again, hoping they don’t fall apart when they finally leave her mouth.

She doesn’t know if you’ll even want to see her.

The door creaks open.

You step out slowly, your coat draped over your shoulders, cheeks still faintly flushed from the last scene. Your lipstick smudged slightly. Your hair a little messy under the dressing room lights.

You look up and suddenly you’re faced with the one girl who has been invading your mind.

She sees it hit you—that she waited. That she didn’t leave.

Neither of you speak. For a moment, all you do is look at each other.

Her eyes are red-rimmed but clear. Open. Unafraid.

Yours are tired, but there’s softness in them. Searching.

And then something in you gives in.

You close the space between you without hesitation. No lines to guide you. No camera. No direction. Just instinct. Just want.

Your lips touch hers.

Gently at first, like you’re asking permission. And when she kisses you back, it’s with everything she’s been holding in for weeks—but in actuality, it has been years.

It’s slow. Tender. A little unsteady. Like you’re both learning how not to hold back for the first time in a long time.

When you finally break apart, her hands are still holding your waist, your fingers still curled in the collar of her shirt. Your foreheads rest together, eyes closed.

Neither of you rush to speak. But she does first, voice barely above a whisper.

“I don’t want to pretend anymore,” The words tremble, not from doubt—but from relief.

You breathe out softly, your nose brushing hers, “Then don’t.”

She lets out a quiet, shaky laugh, like she wasn’t expecting you to make it that easy. Like she’s still scared she’ll wake up tomorrow and it won’t be real.

But it is real.

You tilt your head back slightly to look at her. And this time, when you smile, it’s not guarded. It’s not polite. It’s not for anyone but her.

“I kept trying to hate you,” you say, voice low. “For all the chances you had. For everything I didn’t. But it was never hate. Not really.”

Sophia blinks slowly. You feel her breath catch.

“I know,” she says. “I was scared you’d never believe me. That you’d never see who I actually was underneath all the… all the things people think I am.”

You rest your hand on her cheek, thumb grazing the corner of her mouth.

“I see you now.”

And you do.

You see the way she’s always looked at you, not with rivalry, but awe. You see the nerves in her fingers, the softness in her voice when she forgets she’s performing. You see her: Sophia, not Laforteza, and the girl in front of you is not some distant star.

She’s yours.

Maybe not fully. At least not just yet. But enough to hold onto, knowing full well that she would gladly give herself to you.

Sophia leans in, gently brushing your lips again like she’s making sure it wasn’t a dream.

It isn’t.

You stay like that for a while. Holding each other. No lights, no lines, no cameras.

Just the truth. Just this. Just her.

#katseye imagines #katseye x reader #katseye #katseye x female reader #sophia laforteza #katseye sophia #katseye x fem!reader #sophia laforteza x reader #katseye x fem reader #katseye angst #sophia laforteza angst #sophia laforteza imagines #sophia laforteza x fem reader #sophia x reader #manonsmartini #whiskey pour #katseye on the rocks

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absurdthirst · 1 month ago

Text

Run to You {Rancher!Agent Whiskey x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 22.5k

Warnings: 1800s AU, domestic violence, threats of sexual assault, fainting, hatred, loss, death, wariness, protectiveness, talking to ghosts, flirting, discussions of sexual acts, innocence, loss of virginity, oral sex (male and female receiving), technical adultery, fighting, gun violence, fear of being hanged, marriage vows.

Comments: Escaping from your husband, you run onto Jack Daniel's land. Begging him to help you, keep you safe from the monster you had been married to. Jack hates your husband, so he takes you in. Teaching you that you can trust him because he will protect you.

Co-written by @storiesofthefandomlovers

**Follow @absurdthirst-writes and turn on notifications to stay up to date on all new fics.

|| MasterList || Agent Whiskey MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

The sky is painted with red, orange, and pink. It's picturesque, and Jack adjusts his grip on the reins as he watches the sun set on another day. He's exhausted after working his land. The ranch that he paid for with coins he fought hard for. It's his sanctuary, and he is determined to maintain his peace. His horse huffs and he chuckles, patting his side, "don't worry, bud, we will get you fed." With a sigh, he prepares to go home just when he sees something running across his field. Wait...it's someone. Jack squints, back straightening until he sees it's a woman. Your screams hit his ears, and he immediately tightens his grip on the reins. "Help! Please! Help!" You scream, dress ripped and face bloody as you run towards him. He is on guard, glancing around to see if you're a distraction, but when you approach him, he sees the terror in your eyes. "What's wrong, girl?" He demands, his pistol on his hip and his fingers twitching with the urge to grab it. "Please. He's - he's trying to - help me." You sob and Jack nods, seeing the authenticity in your pleading. He reaches out towards you, offering you his hand, and you grab it. He swings you onto his horse behind him, kicking his side to gallop towards his home. You cling to him and he doesn't say anything until he stops outside his home. He swings his leg over and you look down at him when he stands and offers his hand to you. "You gonna sit on the horse all damn night, little lady?" He asks, raising his eyebrows. You shake your head and he helps you down, taking his horse over to the rail to tie him up until he can deal with him. "You gonna start tellin' me what the fuck is goin' on?" He asks, placing his hands on his hips as he looks at you until your eyes roll back. He barely manages to catch you before you hit the floor. "Goddamnit." He mutters, carrying you into his home.

The stone and log house isn’t as grand as some of the larger ranch houses around here, but it’s solid and warm. Jack kicks the door closed behind him and rushes to lay you down on the impractical sofa that his late wife had chosen for the parlor. He gently sets your head on the cushion and steps back, admiring your profile before deciding to get you some water and a rag to help you come back to your senses. “What the hell is happening over there?” Jack asks himself as he dips a clean cloth into the water bucket after pouring a glass of water. He knows the ranch that it seems like you had run from and he doesn’t like them at all. They push to graze their cattle on his land, something Jack and his cowboys have to be wary of.

You hear clanging and cursing and you wince, head throbbing as you struggle to open your eyes. You huff, sitting up slowly to look around and that’s when you begin to realize you are in a strange place. You gasp just as Jack walks out of the kitchen to see you sitting up. “Ah you’re awake, how you feelin’ sugar?”

The way you eye him warily, as if you don’t remember running to him for help has him chuckling. “You musta knocked your head good.” He shakes his head and ambles over, holding out the cup of cool water and the rag.

You don’t take the water from him, cautious as you watch him move across the room. “You don’t remember? I was ridin’ home and you came runnin’ towards me. Bout scared me and my horse but you begged for help so I brought you here and you collapsed. I ain’t gonna hurt ya. Can you remember what you were runnin’ from?” He asks, slowly kneeling down on one knee next to you.

He waits for you to answer but you refuse to say a word, making him frown slightly before he rubs his fingers over his mustache. “Name’s Jack Daniels.” He decides that maybe you just need some information on him. “Most call me Agent Whiskey, seein’ how I used to be a Federal Marshall that used to investigate bootlegged whiskey.” He smirks. “Never managed to find any.” He winks playfully at you before letting the easy smile slide off his face. “So you’re safe with me, sugar.”

You stare at him, wanting to believe him, but you’ve been in danger for so long it’s hard to kick the feeling that something is going to happen to you. He holds up the glass of water again and you tentatively reach out to take the cup from his hand. He nods and leans back a little. “You wanna tell me what you were runnin’ from?” He asks softly, not wanting to spook you again.

Deciding that your thirst was worth the risk of whatever he might have added to the water, you lift the cup to your lips, moaning at the wetness. “My- my husband.” You admit with a wince. “Judd Miller.”

Jack’s eyes widen, eyebrows raised at a name he knows too well. “You - he got married?” He asks and you nod, swallowing another gulp. “I was - I am from New York. My father arranged for my marriage to Judd without us ever meeting. I was sent here on the train and we married the first night I arrived but he - he’s a monster.” You finish in a whisper and Jack frowns, knowing what the man is like. “I’m sorry, sugar.” He murmurs, “why’d you run? What happened?”

****

“You get back here, you bitch!” You reach the stairs, heels pounding on the wood as you race for the front door. You need to get out of this house, away from Judd. Reaching for the knob, you fling the door open and race towards the porch, the hitch post where his horse is still waiting for him. “Hurry up!” You hiss to yourself, hands shaking when you unwrap the reins, only to drop them when there’s a crash from inside the house you had just slept in for one night before trying to flee. The horse bolts off, leaving your only option to try to escape on foot.

“Get back here, you fucking bitch.” Judd shouts as he runs out the door, tempted to get his shotgun but he wants you in one piece. Ain’t nobody wanna fuck a dead wife. He growls, stomping to run after you. “Come back ‘ere. I promise I’ll treat you good. Will even let you close your eyes. You don’t have to watch me fuck you.” He promises as he follows the path you took into the woods. “Come on honey. Don’t be shy. I just wanna take what’s mine.” He coos, stepping into the trees, listening to any noises of you nearby.

You don’t want to be his. Judd is disgusting, the blackness of his soul oozing out of his eyes as he had stared at you. You try to catch your breath, needing to keep quiet. Why did your father send you here? Why this man?

Judd grunts, checking behind a tree, and he growls when he doesn’t find you. “Come out, come out wherever you are, girl. Come ‘ere wife. I just wanna fulfill my husbandly duties.” He coos, his head turning when he hears a twig snap in two just in time to see you running. He growls, chasing after you, and he manages to grab your dress. Your scream echoes in the wood and he wraps his arm around you. His hand covering your mouth to smother your scream. You react immediately, biting down on his hand, and he yelps, “fuck!” His hand immediately smacks your face, stars flashing in your eyes and you swear you taste blood. His grip on you loosens and you take your chance. Stomping on his foot, you shove him back and try to run despite your head spinning.

“You bitch! You just wait until I get my hands on you!” His foot hurts too badly to immediately rush after you although he is certain he will catch you. There’s nowhere for you to go. Only that Daniels asshole to the east of here and Judd wasn’t concerned about him. “I’ll make you think twice before you run again!” He bellows. “You hear me girl! I’ll make you regret it!”

****

Jack clenches his jaw, his eyes on the gash on your forehead from Judd’s ring hitting your face, and he wants to grab his pistol and go kill the bastard. He inhales deeply when he sees you flinch at the look on his face. “Lemme take care of that cut.” He murmurs, reaching up to gently grip your chin. “I ain’t gonna hurt ya.” He promises, touching you when you relax. He tilts your head, “let’s get you cleaned up. You hungry?” He asks, wondering if you want some of the stew he has cooking.

Your eyes widen, surprised that he is being so gentle, offering you food. “I-“ your stomach lets out an outrageous sound right as you start to refuse. Your cheeks start to burn and he chuckles softly. “As soon as I get you fixed up, I’ll grab you a bowl.” He promises, making you wonder why your parents couldn’t have chosen someone like this handsome, kind stranger rather than Judd. “Thank you.” You murmur softly.

Jack shifts to stand, grabbing his supplies from the kit he keeps. He lives alone so he has a lot of injuries he has to treat himself. He kneels beside you again, grabbing a piece of cotton to dab at the blood on your forehead. You’re even more beautiful up close and he tries to focus on helping you. That’s what you need from him. “You wanna tell me what New York is like? I’ve never been.” He asks, trying to distract you.

“It is almost indescribable.” You admit, voice hushed as you think back to your home. “Buildings that reach the sky. Every luxury you could want right at your fingertips. Electricity. No lamps. A toilet inside, and not a bucket. Libraries, all the books you could read just waiting for you to pick them up.” You sigh wistfully, hating that your personal trunk filled with books is now in Judd’s possession. He will probably burn them.

Jack sees the passion in your eyes and he smiles, glad to see some life return back to your form as he cleans your cut. "Sounds like a mighty fine place. I was born and raised in the west. I ain't been to a city like that." He confesses, "and for the record, I got books." He jerks his chin over to the shelf, smirking at you.

You’re a little embarrassed, afraid you insulted the man who saved you. “What kind of books do you like to read, Mr. Daniels?” You ask politely but his answer astonishes you. “Oh a little of everything. Medical journals and such, a little bit of philosophy, my late wife, rest her soul, enjoyed those scandalous dime novels the good ladies at the church have palpitations over.” He chuckles. “So I had to keep them. Kept me from having to turn down dinner every Sunday to be introduced to their daughters.

Your wide eyes make him chuckle and he watches your mouth open and close a couple of times. "I am sure you are a popular gentleman." You observe, not blind to see how handsome he is. He chuckles, shrugging one shoulder, "I do not desire a simpering woman who will not want to help me with our home. I do not desire a woman who cowers from the harsh realities of ranch life." He confesses, "and...and I have yet to meet anyone who could compare to my beautiful late wife."

Why couldn’t your father want this kind of man for you? “I don’t know the harsh realities of ranch life.” You admit softly, staring down at your soft, unmarked hands. “And your wife must have been beautiful.” You’re jealous, envious of a dead woman curling in your gut. It is because your ‘husband’ would never speak of you that way, never.

