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targaryen-dynasty · 3 months

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TO STOKE A FLAME.

Aemond Targaryen x servant!Reader

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT-MINORS DNI; p in v, oral (m receiving), power imbalance (prince and maid), mutual pining, female Reader

WORDS: 4K

NOTES: this is written for the writing challenge hosted by @targaryenvampireslayer I got the prompt "Just relax for me, I'll make it feel good" and the trope mutual pining. This was my first time writing mutual pining, and I hope it's at least slightly fitting lol.

When you’re first assigned to cleaning the chambers of the King’s second son, your heart leaps for it means you are able to escape the tortures of being a scullery maid for a position that is at least a bit higher ranked, and not as ungrateful and strainful.

Prince Aemond is an early riser, already up long before first light, and whenever he sets off to train with the sword in the morning, it’s time for you to take care of his quarters.

There’s another maid that has been offered the same opportunity, only that she is in charge of making the chambers Prince Aegon presentable, and from what you have gathered, you wouldn’t want to trade places with her.

Aemond’s chambers are always immaculate when you step into them. Everything is in its place, and the air is always filled with the cool morning breeze from the windows he’s kept open. Quite different to the quarters of his older brother.

But what they do have in common are their questionable reputations.

While Aegon is promiscuous, known to pinch and fondle at any serving girl who strays within his reach, Aemond is somewhat feared, at least among the staff. Most servant girls keep well away from the prince, and a part of you is certain it is solely because of the black eyepatch he dons after losing his eye, and the grim expression he usually holds on his face.

The other maid that tends to his chambers with you is overly cautious when dusting or putting fresh linens on his bed, something that even makes you swallow thickly. However, you can’t seem to bring yourself to share their sentiment.

How could you?

Despite only meeting the prince very briefly, you feel like every day that you sweep through his chambers, you get to know him more and more. If there’s bedlam following in Aemond’s wake when he leaves in the morning, it merely consists of several books scattered all over his desk, his armchairs and sometimes even his bed.

Most of them deal with dragon lore, history, and a variety of other subjects which you wouldn’t expect to be read by any other lord, making clear that the prince is very well educated, and always strives to learn more.

And though he keeps his chambers mostly spotless, there’s very much of his personality in them – if you read between the lines.

More oft than not, the armchairs close to the fireplace don’t stand in their usual positions, turned to the side to face each other with one of them being piled by books or scrolls. And you know from the servants that he’s often found sitting beside the fireplace either in deep thought or engrossed in a book with the flames of the fire dancing in the corner of his eye.

You’re cleaning his quarters all by yourself today for Darla, the other maid assigned, has been called to take care of something else, which means you’re granted slightly more time for Aemond’s chambers.

Kneeling in front of the fireplace, you’re knocking off as much ash and debris as possible back into it, before some of it is swept up and emptied into the pail standing next to you.

You’ve been a bit too engrossed in your task when the doors behind you burst open, catching you by surprise and startling you. There’s only one person that could and would enter the prince’s quarters at this hour of the day – the prince himself.

As you hurry to get back on your feet, already straightening and dusting off the skirt of your maid attire, you’re a bit too quick and hit your head on the ledge of the fireplace, your mob cap falling to the ground in the process.

It’s a stinging pain that shoots right through your whole body, and a throbbing that settles at the crown of your head. You bring a hand up to soothe the pain at least a bit, before you’re reminded of the reason why you got up in the first place.

Gritting your teeth, you take in a sharp breath and lower your hand, bobbing a small curtsy with a strained ‘Prince Aemond’ leaving your lips to the man that stands still in the room, clearly regarding you.

“My apologies, I–” you say, trying to make excuses and wanting to state that you’re just about to leave, but he cuts you off.

“Are you well?” he asks, though there is a lilt of amusement in his voice. “I apologize for startling you, that was not my intent.”

What’s even more unusual than him apologizing to you, a servant, for barging into his own chambers is that he's inquiring about your well-being. You’ve never before been acknowledged by any of the Targaryen’s, not that you expected it, and feeling his gaze on you kind of makes you nervous.

He raises his brow when there doesn’t come an answer from you, and you take it as your cue to speak. “I–Yes, Prince Aemond,” you stutter, bowing your head. Raising it again, your hand brushes the crown of it briefly, the spot still throbbing despite it happening a few moments ago. “I am well. It’s–It’s nothing, my prince.”

Gathering your things, you’re caught off guard for a second time since he’s entered his chambers as he slowly approaches you. He has a sympathetic smile on his lips now, and you’re not sure if it’s the embarrassment or him coming close enough to tower above you, but your body feels like it’s been put on fire.

“Are you certain you’re well?” he asks, eye flitting from your head to meet your eyes. “You’ve struck your head rather hard.”

He reaches to inspect the spot on your head, yet he hesitates and pulls back right before his fingers could brush your hair. You’re slightly disappointed, but your pounding heart is grateful. Just the mere proximity brings a blush to your cheeks and has you shifting your weight from one leg to the other, and you’re certain you wouldn’t have been able to handle him touching you.

There’s a moment of silence between you, and your hands clutch the handle of the pail tight enough for your knuckles to blanch from the force. It’s unnerving, and you’re torn between wanting to stay and wanting to leave. You’re afraid he’s not the man you’ve made up in your mind, that there’s just a hint of truth in the rumors that make their way around staff and court.

His voice cuts through the silence like a sharp blade, smooth and somewhat calming. “What’s your name?”

Taking in a deep breath, you tell him your name, but not without your eyes darting to the ground. His gaze is heavy, too heavy for you to meet it, and you feel as though there’s something else than curiosity woven within it.

“You’re quite flustered over nothing,” he hums, and the way your name slips past his lips with so much ease almost makes you melt right then and there; at least it’s enough to make you forget that he’s clearly noticed the effect he has on you.

Aemond takes note of you being nervous around him, his attention causing your blood to rush through your veins. It seems as though it’s a rather strong reaction that you have to him, something not many women feel when he comes near them. It’s endearing.

Your eyes flicker upwards to meet his good one again, and you straighten your back for another curtsy.

“M-my apologies, Prince Aemond.”

You can spot the exact moment the corners of his lips curl into a teasing smirk, your timid demeanor and your nervousness the trigger for it. And being as cocky as he is, he thinks he could have a bit of fun with you.

“It seems you’re rather out of sorts for something so trivial,” he notes, his tone teasing and playful, matching the flicker of mischief in his eye. “Perhaps I should inspect you myself to see if you have in fact sustained any injuries.”

His words make you feel as if the world around you is slowing down, making everything feel almost unbearable. You’re finding it incredibly hard to look him in the eye without blushing or your breath becoming heavy, and therefore fix them on the ground again. Noticing his large feet in comparison to your much smaller ones, your thoughts briefly stray to what else of him might be large.

But before you can answer him, or your thoughts can dive deeper, Aemond places a hand beneath your chin and gently tilts your face back up for you to meet his gaze. You’ve only seen one other in passing, and even then you’re certain he’s paid no mind to you at all, so his touch comes unexpected. But you don’t tense, and you certainly don’t pull away. However, you’re unsure if you should give in and lean into it.

His finger brushes along your jawline, trailing down the curve of your neck, and coming close to your collarbone, a heat following in its wake. He stops for a second, as if he’s debating whether or not he should move his touch any further.

Aemond’s surprised by your reaction, yet he also realizes that you’re much more interesting than any of the other maids for they were all alike – all not daring to look at him or stay in his presence for longer than a few minutes. But you’re different.

He could already tell by the way you so neatly clean and store his books when he’s spent his night reading by the fire, or how you seem to pay extra attention when you’re putting fresh linens on his bed, fluffing his pillows without the hurry the previous chambermaid has had.

And seeing his touch having such a significant impact on you, the little maid he’s spent so much time dreaming and fantasizing about, feeds a desire he didn’t have before – the desire to bed you, to claim you.

“Get on your knees,” he orders, hooded eye looking down at you.

Swallowing thickly, your mind struggles to comprehend what he asked of you. “I-what?” you stammer in disbelief.

“You heard me. On your knees.” He’s a bit firmer now, and uses the slight grip he has on your shoulder to give you a little help sinking down. You follow his lead, the pail rattling onto the ground.

Your hands are folded in your lap when you gaze up at him, eyes wide and curiously studying his next move. With your thumbs brushing over each other, you try to keep your fluttering nerves at bay, grazing your skin to distract yourself from the throbbing that blossoms between your legs.

Aemond looms over you, reaching out to cup your cheek with one hand. There’s something in the position you’re in, and the combination of his gentle touch and stern orders that gets to your head, and lures you in to lean into his hand. It also makes you a bit bolder as you place a hand on his thigh in return.

It piques his interest, obvious in the way he raises a brow, and his eye flickers to where your hand rests on his body. But he doesn’t shy away from the touch.

“Do you know what I require of you?” Aemond asks, sterner than before.

You bow your head, batting your eyelashes at him in an innocent manner. “I do, my Prince.”

That’s all he has to hear before he swiftly unlaces the front of his breeches and tugs them down barely enough to free his cock and stones, the sight alone making your breath hitch in your throat. He’s well endowed, and far bigger than the cock of the one man you’ve slept with before.

You release a shaky breath, replaying all the knowledge you’ve gathered about pleasuring a man with your mouth, and catch a whiff of musk mixed with the salty smell of sweat – he’s definitely trained with the sword this morning.

Squeezing his thigh, your eyes flicker between his and his hard cock as the slight nod of his head encourages you to curl your hand around it, your thumb and index finger barely touching.

He throbs in your palm already, and the tip is covered in a red that makes it clear he’s desperate to be buried inside of something; probably not caring whether it’s your mouth or your cunt.

Even though you cower beneath his dominating presence, a jolt of boldness strikes you that makes you lean in and lick a flat stripe from the base of his cock up to the bulbous tip. A salty taste lingers on your tongue as you drag it over the slit, making you hum appreciatively, seemingly pleased to witness the effect your touch and presence have on the prince’s body.

Aemond buries his hands in your hair, loosening the bun you’ve put it into this morning, and grabs a fistful of it. It’s a sharp tug of him that catches your attention, and your wide eyes flit up to meet his demanding gaze.

Spurred on by the heavy breaths moving his chest, you swallow, and eventually part your lips to slowly ease him inside, and even though he holds you by your hair, he’s generous enough to not force himself inside, allowing you to move as you please.

“Fuck,” he growls as he gets accustomed to the warmth and tightness of your mouth, head tipping back to release a bawdy groan.

You hollow your cheeks around him, and, after a few moments that allow you to adjust to him, start to bob your head back and forth his thick length, flattening your tongue against him for added stimulation.

Growing bolder and bolder with each passing moment, you squeeze your thighs together every time the tip of his cock brushes the back of your throat, robbing you of the ability to breathe until you pull off of him again.

With his hand in your hair, Aemond senses you getting more comfortable, and starts to guide your head along his member, encouraging you to set up a quicker pace to which you eagerly comply.

“That’s it,” he groans, not able to tear his eye from the sight of your lips wrapped around him as his cock repeatedly disappears inside of your mouth.

Droplets of your saliva dribble from the corners of your lips down your chin with how fast you sink down on him, and the lewd sounds of his soaked cock sliding back and forth past your lips fill the prince’s chambers, hardly drowned out by his grunts and groans.

At this point, you’re drenched in your arousal, the linen of your small clothes clinging to your swollen mound in a way that’s almost uncomfortable.

While you bring one hand up to clasp around the rest of his cock that doesn’t fit into your mouth, the other grips his thigh a bit harder than before, holding onto him for dear life as he uses your face however he pleases.

You feel the muscles of his thigh tense and contract under your palm and his cock throb inside of you, indicating that he’s close to reaching his peak. It’s the first time you pleasure a man with your mouth, and you’re not quite sure what to expect. But before you can brace yourself for whatever might come, Aemond pulls you off of him by your hair, prompting you to topple back to sit on your haunches.

You lock your teary eyes with his good one, lips smacking as his musky and salty taste spreads on them and your tongue. “My Prince, I–”

“Remove your clothes,” he interrupts you, his voice less friendly and more a command.

There are so many thoughts rattling your mind right now, and you don’t know where to start and what to process.

“I wasn’t asking,” he growls, his impatience showing as you don’t comply quickly enough.

With a bow of your head, you rise to your feet and peel the beige-ish apron off of your body, the red dress and smallclothes following suit. You waste no thought on your modesty, on the fact that you’re standing bare in front of a prince of the mighty House Targaryen. The longing for him that has built with all the days you’ve cleaned his pristine chambers, and the undeniable aching between your legs don’t allow you to.

You’re undressed when he stalks around you, regarding you like he’s the hunter and you’re his prey. You see that your obedience arouses him, his hard cock throbbing and bouncing with each step he takes around you. It’s thrilling in the best way possible, and the feeling of being desired by him feeds your confidence.

“Are you just watching, or will the prince undress as well?”

His eye narrows and flickers up to yours at your question, and there’s the hint of a smile adorning his features. “Would you like that?”

Biting your bottom lip, a blush creeps on your cheeks. “Very much.”

As you size him up, you notice a flush blossoming from his cheeks down his neck, the same warmth you feel obviously spreading through his body, too.

“Then I suppose that I’ll oblige.”

You watch with half-lidded eyes as he removes his clothing, slipping out of layer after layer, starting with the black leather robe, and ending with his smallclothes.