“She was.” He murmurs, lost in the memories of his wife. That tragic night she was taken from him so many years ago. You hiss when he presses too hard on the cut and he pulls his hand back, “sorry, little lady.” He reaches for the salve he keeps on hand for his own injuries and applies some to your wound. “There ya go. You’ll be shiny like a new penny in no time.” He promises, “now, let’s get you some grub.”

“Grub?” You frown at the word and Jack snorts. “Food, little lady.” He clarifies. “Stew. It’s venison, more meat than anything, but I never have time to plant a vegetable garden and I’m tired of beans.”

You listen to him ramble as you follow him through the house to the kitchen, the warmth of the space inviting, although it would be better if there was the scent of freshly baked bread.

He strides over to the stove, grabbing the spoon to stir the stew. “Sit yourself down. You only just woke up. I’ll get you a bowl and you can eat. You need your energy after your fall.” He grunts, reaching for a bowl so he can scoop some stew up. “Eat.” He demands, placing the bowl and a spoon down on the table in front of you.

He’s not fawning over you, but it’s probably the most cared for you’ve felt since you learned you would be coming to this place and marrying Judd. “Thank you.” You murmur softly. “Are you going to eat with me?” You ask, spooning up a bit of tender looking meat.

He nods, reaching for his own bowl. “I was comin’ home to eat this when you ran in front of me.” He snorts, spooning some stew into his bowl. He wastes no time sitting down opposite you, digging into his food with a grunt.

“So….” You take a sip and it’s a little saltier than you were expecting but it’s good. Hot and flavorful. “You live here all alone? No one else?” Jack chuckles. “Hands live in the bunkhouse.” He tells you. “They take their meals there, and they don’t often come up here for a social call.” He shrugs slightly. “Just me up here in the main house.”

He shovels the food into his mouth, eating like the food is going to disappear, and he sees you watching him. He swallows, shifting to sit up. “Sorry ma’am. It’s been a while since I had the honor of eatin’ dinner with a lady.” He explains, taking a smaller spoonful, making sure to take his time.

“Do not apologize.” You smile slightly as you take another sip of the soup. “Do all ranchers eat with such gusto?” You ask curiously. “I imagine it is taxing work.” Jack nods. “Best thing to come home to is a hot meal.” He tells you. “Even better when you don’t have to cook it.”

You nod in understanding. “I can imagine food is the first thing on your mind and you must be exhausted. I’m certain you’d prefer someone to cook for you.” You murmur and Jack nods, “yes. The ranch hands are always moanin’ about not havin’ a lady of the house to cook but I tell them to quit whinin’ and make a campfire.” He snorts, taking another spoonful of the stew.

You almost volunteer to cook for him right then, but your mother always cautioned you to not play your hand too early. Before she had died, she had been teaching you how to get around navigating in a man’s world. How to lead your husband to the happy home you wished for, although you know she would have never agreed for you to be married off to Judd. “Well, your stew is delicious.” You hum.

Jack is pleased with your compliment. He smiles, nodding his head, “why thank you kindly.” He watches you eat for a moment, the dainty nature of your posture, and he wonders how you ever ended up in the Wild West. “Tell me about yourself, sugar. What did you do back home?”

“Oh, um….” You look down at the soup and sigh. “I am afraid that my time was taken up by social calls and activities that were proper for a lady of my standing.” You roll your eyes. “When I was able to escape that, I spent time in the gardens and the kitchen with my father’s staff.”

Jack frowns at that. “That doesn’t sound like a fulfilled life. I ain’t really one for social anything. Prefer to keep to myself nowadays. Must’ve been exhausting. Unless - unless you like that sorta kind of course.” He adds hastily, “I’m sorry you were brought out here.”

“I can’t go back there.” You shudder and your shoulders round in worry. “He’s horrible and I know that he will - he wants-“ you bite your lip, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “We married yesterday and he was too drunk to-“

Jack clenches his jaw, glancing across to the window. He knows what kind of man Judd is. He shakes his head, “you don’t need to worry about that, sugar. Ole Jack will keep you safe. You ain’t going back to him if I’m alive and kicking. We will figure out how to get you back to New York before he figures out where you are.”

Your heart swells for a split second before you crash again. “I cannot go back to New York.” You admit with a heavy sigh. “My father would just put on the first train back to Judd.” You blink back tears and spoon up another sip of the soup.

Jack shifts to sit back in his seat, “your father would send you back to a man as vile as Judd?” He asks and your little nod breaks his heart. You look so defeated. “You’ll stay here then until we can figure out what you wanna do next. If you help me around the house, I’ll pay you coins that you can use for your journey and new life. Does that sound fair?” Jack asks, eyebrows raised. He’s not a rich man so he can’t just give you the coins but he wants to help you.

“That is-“ you choke up slightly, feeling safe for the first time in weeks, since you boarded the train to bring you to Judd. “Thank you.” You murmur softly, reaching out and touching his hand, even though that could be considered a breach in manners. “I will do whatever I need to help.” You promise.

Your soft hand touching his has his heart lurching in his chest and he suddenly struggles to swallow. He nods, watching you pull your hand back a moment later. "Happy to help, ma'am." He murmurs, "the fellas will be happy if you cook. They will worship the ground you walk on." He chuckles, taking another spoonful of stew.

“You said you had not planted a garden?” You ask, biting your lip. “Perhaps I could look at starting one? I love working in a garden.” Cooking might be a little more challenging, but you had spent plenty of time in the kitchen for the house. They had taught you well.

Jack nods, “that’ll be - I’d appreciate your green thumb. I kill any plant I touch.” He confesses with a chuckle, “and cooking? Anything that we ain’t gotta cook is good grub to us.” He promises, “tomorrow I’ll show you around the ranch. Judd doesn’t come out this way. He knows to stay off my land.” He promises, “and I’ll tell him I ain’t seen no woman if he approaches me and I’ll order the fellas to do the same.”

“Thank you.” You smile and hope that Judd doesn’t surprise Jack. From the way that Jack spoke, there’s been some issues between him and the other rancher. “I hope you don’t regret this.”

****

After dinner is cleaned up, Jack wipes his hands on his jeans, “I, uh, I will give you the bed. I can sleep on the floor or the couch.” He assures you despite knowing his back will be fucked for tomorrow. “My late wife…I still have her clothes. So you’ll have nightwear and something to wear each day. I think they’ll fit you.” He eyes you for a second and makes his way over to the stairs. “You’re welcome to follow.” He says when you remain still, and he stomps up the steps.

You shouldn’t trust Jack, but you don't have much of a choice. Getting to the stairs and then slowly climbing them, looking out over the living space as you climb. “I could sleep on your couch.” You offer. “That way I could get up early enough to make breakfast.”

Jack looks at you as you stand on the steps, “my mama, bless her soul, would beat me black and blue if I let a lady sleep on the couch while I had the bed. No, you’ll sleep in here. It’s upstairs too. You’ll be safer in case something happens. I’ll be right there by the door with my shotgun.” He promises, wanting you to feel safe.

"Alright, Jack." His colorful visual of what his mother would have done has you imagining a small woman scolding a younger Jack, perhaps pulling his ear. "If you insist." You will see if there is anywhere you can sleep that would give him his bed back. You finish climbing the stairs and join him on the landing.

He walks over to the set of drawers and opens the top one, reaching for a nightdress that his late wife would’ve worn and he holds it out towards you. “Here ya go, ma’am.” You take it and he shifts to make his way from the room. “Toilet is outside. You can wake me up if you need to go. If you want to go now, I can stand guard. There’s a sink and stuff over in the corner.” He points to the sink and shifts awkwardly, “so I’ll let you settle in.”

“I-“ you wince slightly, remembering that none of the houses around here have indoor toilets. “Thank you. I’ll make sure to go now before the sun sets.”

Jack nods, “let’s go, little lady.” He makes his way downstairs, grabbing his shotgun in case Judd or his men have somehow gotten brave enough to come to his home. You shiver when you walk outside and he stands guard, glancing around at the trees surrounding his home.

"The toilet isn't too far." You are grateful for that, wishing that you didn't feel so exposed. "Don't like stumbling around in the dark." Jack admits. "There's wolves out here, so don't come out without me or a gun." You choke back a laugh. "I don't know how to use a gun." You admit and he huffs. "I'll teach you. You need to know to live out here."

Jack stands guard while you do your business and he will take a piss outside once you’re fully situated. You make your way back inside and he locks the door to show you he’s serious about your safety. “Anything happens, you scream and I’ll be there to shoot the bastard.” He commands and you nod. He watches you make your way upstairs and he sets his gun in the corner, working on stripping down for the night. His boots by the door, his hand on the rack, and he grunts as he lays down on the couch. “Goddamn Mary, darlin’. I love you dearly but this fuckin’ couch.” He murmurs as he looks up at the ceiling. Reaching over to turn off the oil lamp and he sighs, wondering what he’s gonna do with you to get you away from Judd.

You are exhausted, feeling safe for the first time since you had been told you were getting married. Undressing doesn't take long and you are thankful that Jack's late wife had clothes that would work. Grateful for the pitcher of water in the wash stand as you pour it into the bowl and reach for the rag and the crock of soap. You had French milled soap in your trunks, now in Judd's house and you wish you could just get your things back. Slipping into the bed, you smell him, Jack. All over the sheets, the smell of man and leather seems to surround you. Making you sigh and close your eyes, wishing he wasn't so damn handsome.

****

Jack hears the footsteps on the stairs, and he turns his head to see you walking into the kitchen moments later. “Mornin’ ma’am. You like coffee? Got some brewing and some eggs I collected moments ago if you’re interested.” He nudges the eggs in the steel pan.

Your eyes are barely open and it seems like Jack has been awake for hours. You had gotten dressed in the darkness and assumed you would be the first one up. "Morning comes early on a ranch." You mumble, never one for early mornings. "I will get started on breakfast right away." You promise, knowing that you need to uphold your end of the bargain.

“All done, darlin’ but you could butter the toast.” He gestures to the table where the toast is already plated and butter next to it. “There’s jelly that I purchased from the ole gal in town.” He says, “and eggs are ready. Sit down.” He orders, sliding the eggs onto the plates before he carries them over to place them on the table.

"I- I am so sorry that I overslept." You stammer, rushing. over to help him but Jack waves you off towards and enamel cup. "Pour yourself some coffee, darlin'. I've got this." He assures you and it makes you feel guilty. "I'm always up early, so don't worry about me." He shrugs. "You slept hard last night. Probably the first good night's sleep in weeks."

You are surprised by his easy going nature. Your father would’ve reprimanded you for sleeping so late. A proper lady isn’t lazy, he’d said. Judd had you up early to prepare his hangover cure. Jack watches you pour some coffee and he sips his own cup, “I’ll always be up before you. Ain’t no use you risin’ so early when I gotta feed the animals first.”

"Then at least wake me up when you leave so I can have the coffee ready when you get back." You take a sip of the coffee and sigh blissfully. "I think today I should look over the supplies you have and perhaps go over what meals you would like to have." You offer. "And inspect the garden area?"

Jack wipes his mustache and nods, setting his coffee down. “Whatever you feel like, ma’am. I would suggest goin’ into town but I don’t want word of your whereabouts gettin’ back to Judd. I can go fetch supplies or get one of the boys to do it if you make a list.” He promises, reaching for his fork to begin eating his eggs.

“Thank you.” You bite your lip. “I wish I had some way of getting my things from Judd.” You sigh softly and then pick up the platter of eggs and start scooping them onto Jack’s plate. You should at least serve him since you didn’t cook. “But I will live without them.”

Jack hums, not wanting to make promises but there might be a way for him to retrieve your things. He has a contact on Judd’s land who owes him a favor. “What things did you bring with you?” He asks, wanting to make a mental list.

You sigh again, putting the plate of eggs down and putting some toast on the plate for him. “I had two trunks.” You admit. “One was filled with books and my clothes. The other was filled with things I had made with my mother.” You smile sadly. “I never even got to wear the wedding dress she made me.”

Jack makes a mental note to make sure this contact retrieves your things but he doesn’t let that show on his face as he digs into his eggs. He reminds himself to eat a little slower and he watches you as you put some jelly on the toast that’s a little stale but he hasn’t had a chance to get some bread from the lady in town. “I’m sure you woulda looked mighty pretty in that wedding dress.”

You fluster slightly and shoot him a small smile before taking a bite of your toast. “You are a flatterer as well as a white knight.” You tease. “Do the men eat lunch as well, or just dinner and breakfast here?” You ask, wanting to get into a routine as quickly as possible. Cooking for ranch hands sounds a lot better than being in Judd’s bed and being his wife.

Jack shakes his head, "mainly breakfast and dinner. We are usually far out heardin' cattle or dealin' with the fences so we grab something to eat from the land or we wait. Usually the smokes keep us goin'." He chuckles, "they ain't fussy either. They will eat what's given to 'em."

“Breakfast and dinner.” You agree, although you might have to have some cookies or something available for the men to have. “I think that I can manage that.” You smile and pick up your fork to eat a bite of eggs. “So you have chickens. And cattle. Do you have milk cows as well?”

He nods, looking up at you as he leans towards his plate, "yes ma'am. I usually get up to milk the cows and collect the eggs. Then I move on to other duties." He explains and shoves some egg into his mouth.