You all but drag your eyes over his lithe frame, taking in every muscle that ripples beneath his pale skin, and every silver, coarse hair that trails from below his navel to his cock and the sac of his stones.

It seems like he basks in your attention, in the way you stare at him in awe as you lick your lips, and he’s certainly not afraid of showing himself in his full glory.

“Get on the bed,” he says, smugly. “On your hands and knees.”

This time you know better than to take a few seconds to comply, bowing your head before climbing his bed right away, getting in the desired position. You suddenly feel vulnerable and exposed, completely at his mercy in a way you’ve never experienced before. However, your curiosity and desire overshadow any reservations you could have.

“Pray tell, have you lain with a man before?” You feel the mattress dip beneath his weight as he slowly settles behind you. His hands find your hips, and you shiver with anticipation.

Looking at him from over your shoulder, you nod. “Just once, my prince.”

A soft hm rubles in his chest at your words, and he raises an eyebrow, intrigued by your words. You certainly seem to take him very seriously, which isn’t unusual given his station, but it’s your honesty that’s a whole different matter to him. “You enjoyed it, I presume?”

Still meeting his gaze, you swallow thickly. You’re hesitant to answer, not sure why it’s of importance, but he doesn’t seem willing to let you off the hook just yet. “Yes, I did.”

Aemond gives your flesh an appreciative squeeze at that, and shuffles close enough for you to feel his cock press against your arse. “Would you be willing to again?”

You press your lips into a thin line to stop them from pulling into a grin, but fail miserably. The prince behind you takes that as his cue to continue, and you’re most grateful when you feel him drag the tip of his cock through your soaked folds.

“Just relax for me,” he purrs, his eye fixed on the motions of his hand, watching as his cock disappears inside of you. “I’ll make it feel good.”

The moment you stretch around him, you take in a sharp breath, his cock breaching your cunt at a teasingly slow pace that makes sure you feel every vein and ridge of him drag along your walls.

With his hands coming back to rest on your hips, he pulls you onto his cock until his hips press against your arse, taking his time to adjust to your tightness. The ‘shit’ he mumbles doesn’t go unnoticed by you, a renewed wave of your arousal drenching his cock and the sac of his stones.

If his impatience hasn’t been running thin before, it certainly does now, because the first gentle, sensual thrusts are quickly replaced by merciless pounding. You don’t mind it for you’ve been thoroughly soaked, and enjoy the feeling of his cock repeatedly brushing the spot inside of you that makes your vision go blurry.

Aemond brings a hand between your shoulders, applying a good bit of pressure to press your chest down and your face into the pillows. Your head turns to the side, but you’re not able to look at him.

His breathing is heavy, strained pants leaving him, and his hand trails back to grope your arse.

“Fuck, what an obedient girl they’ve ordered to take care of my chambers–of me,” Aemond rambles behind you, bowing forwards to put a bit more of his weight on your small frame. “Taking me so well. Giving me exactly what I want.”

The praise goes straight to your head, and you want to answer, but the words die on your tongue, replaced by quiet whimpers and whines that grow wanton as he splits you open with a hard, percussive thrust. Then another follows, and another, keening at the sweet sounds you make only for him.

Not able to focus on anything else than the pressure building inside of your belly, you push your hips back against him, and he counters by pulling you back with each of his thrusts, meeting him halfways which results in the lewd sounds of skin slapping on skin to echo off the walls.

He’s making you feel so good, so wanted, that you’re certain you would keep going even if someone is to barge into his chambers, interrupting you.

As his hand snakes beneath your body to make contact with your pearl, you’re overcome with the true knowledge of how experienced Aemond actually is. He strums your body like the most talented lutenist, bringing you closer towards your sweet release.

“Gods, I–” you whine into the pillows.

The taut string inside of you snaps, and the pleasure within you soares through your veins. White, hot pleasure clouds your vision, his arm around you the only thing keeping you up right now.

“That’s it,” Aemond grunts, and the snaps of his hips increase to the point your whines become hiccuped, catching in your throat with little to no time to fill your lungs with air.

And then, his hips stutter, his throbbing cock spending itself deep inside of your quivering walls. He twitches and trembles so much that he’s forced to still his hips, and you take it as your cue to roll yours against him, helping him through his peak.

The throbbing only stills once you’ve milked him for every drop of his seed and the last bit of the euphoric high subsides, making him come back to his senses.

But there’s not much basking in the proximity for you, not when Aemond pulls out almost immediately after, climbing off the bed to get dressed again. The red dress is crudely thrown into your direction, silently making clear that it’s time for you to leave.

It seems as though he’s embarrassed, because he has a hard time meeting your eyes, and doesn’t look at you when you get back in your clothes. But perhaps you’re just not catching the subtle glances he throws into your direction as your maid attire comes back to hug your curves.

Tying the apron and fixing your hair, you reach for the pail. It’s then, with you bowing forwards, that you finally feel his seed trickling out of your cunt, and the sensation alone makes you shiver in an uncomfortable way. You certainly have to look for a quiet spot in the keep where you can clean yourself, since you’re not done working.

You head for the door, but before you open it, his smooth voice catches your attention again.

“You may leave now, but I expect you to come back and finish your task at the Hour of the Ghosts, for you have not cleaned the fireplace thoroughly enough.”

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pupcuck · 2 months

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BLIND ITEM !

ft. og re4!leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

tags. actor au, smut, leon is an ass, some misogyny duh, reader vomits once like non-sexual context, breaking and entering, dub-con that turns to just consensual sex, only one threat of violence :3

note. comm for the sweetest ever @liableperfections / 🪩 anon :3 plot credit goes entirely to her literally had to cut so many words down it was 10k before bc i was so excited ab it so if it seems choppy I’m so sorry… 😭 ignore my attempt at navigating la.. it’s so confusing usa system is so confusing .. ignore any typos :3 feedback n rbs always appreciated!!! REPOST CUZ TUMBLR HATES ME.

Malibu Beach is a terrestrial paradise. A post-apocalyptic Eden of sorts ‘cause there’s no tree of knowledge or any apples— Only thing Malibu Beach and Eden have in common is the naked ladies. It’s the best part of both. Which to Leon is factually correct, but to be politically correct as Hunnigan, his PR manager, would say it’s an opinion.

No need for serpent-induced bedlam, hedonism is at its peak, the fall of man is in full swing. There’s more snow than grains of sand. Leon’s world comes to life in bottle greens and muted blues, water glittering like a diamond behind the dimmed lenses of his aviators.

He snags a cabana close to the shore, draping curtains to keep him safe from blinding cameras and prying eyes and drab women who are more naked than they are clothed. From afar it’s a great sight. Up close it’s a whole lot of cellulite and over-plumped lips and over-plucked brows. Leon’s not picky, his standards are not high, he’s only asking for the bare minimum. Nice face, nice ass, nice tits— It’s expected, but it’s not an expectation ‘cause that would mean girls have to try and live up to it, but most of them come that way. Well, they’re supposed to come that way, but some girls got a little busted on the flight over from heaven.

Ashley faces him, she should be careful when Leon’s around, he pulls on bikini strings more than he tugs on his own dick, and her bikini has started to look especially stringy.

“Can you get my back?” In the light, her lashes twinkle like gossamer wet with morning dew.

Don’t need to ask him twice. Leon’s hands traverse the plains of her back, he coats her skin in lotion like the finest of pâtissiers would a cake, angling the spatula downwards to smooth thick buttercream into pastel swirls of perfection. It’s only SPF10 ‘cause Ashley’s more focused on getting an even tan and less worried about skin cancer.

They’ve been hanging out between filming. Ashley pisses him off with her hoity-toity shit, someone swapped out her brains for that rack, but she’s hot so Leon keeps her around. And to be completely honest, his perpetual state of ennui had been smashed like brittle glass by Ashley alone. If it wasn’t for her, he’d still be riding the Raccoon City wave. Biggest blockbuster to come out of 1998. That’s a big feat. Competition was big names like Deep Impact, The Horse Whisperer— Oh, who is he kidding, nobody remembers that crap, but everybody remembers Raccoon City, the Resident Evil sequel that hit the ball out of the park.

The Resident Evil series is on its fourth instalment, and Ashley Graham insisted he come back to reprise his role; she wanted to act alongside Leon S. Kennedy and no one else. She stinks of money and Chanel Cristalle. Her dad is the studio head, so Leon’s kissing up to her, takes her cruising in his Bugatti Veyron up and down Rodeo Drive. They never breach the Platinum Triangle, he fears Ashley’s diaphanous skin would erode the moment unfiltered air hits her, melt off her bones in fleshly strings until there’s a skeleton rattling around in his passenger seat.

Ashley’s back is real nice. Like, the skin is super clear and creamy white and her shoulder blades stick out the same way a slinky feline’s do. If he could use anorexic as an adjective he would. Not quite, but almost.

“That feels so good, Leon.” He catches the tail end of the glance she casts over her shoulder, it’s flirty and he knows what’s coming next. Ashley’s spine straightens, skin pulled taut to the jagged bone, she twists her upper half and pouts directly at him. She pouts a lot for someone so scared of wrinkles. but when you’re this rich, the de-ageing secret is just Botox he guesses.

“C’mere,” Leon adopts a wider stance, spreading his thighs so she can curl up between them like a cosy pup in bed. “Hey, cutie.” He traces a thumb over her lips which are a milky shade of pink, fingers curling up beneath her chin to tilt her head up towards him.

She’s giving him bedroom eyes. Feathery lashes fanning his skin with the pace at which she bats them, like hummingbird wings beating against the wind. Leon is so going to get laid. Ashley’s nails rake over the sinewed flesh of his sculpted thighs, a testament to his athleticism, he does all his own stunts you know? Shit, he’s about to get the sloppiest head of all time, his dick is about to be degloved by that perfectly puckered pout, suction must go crazy—

In a single sweeping motion, the flimsy curtain is drawn back, fluttering in the same way Leon’s gut lurches. He can’t tell the difference between butterflies and nausea. It all feels the same to him. He half expects to be struck dumb by celestial flashes of camera light that gets him hotter than the sun.

However, in a much more pleasant turn of events, he spots a black whale tail that leads his sharp eyes to a bead of sweat dripping down a toned abdomen— Her belly button sticks out which Leon hates, but those tiny hotpants make up for her faults. They’re so short the flappy pockets are visible, distressed denim fringe brushing nice thighs that have got to mean an even nicer ass is right behind.

The face is even cuter. Round cheeks yet to shed baby fat, the apples smattered with charming freckles, her reddish ponytail is stiff with salt water. “Move,” she demands in a dictatorial fashion as if the world would bend to her will, rolling over and baring its belly like an appeased dog under her command.

Leon, against his better judgement, stays put. Who even are you, lady? The audacity of some girls, must be a fan of some kind. A clammy hand lands on his leg. Feels more like a dead fish left to rot on the docks. He shivers inwardly, prying sticky fingers off of him to clarify what the actual fuck is going on.

There’s a pretty girl in your peripheral. Not Claire. She’s not pretty in the way Claire is. She’s model pretty, might be a model or an actress or both, or neither. Just plain old pretty. But, it’s not plain, it’s extraordinary really. Polly Pocket dolly plucked from her compact home— Oh, gosh, your stomach is fucking killing right now.

Life is crazy, right? One minute you’re sucking face with a cute guy from Europe, and the next minute rotgut Mai Tais are not pairing well with the sweltering Malibu heat. And now you have reached the gates of heaven, fat-bellied clouds and Polly Pocket and something firm in your hand like a muscled calf. Not like a muscled calf, it is a muscled calf and it belongs to the most devastatingly handsome man you have ever laid eyes upon.

You anticipate the sprouting of wings from his back, the halo of Malibu sunlight that crowns his dirty blond hair to form an actual fucking halo. Holy fuck. You hope God can’t read your thoughts right now. Praying is out of the question, that’s like directly asking God not to press the big red button— Everyone presses the big red button, and then God would cast you down to hell in a fit of disgust. All ‘cause you want this angel to put your thighs to your chest and fuck you boneless with his seraphic dick.

“What the fuck, man?” Is the angelic knowledge he imparts upon your dying body. You feel like you’re being cooked alive, hot oil bubbling your skin.

“What is your problem, man?” Claire’s utterance comes at the same time.

“Hey, Claire,” you greet weakly.

“Hey, babe.” The back of her cool hand rests on your forehead, the heat is going to sear her skin like a piece of Grade-A beef. “Listen, man, can you just take your girlfriend and go?”

“She’s not my—“

“Leon, let’s just go.” The blonde girl loops her arm around this divine being’s bulging bicep.

Claire closes the curtain to shield you from the sun. It brings forth a wave of relief to your sizzling body, doused in floral breeze and sea-salt-infused linen.

“Aw, babe, you’re fucked.” She fans you lightly with her hand in hopes that man-made wind is enough to combat heat stroke or alcohol poisoning or whatever it is.

“You can head back, ‘m good here,” you slur, “gonna take a nap”

“You sure?” Claire pets your head, you see past her composed exterior, inside is a girl who’s mourning the loss of that cute beach bunny who ran for the hills the moment you started to emanate the smell of sickness.

“Mhm.” You nod, a sluggish movement that makes your liquified brain slosh about in your head. “I’ll be okay.”