“I see.” You nod. “Then you will have to show me these chores and I will take them over.” Even if you’ve never milked a cow, you will learn. Your father had sent you to this place for god only knows what reason, but you won’t wither away.

Jack chuckles at the thought of you shoveling cow shit but he nods, "whatever you wanna do, ma'am. It's my way of life. I ain't lookin' to make you shovel cow shit but I would like a home cooked meal. Lord knows my mama didn't teach me to cook. I've had to figure it all out myself after my wife passed."

“Oh.” You press your lips together. “Then it is lucky you didn’t starve to death.” You tell him, trying not to laugh at the horrible meals that must have been normal for him to learn. “I have all of my favorite recipes from our cook.” You tell him proudly. “I would haunt the kitchen and she taught me everything she could.”

He smiles at your enthusiasm, "well, I look forward to trying her recipes made by your hands. You lemme know what you need and it's yours." He promises, finishing his plate and he picks up his coffee to down it. You are still eating and he reaches into his pocket for a smoke. "I better go meet the fellas. Let you get settled. If you need anything, you holler. There's a bell on the door that travels pretty darn far if you need me. If you're in trouble, scream and use the shotgun in the corner." He says seriously, "but you should be safe here. Ain't no way Judd would have the balls to cross into my land." He promises, lighting his cigarette before he stands up and reaches for his coat.

“Oh!” You stand up with him, making him huff and wave you to sit down. “Finish your breakfast darlin’.” He tells you, sliding his arms into the thick leather coat. You wonder if it’s cow leather or perhaps some kind of game. “I will.” You promise, sitting back down and feeling a little off kilter that this man would be so relaxed about chores. Judd had expected you to drop everything to attend to him. It was why your trunks were still untouched and unpacked, you hadn’t had time to do anything.

Jack watches you as you sit back down and he reaches up to take the cigarette from his lips. "See you later, sugar." He winks and makes his way to the back door, opening it and he shuts it behind him, wanting to make sure it's locked. He will come back to check on you later, make sure you are safe and none of Judd's cronies are sniffing around. He strides towards the stables, ready to work but his thoughts have been left at that kitchen table with you.

In the quiet of the house, the only sound is the fire in the stove, you finish your breakfast. Bringing the pans over to the dish tub. You are surprised to find the water pump inside, but that is a good thing. You are not naive, you know that the conveniences you had in New York aren’t available here, but your staff had taught you how to do things the older ways, a notion that now makes you wonder if they didn’t suspect your father would send you out west. You pump the water over the dishes and start scrubbing, humming to yourself as you watch through the windows to find men and horses in the pasture in front of the barn. Your first day here.

****

Jack removes his hat to wipe his brow, looking across the fields, and he turns to see Kieran, his ranch hand, riding up to him. "Hey boss. The fellas are hungry. Fencin' out east has been fixed." He reports and Jack nods, "let's get some grub. Little lady said she's makin' a stew." He says, "go get the others." He orders and Kieran nods, riding off to get the others and Jack begins to make his way home. He had told his hands about you, and warned them to not talk to anyone about you and to be respectful. When he steps into the house, he groans at the smell of the food, "evenin' ma'am." He removes his hat and boots, shrugging off his jacket to see you wearing his late wife's apron, standing there with flour on your cheek and he chuckles. "You have - uh - right there." He gestures to his cheek and you wipe your face but miss it. You try again and he takes pity on you, stepping closer and he carefully brings his hand up to gently wipe the flour from your face.

“Thank you.” You smile and bite your lip nervously. He’s such a broad and strong man, but his touch is gentle and kind. It makes your stomach flutter even though you know that he is still in love with his late wife. “I hope you don’t mind stew and biscuits.” You gesture towards the kitchen. “I also made cherry pie for dessert with the canned cherries you had in your larder.”

Jack is impressed especially since you claimed to have no experience in cooking. He hopes for your sake it tastes good but he will lie through his teeth if he needs to. The back door bangs open, a group of men working on removing their boots and hats and jackets while groaning at the smell of the food. "Fellas! Fellas!" Jack yells and the men freeze. "Mind your goddamn manners. There's a lady here. Take your boots off and come over to introduce yourself." He orders and the men nod, lining up to say hello.

You stifle a small laugh, finding it funny that Jack had cursed while telling the hands to mind their manners. Each man held their hats in their hands and were almost bashful as they introduced themselves to you. All respectful, you feel a pang of happiness to be here and you motion to the stove. “Please, there is more than enough and another pan of biscuits is in the oven.” You weren’t sure how hungry the men would be and you reasoned the biscuits could be saved for breakfast if they didn’t eat all of them tonight. “Cherry pie for dessert.”

The men all groan in delight and they are about to surround the stove when Jack whistles. "Ladies first." He reminds them and looks at you, "go get your plate. You cooked, you get first pick." He insists and the men stand there nodding. You bite your lip, about to protest, but Jack raises his eyebrows and you nod, grabbing your bowl to get some of the food you cooked.

You don’t serve yourself a lot, considering you had some toast for lunch. Jack huffs at you but you just smile and move to sit down at the table. “I have plenty.” You promise before motioning to them to start making their own plates. “There’s fresh coffee for the pie.”

Luckily the men had washed up in the outhouse before coming inside so their hands are clean as they scramble to grab their plates. Jack watched as you take your seat and the men join you one by one with their bowls, hunger painted on their faces. “Jack?” You call his name and he sees he’s the last one. He nods and plates his food, taking the seat the men left beside you and he ignores their glances. “Kieran, you wanna say grace?” He asks, knowing that while he may not believe in God after his wife and child were cruelly ripped from his life, some of the men are church goers and he wants to respect that.

You bow your head but your eyes are focused on Jack. He is looking down at his hands, obviously not praying and you wonder how long he had lived alone after losing his wife. The prayer is short and immediately, the men dig into the meal. Groaning at the first bites and clinking the spoons into the bowl for another hurried bite as they shovel it in.“Is it good?” You ask tentatively, hoping they are not just trying to swallow down their meal as quickly as possible because they are hungry.

The men all nod, making you giggle at their enthusiasm, and Jack sets his spoon down. “The fellas are happy to eat anything but you cook better than I can.” He says with sincerity. The men all nod again, “you’re a mighty fine cook, ma’am.” One of them says and the others all chime in with their own compliments. Before too long, they are digging into the pie and Jack chuckles, leaning in towards you, “like rabid dogs.” He has some cherry filling in his mustache and doesn’t notice.

You smirk and nod, taking a sip of your coffee. The men had insisted you take a small slice of the pie first before they dug in. Aware that they were going to eat every crumb. None of them had dessert recently. “Maybe that will change when I have a jar full of cookies around.” You hum.

The men’s eyes widen and they all nod eagerly, “fuck, I’d love that.” One of the men groans and Jack tuts, “mind your language boy.” He orders and the younger man nods, “sorry for cursin’ ma’am.”

You hum. “That’s alright.” You promise, assuring him and reaching out to pat the younger man’s hand. “I understand that you are not used to having a lady around. I don’t expect you to cater to my delicacies.” You tease, glancing over at Jack.

Jack clicks his tongue, “they need to learn. If any of ‘em wanna have a chance at gettin’ married they best be learnin’ now to watch their tongues.” He raises his eyebrows and the men all nod. The oldest man, older than Jack, chuckles his agreement. “Now, you’re gonna help the lady clean up and then be off to your beds. We got a long day tomorrow.” Jack says once the men have all finished eating.

You are surprised by that, but Jack chuckles as the hands immediately stand and start scraping plates - not that there was much on them - into the slop bucket and cleaning them in the dish tub. “You cooked, darlin’, you shouldn’t have to clean up after ‘em.” You hadn’t expected that, but you smile in gratitude. “Thank you, gentlemen.” You tell all of them. “Your future wives will appreciate this too.”

Jack watches before he cleans his own plates, leaving them on the side to dry, and he wipes his hands on the cloth as the men thank you. “I can’t wait to see what ya cook tomorrow.” The youngest one grins and Jack snorts, “lady needs a rest first. Now off with y’all.” He orders and the hands all thank you, gather their things, and soon it’s just you and Jack. “I’m gonna stoke the fire. You’re welcome to read, do whatever you want. You’ve earned your rest.” He insists, reaching for the stoker to liven up the fire.

“Thank you.” You seem to be saying that a lot since you’ve been here. “I might have looked through your shelf and chosen a book.” You admit with a smile.

Jack nods, “relax and read. I’ll get everything ready for the night.” He promises, knowing he will need to check the doors and windows, to make sure the house is secure. Jack soon sits down in his chair, grabbing his knife, and he continues whittling what he has been working on before you ran into his life. The silence between you is easy and he realizes he has been lonely and not even noticed it.

You had taken off the apron and had poured yourself another cup of coffee, fixing one for Jack as well when you settle down. He didn’t even notice when you set it by his elbow, busy with his knife and wood. Opening the dime novel, curious to see what is so scandalous about these books.

Jack looks up from his project, noticing your reading material, and he bites his lip to smother his smirk. He knows you’re innocent. Can tell in your demeanor. When your eyes widen, he chuckles softly, “interesting reading, sugar?” He asks, curious about your thoughts right now.

“Oh!” He startles you and the book snaps shut, your eyes wide as you feel your face burn. “I- I don’t know-“ you confess, although your body feels like you’ve climbed into the stove and your core aches. You’ve felt attraction before but this is that same feeling based on words. “I didn’t-“ you swallow harshly. “I didn’t know men did that.”

Jack smirks, looking back down at the knife in his hand, “I’d ask you to read it to me but that would be wildly inappropriate on my part.” He shakes his head, “whatever it is…yes we do.” He promises, not even winking as you fluster and grip the book.

“Y-you do?” You practically gasp at that and a small shiver races through your body as you imagine Jack doing that to you. “How do you know that you do it?” You whimper, leaning in slightly as you ask, afraid someone else might hear you even though no one else is in the house.

Jack looks up at you, tilting his head, "seeing how flustered you are I can only assume it's one of three things and yes, we do all three. One of them especially if you love your woman." He promises, "nothing like it." He murmurs, glancing over to the fireplace, remembering how his wife would react to his tongue on her clit.

You make a tiny squeak and close your eyes. Trying to stop yourself from picturing Jack between your thighs. “Oh.” You manage, setting the book down and reaching for your coffee with a trembling hand. “I did not know that.” You admit. “I was only married for one day and he- I mean- we didn’t-“ you bite your lip.

Jack snorts, "I highly doubt Judd would ever be willin' to do that for his lady. He's a selfish bastard. You made the right choice runnin' away." He promises, "and you didn't consummate the marriage...maybe you get it annulled when you get to where you're goin'."

“I don’t want to be his wife.” You agree. “I wouldn’t mind being a wife, just not his.” You snort, shaking your head. “The man is vile.” You lick your lips and lean forward again, curious now. “And doing that- it, it said something about doing it to you- I mean, a man?” You had caught whispers and giggles from the newly wed ladies you had been friends with, but none of them would tell you about it, saying that your husband would show you everything you needed to know. You hated that answer and you sense that Jack is only holding back because of your embarrassment.

Jack sets his knife down and turns to look at you. His face is serious as you look down at the book. “Look at me, darlin’.” He orders and your eyes meet his, “if you want me to stop, you tell me, ya hear?” He asks and you nod. He nods back and continues, “women absolutely do that to a man. Only if you want to. Everything in a marriage, in a relationship, is give and take. Boundaries. I ain’t gonna get my kicks for a woman who isn’t enjoying what we are doing as much as I am.” He assures you, “but not all men are like that. Some will take what they want without care. Some men, like Judd, don’t care about the women enjoying it. Do not give yourself to those men. You can judge it, you have already with Judd. Any man you’re with should worship you.” He raises his eyebrows, “and the intimacy becomes natural.”

You doubt that, but the way he speaks makes you envy his late wife. The way he talks, the warmth to his voice, has everything to do with her. “She was a lucky woman.” You murmur softly. “How long were you married? Before she died?” You want to ask how she died, but you don’t want to press.

Jack glances over at the pillow his late wife had made and he sighs, “she died about ten ago. We were childhood sweethearts. Married as soon as we could. We stayed with her mother until I earned enough money to buy the land. I built this house with my bare hands. We tried for a long time for a baby but we didn’t have any luck. We accepted that it wasn’t meant to be but then one day, she told me she was with child. I was overjoyed. We began to prepare our home for a new baby. Then one day-” He rubs his hands on his pants, “she went outside to fetch some eggs from the chickens. She was close to having the child, when a bullet hit her heart. Judd - he was hunting and - she was killed. Her and the babe.” He finishes softly, brought back to the moment he found her, blood pooling around her and her belly round with the babe.

“Oh God.” Your eyes start to water and you reach out to touch his shoulder. “Jack- I am so sorry.” You murmur softly, even though you had nothing to do with the events from ten years ago. His face is set, stoic, but his eyes show the sorrow and devastation he must still feel. “I wish that had never happened.”

“Me too.” He murmurs, not shrugging off your touch, “but she’s gone and I- I have been alone for so long. For the longest time I wanted revenge. I was consumed with it. I went to Judd’s house to kill him but he - he had all his men and I was prepared for a shootout but I heard my wife in my ear telling me to walk away. I walked away and I’ve been alone ever since.”

“I am grateful you listened.” You smile when he looks over at you. “You saved my life and you wouldn’t have been in that field if you had been buried next to your wife and baby.” You remind him. “Your hands wouldn’t have the jobs they have, you are not as alone as you think.”

Jack nods, knowing you’re right but he sometimes wonders how good it would’ve felt to put a bullet in Judd’s chest. “Tomorrow we will teach you how to shoot. You gotta know how to defend yourself out here while I’m gone.”

“Okay.” You nod, even though the conversation has veered off course from the original one. You know that he is worried about you and that makes you feel safer than you ever have. “In that case, maybe I need to go to bed.” You hum, putting a scrap of cloth in the book now that you’ve relocated the page and close it gently.

He nods, knowing you’ve had a long day and so has he. “You wanna use the outhouse before you go upstairs?” He asks and you nod, standing up. He guides you outside, shotgun in hand as he stands guard. Once you’re back inside, he locks the doors and makes sure the house is secure as you stand at the foot of the steps. “I’ll see ya in the mornin’ sugar.” He murmurs, hating how beautiful you look standing there in the lamplight. You ain’t staying and he wants you to be happy. “Good night, Jack.” You murmur and he nods, shifting to sit down as he works on removing his gun halter. That night when he’s laying on the couch, he swears he hears his wife say “it’s okay, Jack. You can love her.” He closes his eyes, imagining not being alone for the rest of his life.

The bed still smells like Jack and it makes you restless. Getting up and moving to the window, staring out over the pastures and wondering what it is like to live here year round. It’s beautiful in a primitive, wild way and you are stirred by it. The air is cleaner than in New York. You think about the book you had read and that same feeling builds inside you. “I don’t know if it’s right.” You whisper to the room, to the spirit of Jack’s wife. “But I’m taking care of him for you.”

****

“Now, you wanna make sure your fingers are only on the trigger when you are going to shoot. Otherwise you’re gonna shoot your ass off.” He shifts to stand behind you, adjusting your grip on the pistol. He’s teaching you how to shoot. Some cans on a log for targets and he hates how warm your body is against his and your sweet scent hitting his nostrils.

“I doubt that would happen.” You huff, but you make sure to keep your finger away from the worn smooth trigger. You are standing with your feet spread, wearing another one of Mary’s outfits and wishing that you weren’t so aware of how close he is pressed against you. “Aim.” He encourages you and you close one eye to aim for the can. “Breathe out and squeeze the trigger.” Jack hums and you pull back the trigger until the gun explodes in your hand and you yelp at the loud noise at the way it kicks in your hand.

Jack chuckles, knowing you’ve never shot a gun before so he grips your shoulder to keep you steady. “Try again. It ain’t gonna hurt you when you’re holdin’ it properly.” He promises, bringing his hands up to adjust your grip. “Lean into the kick back. Aim and breathe out while squeezin’ the trigger.” He orders, “try again.”

It’s so hard to concentrate when he’s breathing against your neck. His hands on your hip when he drops his hand from yours. “Steady.” He murmurs softly and you exhale softly before you squeeze the trigger again. This time the can flips off the wooden railing.

You cheer and Jack immediately keeps the gun pointed to the ground in case you wave it around. “I did it!” You grin and Jack feels like he’s been kicked in the guts, breath taken from him at how goddamn gorgeous you look when you’re happy. “You sure did sugar, let’s try again.” He orders, stepping back from you this time.

It takes you a few minutes to settle back down and aim at the next can. The next two shots are wild and Jack has to come back up to help refocus you. You take a deep breath and try one more time, hitting the can again and this time you don’t cheer, you just grin happily.

Jack smiles, happy that you are able to somewhat aim. "Good job, sugar. Just aim the gun at whatever asshole is there." He orders, "now, let's try the shotgun. That will take out anyone." He promises, wanting you to be comfortable enough with the weapons to protect yourself.

“I don’t know about that one.” You admit, eyes wide as Jack reaches for the weapon. “It looks deadly.” You make him snort out a laugh. “It’s supposed to.” He promises. “Fends off wolves and men.”

"Doesn't matter how bad your aim is, you'll kill a man." He promises, "and don't forget-" He reaches out to grip your chin so you look at him, "-it's your life or theirs. Ain't no room for mercy in these parts. Kill them without a second thought."

“Kill them.” You agree, although you know that you might hesitate depending on the situation. Jack’s eyes are boring into yours and you lick your lips. “I will Jack.” You promise after another moment.

He releases your chin and he nods, "good." It doesn't take long to position you for shooting the shotgun. "Now, the recoil is gonna be scary but relax and hold your frame." He orders, adjusting your posture.

You can feel him pressing against you but you don’t think much about it until you are pulling the trigger. The gun blasting back and if it weren’t for Jack, you would have fallen on your butt.

“Easy, girl.” He chuckles at your shocked reaction and he steadies you. “Try again. You’ll figure this out.” He promises, “you just need to focus.” He reminds you and he adjusts your form again, “just inhale and exhale.” He murmurs into your ear.

You shiver slightly but it’s not because you are cold. Holding the large weapon, you follow his orders and squeeze the trigger. “Oh my god!” You cry, the can is gone and you didn’t even drop the rifle. “I did it.”

He grins, pleased that you didn’t shy away and he squeezes your waist. “Good job, sugar.” He reaches for the shotgun, taking it from you as you grin and he nods, “now, you know what you’re doin’, I won’t worry so much when I’m out in the fields.”

“You don’t need to worry.” You promise but he just tuts. “Today I’m going to work on the garden.” You tell him. “So do I need to a keep a gun in my apron?”

Jack snorts, “not in your apron but nearby. I want you safe. You never know if Judd gets brave and comes to find you. I’ve heard he’s lookin’ for you. I gotta head into town tomorrow for supplies. I’ll find out what people know then.” He knows it’s too risky to take you with him. Someone could recognize you and tell Judd.

You nod, pulling the list he had you make out of your apron. “This is what I need.” You tell him, “if they have any penny candy, please get a bag.” You ask. “It’s good crushed up in cookies.”

Jack tucks the list into his jacket, nodding at you, and he knows you’ll have the guys wrapped around your finger if you bake them cookies. “You tryin’ to fatten up my boys?” He teases, “because they are all braggin’ about your cookin’ skills.”

“They would eat anything anyone put in front of them.” You snort, shaking your head. “But if I feed them cookies, they couldn’t possibly complain if I need help weeding the garden? Could they?” You ask the question innocently, but there is a conniving smirk on your face.

Jack chuckles, “I’m sure you’ll be orderin’ them around and they will do whatever you want as long as you keep cookin’ for them.” He promises, imagining how eager they would be for more cookies and desserts.

“Speaking of that.” You smile. “I better go make sure that the chickens are ready to put on the stove.” You are still cautious about not making enough, but so far everything has been perfect.

Jack watches you go, gun in hand, and he sighs, glancing at the cans you shot down. He prays you don’t have to use the guns at all. He hopes he can help you out of this goddamn town before it’s too late. Either because Judd finds you or you break down the walls he put up around his heart.

Coming out onto the porch hours later, you are about to ring the bell when you notice all the men waiting. Hands and faces washed, hats in hand, some are milling around the yard while others are out by your new weeded garden, obviously discussing where you will be planting. “Dinner is ready, gentlemen.” You smile. “Tonight is chicken and pastry.” It was one of your cook’s favorite meals to serve the staff since your father wouldn’t eat it, and you loved it. “With slices of spiced cake for dessert.”

They all groan in delight and Jack chuckles, knowing they’ve all been discussing all morning what the options could be for dinner. Jack didn’t ponder with them, knowing he had butchered the chicken that morning for you to use. The men all make their way inside to start serving themselves and Jack watches you as you sit down with your plate. You always serve yourself first. The men won’t allow anything else. Jack is soon sitting beside you, his leg knocking yours under the table as he eats, and he feels his stomach twist with emotion. Butterflies he hasn’t felt since Mary and that terrifies him. You are technically another man’s wife, he needs to push those feelings aside and bury them.

You had made two giant pots, and you are glad you did. Every man, including Jack, went back for big bowls of seconds. A couple of the younger guys even getting thirds. Then it was time for cake and coffee. You had learned the men loved saving the coffee for the dessert, finding it to make it feel like they were getting food from a restaurant. A rare occurrence for most of them. Thick slices of the cake were served and you wait to see what they think. Jack is the first one to groan, making your cheeks heat up because you are imagining him groaning over more than cake.

The other men quickly agree and despite eating so much for dinner, the cake is gone, not even a crumb left as they get up to clean the dishes. This is honestly the happiest you’ve ever been, feeling appreciated and useful instead of being bored to tears with gossip and luncheon dates with ladies you didn’t like. “I’m baking cookies tomorrow after you come back with the candy.” You promise.

Jack smiles, “they sure will love that.” He winks and stands up to wash his own plate. Once the dishes are dried, the men all come to say thank you and goodnight one by one. “Goodnight ma’am.” The last one bows his head after he puts on his hat and Jack ushers him out, knowing he’s got a little crush on you. “Finally.” He exhales, “time to relax.”

“Whittling is relaxing?” You ask, knowing that you should probably do some mending, you have noticed most of Jack’s clothes needing repair, but you want to read some more of the book. You had read another chapter while the cake was cooling, but it’s interesting and you need to know what happens next.

Jack chuckles, "well, there's other ways to relax but I won't mention them to a lady like yourself." He turns away from you and checks the door is locked until he makes his way over to his chair to pick up his knife and continue what he's been working on. He's nearly finished.

His words stick with you and intrigue you. Reading until he sits down again and then you stare at him. “It is relaxing?” You ask after a moment. “It seems so…physical.” You glance back down at the book. “How could you relax when it’s work?”

His eyes dip down to the book in your hand and he bites his cheek to stop his smirk. “It is work but it’s - it’s natural. It’s mind numbing and when it’s done right you’ll be melting after, mind empty except for how you feel. With the right person, it’s - it’s beyond words.”

“And how do you know that is the right person?” You demand, leaning in and your eyes flicker down to his lips before your cheeks heat up again and you have to look away. “I just- this is all so new to me. The freedom of asking is unreal.”

“You’ll know. You’ll feel it in your heart.” He promises, “it’s like nothing made sense until you met that person.” He murmurs, frowning when he realizes that he felt that way when he met Mary and now he feels that way when he thinks about you but he would never admit it.

You chew on your lip, frowning slightly because you know you’ve felt that way since you woke up on Jack’s uncomfortable couch. “I see.” You look back down at the book, sighing softly. “That’s what you had with your wife?” You already know the answer but your heart drops when he nods. “I hope that one day I have that.” You swallow. “But I fear it is not in my fortune.”

Jack frowns as he looks over at you, “that ain’t true. You’re a beautiful woman. You’ll have men fallin’ at your feet. Hell, half the fellas here would marry you tomorrow if they didn’t all insist that I-” He cuts himself off and glances at the worn rug beneath his feet. “Once we get you out of Judd’s grip, you’ll be free to love how you want.”

You frown, wondering what he was going to say. “I can’t even imagine that.” You admit softly. “Although….I am finding out that ranch life is preferable to the city.” You look outside at the last fading rays of light and smile. “It’s so peaceful here.”

“It is.” He murmurs, looking out of the window and his breath catches at how the setting sun makes you shimmer. He goes back to whittling and you continue reading. Soon, he’s completed what he was making and he softly says your name, “I made you something.” He holds out the small piece of wood that he shaped like an angel. That’s what he considers you.

“Jack-“ you are speechless as you take the small carving, looking down at the delicate wings and the smoothness of what was once a rough piece of wood. “It’s- it’s beautiful.” You don’t think about how it’s completely inappropriate, you get up and lean over him to kiss his cheek.

Jack inhales deeply at the way his skin tingles from your kiss. He turns to look at you, his cheeks a little flushed, “you’re welcome, darlin’. It’s, uh, it’s you. You’re my angel. Sent by Mary to help rescue me from my loneliness and anger.” He confesses, “I cannot thank you enough for giving me my life back.”

“Jack-“ you swallow harshly and for a moment, you are about to ask him. Your resolve fails you and you smile softly. “You saved my life.” You remind him. “It’s only fitting I help you with yours.” You don’t know what he means by giving him his life back, but you feel proud that you could help him in even some small way.

He stares at you, leaning a little closer, and he swallows harshly. “You’re - I can help you get on the train to Chicago. It’s not going to be an easy trip but you’ll be safe there. I have enough coins if that’s what you want to do. If not, I can help you get somewhere else.”

“I don’t want to go to Chicago.” You admit, breathlessly. His brow furrows, confused and you lick your lips. “I- I don’t want to go anywhere.” You have fallen in love with the ranch and everyone on it. Some more than others.

He frowns, confused at your confession and when you go to turn your head, he reaches out to cup your cheek. He doesn’t think. He just acts. He leans in to press his lips to yours. It’s wrong, you’re married and he’s older, and he shouldn’t be kissing you but he can’t help it.