“I’ll come check on you later, yeah? Just stay right here for me.” She lays a damp towel over your lower half and you feel like a bit of a beached whale. Like, fucking slack and stupid and heavy with sleep. It’s so unfair. Your one day off and the excessive day drinking comes to bite you in the ass.

Your nap is plagued by divine visions - getting to sink your teeth into that angel’s biceps. So life is not all bad. At least you’ve still got wet dreams to keep you going. The sun has sunken beyond the horizon, dwindling light paints the landscape a burnt orange, the deepening blues of the water taking on a coral hue as you poke your head out past the cotton curtains.

In the distance, you spot a mildly Claire-shaped dot with a ponytail. She’s still having fun so you make no move to bother her, instead you gather your belongings in a methodical manner. Beach towel folded at the bottom of your bag, cover-up slotted neatly into the side pocket. Water bottle and sunscreen on top - making sure to check the caps on both are tightly screwed on. Purse, keys, phone. You’ve got it all.

Though you’ve regained a sense of self - whatever you were going through a few hours ago that was an out-of-body experience - a tight knot lingers in the depths of your gut. It’s lodged in your throat. You proceed to the bathrooms located near the car park, beach bathrooms are not the nicest place on earth, but you’re not going there for a relaxing retreat, you’re there to unload the unholy amount of vomit that sits in your stomach like sunken rocks in a burlap sack.

Your gait is slightly off, it’s hard to navigate the beach in rubbery flip-flops, limping as your feet are anchored into the sinking sand with each step. After a treacherous journey over the colossal (read: totally flat, flatter than a brown rat’s feet) dunes, you’re granted access to the mildewy washrooms— The door swings open and collides with your delicate skull. A surge of nausea hits your system like adrenaline, pumping through you, and you pitch forward, hands on your knees as you hurl.

“What the fuck? Are you stupid?”

His voice is like the gentle tinkering of bells or a choir of angels, it’s thick and smooth like molasses, a knife through hot butter. All of the above. Even when he’s swearing the unholiest words you have ever heard under his breath. It’s him, the guy from before. And you just missed vomiting on his feet. Narrowly. He did hit you with a fucking door though. So there’s that.

“Oh my gosh, are you okay? I saw that!” The cute blonde from before has swiftly joined his side.

“I’m fine, Ashley, she ran into me.” Ashley… Ashley…You might’ve seen her on a billboard somewhere in Hollywood. Certainly looks the type.

“Not you, asshole, oh my god, Leon. Are you serious? You hit her!” Her voice is like money. Papery thin, but there’s substance to it. Makes the world go round. Makes you happy. This concussion might be making you woozy enough to feel happy. “Oh my god, are you, like, okay?”

You clutch at the wall of the beach hut-shaped washroom, steadying yourself. “I’m good, yeah, I’m really good, thanks for asking.” The vomit is gone from your system, that’s a step forward, but now there’s an ugly bump forming on your head.

“What if you have a concession?” Ashley frets, she makes no move to step closer as she would have to manoeuvre the puddle of vomit.

“A concussion.” Leon corrects, he side-steps to make a swift and graceful exit from this situation, making a beeline for the topless convertible parked a few rows over. Oh, shit this guy is like a big shot, and you almost puked on him. Keyword almost.

“Leon! Hello? We can’t just leave her!” She waves her arms at him wildly, like she’s flagging down a rescue helicopter.

“Oh no, my friend’s still here, I came in her car,” you begin, smiling sheepishly as she has made you feel a little like an abandoned puppy. Or a nuisance.

“No, no, you’re sick, like, really sick, and Leon hit you. He totally owes you.” Ashley insists, a delicate hand grasps your wrist in a surprisingly firm grip. “Get in the front.” She’s demanding not in the same way Claire is, but in the way of a spoiled little girl. It works for her, and you plop down on a leathery seat that sticks to your skin. “Leon, I’m gonna meet daddy over in Carbon, so don’t worry about me, okay?” She flutters her fingers at him. “Behave yourself!”

Shit. This car costs more than you would on the black market. That makes you nervous. The guy makes you even more nervous. The way he’s glowering at you— What an asshole. Ashley’s right, he hit you hard, you so deserve a swanky ride home.

“Are you stalking me?” He asks, sunglasses perched on the top of his head, he looks like a total asshole, levelling you up with those glacial eyes.

“Excuse me?”

“Are you stalking me?” He’s like dead serious right now.

“Why would I be stalking you?” There’s genuine confusion on your face, at least that’s what you want Leon to believe.

“Funny,” he scoffs, “real funny.”

“I’m sorry, what’s so funny?” You blink at him stony, gaze unwavering.

You, bitch. Acting like you don’t know him, like his face isn’t plastered all over California. In every nook and cranny. From flagship stores to beige vegan cafes that are frequented by a handful of hipsters and bored trophy wives alone. “Nothing,” Leon settles on, you can play dumb all you want, but this isn’t his first rodeo with stalkers.

In your hand, your Nokia beeps, and much to his annoyance, you pick it up to make casual conversation with whatever creep that’s put you up to this plan. “No, I didn’t mean to scare you, Claire. I literally kinda, I don’t know, it’s hard to explain, but I’m safe, okay? I’m in a…” You trail off, casting a sideways glance at him, “I’m in a taxi right now.”

He squeezes the steering wheel white-knuckled. You’re playing with him right now, and it’s not fucking funny. A little pathetic if anything.

“Yeah, I got enough cash on me to make it back, don’t worry about it. I will, I will, yep, okay. Bye, Claire.” You drop your cell phone into your beach bag and it falls quiet apart from the prowling growl of his engine.

“Where you need to go?” Leon asks, his teeth grinding together, offset by his clenched jaw.

“Santa Monica.”

“That’s helpful,” he says dryly. “Long way over.”

“I’m just being safe.” You shrug. “It’s half an hour, where’d you come from anyway? Beverly Hills?”

“You’re being unhelpful,” he repeats to cement the fact that he is going out of his way to be an upstanding citizen and help stupid girls who walk face-first into doors no matter how stupid they fucking are. Leon’s soft spot for girls is clearly limited. “Bel Air,” he adds a moment later, “but you know that, don’t you?” It’s in every tabloid, don’t gotta be a stalker to know where he lives.

“No, I do not, I seriously don’t know who you are, man.” Your profile is nice enough, not an eyesore, lips look kissable, you would look nice at his feet he decides. Girls like you need dick in your mouth to learn a few things about shutting up.

“You got in my car.” Leon points out.

“I was forced into your car.” Comes your rebuttal.

“Listen, I don’t have time for your shit, just tell me.” Leon never raises his voice at women, that would be a brash decision, girls hear a slight shift in tone and go cuckoo. When you talk to them all nice and sweet they turn to putty with no regard for the subject matter at hand. Could be harvesting a few organs or taking a couple billion out of their trust fund, it doesn’t matter, they’ll be stuck swooning.

“Don’t talk to me like that.” Look at you, you think you’re the shit. “I can get home from the boardwalk.”

Leon is a lot of things. He is an asshole, he would feel like more of an asshole if he made a chick walk home in the dark. He swallows his pride and he swears his Adam’s apple bulges out further than usual. “I’ll take you home, no sweat, I owe you one.”

“I’m good, I want to walk.” You are one stubborn bitch.

“You could use the walk,” Leon says, a slip of the tongue. He didn’t mean anything by that. Listen, it just came out. Promise. You’re testing his fucking patience.

You bristle beside him, to his surprise you make no move to insult him in turn. “Who are you, even?” It’s thrown over your shoulder coolly. “Like, am I supposed to know you?”

“Leon,” Leon says, and to his knowledge there are no other Leon’s in Hollywood - Leonardo DiCaprio does not count.

“Doesn’t ring a bell.” You’ve gotta be messing with him. It’s working, you’re driving him insane.

“Okay, sure.” He bites his tongue, and soon enough you tell him your address. Not the nicest part of Santa Monica, not the worst part. Definitely not Downtown L.A. so that’s good.

The velvet sky is frosted by stars, and it is a beautiful night for road head which Leon really fucking deserves for putting up with so much shit. If it were Ashley by his side he would’ve been forced to pullover more than a few times on the drive over to The Flats.

He pulls up in front of a house that looks to be made of paper mache. Wow, you’re slumming it. Leon makes an unmitigated promise to himself to never be seen around these parts ever again. The air is different, and there’s so many bad smells and oh my lord is that a homeless woman? He better leave before she knocks on his car door to offer him a good time.

“Bye, sweetheart,” Leon tells you because he is the prime example of a gentleman. “Not gonna thank me?”

“What an asshole.” You don’t even bother to say it under your breath, just to his fucking face after he dropped you off in this ugly, grey neighbourhood in his gorgeous convertible.

He forgets about you by morning. Leon has seen more women than a gynaecologist will in their lifetime. You’re another forgettable rack. That is until the following week. A blind item drops. He skims the page.

Blond guy… Plays a lot of action-hero roles… Good with women… Total Asshole… Something about harassment… Something about a full article dropping next week…

Sounds like Leon alright. Hunnigan is on his ass about it. Ashley is on his ass about it. The director is on his ass about it. The staff are looking at him funny. The room is spinning. Leon is going to take a prop gun and shoot himself. He’s managed to keep his asshole status under wraps, money and dick go a long way for girls— Shit, that bitch from Santa Monica. You were not an easy lay, there was no laying in fact. He didn’t offer you sympathy dick to make up for whatever he said to get your panties in a twist.

Leon checks his watch— Filming can wait, Ashley can wait, he won’t be long. Traffic is a nightmare, this sheepskin jacket is sticking to him - only time he has ever lamented having a roofless car. He shrugs off his costume, lays it over the headrest of the passenger seat. Your place is the crumbling stack of bricks tucked into the far corner of a street that is more litter than street.

He knocks on your door firmly, afraid it’ll knock down the paper walls. You don’t answer. He knocks again, taps his foot, and you do not answer. Leon tries the handle, he’s fucking desperate, okay? This film— The premiere has to go smoothly, he has to be back in the limelight and then you can go around making as many accusations as you please, send the pitchfork-wielding mob his way the moment promotions are over.

The door opens. Leaving your door unlocked in a neighbourhood this rough, oh, honey, you’re just begging for it, aren’t you? He steps over the threshold, the door clicks shut behind him, he moves forward in deliberate strides like he knows his way around. To be fair, there’s not many rooms to explore, not Ashley’s sprawling marble landing. From the top of the stairs, he hears your voice.

“Claire, is that you? I just got out the shower, wait there!”

Babe, you got ready for him? That’s cute, he hopes you shaved. The floorboards creak under his boots, climbing the stairs to face the open door of the bathroom. You’re in there, facing the mirror, wrapped in a baby blue towel. Easy access. When you spot him in the reflection, you drop the tub of cleansing cream in the sink basin, it splatters at the same moment your scream shatters the silence.

“What— How did you get in? Why’re you in my house? Get out!” All questions that Leon would answer if you shut up. You’re a stupid little thing, backing yourself into the wall until the back of your knees bump the bathtub. “Oh my god—“

“I let myself in, door was open, babe,” Leon says smoothly, “That’s real dangerous, y’know?”

You clutch at the shower curtain and almost bring it down on your head, Leon pries your fingers from the material as his hands find purchase on the fat of your hips. “Get off me— Get off, get off, get off!” Your spine straightens when he taps your cheek sharply. Huh. That worked. Is that what you need to loosen up? A nice, hard fuck. Some dick in that lonely pussy of yours.

“Hey, calm down, it’s just me.” The guy you think you know all about. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“You’re breaking into my fucking house, you fucking psycho, why would I want to talk to you?” Little fists hammer away at his chest, nails catching on his chest holster that looks more like BDSM gear than anything useful.

“You kidding me?” Leon captures your chin, his touch is anything but tender, a tactile intrusion that leaves crescent-shaped impressions on your jaw. “Had a lot to say in that article.”

“Is that… Is that what this is about?” You catch your breath, trying to appear nonplussed, though you tread carefully in trepidation. “The article isn’t even out yet-“ A soft whimper betrays your confident front when Leon bows his head to meet your eyes.

“Look at me when you’re speaking,” he instructs, and you do. What a good girl. “Okay, there you go, baby, continue.”

The disdain that spoils your pretty face intensifies at his words, and yet you can’t look away. Cute. Head says one thing, pussy says another. “I’m not- I’m not making Claire drop the article, this is the biggest scoop she’s ever had, and you’re gross.” You stand your ground. “You’re an asshole, I hope nobody ever has to deal with your shit again, I hope you get blacklisted, like, forever and fucking ever. I watched your shitty movies, I could do better than that and I got a D in drama class, you’re just hot and you get away with it-“

“That’s not very nice.” Leon talks to you like he is scolding a misbehaving child. Which you are. A rash little girl driven forward by noisy temerity. “We talked once, sweetheart. I wanted to go on a second date, what a shame.” He’s glad you find him hot though.

“Fuck off.”

“C’mon, you’re too cute to be using nasty words like that.” His teasing is not taken in stride, you elbow him in the gut and squirm out of his grip. Leon recovers fairly well, his fingers catching the hem of your towel, unravelling it like a spool of thread. He draws you closer, naked, wet body flush to his clothed one. Nice tits, tick, cute ass, tick, he wants to see how you’d look in a tight skirt, one that hugs your stomach and hips and the tapering of your waist. The type Hunnigan wears when she means business.