You make a soft sound of surprise before you melt into his arms. The soft brush of his mustache doesn’t take away from the skill of his kiss. You’ve only been kissed by one other man and Judd’s kiss had made you feel disgusted. Jack’s kiss lights a fire in your belly and makes you moan softly when he pulls you closer.

Your response has his heart pounding in his chest and he slides his tongue into your mouth, taking advantage of your gasp when he nibbles your lower lip. His hand slides along your neck and he groans into your mouth, loving how you lean into him.

You feel deliciously wanton, but you don’t pull away. You press closer, your hands gripping his arms before they slide around his back. His tongue touches yours, making you groan again and you tentatively reach out with your own to see what it feels like.

He loves how eager you are. He slides his tongue against yours, devouring you, and he knows in the back of his mind that this is wrong but he wants you. He has since you started cooking for him. He kisses along your neck, “tell me to stop. I shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Don’t.” You beg, closing your eyes because you know it’s wrong, but you want him to show you those things you’ve read about. “I don’t want you to stop.” You shouldn’t be so free with yourself, but Jack is the only man who has ever heard you, really listened or cared about what you had to say. If anyone could show you how intimacy should be, it’s him. Even if he can’t love you.

Jack groans at your words until suddenly he pulls back. Your eyes flutter open, brow furrowing and he immediately stands up. Backing away from you, he doesn’t say a word as he strides to the front door and unlocks it after grabbing his boots. After shoving them on, he walks out into the night, shutting the door behind him. He turns back to look at the house for a moment until he walks off into the night.

Humiliation washes over you, making your entire body burn. He had told you that he was loyal to his wife and yet you had hoped that he would touch you. That he would show you a fraction of what a relationship between a man and a woman could be. Only to have him push you away. You rush to grab the book off the table and bolt for the stairs, ready to hide away for the night. Hoping he’s not going to tell you that you need to leave tomorrow. “What have I done?” You murmur hopelessly.

Jack walks for a while, pacing is more accurate, and he looks up at the stars. “Mary, darlin’, talk to me. She’s technically married and I- I swore I’d be faithful to you and our child.” He chokes, knowing he can’t just forget the woman he loves. The wind blows and he shivers, glancing at the trees that shake. He swears he hears Mary’s voice in his ear, curling around him in the breeze. “Be happy.” He chokes and looks up at the stars, nodding. He rolls his shoulders, deciding to make his way back to the house. He barely manages to take off his boots before he walks into the house, slamming the door behind him, and he stomps up the stairs to find you in the bed. “Jack?” You gasp at his sudden appearance and he kneels on the edge of the bed, cupping your cheeks to press his lips to yours.

You gasp into the kiss, Jack taking the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth again but you push him back this time. Breathing heavily and looking at him in confusion. “I don’t understand.” You huff. “You-“ Jack takes your hand and brings it to his lips. “I was tanglin’ with myself, darlin’.” He admits. “You’re a married woman and I’ve never been one to mess with a married woman, but I want you.” He declares. “You need to tell me what you want, because if I touch you, it will change everything.” Your eyes are steady, searching his face as you battle your own emotions. “I am married in the eyes of Montana.” You murmur quietly. “Not in the eyes of God.”

He doesn’t hesitate this time, surging forward to press his lips to yours. His tongue immediately slides into your mouth and you moan, causing his cock to stir in his jeans. He isn’t aching enough to squeeze himself and he groans, kissing along your neck as his hand slides along your side until he’s gently squeezing your breast in his hand. “So fuckin’ pretty.” He murmurs into your skin, nipping your pulse.

Your eyes widen and then slide closed as you let him touch you like no one else ever has. Not even Judd, you had run from him before he could. You trust Jack, giving yourself to him easily. Your heart pounds and you whimper when he bites your collar bone gently.

He kisses your collarbone and palms your breast, using his other hand to shift the covers from your body. “You’re so goddamn gorgeous, darlin’.” He murmurs and slips the strap of your nightgown from your shoulder so he can kiss the skin there. He repeats the move with the other strap and the nightdress falls to your waist. He leans back, wanting to look at your breasts and you inhale deeply. “Fuck.” He whispers, cupping your breast, and when you moan, he surges down to wrap his lips around your nipple.

You cry out, but it’s not in pain. It’s pleasure that is swimming through your veins and making your core ache so swiftly that you press your thighs together to try to ease the need. “Jack!” Your hand comes up to his head and your fingers tangle into his hair. To pull him away, to press him closer, you don’t know. Your nipples are hard, begging for more as you whine.

Your cry has his cock pushing against the zipper of his jeans but he ignores that, loving how you tug on his hair and he groans around your nipples when you tug again. He switches to your other breast, wanting to worship you like you deserve.

Your chest is heaving and your eyes are fluttering behind your lids. It feels so foreign and yet it’s wonderful. “Jack.” You whimper softly. “I need-“ you don’t know what you need, but you need more of him.

He knows what you need. Certain that you are dripping into the sheet beneath you, and he releases your breast so he can gather the nightdress in his hands that’s bunched around your waist. He slowly lifts it up, exposing your flesh to his hungry eyes and soon you are naked in front of him. “Lord almighty. You are - you are the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He murmurs, caressing your leg. “Lay down for me, sugar.” He orders and you are clearly nervous but there’s excitement on your face as you shift to lay down, head on your pillow. He shifts too, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans for some relief before he lays down on the bed and slowly pushes your thighs apart to expose your cunt to his hungry gaze. “Goddamn.” He mutters, inhaling the musky scent of your arousal as he leans closer to press soft kisses to your thighs.

He had said that men do this, but you had secretly that he was teasing you. Trembling slightly as you inhale sharply, your eyes fixed on the ruggedly handsome man between your legs. He’s devilish, smirking and winking at you before the flick of his tongue touches the most intimate part of your entire being. “Jack!”

He groans at your taste, tangy and slightly sweet. His hand grips your thigh, spreading you open even more, and his tongue slides through your folds, slowly sampling you. You look equally shocked and pleasured, making him chuckle into your cunt.

When you can move, your head falls back, staring up at the beams above you. “Oh God.” You moan softly. “I thought you were making fun of me.” You admit breathlessly. “This is- I’ve never felt anything like it.”

He pulls back for a second, “I’d never make fun of you, sugar.” He promises, groaning as he laps at you, his fingers digging into your flesh as he resumes devouring you.

“Jack-“ you choke out his name, fingers trailing down your body hesitantly. You’ve explored yourself in the dark. Always with a sense of shame and never under your nightgown but now you run your fingers over your nipples, still wet from his mouth. “What do I do?” You beg, needing to know if he needs you to do something, to participate.

"Nothin' to do, darlin' unless you wanna pinch your nipple." He orders softly, murmuring your name before he dives back into your cunt. He loves how good you taste and he desperately wants to see you fall apart for him, he needs to hear it.

It’s like he’s given you an order. Your hands, almost to his hair, drift back up to your breasts. You feel positively wicked as you touch them, hesitating for a second before you pinch the stiff, sensitive skin, making you moan as pleasure shoots through you.

He groans, cock aching in his pants and he unconsciously grinds into the sheets as you pleasure yourself. You look gorgeous and he knows he’s the devil seducing you when you are heaven sent to his door. He should leave your innocence intact but he wants you and he wants to be selfish for once.

“It- it feels so good.” You whimper, repeating the action and feeling it deep inside your womb, making another rush of heat spread. Jack flicks his tongue and laps at you like he is licking up a sticky syrup, pulling scandalous sounds out of you easily.

Jack loves how you are reacting, acting so wanton despite not knowing what you are doing. You moan his name and he groans into your flesh, his fingers trailing along your thigh until his digits find your entrance, gathering up the arousal pooling there while he sucks your clit into his mouth.

You should stop him when you feel the pressure of his fingers slowly start to break you open, but you don’t. Too busy marveling over how good the pressure on your mons feels and arching up into the cup of your hand. “Jack- I- it’s so- I don’t know-“ you gasp out, needing something, feeling your body racing towards it but you can’t put it into words.

He knows you’re close, your whines and whimpers making him suck a little harder on your clit, and he slowly pushes his finger into you. Fuck, you’re so tight. He knows he’s done the right thing when you immediately cry out, clamping down onto his digit and he swears he could cum right then and there himself.

You feel like you’re drowning. Wave after wave of pleasure rolls over you. Stars bursting in your eyes and humming through your entire body. Unable to believe how blissful you feel all because of his hands and mouth. “Jack, Jack, Jack.” His name is a chant and you swear it’s the only word you know.

He loves how you fall apart for him. The way your body shakes and your cunt clenches as you chant his name. It’s almost too much but he shifts and works you through it until you start to wiggle. He pulls back, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs after he slowly pulls his finger away from your flesh.

“Kiss me.” You beg softly, wanting to see if he tastes different with your juices on his lips. Reaching down, you stroke his shoulder and encourage him to come to you. “Please Jack.”

How can he deny you? He nods, shifting up your body until he is pressing his lips to yours. He is intoxicated by you already, sliding his tongue into your mouth so you can taste yourself from his lips.

You moan again. A needy, wanton sound that you barely even recognize coming from yourself. Pulling him closer to gasp in delight at the feel of his flannel shirt rubbing against your breasts.

He doesn’t push for more. You are innocent and he doesn’t want to take what doesn’t belong to him. He kisses you, shifting his mouth to press kisses along your jaw, “sugar, you gotta tell me what you want.” He orders, “cos I’ll head downstairs if you are done.” He promises, “I ain’t gonna be mad if that’s all you want from me.”

You love how he’s not trying to pressure you. Truly giving you a choice. You feel the hardness against your hip and you know that he wants you. You feel desirable and Jack doesn’t treat you like an object. “Show me what it feels like to give yourself to someone.” You demand breathlessly.

Your words have his heart pounding in his chest, his throat tightening as he kisses along your neck and you slide your fingers through his hair. He grunts when he feels you tug and he shifts to his haunches, fingers fumbling as he works on unbuttoning his shirt. He can feel your eyes on him, chest heaving as you watch him. He loves it. His cock is aching and after he shrugs off his shirt, he reaches for his pants. Your fingers twitch but he doesn’t let you take over, fingers fumbling to fully unbutton his pants until he’s pulling his cock free.

You’ve never seen a man before, not like this. Your eyes widen as you stare at the hard cock that is jutting up proudly and bouncing as he kicks his pants off. “Will it fit?” You gasp.

Jack almost chuckles at your question but he nods, “don’t worry, darlin’, it’ll fit.” He promises, “I just need to open you up a little more.” He slides his hand along your thigh, his fingers slipping through your folds.

You don’t know what he means, but you trust him. You whimper when he rubs his fingers against your clit. “That feels so good.” You admit. “But I ache.” It’s hard to describe, but he grins, knowing what you need even if you don’t. “I’ll take care of you.” He promises and you believe him. Jack has never lied to you, always taken care of you in the near month you have lived under his roof.

Jack slowly pushes his finger into you, loving how tight you feel around his digit, and when you moan softly, he decides to work another finger into you. He’s thick so you need to be stretched out for him, he can’t just slide into you.

His lips press against yours again as he starts to push his fingers in and out of your body. Making you gasp as he chuckles and his tongue slides against yours. It feels so different from the way he had touched you when his mouth was on you, but your hips rock down to push his fingers deeper inside you. Moaning when he curls them up.

Your moan has him groaning into your mouth, loving the way you are reacting to his touch. He wants to hear more from you so he pulls his lips back and watches you as he scissors his fingers for a moment, twisting his wrist until he can press his thumb to your clit.

Your fingers fly to his arm, gripping his bicep and holding firm to it while you cry out at the flash of pleasure. “Jack! Please, please…” you babble, eyes closed and breathing heavily as that now familiar feeling bubbles in your core and races through you.

He knows what you want even if you don’t and he works his fingers into you, curling them a little deeper, and your thighs shake around his wrist, making him smirk. “Cum for me, sugar.” He orders, “wanna see you fall apart on my fingers.” He murmurs, leaning in to kiss your jaw.

You whimper again, enjoying his attention and now he focuses on you. You had heard that some men just selfishly focus on their own pleasure, but not him. You feel cherished and almost loved as he pumps his fingers into you and murmurs encouragement into your jaw. Telling you how good you are doing got him and he’s going to show you the stars when you cum for him.

He groans your name when you clamp down on his fingers. "That's it, darlin'." He murmurs, scissoring his fingers inside you as your nails dig into his forearm. He loves it. Fuck, he's throbbing but he focuses on you, knowing that you are giving him your innocence. "You want me inside ya, sugar?" He murmurs, wanting you to be sure.

“Yes.” You whine softly. “Jack, take me. Show me what it feels like to be a woman.” You beg, wanting to know everything you can about why women giggle and whisper behind their hands about their husbands.

He nods, watching you as he shifts to kneel between your legs. His eyes watching your expression. He desperately wants you to enjoy this. He swallows harshly as he grips his cock, shuffling closer until the head is sliding through your folds. “You’re so goddamn beautiful.” He murmurs, watching you as you grip the sheets until your hands find his arms. “You ready?” He asks and when you nod, he slowly starts to push into you.