And shit. Your pussy is the only thing cuter than your face. Shaved bare like you knew he was coming. You wanted it. You did. Leon doesn’t see any other hot dates waiting for you. “Aw, baby, you shouldn’t have.” He coos, tracing your puffy pussy lips with the pad of his thumb.

“Don’t do that…” Your voice is merely a whisper, and you’re not scared, girls like you don’t get scared. They get pissed off. Heated. Angry and upset. But never scared.

“Is this what you want, babe? Some dick ‘n you’ll shut up? Just wanted my attention.” Leon’s voice is a low rumble in your ears, he drawls like a slow trickle of sticky honey. Nothing is stickier than your cunt. He parts your lips, catching the dribbles of slick that form in beads along your slit. “Jesus, you’re fuckin’ wet, baby. You needed this, didn’t you?”

“No,” you croak out, throat dry from only a few minutes of disuse.

“No? You want me to stop then, sweetheart?” Leon slows his touch, it diminishes until it’s gone entirely and you whine at the loss so sweetly. “You’re not making any sense, babe.”

“Oh my god.” You suck in a breath, trembling not out of fear, but out of unadulterated rage and dizzying lust for a piece of his dick. “Fuck you.” He takes that as a Please, fuck me!

“How about we do something easier, baby.” Leon forces you onto your knees, and he was fucking right. You look so good like this. Knelt by his feet. His belt is unclipped, pants unzipped, boxers lowered. He guides his dick into your mouth, and you really are the most cock-starved thing he's ever met, ‘cause you open up and swallow him whole.

Then you do the sluttiest fucking thing a girl has ever done for him - reach back and jab your nails into the meat of his ass to force his dick deeper down your throat. “Shit, that’s right, baby— Fuck, you’re a fucking freak, huh?” Leon rewards you with a skull fuck. Balls clapping wetly and obscenely against your chin.

You gag on it, and you love it. God, he feels the pulse of your cunt through his boot when you grind yourself down on the steel toe cap. It’s round enough to do no damage, cool enough to help that hot cunt out, and the perfect shape to part your folds and stimulate your swollen clit.

Leon slaps it on your cheek a couple of times, then he tightens his hand around the shaft as you play with his balls, try to fit ‘em in your mouth like jawbreakers. Shit, fuck, his brain fucking blanks. He’s gonna cum if you don’t stop. His hand comes to rest on your forehead, hoping to snuff out the pleasure that builds too soon in his belly, you pop off his cock, refusing to stop making out with his tip, tonguing the slit like you’re getting paid to do this.

The bedroom is a couple metres away, it’s an awkward shuffle over with his lips slotted to yours, tongue running over your teeth, licking at your gums. Your back hits the handle, then less than a metre after that it hits the squeaky mattress. He kisses down your body, you smell like fruity body wash, it might be strawberry or raspberry. It smells like pink, that’s all he knows.

A sloppy kiss is placed on the very front of your mound. “You want me to play with your sticky little pussy, baby?”

“Ew,” you whimper out, nodding anyways, legs bent at the knee to bare your sweet pussy to him.

He laps at you like a dog. Eating pussy is tedious, Leon likes pushing heads down on his dick, it’s way better. But to hear you moan like that, shit he would do it a thousand times over, latch onto your clit and suck till you see stars. “Did you like that, baby? Fuck, creamed on my fucking tongue, sweet little thing.” He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. Sure, Leon's going to go back to set smelling of your cunt, it’s not so bad. He quite likes it. Better the tang of pussy than sweat.

“Jus’ put it in,” you beg, “please, please—“

“I heard you the first time, sweetheart. Be patient.” Leon takes your ankles in his hands, puts them by your ears. See this? That’s when Leon can tell a girl really fucking wants him. When she holds her thighs up for him, and then she puts her palms flat to spread herself as open as she can get. “Jesus, baby, you’re a slut.” He laughs derisively, it rolls off his tongue as sweetly as any other pet name.

You’re left keening when the head of his dick sinks into your weeping cunt, your toes curl, and Leon cranes his neck to kiss your ankle. He runs his hands over the backs of your plush thighs, circling his hips as he eases into you— He’s lying. In his world, there’s no easing. Leon’s dick is mean, and he can tell you’ve been dying for a rough fuck. He bottoms out the second his head pops past your fluttering hole. Then he’s balls-to-the-wall. Like, literally. They’re heavy against your ass, slapping loudly with each measured thrust.

“Baby,” Leon starts, he’s breathless, rolling his hips into yours, “I swear on my life, sweetheart, if that shit drops I’ll beat you fuckin’ bloody.” That article dropping would signal the end of his life as he knows it. Your pussy clamps down on him at his words. “Oh, you nasty little bitch, you liked that?”

There’s a string of yes, yes, yeses! and then a string of expletives, and then a drawn-out call out of his name as he drives into you with all the force of a freight train. Your nails are scratching down his back, and your pussy is coating him in the same wetness that pools below your ass.

“Take it, baby, take it, fucking take it.” It takes one last thrust for you to come undone, your orgasm has your body going ramrod straight, and then your pussy fucking gushes. And Leon in all his years of sex and women and pussy and fucking has never made a girl do that. Half of him is convinced you’ve gone and pissed on him, the other half is sure he’s made you squirt like girls do in porn— Holy shit. He’s twenty-seven years old and he only just made a girl squirt.

You cry out as he grinds into you, his dick bumping your cervix, his pelvis grinding into your clit— And you sob, shaking your head as another burst of liquid spurts out of your cunt, soaking his abdomen, soaking his fucking shirt that belongs to the costume department—

Fuck, he’s gonna cum. He’s cumming hard. Leon’s balls tighten, and his shaft twitches as his load shoots out of the tip of his cock into your tight cunt. He didn’t pull out. If there’s one thing, he’s good at, it’s pulling out. Leon made a girl squirt, and he didn’t pull out. All in one day. What an accomplished man he is.

“Mmm.” You roll onto your front, face in the pillows as you catch your breath, still shivering as aftershocks zap at your nerve endings. Leon wipes the sweat built on his forehead, strands of his hair stuck to it. “I’m not convinced, the article’s still going up.”

What a bitch.

“Right.” He delivers a brisk swat to your ass, it elicits an involuntary yelp. “Guess I’ll have to convince you. I got a week, don’t I?”

“A week and a half,” you say, not bothering to bid him bye as he zips his cargos, “I’m pretty hard to convince.” Cheeky.

“It can be done.” Through another round of dick from Monday to Friday.

#leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #leon s kennedy smut #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #resident evil x you #resident evil x reader #resident evil smut

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levanterhaze · 1 year

Text

✧ BLUE FLAME WITH JUNGKOOK ✧

→ jungkook x reader

→ word count: 2.6k

→ your noisy neighbor has been disturbing your nights, so you decide to take satisfaction. however, there is a fine line between satisfaction and pleasure.

→ warnings: masturbation, penetration, protected sex, lot of swearing, dirty talk and sloppy sex if you're not +18 please do NOT read. (i decided to write this after watching those 2 episodes of the sex life of college girls)

It was 10:54 PM.

It was the exact moment where it all began. First, there were the grunts and soft moans, then came the screams and the relentless clatter of the headboard banging the wall. And you were fed up with it.

Every night your neighbor would get some girl and end up disturbing your night's sleep. And it was derailed how the screams progressed further and further, being able to wake up the entire building. You wondered how they managed to be so loud. It was nasty.

But today was your day off. You were curled up on your comforter in your comfiest pajamas, watching a 90s rom-com and eating an extra greasy pizza when your sex maniac neighbor started the bedlam.

And every time you tried to be friendly, not caring too much about other people's sex lives, it was impossible to hear any line from the movie with that girl screaming her lungs out on the other side of the wall.

Yes, yes, Jungkook!

Oh my god, Jungkook!

At some point, you were starting to think that this guy must be a sex god so that all girls act the same way, always, all of them. Or they just faked it every time, which to be honest, was a bit suspicious.

The headboard slamming on the wall was so loud that you had to move your bed to stop yours from swaying too. Damn thin wall. The screams continued and it seemed that the girl was coming to an exquisite and long orgasm.

You walked up to the wall and threw two punches as if they’d hear over all those moans. “Can you be fucking quiet? Jesus."

Realizing you weren't going to be able to finish your precious movie, you just decided you'd better grab a coat and change and go for a long walk until the whole thing is over.

The next morning you heard giggles coming from the hallway and guessed the neighbor's girl was leaving. It was nearly seven in the morning, the time for you to go to the gym before work. Lucky that your condo has a private gym that residents could access for free.

No one was using it at the time, so you took the opportunity to do your routine exercises. Until a slender figure, dressed all in black and tattoos, appeared in your peripheral. You knew it was him, your neighbor. You happened to see him coming into his apartment the other day.

But dammit, he was really…attractive?

He gave a gentle good morning grin, revealing his lip piercing.

Jesus Christ.

You did the same, out of politeness. However, it was the ideal time to go up to him and finally tell him that he was bothering all your nights with that insane sex screaming that came from his house. You schemed how you would say it, as it's not a very nice subject and you had no other way of saying it than directly.

Jungkook was choosing some music on his phone when you slowly approached.

"Hey. You're Jungkook, right? I'm your neighbor."

"Hey. I know."

Does he know? All right, whatever.

“Look, I don't know how to say this properly, so I'll just say it. You are very noisy. Look, I understand that you love sex and you do it constantly but the wall is really, really thin. So I would really appreciate it if you could… You know…?”

You had no idea how your face felt, but you could feel the burning in your cheeks and the extreme sweat on your hands. You hate being put in uncomfortable situations where you have to step out of your comfort zone and deal with unpleasant things.

But that was a problem that needed to be settled.

Jungkook's lips draw a thin line as he bit back a smile, you can tell.

“Oh, okay. Can you lend me your phone?”

You blink a few times, wondering if you've misunderstood.

"Sorry?"

"Your number. That way you can let me know if I'm too loud."

He can't be serious.

You realize then that he is indeed being sincere when he reaches out for your phone. And you just hand him the device, being slightly distracted by the dozen drawings painted over his arm muscles.

“Thanks, I guess.” You hold the phone back and try to ignore his glare and that slutty smile that spreads across his lips when you drift away.

Almost two weeks passed and, incredible as it may seem, your neighbor seemed to have come to reality, because the insane noises had ceased for good. And you were even a little surprised, for a person who did that every day, going almost fifteen days without having sex, it seemed like a grand slam.

It was late at night and you were exhausted after working an eight-hour shift. Your friend had called to share some news about a date she had gone on extremely badly.

Until your nightmare started again.

"What the fuck? Are you watching porn while talking to me?” Your friend's voice was grossed out.

“It's my stupid neighbor. I swear to god, he’s a sex maniac. This is not normal."

"At least he is hot?" Your friend asks and you think too quickly about those muscles pressed by the black shirt. Thick, well-defined thighs in the shorts he'd been wearing to the gym. The broad shoulders… “Never mind. What will you do?"

“I'm going to stop him or call the police or something. I'll be right back, I'll call you later."

"Good luck."

"Thanks. I'll need it."

This time you were determined to make a fuss if possible. You could hear his groans from behind the wall and it was insane. You just wanted to close your eyes and go to sleep, without having to think about your extremely hot neighbor having sex right next to you.

You put on a robe and left the house. There were two loud knocks on the door and a long wait for Jungkook to answer the door. And honestly, you wish you hadn't. Because he looked like a Greek god with his long hair falling into his eyes, his shirt a little open, and his sweatpants hanging awkwardly on narrow hips.

Right. Focus. You're here for a reason.

“Good night, neighbor.” He beams sweetly, exposing the piercing, and you almost gulp strongly because he's too good-looking to be true.

“You’re doing it again.”

"Doing what?" He frowns, pretending to be baffled.

"You know very well." You point the finger at him. “I just want you to tell your friend to be quieter.I just want to sleep.”

“So I disturbed your sleep?”

"Yeah."

"Yeah?" He tongues his cheeks. “And what are you going to do about it?”

You didn't want to admit it, but an absurd heat rose in your body, spreading mainly between your legs.

“I could call the cops.” You cross your arms, trying to dismiss the flaming feeling in your body.

“Sounds like a plan.” He smiles and then looks over his shoulder. “Or you could come in.”

"In your house? With someone in there? Why on earth would I do that?”

Jungkook scowls, this time really looking stumped.

“There’s no one here.”

Oh.

He seems to be amused by his accomplishment. “I should go back and…”

“I have good wine. You look tense. And I owe you an apology.”

OK. Wine sounds good. And you really were tense and it was because of him. And he really owed you an apology. You analyzed the situation for a few seconds before deciding that it was okay. If he really wanted to apologize, you could at least listen to him, that wouldn't hurt.

The interior of Jungkook's apartment was very clean and tidy. He appeared a few seconds later with two glasses of wine and indicated the sofa so you could both sit down. Inside, you were feeling a little bad because he was alone and the sounds you heard… That was a little too intimate.

"Then. Wine. Now the apologies.”

He drinks down his wine and then looks at you curiously.

“You missed something.” Jungkook stares at you earnestly. “You’re still tense.”

You gulp down the wine quickly, trying to disguise how sweaty you were by the way his eyes stared at you. "I’m fine. Thanks for the wine. I really need to go.” You get up quickly, but Jungkook follows you to the door.