It’s surreal, the feeling completely foreign. He’s large as he pushes into you, but it doesn’t hurt. Not until he’s so deep inside you that he feels like he’s all the way in. “I’m sorry darlin’.” He murmurs, pressing his lips to yours and kissing away your confused frown before he snaps his hips forward and making you cry out as he breaks through your innocence.

He presses kisses all over your skin, needing to take the pain away from you. He doesn’t want to hurt you. “You’re beautiful. So goddamn beautiful.” He murmurs, caressing your side as he gives you a moment to adjust to him.

The sharp pain gives way to just a small discomfort and the feeling of being full. He coos at you softly, assuring you that it will be alright and you believe him. Finally starting to squirm under his weight, wanting to move and feel that wondrous feeling like when his fingers were inside you. “Jack.”

Your whimper of his name has his hips jerking and he braces for your cry of pain but when you moan, he smirks and slowly pulls his hips back. It doesn’t take long for him to push back into you, especially when your thighs squeeze his hips. “Feel so damn good, sugar.” He grunts, kissing along your jaw.

“I feel…..full.” You admit breathlessly. “You’re so deep inside me.” You stroke his arms and then his back. “Put your legs around me.” Jack orders softly, making you gasp out as the angle changes and he feels even deeper.

He loves how you react, your nails digging into his back but he fucking loves it. “That’s it darlin’. Let ole Jack take care of you.” He orders, starts to move slowly, watching the micro expressions on your face as he starts to fuck you.

That’s what he’s doing. He’s taking care of you. You moan softly when he pushes back inside you. It feels incredible. He starts building a pace that is starting to steal your breath as he moves. “More.” You beg after long minutes, rolling your hips up.

He kisses along your jaw, pressing his lips to yours when you gasp and he takes the chance to slide his tongue into your mouth. He shifts his weight onto one forearm, his free hand slides along your side until he’s squeezing your breast.

You feel completely boneless and powerful all at the same time. Jack makes you feel like you are flying. He absorbs your whimpers, swallowing it down. Eyes closing as he makes you feel like you’re beautiful and loved.

He loves how reactive you are, the way you gasp as he pinches your nipple. Your walls clench around him and he groans into your mouth, kissing your chin. “So fuckin’ beautiful, sugar. Feel so goddamn good. Like an angel.” He murmurs against your skin.

“I don’t think an angel would do this.” You gasp out, shuddering in pleasure and your walls clench down around his cock. You love how he groans your name, it sounds so filthy dripping from his lips.

He chuckles softly, “I’d beg to differ.” He murmurs and grabs your thigh, pushing it back towards you and you cry out at the new angle. He loves it. You’re so fucking pliable and you are moaning his name. He shivers, muscles bunching, and he wants to feel you cum on his cock.

The pace sharpens, the thrusts deeper and your back arches slightly every time he hits the end of you. Making you shiver and shake as his hair brushes over your mons and propels you that much closer to that edge of bliss you now crave. “Jack, baby- I - I-“ you wail when he punches deep and grinds his cock inside, pleasure racing through you as you shake apart underneath him.

He groans when you clamp down on his cock, your cry echoing in the bedroom, and he fucking loves it. He can’t hold back and Jack is a man who would’ve prided himself on his stamina when he was married but it’s been too long. He growls as he pulls himself free of your fluttering cunt, fingers gripping his length and frantically pumping until hot spurts of cum paint your belly.

You watch, panting as you try to catch your breath. He was protecting you from a possible pregnancy, you know enough about sex to understand that, but you feel a little disappointed that you aren’t getting the full experience. Instead of saying something, you reach out and stroke his hip.

He pants, eyes closed until he works up the strength to open them. His dark eyes burn into yours, murmuring your name. “Shit, sugar. Ain’t you perfect?” He asks softly, a rhetorical question that makes you fluster.

You look up at him, his body slumped in total relaxation and your fingers touch the now cooling pearlescent liquid on your stomach. “Was it good for you?” You ask, knowing that you loved how he made you feel, but you are eager to know if he was pleased.

He cups your cheek, stroking your skin, “it was perfect.” He promises, reaching for his shirt to wipe your skin clean, and he shifts back to look down at you. “Do you want me - I can go back to the couch.” He suggests, unsure of what you want from him.

“Stay.” You reach for him, taking his arm as if he might pull away. “Please?” You add softly. You want him in the bed next to you, especially after such a monumental moment for you. “I- I don’t want you to go back to the couch.”

Jack can’t deny you anything. He nods and reaches out to caress your hip. He shifts to lay down on the bed beside you, pulling you close so you can lay on his chest. “You’re so beautiful.” He murmurs, kissing your forehead, “how you feelin’, sugar?”

“Tired.” You admit with a small giggle. “Incredible. I want to do that again. And again.” You twist your head and look up at him. “Does that make me a whore?”

Jack shifts his head to look at you, making sure you’re looking in his eyes, “absolutely not. You are human.” He promises, “and I - I want to do that again with you. I haven’t - it’s been - a while.” He finishes, caressing your cheek. “I will touch you however you want.”

“The way you just did is perfect.” You sigh happily as you lean into his hand. “I had hoped to have a man who treated me with respect, and you have done more than that.” Your fingers trace over an old scar and you lay back down on his chest. “I think there’s no better man alive than you, Jack.”

He wants to protest but he knows that will ruin the moment so he kisses your hair and sighs, “I think God has the final judgement there, sweetheart.” He snorts and caresses your side as you lean against him. It doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep and Jack remains awake, watching you sleep and wondering what the hell happens next.

****

You are alone when you wake up, something that doesn’t disappoint you too much as you feel across the empty bed. Life on a ranch must go on, it cannot wait for a woman to daydream about the night before. Getting up, you quickly wash in the surprisingly warm water in the pitcher and hide your own embarrassment over the pink tint to the water after cleaning away the remnants of your innocence from between your thighs. Dressing, you make the bed and rush downstairs to get started on breakfast for the men.

Jack finishes feeding the chickens and is making his way back to the house with a basket of eggs, enjoying the quietness of the early morning. You’ll be awake by now and he wonders if you regret last night. His mind keeps replaying the look on your face when you came, how goddamn beautiful you look. He can’t keep you though. Even if he’s claimed you. You’re not his wife. You’re not his and he doesn’t want to trap you when you never wanted to leave the city. He pulls off his boots on the porch, exposing his socks that have holes in them, and none of the others are here yet but he smells the coffee. Stepping into the house, he finds you in the kitchen with an apron tied around your waist. “Mornin’ darlin’.” He greets you, not coming over to touch you just yet, “got the eggs.”

“Good morning, Jack.” You feel your entire body heat up, feeling as nervous and giddy as a debutant at her coming out party. “Thank you, we are having pancakes - flapjacks - for breakfast.” You correct yourself, having some of the hand tease you last Sunday for saying it the ‘fancy’ way. “Coffee is ready.” You motion over to the pot and hope that he comes closer and kisses you before the men arrive. “Today I was planning on doing some washing and mending.” You look down at his sock with a smile. “If you will give those to me tonight, they will be fixed before you go to bed.”

Jack smiles, reaching out to touch your waist, “you’re too good to me, sugar.” He murmurs, grabbing your wrist gently to take the whisk from your hand. He sets it down on the counter and tugs you closer. Letting go of your wrist, he cups your cheek and slowly leans in until his lips press against yours.

Relieved that he is not pulling away, you completely melt into his arms. Winding your own around his neck, you moan softly into the kiss, your walls clenching around nothing when he slides his tongue into your mouth again. This feels right, it feels like home, like Jack is where you are supposed to be - who you are supposed to be with.

He pulls you closer, loving how you melt into him, and he slides his tongue against yours. Your soft moan has his cock twitching in his pants, and he pulls back after a few moments to nudge his nose against yours. “Goddamn.” He murmurs and you giggle, resting your forehead against his chest. He chuckles and kisses your hair while caressing your back. He hears the boys before he sees them and he lets go of you, taking a step back, and he winks just as the men come clambering in the door.

You bite your lip and turn back to the counter. “Flapjacks for breakfast, gentlemen.” You announce, making all of them cheer as they crowd around the coffee pot. It doesn’t take long to get all of them fed and they eat a lot. Making you smile at Jack as the scrap of forks clink against the tin plates that Jack told you were sturdier than any China. You believe it. Delicate things wouldn’t last out here and you are happy that you aren’t as delicate as you had once imagined. After they leave for the cattle, you set a roast on, wanting to make dinner special before you check your garden and then drag out the wash tub where it is kept in the lean to and build the fire outside to warm water to wash clothes.

****

Jack groans as he sits down, the men have left, fed and watered for the evening, and Jack watches you as you get a start on mending his clothes. "You happy here?" He asks after a moment, knowing you discussed you leaving as soon as he could get you a ticket back east.

You look up for a moment to smile at him before refocusing on mending his shirt. It’s been washed and dried on the line out in the yard, smelling like sunshine and grass. Another scent you associate with Jack’s musky smell. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.” You admit, almost to yourself. “I- I can’t explain it. But I love working in the garden, cooking. Even mending your shirt.” You laugh at yourself. “My father thought that sending me to the west was a punishment, and it might have been if I was at Judd’s ranch, but here…..” you sigh. “I feel like I’m home.”

Jack's heart flutters at your words and he loves it. He nods, a soft smile on his face, and he watches you continue to sew his shirt. "I feel like my house is finally a home again." He confesses, "you've made me feel alive again. You've brought me back to life, sugar."

Your own heart flips and you feel your cheeks heat up. “You were very lively last night.” You tease, giggling as you tie off the last thread from the first repair on his shirt. One more little rip and this one will be as good as new. “I can only hope that you are happy to have me here.” You admit. “I don’t want to be a burden to you.”

Jack shakes his head, "you ain't a burden. You're - you're heaven sent." He promises, "and I want - I was lively last night and I want you again tonight. If you want me." He adds, not wanting to assume.

You set down his shirt and look up at him again. “May I finish mending your shirt first?” You ask, smiling in jest as you nod. “I want more of you.” You agree. “As much as you will give me. I have- I have thought about it all day.” You confess. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

Jack smirks, heart fluttering at your words, and he rubs his hands on his thighs, “me neither.” He confesses, “could’ve sworn I was tastin’ you on my lips throughout the day.” You fluster and he chuckles, “I’m yours if you want me, darlin’. However you want me.”

His words make you shiver and you nod. “Anyway I can have you Jack.” You know that a traditional future isn’t in the cards for you. You are technically married to another man and Jack’s heart lies with his late wife and child. If you just warm his bed for now that is what you will do.

Your words warm him, knowing you aren’t asking for more than he can give you but he wants to give you everything. His late wife is still on his mind but the whispered words in the wind are echoing and he wonders if she would forgive him for falling in love with you. “Finish your sewin’. I’ll be here.” He promises with a wink, picking up his knife to continue whittling some wood.

The two of you settle into a comfortable silence. You finish the shirt and set it aside to iron, picking up the socks you had promised to darn. He has quite a few pairs that had holes in them, making you wonder who he had fixing his clothes before you showed up. Once they are all fixed so he has something to wear tomorrow, you put away your basket and stand, “I am going to get ready for bed.” You tell Jack softly. “Come up when you are ready.”

He nods, knowing you need some time to get ready and he watches you as you make your way up the stairs. “Take your time.” He says before you disappear and he sets his knife down, unable to concentrate on whittling now that he knows you are waiting for him. He clears his throat, standing up and brushing himself down.

You change into your nightgown and wash quickly, biting your lip as you tuck the blankets down on the bed. Wondering if you should just be naked and in the bed. You decide that’s better and slip off the nightgown and get under the covers. Last night you had slept naked with Jack, so it’s not like he would be surprised.

Jack slowly makes his way upstairs, the wood creaking under his bare feet, and he’s already shirtless since you’ve been fixing his clothes and washing them. He stands in the doorway in his jeans, fingers in the loops, and he offers you a soft smirk when he sees your bare shoulders. “Have I told you how fuckin’ beautiful you look?” He asks softly as he steps into the room .

You prop up on your elbows and watch him in the lamplight. “I vaguely remember something about it last night.” You admit. “But have I told you how handsome you are?” You pose. “You are a woman’s fantasy. Straight from those dime novels and into my bed. Rugged, handsome, kind…” You sit up and the sheets fall from your breasts. “Perfect.”

Jack’s eyes darken as they drift down to your breasts, taking in the ethereal sight that is you in his bed. He steps closer until he can kneel on the bed. “I ain’t perfect, sweetheart, but I sure am lookin’ at it right now.” He murmurs, surging forward to take your nipple into his mouth. Your cry makes him harden in his jeans and he switches to the other breast, biting down until he can kiss up your sternum. Your moan has him smirking against your skin between kisses until his lips press against yours.

Jack seems determined to make you see stars. He hovers over you, watching you as he draws the sheets down to completely expose your body. “Jack.” You whimper softly. “I want to touch you.”

“You can touch me however you want, sweetheart.” He murmurs against your chin, his hand caressing your side, and he trails his fingers down until he is cupping your mound. “You’re already wet. What have you been thinkin’ about?” He asks, a smirk on his lips.