“Or you could stay.”

He leaves the glass on the table and approaches slowly. You try to focus on his face and not that sinewy body walking towards you.

"And why would I do that?" Your voice comes out as a tired whisper.

Jungkook moves even closer and you shudder as you feel his warm breath blow over your skin. “Because you’re also disturbing my sleep.”

Fuck.

Your breathing is so shallow it's embarrassing. Your heart beats a mile a minute in your chest and you know he's noticed how much you're giving in to his charm, like magnetism. And the wine seems to loosen you up, untying all the tangles that bound your body, taking the tension out of every muscle at once.

And you feel so vulnerable. Your body is craving for his touch because your mind wanders on outrageous thoughts of Jungkook thinking about you while… It's crazy. You've always been so tired, not enough time to have a good night of casual sex, that maybe you could enjoy it. Just once.

You throw your sanity to hell and grab Jungkook's face just to kiss him. His arms envelop you deliciously and the world seems to burn with a burning desire in a blue flame. His lips are greasy and he tastes divine, the wine mixing with his essence so deliciously that you wail into his lips.

He helps you out of your robe and you can see it in the dim light as his pupils dilate at the sight of that stupid skimp nightgown, you're wearing. His hands are agile and large and you gasp as his thumbs graze the sides of your breasts and his body pushes you to the edge of the table. Jungkook slides between your legs, cupping your face and moving his lips down to your chin and then your neck.

“Jungkook…” You roll your eyes as his tongue wriggles across your skin, painfully crawling to your throbbing spot.

“Wanna taste you.” He whispers into your skin. “Wanna feel you so bad, baby. Fuck."

And you don't look out for the fact that your legs are parted so he would do anything to you. You were already sure you were past the shame stage and the alcohol was helping that aspect.

He continues kissing your skin as he squeezes your thigh and lifts the narrow fabric of your nightie to your waist. You hold back a loud sob when he touches you right where you want him. Then, Jungkook groans into your skin. “You're dripping. God."

And that was embarrassing, but what the hell. He shoves the fabric aside and you clasp the cloth of his shirt as his skin makes contact with yours. Jungkook looks at you, your brows are wrinkled and your lips are parted. It's quite a sight. He thrusts his fingers inside you, enjoying how easy it’s to slide inside you.

"Shit." You pull him closer. You spread your legs even wider, feeling your body gain immediate weakness. He touches you so unhurriedly as if he wants to see you suffer and it's nice and painful at the same time. "More."

“Need more?” He reaches until there’s no space left. And as much as he's fascinated by the sight of your pussy taking his fingers so hungrily, it's your face he focuses on. He kisses you clumsily, licks you, and sucks on your lips like he's starved for it. And he was. For you.

Your forehead sticks to his chest, hiding the rest with every eye roll. You drag him tight by his shirt, biting your lip to keep from moaning the loudest you've ever wanted to moan in your life. “Jungkook.” A restrained groan escapes your lips.

"I want to hear from you." He slows down and you look up in disbelief. “Let me hear you.”

“Please…” You plead softly, but he ignores it. Shit. "Harder, please!" Your voice comes out much stronger and he does exactly what you ask.

With his mouth, he trails kisses to your breasts and tugs at the fabric with his teeth until it falls gracefully across your shoulders, exposing your rawest skin. And his tongue devours you. He plays with your breasts, nibbles on your skin, and drives you wild.

You're almost there, your hips undulating quickly to maintain more touch.

You wanted more. You need more.

“Jungkook.” And he seems to understand your darkest desires because he pulls out a condom from God knows where and you're not surprised to see how hard he is, ready to ruin you.

Your feet are on the edge of the table and he's flattening your stomach, making you lie down.

“Shit, you’re so fucking hot.” He caresses his cock with one hand and your clit with the other, in equal rhythms. Your back arches with delectable friction and you think you're going to come right then and there, but he amazes you when he enters you. “So damn good for me.”

"My God!" You cry involuntarily and make your body shake.

His hand is pressing down on your stomach, but he's still touching your sore clit with his thumb, very slowly. He looks for your eyes to see if he can go faster and you don't hesitate to approve immediately.

He moves like a god. Hips crushing your skin, the sound of skin hitting skin. Nimble fingers traveling over your breasts. Your leg going up on his shoulders. Jungkook's long hair is damp and falling over his forehead. The tattooed arm presses you deliciously. It all felt like a lucid dream.

His whines are melodic and it makes you even more turned on knowing that he’s worshiping every moment of it just as you are. He hammers his hips harder, teeth clamping down on his lip until the skin’s whitened. There's a small crease in his forehead and you feel he's as close as you are.

You move your hips against him as much as possible, feeling that intense fire burns every cell, every inch of your body from the inside out.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Jungkook cries, squeezing the edge of the table tightly as he lunges faster and faster, barely able to withstand the clench of your pussy on his cock

“I’m gonna…” You swallow hard, your voice cracking.

"I got you. Cum for me.”

And like magic words, your body convulses underneath Jungkook's body. Orgasm hits you hard, arching your back and melting your brain to jell-o. Jungkook lays down, licking your neck and then smooching your lips, making you devour erotic mutters in a hot, slippery kiss. He groans huskily and pleasurably in your ear and you pull his hair once more, just to end the kiss.

You're both sweaty and out of breath. He's still up and inside you. He is everywhere. The hickeys on your skin, the marks on your body, and the electrifying orgasm he just gave you.

“So…” Jungkook lifts his head, brushing the hair past your face. "Wine. You’re no longer tense. Do I still owe you an apology?”

You stare into those doe eyes and a laugh reverberates in your chest.

“I think we're good.”

#jeon jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook imagines #jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #kpop smut #jeon jungguk #jungkook fic #jungkook x y/n #bts #bts imagines #bts smut #smut reading #jjk smut #jjk x you

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bomberqueen17 · 8 months

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letters

So in 1944 my grandpa got tuberculosis. It was bad enough that they sent him to a sanitarium up in the Adirondacks for a rest cure, which was what was recommended at the time. He'd been married to my grandmother for just a little while; they had a son, my uncle, and she was pregnant with my dad.

While he was there he wrote letters daily. He wrote a lot of letters, I think, to his parents and sister and friends. But the ones he sent to his wife, my grandma, she kept.

I don't know the chronology of it all, but after Grandma died, probably my dad found the packet of letters, as he was the one who went through her effects-- might have been his little sister, my aunt. Anyway the packet got circulated around, and then came back to my dad, who carefully organized all of the letters into a binder with individual plastic archival sleeves. Someone asked after them recently, and Mom found them and pulled them out. I was over there today, feeding her cat while she's on vacation, and so I leafed through them.

Grandpa's handwriting is similar, a bit, to my late father's, so I was able to read it reasonably easily. He started strong, the first letter he recounts how he fared in the rainstorm he'd apparently left home in, and then asks how Grandma fared.

How are you, my Baby? Did your schooner of sleep bear you safely thru the storm? If it didn't then you won't be reading this sorry excuse for a letter.

In that same letter he goes on to say,

Zounds! How can I create in this infernal bedlam? All the patients are up (as far as possible) and braying, the phone is ringing, Ma is delivering the Gettysburg Address + Pa is making more noise with a piece of wrapping paper than I could make with a hammer and a piece of steele [sic].

It rapidly escalates from there, and in a later letter he explains that the rest cure was so boring he had literally nothing to do, nothing to write home about, and so in an effort to keep from dwelling on how much he hated it there, he would write these flowery, possibly-repetitive love letters, because he simply had nothing else to talk about.

Your accounts of the marital woes of the [illegible, probably neighbors] are really hair-raising, but I don't think that the happiness of our marriage is due entirely to good fortune. As I have always said, we were made for each other a long, long time ago and our hearts refused to love anyone until the right one came along.

Looking at the postmarks, I realized they dated from right around the time of my father's birth, so I found the one that was sent the day after Dad was born, and it did not disappoint.

My beloved Words cannot express just how I feel this morning; I am all mixed up. You are so wonderful that sometimes I wonder what I ever did to deserve you. You are the one who is increasing our fortunes, for truly our children are the treasures that make us rich. You are so brave, so cool that I hold you in undying amazement. I am sure of one thing, My Darling; I know your sons will love you, not just because you are their mother, but for your own precious self, for the truly great woman you are. For the ordeal you have gone thru to bring these precious lives into being, rest assured of the eternal devotion of your menfolk. Last night all I could think of was you. I heard the night train coming into the station and my heart said "Run, run and catch the train before it is too late. Run to your loved ones and to hell with the results. Run, let nothing keep you from their sides." But my head said, "No, don't undo all that has been done. They also serve who stand and wait. Wait, and by so doing, prove your love to be more than the reckless love of youth, prove it to be the wise, guiding love that lives on long after passion has spent itself and thus spent, dies." And so I waited and the train left without me + my heart hated me for it.

Oh boy I cried, I sure did. (I had to look it up; "They also serve who only stand and wait" is from John Milton's Sonnet XIX.)

He always uses beloved or darling or somesuch as the salutation, but he often refers to her as Red within the text of the letters, because she had red hair. He occasionally made saucy references to their sex life, elsewhere in the letters. But mostly it's absolutely banger shit like this:

My thoughts and deeds, my smiles and tears, my happiness, my loneliness, my joy, my sorrow, my every breath, yea, even the final beat of my loving heart are poor blossoms placed on my altar of adoration, raised in humble gratitude to you.

Her name was Margaret, and I never knew her to have any nicknames, she just went by her name. Except to him, apparently. But as for him-- his government name was John, as was my father's, but my father never had to have a nickname, because there was never a day in his life Grandpa went by John. His name was Buddy, everyone called him Buddy, and he signed his letters as Buddy.

He died in January of 1978 of complications related to the damage to his lungs from the tuberculosis (not directly, but it was related). Grandma was standing in the hallway of the hospital, watching him sleep, waiting for him to wake up so he could meet my older sister, his third grandchild. He never did meet her.

She died in 2002 of congestive heart failure; I'd spent much of the preceding week with her and she'd spoken mostly of him.

#family lore #letters #history i guess

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whoneedsgenderanyway · 7 months

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fall is for finding small folk bands to obsess over

#ive found three new bands to listen to in the past month and a half #thank you Spotify daylist #its fantastic #music #good morning bedlam #wind and the willows #downriver collective

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lulublack90 · 12 days

Text

Prompt 17 - Hospital AU

@wolfstarmicrofic April 17, word count 995

CW- Cuts, Animal attack, Bite marks

Sirius stretched across the gurney, carefully holding his cup of coffee so he didn’t pour the scalding liquid down himself.

“Hey, James. How long have we been on shift?” He asked his equally prostrate best friend. James groaned as he lifted his arm to check his watch.

“8 hours.” He yawned. They were on the night shift, and the cases were either dull easy to diagnose stuff that could have waited for a GP in the morning or total calamities.

He raised his head to take a sip of his drink when his pager went off.

“Damn it,” He cursed as he dodged the liquid that came flying out of the cup. “That was close. I almost marred my beautiful face.”

“Come on, urgent call to A&E,” James told him, grabbing him and jogging down the hall.

The room was utter Bedlam. People were shouting at each other. A nurse was carrying a handful of bloody cloth to the hazardous waste bin. More nurses were fitting IVs and monitors to the patient lying still in the bed. Nurse Evans moved out of the way, and Sirius got his first glance at what they were working with.

In the bed lay a twenty-something young man. Who could have been quite good-looking but now had long gashes across his face, one of which sliced his face in half from the corner of his eye, across his nose and finishing just above his lip. Sirius sucked in a breath as he took it in.

“That’s not the worst of it.” Nurse Evans warned. Sirius glanced down as his eyes darted across the rest of his body. There were more slashing cuts, and the soft flesh of his waist and abdomen had huge puckered holes dotted about in stretched-out crescent arches.

“Are those bite marks?!” James exclaimed, moving closer to the man. Nurse Evans nodded.

“His back is all cut up, same as his front. Whatever attacked him got him good.” She sighed. “Poor man, he’s going to be in a lot of pain and shock when he wakes up.” She handed over his notes to James and busied herself cleaning the wounds.

Sirius couldn’t take his eyes off the man.

“Do these look like dog bites?” He questioned as his fingers ghosted above the damaged skin.

“They look too big but definitely canine. Wolf, maybe?” James screwed up his face as he tried to figure it out.

“There aren’t any wolves in Britain.” Sirius objected. “Where was he found?”

“Er, notes say in the car park next to the—oh, for crying out loud. Next to the woodland park.” James scanned the text.

“Still no wild wolves in Britain,” Sirius muttered, only half paying attention to James.

He grabbed some of the disinfection materials and helped Nurse Evans clean out the wounds. James began spouting off multiple tests he wanted to carry out and leaned over Sirius. Speaking quietly so only Sirius could hear him, he murmured.

“Be careful, yeah. I’ve seen that look before. Don’t get too invested.” Sirius shook his head.

“I’m a doctor, James, I care. That’s all it is.” He lied.

“Make sure it is,” James replied, knowing full well Sirius wasn’t telling the truth.

Nurse Pettigrew appeared with his camera and began documenting the wounds in case it was a police matter.

“Should I send these to a bite specialist?” He asked Sirius and James. James nodded.

“Yes, that way, we will know what we’re dealing with. Send a couple of the slashes as well. I swear they look like claw marks.” Nurse Pettigrew disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared after taking countless photos and only disturbing the cleaning once to get shots of the man’s back.

It took hours to get the man’s wounds cleaned and sutured. He’d had multiple scans, including a brain scan. To make sure he didn’t have a brain bleed. But he didn’t wake up. They weren’t worried yet. His body had sustained a lot of damage, and nothing in his scans showed any reason for him not to be conscious.

Sirius’s shift had ended hours ago, but he stayed sitting at the man’s side. James had tried to convince him to leave.

“Sirius, he’s a patient. You need to leave. Please don’t get overly attached to him. You don’t even know anything about him.”

“He’s all alone, James,” Sirius sighed. He already knew he was treading the line between a caring practitioner and becoming too personal with a patient. “No one has called looking for him. The police say no one matching his description has been reported missing. It’s been hours. How can no one be missing him?” James sighed at Sirius as he roughly ran his hand through his hair.

“I know, I know. Just be careful, Sirius.” He clapped his friend on the back and left him to it.

Sirius slept in the uncomfortable visitor’s chair. He kept waking up to check on his patient, but he was always asleep. Morning came, and one of the Nurses brought him breakfast and took the patient’s vitals. It wasn’t until the afternoon, a full 24 hours after he’d been brought in. The man’s eyelids fluttered. Sirius watched with bated breath as slowly, slowly, the man regained consciousness.

“It’s okay,” Sirius said in his most calming voice. “We think you’ve been attacked. You’ve got a lot of cuts, so I need you to keep still so you don’t rip any stitches. But you’re safe, and so far, no complications.” He realised he’d taken the man’s hand and promptly dropped it. “Sorry,” He mumbled under his breath. He watched the man wiggle his now free fingers. Sirius’s training finally kicked in.

“I’m Doctor Black, Sirius. Do you know what your name is?” He asked as he pressed the call button. The man thought for a second.

“Remus Lupin.” He said faintly.

“Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Remus Lupin.” Sirius smiled at him as Nurse Evans wandered in.

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fuckyeahdindjarin · 2 years

Text

IV ║ Strawberry Roan

Jack Daniels x f!reader

{ Part 3: Dapple Grey | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 5: Appaloosa }

Rating: E

Summary: Jack pulls out all the stops for your birthday. All of them.

Warnings: Flirting, yearning, insecurities, sexual tension, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, use of dating app, sexual innuendoes, fingering, protected sex, dirty talk, language, mention of food, drinking, mention of breakup, mention of hair, no use of Y/N

Word count: 8.4k

Notes: It's here. See you on the other side 😉 Palomino will be taking a little break, if you want to see what I'll be up these few weeks, check it out here. See you in November!

I forgot to link to it when I posted this - a deleted scene from this part is published as a drabble - Béarnaise.

Strawberry Roan: A horse with a reddish coat that is liberally flecked with white hairs.

Day 3

The next time you wake up, the sun is high in the sky and Jack is nowhere to be seen. You tap your phone for the time and sit up groggily - by this hour, you’re usually already saddled up and ready to go. Grabbing your toiletries and riding clothes from your bag, and a bottle of water, you trudge barefoot towards the nearest treeline to get ready.

Jack has his back to you, cooking breakfast, when you make your way towards the camp in jodhpurs with mint on your breath. You stop by the horses grazing in the shade, giving all three scratches behind the ears and a pat on the neck good morning, mindful not to get your toes trodden on by accident.

‘Morning,’ you call out as you approach the reignited fire.

Jack twists around to smile at you. ‘Mornin’, darlin’.’

Bending over, you roll up your sleeping bag. ‘Why didn’t you wake me? It’s late.’

‘It’s your birthday, you deserve a lie-in,’ he answers over his shoulder. ‘We’re not far from the Halfway House anyway - we can take it easy today.’

Sitting cross-legged next to him, your eyes light up at what’s sizzling in the pan. ‘A lie-in and pancakes for breakfast? You spoil me, cowboy.’

A bowl of mixed berries sits next to the pancake batter and maple syrup. You pop a raspberry into your mouth, the burst of tart sweetness sharpening your still fuzzy senses. With a tea towel, you grab the kettle carefully from where it’s sitting warm on the fire, pouring yourself a coffee and topping up Jack’s half-empty mug.

Jack flips the pancake over theatrically in the pan, flashing you a smile with teeth. ‘Only the best for my birthday girl.’

You really shouldn’t - and you suppose you can blame it on the fact that you’re not quite awake yet - but your heart lurches at him calling you as his in any way. The kettle lands clumsily on the metal grill with a clatter as your arm gives out.

You’re still floundering when he asks casually, ‘How are you feelin’?’

With four little words, he unwittingly throws you into bedlam, and you go stock-still. Oh fuck. Is he asking you about the kiss? The chaste yet spine-tingling kiss which, in the bright light of day, you can't even quite believe actually happened -

His calm drawl cuts through your panicked thoughts, oblivious to the turmoil inside you. ‘I’m a bit hungover myself, not gonna lie.’

Oh. Okay. Hangover chat. You can do that.

You clear your throat and force a smile. ‘I’ve been worse - just a tiny bit of a headache. Thought you could handle your liquor, cowboy.’

Satisfied that the pancake is done, Jack slides it onto a clean plate and passes it to you. He pours more batter into the pan, and the sweet smell of butter clings to the morning air. ‘Well, luckily, today’s ride is easily managed even while hungover. We chose a good night to drink.’

Except… you didn’t just drink. Revelations, too intimate to even fathom in the waking hours, confided in the dead of night - none of which you had the chance to discuss before throwing in the kiss at sunrise into the ring. And you’re not brave enough to bring up any of it.

Jack flips the pan again, sending the half-cooked pancake somersaulting through mid-air, and shoots you a triumphant grin.

You can’t help but grin back.

Later. You’ll worry about everything else later.

One thing you’ve come to realise about Jack is that he’s a meticulous planner. It’s easy with just the two of you, but the logistics of moving twelve horses and twelve riders across the mountains can’t be an easy feat. The way he equal parts encouraged and pushed you yesterday so that you can have a laid-back birthday today offers a glimpse into his firm grasp on the planning of the trip.

The unassuming way that he both literally and metaphorically takes the reins has you staring at his hands more than once today.

It’s just past half three when the Halfway House appears on the horizon. It has a red roof like the main lodge back on the ranch, and it is bigger than you expected - a sprawling single-storey house with a handsome veranda out front. There’s definitely plenty of space even for a fully-booked pack trip.

A fenced paddock stands next to the house, and adjacent to it is a half-enclosed stables with a free-standing roof. There’s a small outbuilding on the far side which you assume is the tack room. Even from a distance, you can see that three stalls have been done up with clean wood shavings, and there is hay in the nets for the horses’ supper this evening.

It’s a well-rehearsed routine now when you go about untacking Scotch. After putting the tack away in the store room and leaving the damp saddle pad to air-dry on the fence, you give him a thorough hosing down, careful to brush out any sweat that has built up. Then with a rubber scraper, you skim it over his coat to wring out the excess water. By the time you finish, Scotch is impatiently tossing his head, and you let him into the paddock with an affectionate pat on his rump.

Jack’s just about done with Whiskey. Glancing up at you, he nods towards the house. ‘Go ahead, darlin’, your bag will be in there. There’s a bathtub if you feel like it, so take your time. I’ll come in when the horses are settled.’

‘Alright, I’ll see you in there,’ you reply, plucking your pack from where it’s lying on the grass, and a couple of others as well, and walk up to the house.

The stairs to the porch creak under your boots and the door grinds on its hinges when you swing it inwards. It’s stuffy, so you open a window to let the breeze in, and it sweeps through the space as you glance around appreciatively. The house is cozy with low-maintenance stone floors and plush rugs in front of a huge sofa and a wood-burning fireplace. A stack of logs sits neatly next to it.

The kitchen is open-plan and modern, surprisingly high-spec for a house in the middle of nowhere. There are multiple cooking hobs, a big double sink, and high stools are neatly arranged around the kitchen island. The more formal dining table can easily seat a dozen.

Despite the high ceilings held up by wooden beams, you can’t help but feel somewhat closed in with a roof above you.

As you move about the space, your ears pick up on the low hum of electricity, and your phone vibrates in your pocket from new messages coming in - it’s strange to be back in civilisation after just three days away. You idly wonder how Jack jumps between these two worlds.

The bag you packed for the second part of the trip, with a fresh supply of clean clothes, is sitting in the living room. Hitching it onto your shoulder, you venture down the corridor on the far side of the house, ready to clean up for the day.

Pushing open the first door of many, you peer into the comfortable space. It’s roomy and welcoming despite the simple furnishings - but if you’re being honest with yourself, you only need the king-sized bed in the middle of the room.

The bedroom has a clear view of the paddock through the window, and you set your bag down on the desk next to it. You linger for a little while, half digging into your bag for a change of clothes and half watching Jack brush down Bourbon.

His sleeves are pushed up past the crease of his elbow today - the beginnings of the bulge of his biceps peeking from underneath the fabric. Then he bends over by the waist to lift up Bourbon’s hind leg, checking if there are any small stones or caked dirt in the hooves that need to be removed - granting you an unobstructed view of his pert backside and the strong columns of his thighs from behind.

You turn around before you get too wound up. The last thing you need is him catching you masturbating in the shower too.

Taking one of the fluffy towels on the bed, you go in search of the bathroom, which is a couple of more doors down. Jack wasn’t lying - a stately clawfoot bathtub takes prime position in the space, but what you really need after three days in the wild is a deep clean in the shower. The bath will have to wait.

You take your time, relishing the strong shower stream and hot water as it will be another few days before you get the chance to take another one. You condition your hair and run your razor over your legs and underarms. You tidy up down there as well - maybe a bit too hopefully.

There must be a second bathroom in the house. When you finally step out of the shower, you hear another one shut off. Towelling dry, you pull on the cutest outfit you brought on the trip - your favourite jeans with a flattering cut and a long-sleeved blouse that shows just a hint of cleavage.

There’s a hairdryer which you make full use of, and you dig into your sponge bag for the minimal makeup that you brought. You hear Jack puttering around while you dab concealer under your eyes and colour on your cheeks. When you’re done, you pace nervously in front of the mirror, picking off invisible lint from your clothes and studying your reflection critically.

You can’t put off leaving the safety of the bathroom forever. Taking a deep breath and squaring your shoulders, you open the door and walk into the living space.

It’s strange seeing Jack in a domestic setting. You haven’t even been indoors with him yet, if you don’t count the stables. He’s in clean jeans and a light shirt, wearing socks but no shoes. His hair is wet and sits a bit closer to the scalp than it does than when it’s dry.

Prepping bowls and crockery are spread over the kitchen island, but you’re sure there’s a method to his madness. He’s easily commanding the space, wiping a kitchen knife with a tea towel and setting it on the chopping board. He’s humming to himself with his broad back to you, unaware as you pad quietly into his space.

‘What’s that song?’ you ask as you sidle up to him.

Jack doesn’t miss a beat, even when you catch him by surprise. He hums a bit louder before answering, ‘It’s called Strawberry Roan.’

You grin at the name of the song. ‘I love it - cowboy music. I’ll play it on Spotify?’

‘Spotify what?’

You shake your head as you connect your phone to the bluetooth speakers, and brisk guitar chords fill the space. ‘I know you’re old-fashioned, but at least try to keep up?’

I was hangin' 'round town, just spendin' my time

Out of a job, not earnin' a dime

A feller steps up and he said, "I suppose

You're a bronc fighter from looks of your clothes"

"You figures me right, I'm a good one" I claim

"Do you happen to have any bad ones to tame?"

Jack dips in and out of the song as you watch him organise his mise en place, his throaty crooning has you leaning on the table as your knees wobble. A few choruses in, you remark, ‘It’s strange seeing you cook in an actual kitchen. All you’re missing is an apron.’

He narrows his gaze as you pat yourself on the back for your bright idea. You rummage through random cabinet drawers until you find one, in a gingham print with a loud, frilly border, brandishing it triumphantly like a prize.

‘C’mon, it goes with your plaid,’ you tease.

‘No ma’am,’ he says sternly. ‘I’m not wearing that.’

Ignoring his protests, you walk straight up to him and stand on your toes to loop the apron around his neck. You could’ve - probably should’ve - circled around to do up the apron from behind. But instead, grabbing the ends of the strings, you pull them back and tie them around his waist with your nose to his very warm chest, catching the whiff of soap on his skin and fabric softener on his shirt.

If you’re being honest with yourself, you miss the musk of his sweat and the scent of leather that he seems to wear like a second skin - but you might be crossing the boundary of reason if you begrudge a man for practising personal hygiene.

Drawing your hands back to rest on your hips, you tip your face up at him impishly. ‘The apron suits you, cowboy.’

He shakes his head, but a ghost of a smile tugs at his lips as he taps the tip of your nose with a spatula. ‘Don’t get used to this, darlin’.’

What does he mean by this, exactly? Him cooking for you? Him letting you do whatever you want, as long as you flirt your way out of trouble?

Well, it’s too bloody late either way.

Reluctantly, you step back, rounding the counter to sit on a stool. His eyes follow you, and he says, ‘You look nice tonight.’

It’s not fair how even the most mundane of compliments from him sends your pulse racing.