“You touching me.” You admit breathlessly. “How you made me feel. Wondering if I could make you feel the same way.” You shiver, but your own fingers reach for the button on his jeans.

He chuckles, sliding his hand lower so his fingers are wet from your arousal. Caressing your folds until he slides his fingers through them. Your whimper has him aching in his pants and he presses his finger against your clit, slowly rubbing the bundle of nerves.

His buttons are difficult, but he continues to drive you mad as you try to undo them. “Jack.” You whine. “I want to touch you.” You beg, making him chuckle again.

Jack grunts when you finally manage to get his jeans undone, your fingers wrapping around his cock. “Fuck, sugar. You’re touchin’ me. You can do what you want.” He promises, rubbing your clit a little faster.

You love how his cock contrasts between hard and soft. There is a hardness that is covered in velvety soft skin. You squeeze him and giggle when he chokes out your name.

Your touch is innocent and soft but fuck, he loves it. He pants, rocking unconsciously into your hand, “fuck, sugar. Take what you want.” He orders, groaning your name again while he slides his fingers lower to push two inside you.

You lick your lips, wondering if he would react the same way that you reacted. Lunging forward pushes his fingers deeper inside you but you don’t moan as you touch your tongue to his cock.

Jack chokes on his breath when you take him into your mouth. He never expected it, and his chest heaves as he looks down at you. He withdraws his fingers, watching you as you look at him with wide eyes. “Jesus Christ.” He hisses, “you don’t - it’s - fuck. You feel so goddamn good.”

You hum softly, not letting go of him as your tongue rolls around his cock. Tasting him the way he tasted you. Loving how he groans and chokes, you swallow and his knees buckle.

He groans your name again, watching you as you innocently discover what it’s like to have a man’s cock in your mouth. You seem to enjoy it and that makes him twitch, reaching down to caress your cheek with wet fingers.

He seems to really like this so you take your time. Your hand slowly strokes the lower part of his cock as you take him deeper. You don’t know what you are doing, just responding to his sounds. Wanting to make him feel good too.

“You like this, darlin’?” He asks, voice raspy with arousal as he watches you with dumbstruck eyes. You moan around him and he twitches in your touch, “fuck. You’re doin’ so good. You’re takin’ what you want and it’s yours.”

You feel powerful and you slide out of the bed to your knees in front of him. It’s almost as if you are praying, but this is not a conversation with God. This is something much more carnal, wicked, although you would never ask for forgiveness for this. Not when Jack is looking down at you like you hung the moon.

You have his chest heaving and he knows that you are enjoying this. It’s something he’s imagined when he has thought of you but he never expected to see you on your knees for him. You take him deeper and when you choke, “careful, darlin’.” He warns, “don’t hurt yourself.”

You pull back and swallow, feeling him twitching on your tongue from the pressure. Looking up at him as you slowly take him deeper again and swallowing. Jack groans loudly as his hips rock forward, his hand caressing your cheek and then moving to the back of your head. You are dripping onto the wooden floor but you let him guide you, showing you what to do.

He guides you, working you on his cock, and he groans when you swallow around him. “Fuck.” He breathes out, watching you as you take his cock like you’ve been doing it every night since you ran into him. “Sweetheart. I don’t - lemme touch you. I don’t want- not like this.” He chokes when you hollow your cheeks.

“You don’t want to finish?” You ask innocently after you pull off his length, your spit dripping down your chin. “No, sweetheart, I want to make you feel good.” You take his hand and stand up. “I feel like I’m on fire.” You admit softly. “Wetter. It made me ache when I was touching you.”

Jack smirks, a little smug that he makes you feel like that. “Fuck. You’re so goddamn perfect, sugar. C’mere.” He orders, grabbing your ass to pull you into his lap, his hands immediately sliding along your back. He pulls you closer, pressing his lips to yours, and he immediately slides his tongue into your mouth.

You’ve never sat on a man’s lap before, especially the way that Jack had guided your thighs around his waist. Leaving your core exposed and pressed against his hardness. You gasp, instinctively rolling your hips against him, writhing on his lap.

Jack loves how you gasp, so innocent yet so unashamedly wanton in your desire. His hands finds your ass, helping you to grind down onto his cock and he wants more from you. "Come on sweetheart. You wanna ride this ol’ cowboy?" He asks, leaning in to kiss your jaw.

“How do I do that?” You ask, eyes wide at the prospect of riding. “Is it like being on a horse?” You have ridden a horse, you are an excellent rider but you never thought about riding a man.

Jack chuckles, nodding, "it's similar. You gotta move your hips, however it feels good. I can guide you." He promises, reaching down to grip his cock and he positions himself at your entrance so you can sink down onto him.

You don’t know who moans louder, you or Jack. The way he feels inside makes him feel even bigger. Taking your breath away and the burn of his cock because of being slightly sore gives way to the pleasure. “Oh God.” You whine. “I want, I want to feel this all the time.”

Jack groans at your words, "whenever you want, I'm yours." He promises, "you're so fuckin' gorgeous." He leans in to kiss along your jaw and his hands squeeze your hips, giving you a moment until he helps to guide you rocking on his cock.

It’s slow starting, he doesn’t try to rush you. It’s a good thing, since he’s so thick and deep inside you. Your walls clench down around him every time you sink back down and your whimpers get louder as he pushes against something wonderful inside you.

"Take your time, sugar." He murmurs, caressing your back, "you're so fuckin' perfect." He coos, "takin' me like this. Keep goin'. Take what you want." He rambles slightly, kissing your neck until he cups your breast, tilting it so he can take your nipple into his mouth.

This is sinful, how good it feels. But you don’t stop, you never want to stop. Your tits shake as you start to ride him a little fast, holding on and your fingers twist into the longer curls at the nap of his neck. “Jack. Fuck.” You curse breathlessly. “You feel so good. So deep. Like you are buried inside me.”

He loves how you are gaining confidence, taking what you want from him, and he desperately wants to see you cum again for him. It’s all he’s been able to think about all day. “Fuck, that’s it. Lookin’ like you’ve been ridin’ my cock every damn night. Fuck.” He murmurs, biting down on your breast, wanting to leave a mark under the skin.

You gasp out his name, hips jerking and you start to bounce faster. Loving how rough he is with you. His hands gripping tighter and tighter until he lets go. You were going to protest when you felt a sharp slap on your ass, making you squeal. “Again, fuck, Jack.” You cry. “Do that again.”

Jack chuckles at how desperate you sound and he repeats the action, wanting to hear you moan his name again. You are frantically rocking on top of him so he grabs your hips, adjusting the pace so you can find that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes.

His grip of your hips makes you shout his name. So loudly that you think the men in the bunkhouse behind the barn can hear you. It feels incredible and you clamp down around his cock when he thrusts up into you, shaking apart in his arms.

He pulls back to watch you as you cum for him. Fuck, he loves it. He groans your name and twitches inside you but he’s not done yet. He pants and shifts, laying you down on the bed so he can hover over you. His cock still inside you, he caresses your cheek, and watches until you open your eyes. That’s when he starts to move again, rocking slowly into you.

“Jack.” You whimper his name, mouth dropping open as he starts to move. He’s looking down at you so tenderly you could cry and it makes your heart pound. You’re falling in love with Jack. You know you are. “More.” You beg, hands stroking his sides and arms as he rocks deeper. “I want everything.”

He grunts, knowing he can be a little harder this time. He groans your name, surging to kiss you and sliding his tongue into your mouth without hesitation. His hand grips your thigh, lifting it higher so he can push deeper into your cunt.

You kiss him back, giving yourself over to him as he takes control. So good at breaking you apart and making you unravel. Your moans and whines are breathed into him, Jack greedily swallowing your sounds as his hips snap forward with a singular determination

He pants your name, kissing along your jaw, and he pushes deep, needing to know you’re with him. He needs to know that you are in his bed and not leaving him yet. He doesn’t know how he’d survive losing you but he would let you go if he had to. Even if it killed him.

Your hand dives into his hair, holding tight as your leg winds around his hip. Pulling him closer as you rock your own hips up to meet his thrusts. “So good. You feel so good.” You praise, eyes fluttering closed as he pushes in and out of you. “I need you.”

Hearing you claim that you need him has him groaning your name and he hisses when your walls flutter. He knows you’re close. “Fuck.” He hisses, “you’re so fucking good.” He declares between kisses to your neck.

You whimper, making all the sounds that seemingly drive him crazy. “I want- I want to see you cum.” You tell him. “I love the way you looked when you finished.” You aren’t brave enough to ask him to finish inside you, you know he won’t because you aren’t his.

He nods, needing you to fall apart for him one more time. “Gotta look after you first, sweetheart.” He murmurs, reaching down to snake his hand between you, finding your clit. He rubs soft circles, loving how you cry out, “that’s it, sugar. Cum for me. Wanna feel you squeezin’ me.”

You can never say that Jack is a selfish man. He is too interested in making sure that you are taken care of. Your chest heaves and you watch him touch you as his cock sides in and out of your body. “I’m- I’m so close.” You whine softly, only to cry out a second later when your walls clamp down around him, soaking him as you shatter.

He groans, loving how you clench down around him. You look wrecked and he loves it. "That's it, darlin'." He pants, pulling free of your cunt and before he can grip his cock, you are wrapping your fingers around him to start pumping him. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuckkk." He chokes, cock twitching as he cums in your grip, hot seed spurting onto your belly and tits.

You watch him, obsessed with the way that his jaw tightens and his lips twist in pleasure. Humming softly as he pants. “I think you are so beautiful.” You murmur.

Jack smiles, heart fluttering as you look up at him like he's your moon and stars. He leans in, uncaring of his seed drying on your skin, so he can softly kiss you. "You clearly ain't looked in a mirror because you are the beauty of the house."

You reach out and cup his cheek. “Thank you.” You whisper. He might think you are thanking him for the compliment, but you are thanking him for giving you the life you have right now. He has truly saved your life.

****

Jack narrows his eyes as he looks up at the sky, the sun is shining as spring graces his ranch with wildflowers. He will pick some to take back to you, even with the fellas ribbing him for being a sap. He doesn’t care. He wants to be a sap for you. You’ve brought him back to life after grieving Mary for so many years. He knows she’d want him to be happy. He gathers some flowers, tying them with some string, and he is making his way back to the house when he hears your scream. Tossing the flowers, he grips the reins and kicks his horse’s side, galloping to find you, praying he isn’t too late.

“You fuckin’ whore!” You scream when Judd strikes you again, your cheek exploding with pain. Still you fight, struggling to get away from him. You had assumed the horse trotting up behind you was one of the men as you had knelt down, pulling the weeds from the two small crosses that were nestled under the tree. Mary and the baby’s grave. “Let me go!” You cry out, your wrists hurting because Judd has such a tight grip on them. If you could just get to the gun in your apron pocket. “Jack!” You scream, praying he is nearby.

His heart is pounding as he gallops until he finds you struggling against Judd Miller under the tree where his wife and child are buried. Jack wastes no time swinging off his horse, not even coming to a stop as he hits the ground running to run into Judd. He growls as he slams into him, pushing him to the ground and away from you.

You gasp, heart pounding and you stumble back from the two men fighting on the ground. “Jack!” You reach into your pocket, fumbling for the gun and bringing it out, hands shaking.

Jack pulls his hand back, fist clenched as he punches Judd. "You motherfucker! You stole my fuckin' wife!" Judd growls, headbutting Jack who grunts, stumbling back. You fumble, trying to pull the trigger, as Jack punches Judd again. Bang! You finally shoot the gun and Jack stumbles back, eyes wide. You choke, watching him with blood splattered over his face until Judd's body drops to the ground.

“I - he was-“ you drop the gun on the ground and rush over to Jack. “I thought he was going to kill me.” You stammer. “Or you. I couldn’t let him- I love you.” You are touching him, checking him to make sure that he’s not injured. “I couldn’t let him-“

Jack is shocked, looking down at Judd’s bleeding body. His eyes trail back to you, and he doesn’t think, he just acts. He cups your cheek, surging forward to press his lips to yours. “I love you. I love you.” He chokes out between hurried kisses to your lips.

You start to cry, relief mostly, but also happiness that he feels the same way that you do. Your arms wind around his waist and you sigh softly when his frantic kisses ease. “Thank you.” You whisper. “I didn’t know it was Judd. I thought you had ridden up to visit with Mary.”

He cups your cheek, eyes darkening at the cut on your cheek from Judd’s ring. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. That bastard - he must’ve been ridin’ along the fence and saw ya.” Mary’s grave is on the edge of the property and he should’ve told you to stay away from there but he didn’t think Judd would be looking for you. “Fuck. Are you okay?” He asks, looking you over for any other injuries.

“I’m fine.” Your cheek hurts but it would have been so much worse. You swallow harshly. “Am I going to be arrested?” You ask quietly. “I killed a man.” You’ve heard of murders being hung, towns making it a party as they watch them swing. “I killed my husband.” You choke out.

Jack caresses your back, trying to calm you down. "I ain't gonna let you take the blame. I'll tell the sheriff that I killed him." He reassures you, "you ain't gonna be arrested." He promises, leaning in to kiss your forehead.