‘Thanks, you too,’ you answer, a sudden shyness creeping in, and you twine your fingers together so they don’t fidget. Changing the subject, you ask, ‘So, what’s for dinner?’

‘Poppy really went all out.’ Jack spins around to open the fridge and heaves a fully-laden tray to the kitchen island, reciting the menu to you. ‘You have three options - a beautiful ribeye from our neighbouring cattle ranch, wild-caught salmon from California or a vegetarian lasagne with produce from our own farm. Or all three,’ he adds with a wink.

‘Steak sounds good,’ you reply excitedly. All the meals on the trip so far have been mostly vegetarian, which is understandable due to the lack of refrigeration, but you can do with some variety.

‘I was hoping you’d pick that,’ smiles Jack, transplanting the two thick steaks onto a chopping board, then pops the rest back into the fridge. ‘And of course, there will be Poppy’s famous chocolate cake for dessert.’

Your tummy rumbles - breakfast was a while ago. ‘Perfect.’

‘You want a drink while I cook? I’m not letting the birthday girl lift a finger today.’

‘Maybe a Coke if there’s one?’

Jack pulls a can out of the fridge and pops it open, then pours it into a glass with ice, setting it in front of you on the counter. ‘I thought you weren’t hungover?’

You take a sip, the carbonation bubbling on your tongue. ‘I’m not, just taking it easy. I’ll have a glass of wine with dinner.’

Elbows on the countertop, you watch Jack bustle about the kitchen, just as at home as he is in the saddle. Steady fingers turn the knobs on the oven at precise angles before five measured steps bring him back to the fridge. One large hand easily holds a bunch of asparagus, shallots and mushrooms from the vegetable drawer, the other grabbing a casserole dish of ready-made potato dauphinoise. There’s no hesitation as he plucks oils and condiments from the shelf, lining everything up on the kitchen island.

‘So, was cooking part of the job description when Champ recruited you?’ you ask conversationally.

Satisfied the oven is preheated, he slides the potato dish in to bake and sets the timer. ‘It wasn’t even a consideration when I first joined. It was sandwiches and cereal bars for a long time, but when Poppy came on board she really turned things around.’

‘When was that?’

Jack tilts his head to the side as if counting the years. ‘About seven years ago. It was like boot camp, we were cooped up in the kitchen all winter, all day long, to get up to speed before pack trip season started. Tequila still needs a bit more help, so Poppy preps more things for him when he’s on duty. But I enjoy doing it.’

The ice in your glass clinks as you swirl it around. ‘So you didn’t cook before that?’

He seasons the steaks with salt and black pepper. ‘Not much, my wife did most of it. But I had to learn to fend for myself pretty quickly. What about you?’

Your heart swells warmly at the spontaneous mention of his wife. It doesn’t escape your notice that it wasn’t accompanied by any wary glance or hesitation. Like he trusts you enough to bring her up in casual conversation with you.

Realising you’re slow to respond, you reply, ‘My ex and I used to take turns cooking, me more than him. It’s a bit more effort to cook for just one nowadays, so I’ve been getting a lot of takeaway.’

He looks up from the shallots he’s peeling expertly. ‘He called you last night, didn’t he? Your ex?’

You pinch your lips. ‘How did you know?’

‘Your face fell pretty spectacularly when your phone rang.’

Yeah, because he was just about to kiss you.

You shrug. ‘I told him not to contact me this week. It was probably about the house we’re trying to sell.’

Jack arches an eyebrow and cuts off the ends of the shallots. ‘You sure he’s not trying to get you back?’

You snort. ‘That ship has long sailed, cowboy. Boarded by pirates. Set on fire. Sunk to the bottom of Davy Jones Locker. Eaten by the Kraken.’

That draws a chuckle from him. ‘So - that’s a no?’

‘A hard no,’ you confirm.

Warm brown eyes hold yours as one corner of his lips ticks up in a smile. ‘Good.’

You chew the inside of your mouth. ‘Yeah?’

He nods in the affirmative. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

Tension hums between you again, but before it gets too heavy, you sneakily slide a hand over to the asparagus. Jack raps you on the back of your fingers playfully. ‘No. You’re not helping tonight.’

You pout. ‘Please?’

He sighs and gives in with a lopsided smile. ‘Anythin’ you want, darlin’.’

The steak is delicious cooked, if Jack may say so himself. It was the right call to make the Béarnaise from scratch, even though it’s a pain in the ass - or rather, in the arm. Watching you happily smear the last of your steak through the creamy sauce makes all the whisking worthwhile.

The two of you are perched at the kitchen island, bookending an intimate corner, a vase of wildflowers sitting between your plates. Earlier that morning, he caught the way your gaze lingered on the meadow as you mounted Scotch, obviously finding it hard to leave. He cut a bunch of blooms with the Swiss knife he keeps in his shirt pocket while you weren’t looking, putting it away in one of the saddle bags.

Your eyes softened when they alighted on the slightly crushed flowers as he laid the table, which in turn, softened his.

Red wine - one sensible serving each - sits low in the glasses when Jack clears the counter surface, setting the empty plates in the sink.

Drying his hands with a tea towel, he asks, ‘Can you give me a few minutes, darlin’?’

Polishing off your drink, you give him a quizzical look. ‘What for?’

He pulls an imaginary zip across his mouth with a shrug.

With a roll of your eyes, you slide off your seat and give him a little shove on the shoulder in warning as you pass by. ‘You better not be planning anything funny, cowboy.’

It’s getting chilly despite the windows being just cracked open. As soon as he hears your door shut with a soft thud, Jack starts with getting a fire going in the antique fireplace which Champ bought from an auction a few years back. He collects the cake from the spare room where it’s been left to thaw from the fridge chill for the past hour - under strict instruction from Poppy - and sets it down gently on the kitchen island.

Hands on hips, he glances about for the birthday candles. An inconspicuous paper bag sits untouched on the counter by the fridge. That must be it. He grabs it and peeks inside -

- only to find a spanking new pack of twenty extra-large condoms.

Thinking he hears movement, Jack hastily closes up the bag and shoves it into the space on top of the fridge in a panic, spinning around with his heart thumping in his ears as he fully expects you to catch him red-handed and sweaty-palmed.

He sighs in relief when an empty living room stares back at him.

Fuck’s sake. He bets that it’s Tequila’s idea of a joke. He scoffs to himself as he shakes his head at his co-worker’s antics. He got the extra-large part right - he'll give him that. But a twenty pack? Really?

He eventually does find the candles in a drawer near the dishwasher, and he plants one delicately in the middle of the cake. Spotting the other party decorations in storage, an idea comes to him.

You’re reapplying a lightly tinted lip balm when you hear Jack call your name.

All the lights in the living room and kitchen are off when you emerge from the corridor, the only source of illumination being the roaring fire in the hearth. It’s strangely comforting to see Jack in the familiar firelight. You cross your arms. ‘What’s all this, cowboy?’

He tips his head towards the door. ‘Someone wants to say happy birthday.’

Only then do you realise that the porch light is on, and a laugh tumbles from your lips when your head finally makes sense of what you’re seeing.

All three horses are hovering at the door, birthday hats hanging from one ear, sparkly tinsel around their necks. They seem confused but not unhappy to hang about the doorway - with the air of teenagers being cajoled into doing something vaguely embarrassing by their dad.

You give each of them a well-deserved cuddle, promising them extra treats tomorrow for being such good sports. At Jack’s smooth baritone singing happy birthday, you turn around and watch him approach with a wicked-looking chocolate cake. Your cheeks ache at how wide you’re beaming when he stops in front of you.

‘Make a wish, darlin’,’ he prompts, eyes flecked with gold as the candle flickers in the breeze coming through the front door.

You do - eyes closed and hands clasped together - and blow out the flame.

‘Ginger did promise I’d have the best birthday ever.’

‘And did we deliver?’

‘You know you did. Thank you, Jack.’

The plush cushions laid out on the rugs are kind on your sore muscles as you lean back lazily against the sofa, the fire warming your bare feet. Your plate of half-eaten chocolate cake lies abandoned on the floor. It’s sinfully rich and delicious, but you’re so stuffed that you can’t bring yourself to have another bite.

A buzz from your phone draws your gaze.

‘You can reply to your friends if you want,’ Jack says.

You wave him off. ‘No, I’ll do it later. I want to send a picture to my parents though - take a selfie with me?’

‘Sure.’

He shuffles closer, draping an arm on the seat of the sofa, brushing the ridge of your shoulders. You fit into his side comfortably, the turn of his strong shoulder pressing into your nape. Boldly, you lean your head against his so his moustache tickles your temple, and snap the photo.

‘It’s a cute picture,’ he comments when you show him, chin brushing your shoulder.

Neither of you move away when you open up Whatsapp to send it to your mum. As you do, you accidentally brush the Tinder notification that appears on top of the screen, which takes you to the app.

You laugh and tilt the screen towards Jack. ‘Look who showed up on my Tinder?’

He snorts, amused. ‘Tequila. I'd be disappointed if he wasn't.’

You scroll through the photos while Jack watches, sniggering, ‘Why am I not surprised that he’s topless in four out of five photos?’

He rolls his eyes, but there’s an undeniable fondness in his tone. ‘That’s Teak for you - always the exhibitionist. We once had a bachelorette party book a private tour and Champ put him on it - he never did tell us exactly what happened on that trip.’

‘So… should I swipe right, or…?’ you trail off.

‘What’s swiping right again?’

‘If you like the look of someone, you swipe right. Like, they’re right for you.’

He stares at you closely. ‘So? What’s it gonna be?’

You swipe left unceremoniously and Tequila’s profile falls off the screen. ‘Not my type.’

You feel a rumble of a laugh in his chest pressed against your side. ‘What is your type then, darlin’?’

Is he being deliberately obtuse?

You nudge him in the ribs with your elbow for his insolence, and he grunts, pretending to double over in pain and catching your wrists to immobilise you.

Heat runs up and down your spine at his touch, and you put your nose in the air. ‘Don’t think I’ll just spill my secrets like that, cowboy. Your turn.’

Any disappointment of him letting go of you is tempered by the way his weight pushes into your side as he struggles to get his phone out from his very tight jeans.

‘Alright, here goes nothin’,’ he grumbles and taps on the fire icon.

A woman shows up on his screen, exuding confidence and sex appeal. You make a noise of appreciation at her curls and red lipstick as he flips through the photos.

With a nonchalant shrug, Jack makes to swipe left when you stop him. ‘Whoa, hold your horses cowboy, what’s wrong with her?’

‘Nothin’, she’s just not my type.’

Your eyebrows reach for your hairline. ‘Not your type? She’s gorgeous.’

He swipes to a photo where the woman is holding a cocktail, wearing a plunging black dress. ‘Look at her nails. I can’t go out with someone like that.’

You scoff, ‘I’m not saying marry her. I’m saying, if you met her in a bar, wouldn't you pick her up?’

Jack gives you a long-suffering stare. ‘Darlin’, I’m not interested. Do I have your permission to swipe left? Please?’

‘Fine,’ you grouse, shrinking into yourself.

If a woman like that can’t sway Jack Daniels’ interest, you don’t know who can.

Certainly not you.

As he swipes the woman out of view, your profile pops up.

His fingers find your shoulder and he gives you a squeeze, along with a teasing grin. ‘Well, well, look who I found.’

You squirm at your own face smiling back at you on the screen. Coming after that beautiful woman, you feel like an absolute sucker. Like the kid who's unfortunate enough to go after the prom queen’s dance and musical number in the high school talent show.

‘What were you doing here?’ he asks, pausing at one of the pictures where you have a champagne glass in hand.

‘It was my best friend’s wedding.’

‘It’s a great photo of you,’ he smiles at you.

‘Thanks.’

After clicking through the rest of the photos, you panic when you see where his finger is poised to go. ‘Wait - what are you doing?’

Jack turns to you, confused. ‘I’m swiping right.’

You shake your head. ‘No, you swipe right if you’re interested.’

He looks amused at how you drag out the word as if it’s four separate ones. He nods slowly, ‘I know, darlin’.’

You blink. ‘But… you weren’t interested in the last one.’

‘Yes, and?’

You squint at him. ‘She’s gorgeous. And I…’

‘What?’ he prompts you.

‘I - I look nothing like her.’

He throws his hands up in frustration. ‘I don’t know how many other ways I can put this, darlin’. I’m not interested in her.’

‘Why not?’ you ask, almost accusingly.

‘Why should I be?’

You sigh, agitated. ‘Because you’re so handsome and she’s beautiful -’

‘You’re beautiful,’ he interrupts you.

That shuts you up. Your heart is set to claw its way out of your chest any moment, especially when he’s looking at you like that.

‘You really mean to swipe right?’ you ask in the smallest voice.

A smile twists his lips. ‘I kissed you, didn’t I?’

‘I thought it was like - a happy birthday kiss,’ you admit with air quotes.

He laughs, the rich sound warming you. ‘You think I just kiss anyone who has their birthday on a pack trip? Like how you get a free dessert at Applebee’s?’

You flush. ‘I don’t know!’

He chuckles, reaching out to brush your cheek with the back of his fingers. ‘Darlin’, I can assure you, I don’t just go ‘round kissin’ guests.’

With that, he swipes right emphatically, and your phone buzzes with the notification that there are new potential matches nearby.

From the corner of your eye, you see his profile, which you set up for him just yesterday, come up.