“No.” You shake your head. “I won’t let you do that. He was- he was telling me what he was going to do to me when he got me back to his ranch.” Your eyes fill with tears again. “It was- I would wish for death when he got done with me.”

Jack tightens his grip on you, jaw clenching, and he exhales through his nose as he tries to control himself. “Bastard.” He growls, “he will never touch you again.” He promises, “the sheriff knows who he is.” He murmurs, “I shall ride into town. Go home. Lock the doors. I’ll be back soon.”

You nod quickly, eyes flickering over to Judd’s body and you shudder to think what would have happened if Jack hadn’t heard you scream. “I’ll- coffee will be ready for you and the sheriff.” You promise, knowing that you will be too jittery to sit still. You will probably start making cookies and pies for the men since dinner is already started.

Jack nods, leaning to kiss you softly before he pulls back. Your horse is still tied up so he swings his leg over his horse, galloping off to see the sheriff. “Judd’s what?” The sheriff asks, eyes wide in shock. “He’s dead.” Jack repeats, “he tried to attack his wife. She - she ran onto my land and told me he tried to take her with force the day after their wedding. She’s been stayin’ with me.” He explains and the sheriff’s eyebrows lift beneath his hat. “And you’ve taken her as your own?” He guesses from the way Jack is acting. “I love her.” He confesses, “we both know Judd was a monster. He would’ve killed her like the last one. She did all of us a favor.” He snorts and the sheriff’s nods, knowing he’d be happy to have Judd off his back even if he will miss the coins.

“Guess I should go speak to her.” He sighs, dropping his boots off his desk and groans as he grabs his hat. “You plannin’ on marrying her?” He asks. “Judd’s ranch is nice little piece and she’s gonna get it. He didn’t have no family.”

Jack didn’t even think of that. Didn’t even care about obtaining more land but it would be yours to decide what you want to do with it. By proxy, Jack would own it as your husband but it would always be yours. “Goddamn.” Jack murmurs, knowing that Judd has gold stashed on his land too. He was a mean bastard. The sheriff and Jack ride back to his ranch, finding you in the kitchen. “Darlin’.” He calls out, knowing you must be distracted as you mix something in a bowl.

You yelp, not even hearing Jack come in. Whirling around, you press a hand to your chest. “Jack.” You whimper in relief before noticing the man standing next to Jack with a shiny star pinned to his chest. “Sheriff.” You had met the man when he had married you and Judd as soon as you stepped off the train. A pathetic little ceremony in the office in full view of the cells where drunkards and thieves slept. “I- I was making cookies for the men, in case…..” you trail off and look back at the table where nearly a dozen pies were sitting as they cooled. “Could I get you some coffee?” You ask the sheriff, aware he might have some questions.

The sheriff nods and Jack gestures for him to sit down at the table which he obliges, taking a seat next to Jack. “So little lady, you wanna tell me what happened?” He tilts his head after setting his hat down on the table.

You pour two cups of coffee and bring them over to the table before going back to get plates and a knife. If they are having coffee, they might as well have a slice of pie. “I was at Mary and the baby’s graves, visiting and pulling weeds.” You were asking her to forgive you for falling in love with her husband, but the sheriff doesn’t need to know that. “When I heard a horse, I thought it was Jack, so I didn’t turn around. Before I knew it, I was being pulled to my feet and slapped, Judd was screaming horrible things at me, hitting me.”

The sheriff knows about Judd, how he’s treated women in the past. Hell, he was there the day the man shot Mary. He nods softly, knowing that no one would miss Judd, not even his own ranch hands. “Well…it sounds to me like you acted in self defense. Something that isn’t punishable by the law. You were his wife. You now inherit his land and you are his widow. No longer married in the eyes of the Lord.” He explains and Jack’s eyes widen at the realization. He looks at you, scrambling to stand up, “marry me.” He demands, “right now. I wanna marry you. Want you to be mine officially.”

You are startled, gasping as he reaches for your hand. “Jack-“ you choke out. “What about Mary?” You ask but he shakes his head. “I’ll love her forever, but she’s gone, baby. She’s not here and I’ve-“ he pulls you closer. “I’ve fallen in love with you. You are my future, my happiness.” He coos. “Marry me?” He asks again, softly this time and you melt. Looking over to the sheriff, you ask, “can you marry us now, or do we have to wait?”

The sheriff chuckles, nodding as he stands up, the chair scraping. “You can be married now in the eyes of the Lord. You wanna do this here?” He asks, looking around and Jack looks towards you. “Here or the garden?” You smile, “the garden.” Jack nods, taking your hand to guide you outside. He doesn’t have a ring but he can get you one, wanting you to have everything. You’ve saved him. He takes your hands, standing beside the garden you’ve been cultivating, and the sheriff puts his hand on his head, reaching into his jacket for his bible.

You are nervous, squeezing his hand as he stands beside you. Tall and steady, making sure that you are taken care of. You trust Jack completely, knowing that he won't be like Judd, he wouldn't make you afraid for your very life. "I love you." You murmur softly, looking over at him with a surety that makes you proud to marry Jack.

Jack winks at you as the sheriff begins to explain what marriage is. Jack looks at the sheriff, "we are both widows. Can we skip to the vows so I can kiss my wife?" He asks and the sheriff snorts while you giggle. "Do you, Jack Jameson Daniels, take this woman to be your wife?" He asks and Jack smiles, squeezing your hand, "I do." The sheriff asks you the same question and you nod, "I do." He sighs and shuts his bible, "then I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your-" He doesn't get to finish before Jack is surging forward to press his lips to yours.

You giggle against his lips, kissing him back and throwing your arms around him while he spins you around. Feeling happy and lighthearted. You are a married woman again, this time to a man who you love that you want to be with. You won’t be running from him.

“I’ll register Judd’s death and then register the marriage.” The sheriff declares, “now don’t be shootin’ anyone else, sweetheart.” He orders you and you lean into Jack’s chest. “I promise.” You grin and Jack squeezes your waist, “now git so I can make love to my beautiful bride.” Your newly minted husband orders the other man who chuckles and tilts his head. “Have fun kids.” He makes his way to his horse, making a note to have his deputy come collect Judd’s body later. Jack surges forward to kiss you again, groaning into your mouth, and he ducks down to wrap his arm around your knees, lifting you into his arms.

You squeal, then throw your head back and laugh as Jack turns towards the house and carries you. “Jack!” You wrap your arms around his neck and smile. “I can walk.”

He grins, "not over the threshold. It's bad luck and we ain't needing any more of that shit." He declares and you giggle, clinging to him, and he kicks the door open. He carries you into the house and sets you down, his hands sliding along your body.

"Does this mean you will.....finish inside me?" You ask, biting your lip as you look into his eyes. "I- I want to feel my husband inside me as he cums."

Jack nods, cock hardening in his pants at the thought of filling you up with his cum. He loves how eager you look and he kicks the door shut, taking your hand so he can escort you up the stairs. Your baking is abandoned as he focuses on you, his wife. When you’re upstairs, he turns you around so he can slowly start to unlace your dress. Leaning down, he presses kisses to your neck, “so goddamn beautiful.”

“You are just being sweet to me because I married you.” You tease, practically glowing because you are now Mrs. Daniels. Tilting your head so he can have more access to you, it’s tortuously sweet and yet it feels like your dress is falling off your body in a second.

When your dress falls, his hands immediately cup your tits, gently squeezing them in his palms, and he groans as he kisses more of your skin. His impatience wins out as he spins you so he can duck down and take your nipple into his mouth.

You whine, eyes closed as your fingers bury into his hair. You know that he will make sure that you are breathless and satisfied by the time you are finished but this time is special. This is sealing the vows that you just made to each other. “Husband.” You whimper. “Please.”

Jack hasn’t been addressed as husband for so long but hearing you say it has his heart pounding in his chest. “Fuck.” He murmurs against your skin, shifting to kiss down your stomach until he is kneeling before you. You’ve brought him back to life and he desperately needs to show you that, to worship you. He groans your name, shifting to lift your leg onto his shoulder, and he groans when your scent hits his nose.

You know he wants to put his mouth on you again, making you shudder at the thought. He loves it and you are grateful that his pleasure is so tied to your own. He isn’t greedy or selfish with his touch. “Jack.” The first touch of his tongue has you pitching up off the bed, hips lifting to his mouth. “God!”

He smirks against your folds, loving how you moan, and he eagerly laps at you. Your tangy taste is one he can sample for the rest of his life. “Fuck.” He grunts as he pulls back, using his thumbs to spread your folds before he dives in with a groan.

He drives you out of your mind. Licking and sucking, teasing you with the curl of his tongue against your sensitive flesh. You know that it’s positively wicked but you don’t care, it feels amazing. Pulling moans out of you every time he flicks his tongue against your clit. “Oh God, I can’t-“ you gasp out. “I’m gonna-“ you keen, feeling stars burst behind your eyes and you shake apart for him.

It’s the quickest you’ve fallen apart for him and he thinks it’s a combination of his love for you and the fact that you belong to him. He loves how you cry his name as he laps at you, working you through it, and his cock is throbbing with need for you. “Lemme be inside ya, sugar.” He rasps, shifting to his haunches to work on unbuttoning his shirt.

“Yes.” You lunge up, helping your husband undress, wanting to see and feel his strong body. He had cleaned Judd’s blood off his face at some point, so you lean in to press kisses along his jaw, nipping the skin.

He grunts when he pushes his shirt off his shoulders and your hands fumble with his belt until finally you wrap your fingers around his hard cock. “Fuck. Let me-” He chokes, shuffling and nearly falling forward as he pushes his pants down, kicking them off. He shifts to hover over you, his hand caressing your side, “my beautiful wife.”

“Make love to me, Jack.” You demand. “I’m already yours but I want you to erase the fear.” You reach for his shoulder to pull him closer. “I was so afraid when Judd found me. Afraid I would never see you again. Afraid that you would think I had just left you.”

He nods, gripping his cock to position himself at your entrance. His dark eyes meet yours as he slowly starts to push into you. He groans your name, kissing along your neck as he stretches you out.

“You feel so good. So big inside me.” You moan softly. You don’t mention his name, but Judd’s cock had been something small, pathetic when he had pulled it out that day you fled. You couldn’t imagine feeling like you do right now with him. “Like you are so deep inside me I don’t know where you begin and I end.”

Jack loves hearing you talk like this. He groans, “that’s right. Only I can make you feel like this. Only cock you’re gonna have is mine.” He murmurs between kisses. “I love you, sugar.” He grunts, starting to rock into you.

“I love you, Jack.” You close your eyes as he starts to make the bed creak as he pushes in and out of you. It’s a rhythm that seems as old as time but it’s still so new to you. Your legs wrap around his waist and he groans in pleasure when your walls clench down around him.

No more words are spoken as he rocks into you. There's no rush, no worry, nothing hanging over your head. Just the two of you and the future shining bright ahead. "Fuck. You feel so good, sweetheart." He murmurs, reaching down to slide his hand between you so he can rub your bundle of nerves.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, making you whine as he expertly drives you mad. “I want to feel you.” You gasp. “I want to feel you deep inside me when you cum.”

He groans, “that’s it sweetheart. You need to - fuck - cum for me.” He demands, “cum first and then you’ll feel me.” He promises, rocking into you a little harder.

You pant into his mouth, nodding as your eyes slip closed again. Letting him completely overwhelm your senses. “Jack-“ you bite your lip and rock your hips down, feeling your body fly to the edge of bliss so quickly under his talented hands.

He groans as you squeeze him, lost in the feel of your cunt gripping his cock and knowing he doesn’t have to pull out of you to spill his seed onto your belly. He moans your name, “gonna - gonna cum.” He warns you, wanting you to be sure.

“Yes, baby.” You moan, cunt clenching harder in anticipation. Wanting to feel what it is like to be filled for the first time. “Cum, I want to see you.” Eyes open, you caress his cheek gently. “Make me your wife completely.”

He clenches his jaw, watching you and he pants your name, desperate to fill you up, make you his in every way. “Fuck.” He hisses, dark eyes focused completely on you. “I’m gonna - I’m gonna - shit.” He growls, pushing deep as his cock twitches, chest heaving and eyes squeezed shut as he paints your walls.

You whimper, feeling the heat filling you. Flooding your womb and it gives you the sense of completion you had never expected to feel. Like this is what was supposed to be when you climbed onto that train. “I love you.” You whisper, kissing along his jaw as he rocks into you, riding out his pleasure.

He collapses onto you, shifting his weight to his forearms so he doesn’t crush you. His lips press against yours, tongue sliding into your mouth as his entire body buzzes. He loves you so much. You’ve saved him. He never imagined that inspecting the fence on the edge of his property with Judd Miller would lead to him finding the woman who would save him from his solitude. “I love you too, Mrs. Daniels.” He murmurs and you giggle, caressing his back. “The boys will be here soon for dinner.” You sigh when you are curled around him, his hand caressing your thigh. “They can serve themselves.” Jack growls, squeezing your ass and leaning in to kiss your neck. Your squeal makes his chuckle. His house is a home once again.

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