You turn to meet his stare. Without even glancing at the screen, you swipe right - there’s a matching ping from both of your phones.

Jack’s voice drops an octave, raspy in the tense silence. ‘So - what happens now?’

If you were with another man, your mind would’ve wandered - thinking about how you haven’t been with anyone but your ex for the last three years. Worrying about how you haven’t felt a man’s touch in months, if you’d be any good.

But it’s not any other man. It’s Jack. And he’s kissing you, lips latched to yours wet and restless, every stuttering exhale sending your head spinning. One big hand curls around your waist, the other sliding down your denim-covered thigh to twist your body towards him. Your head is full of him - his earthy scent with a touch leather, hoarse grunts as he swipes his tongue into your desperate mouth. You taste chocolate on his tongue - and dark rum, must be Poppy's secret ingredient - as it moulds around yours.

You can only cling to him, one arm hooked around the back of his neck, fingers sneaking into his still damp hair as you angle your mouth to kiss him deeper. Your other hand finds the seat of the couch as you clamber atop of him, your knees on either side of his slim hips.

You haven’t made out with a man, fully-clothed, in years. Jack seems happy to keep kissing you - deeply and skilfully - like he has all the time in the world. You jump when he cups your bottom through your jeans, nails scratching a path down the back of your thighs, making you whimper.

‘Jack,’ you pant when you pull back for air, eyes struggling to focus on his intense gaze on you.

His next words are unexpected.

‘I have to tell you somethin’.’

Your stomach drops and your body, pliable under him just now, goes board-stiff as dread runs icy in your veins. You jump to the worst conclusion - was he just joking that he wanted you? Is this some kind of elaborate prank? You should’ve known it’s too good to be true -

Jack senses your anxiety and holds your face between his palms, calloused palms grounding you and resting his forehead on yours. ‘Darlin’, listen, it’s nothin’ serious. I just want it to be out in the open between us before anythin’ else happens.’

‘Okay,’ you exhale shakily.

He takes a breath, and says, ‘Champ - I think he meant to set us up.’

You blink. ‘How do you mean?’

He adjusts his grip on you, hands falling to your waist to pull you close. ‘The Kingsman have been comin’ to the ranch every year in the same week for the past ten years. There’s no way they just rescheduled - I know for a fact Champ changed their dates just so he can get us alone.’

A chuckle bubbles in your throat and you let out a low whistle. ‘That’s a bold move.’

He grins. ‘That’s Champ for you. Can’t say I’m too mad at him right now though.’

‘Me neither. In fact - I think I owe him a fruit basket.’

He’s still chortling when you kiss him again. And this time, he pushes your hips into his unequivocally, and you gasp at the hard bulge in his jeans that nudges at you insistently. You rub against him, the heat and tension quickly escalating between you.

Jack skims his teeth along your exposed collarbone and his palms find their way under your blouse. ‘It’s a very pretty top, darlin’ - can I take it off?’

‘Please.’

The hitch in his breath when your bra comes into view goes straight to your head. You bait him teasingly, ‘You’ve seen me in a bra before, cowboy.’

He tries to smile at you, but it comes out as a pained grimace. ‘I remember darlin’ - you made me just as hard that time.’

Your lips part in a question. ‘What?’

He drags a kiss over your neck as he confesses, ‘When you jumped on me in the lake, you got me so hard. I had to rub one out in the shower. Came all over my fist thinkin’ about your beautiful tits pressed up against me.’

You can’t believe what you’re hearing, but it’s alright because Jack kisses his way down the swell of your breasts before sucking a nipple into his mouth through the thin fabric, making you squirm. ‘Can I take this off, darlin’?’

In your delirium, your fingers skid uselessly off the buckle, so he reaches back to help you, working the clasp open with a practised flick. He peels the bra from you, and with reverential hands, he pushes your breasts together and his tongue laves a wet trail from tip to aching tip.

‘Jack,’ you whine. There’s too much denim between you, it’s not enough. You feel the slick dripping from between your legs, probably staining your jeans, even though he’s gone nowhere near it. ‘Want you. Now.’

‘Want you too, darlin’,’ he growls into your skin.

A thought strikes you suddenly, like thunder on a clear day, and you push him back with clumsy hands. ‘Wait - wait. Do you have any protection on you?’

Jack freezes, and your heart drops. It’s not like there’s a corner shop you can nip out to for a quick purchase -

He clears his throat and peers at you sheepishly from under thick eyelashes. ‘Ok this is embarrassin’ - but they sent a box of condoms with the cake.’

Relief floods you as you burst out laughing. ‘You wouldn’t believe the five-star rave review I’m going to leave on Tripadvisor.’

You bounce off the surface of the bed where Jack drops you, bare back hitting the soft duvet. Just that sensation alone is enough to make you moan.

Your top and bra are abandoned where he took them off you on the floor in front of the fireplace. His shirt is discarded somewhere between the living room and your bedroom.

Blood pounds in your ears as you watch Jack take off his jeans, pushing them down and kicking them off impatiently, together with his socks. He crawls over you, cock straining in the confines of his boxers. There’s just something about being underneath this man that has your heartbeat rioting in your chest. Blinking up at him through your lashes, so broad and all-encompassing that you can barely see anything other than his silhouette, you pull him down by the nape of his neck for another kiss. Your lips are swollen but you don’t care, wanting more.

You reach down to unbutton your own jeans and undo the zipper, the metallic purr loud in the stillness. His big hands join yours, shucking the denim from your skin, leaving you writhing in your soaked panties. A low groan echoes in his rib cage as he hovers over you, close enough that you feel his body heat, but not close enough to touch. You arch off the bed for contact, and he deliberately holds back with a cocky smile that has you letting out an almost bratty wail, which makes him grin even wider. Dragging his eyes over your almost naked form, he patiently kisses down your throat and sucks an earlobe into his wet mouth.

Jack drawls into your ear, his voice deep as sin. ‘I want you to show me how you touched yourself that night, darlin’. When you were thinkin’ about me.’

Your eyes widen, biting down hard on your bottom lip. Hooking your fingers into the sides of your panties, you slowly push them down your hips, bringing your knees up to untangle them from your ankles. Jack’s nostrils flare when you part your legs and his dark stare lands on your pussy.

‘You’re so pretty, darlin’,’ he praises you, one hand palming the back of your thigh before pushing it right up against your body, splaying you open to his hungry gaze.

You’ve never done this, never let anyone watch you touch yourself - the debauchery makes your pussy clench. But there’s no taint of embarrassment with the way he’s staring down at you, jaw slack and his hands gripping hard on your inner thighs as if he needs to keep them open - not that he has to, you want him to see.

Dipping into the wetness that’s pooled in your pussy, you trace a glossy trail up to your clit, just like you did that night in the dark. With two fingers, you circle and rub and tease, and you hope he can hear how wet you are over your panting breath.

‘That’s it, darlin’,’ he whispers fiercely, his moustache tickling your ear. ‘Tell me - does it feel good?’

Somehow, you muster the sass to talk back, ‘I bet your fingers will feel better.’

That unleashes a feral growl from Jack, and he surges forward to kiss you, before ripping away from your face to grab your wrist, sucking your fingers into his mouth. Pressing into the cradle of your thighs, his clothed erection grinds into your wetness, making you wriggle beneath him. ‘You taste amazin’. What about my tongue? Please - can I eat this gorgeous pussy?’

Self-doubt pins you to the mattress, unmoving. You avoid his keen eyes that have no doubt picked up on your sudden change in demeanour.

What kind of woman would turn down such an offer? That girl he swiped left on Tinder certainly wouldn’t have. What would he think of you?

A gentle kiss pressed to your lips dislodges your thoughts. ‘You can say no, darlin’. I can make you come with my fingers, and my cock,’ he groans when a shiver runs through you. ‘Or maybe even my words would be enough?’

You mewl, and he hums into your throat. ‘As much as I love these sounds you’re making, tell me what you want, darlin’.’

‘Can we take a raincheck on your mouth?’ you ask timidly.

A gentle thumb brushes your cheek. ‘Of course. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable with the suggestion.’

Recovering your composure - or lack thereof - you give him a crooked smile and reach up to grip his broad shoulders, letting his weight anchor you to the present. ‘I’m far from uncomfortable, cowboy.’

He chuckles and retorts, ‘But I don’t want you to be comfortable, darlin’. I want to make you come so hard you can’t walk tomorrow.’

You choke on an inhale at his words, but somehow, you manage a brash comeback. ‘Good thing we’re travelling by horseback, huh?’

A laugh rumbles in his chest as he takes your lips again, and you sag under his ministrations. Easing your thighs apart, two fingers glide over your sensitive clit, mapping invisible patterns as he mouths at your neck, your hips thrusting into the contact. You feel him rut against your hip, a shudder running through your bodies in tandem as he pushes one finger into your heat.

‘Fuck,’ he husks as he sinks all the way in down to the knuckle. ‘Such a tight pussy, darlin’.’

‘More,’ you say bossily, and you breathe a yes - both in relief and also not enough - when he reenters you with two fingers.

He shifts, bracing himself on one side so he can watch him emerge from you, shiny with your slick, before pushing them back in. Your pussy is loud, squelching around his thick digits as he pumps deeply into you. You cry out when he brings his other hand to your clit, rubbing insistently, and he grunts at the gush of wetness he feels around him.

‘That’s it,’ he growls. ‘Getting so wet on my fingers, darlin’. Can’t wait to feel you on my cock - fuck, I’m so hard for you.’

‘Harder, Jack,’ you urge him, hips lifting from the bed to get more friction. ‘I’m gonna cum.’

No sooner do the words leave your mouth when you feel it - your stomach starts to tighten and the air gets knocked clean out of your lungs in anticipation of the fall. Jack eases up and over your body again, whispering encouragingly in your ear as you break, telling you in his delicious Southern timbre how tight your cunt is squeezin’ him, how you’re drippin’ on him, how he can’t wait to push his cock into you.

You seek out his mouth, teeth and tongue connecting as your high gives way to a drunken sluggishness. Your limbs are heavy as you pull him down onto you, caging your smaller body in his grasp, still inside you, relishing the snug fit even as your pussy stills.

He kicks off his boxers, and you jump when he brushes the velvety underside of his cock through your wet folds. He slurs against the shell of your ear, ‘Want you now, darlin’.’

‘Yes’ you beg, head thrown back into the soft bed. ‘Need you inside me.’

He fumbles with a condom packet, tearing it open with trembling hands before rolling the rubber over himself. You watch him, running your palms languidly up and down his firm back, which has him preening under your touch. ‘You definitely didn’t photoshop that nude pic, cowboy.’

‘As if I’d know how to do that,’ he chuckles, settling on top of you again. You hook your knees onto his hips, gasping when he runs a finger along your leaking seam. ‘Ready for me?’

With a nod, you reach down to line up his tip with your entrance, your noses bumping together, and you stop breathing as you both listen to the wet give of your cunt as he nudges just the head in. The air is pushed out of your lungs as he inches in, his grip bruising on your inner thighs as he grits his teeth. ‘So tight, darlin’. You feel fuckin’ incredible.’

Too full to make a sound, you can only stare when his face twist into pained pleasure when he finally fills you to the hilt. Your words come out garbled. ‘Jack - you’re so big.’

Something like possessiveness colours his tone, and he pinches your chin so that you have nowhere to look but at him. ‘Yeah, darlin’? Am I bigger than your ex?’

‘So much bigger,’ you whine.

He shudders like it’s exactly what he wants to hear, shifting just the tiniest bit inside you, which is enough to make you moan. ‘Good. You ready for me to fuck you with my big cock, darlin’?’

Remembering the way he reacted yesterday, you scrape together the last of your brain cells to say with all the cheek you can muster. ‘Yes, sir.’

Oh, the way his eyes turn completely black as your words sink in has you squirming and fisting the sheets. He swallows thickly, and you see his arms flex as he holds his body over you to watch your face. He draws back slowly, savouring the slow slide out of the tight clench of your pussy - mercy, even that feels incredible - before plunging back into you with a reckless snap of his hips, eliciting a loud cry from you that he swallows in a hard kiss.

Maybe you’re naive, but you didn’t know missionary can be like this. The way he’s groaning into your throat, into your tits as he sucks on them, makes your insides twist and your nails dig into the meat of his ass. When he’s had his fill, he plasters his firm front to you, pressing your foreheads and your humid, panting breaths together. It’s so intimate your eyes slide shut of their own accord, and you snag onto his dark hair to press him deeper into your skin as he scrapes his teeth from your clavicle to your shoulder, the sensation making you keen. The lewd, rhythmic slap of skin on skin makes you even wetter, the blunt drag of his cock in your pussy makes you keen for more.

‘Harder,’ you whimper. ‘I can take it, Jack.’

Pulling back suddenly, he sits up on his knees, and you have a split second to trace your heavy eyes over him - skin flushed in the moonlight, the firm lines of his arms swelling and contracting as he manhandles you clean off the bed, still buried deep inside you, rearranging your legs around his waist. Leaning over you, one hand by your head and the other holding your curve of your ass, he fucks into you, harder and deeper at this angle. He feels bigger like this, barely squeezing into you without a fight.

‘Like this, darlin’?’ he asks you, but by the way he’s smiling down at you - warmly but with just a healthy touch of confidence - it’s clearly a rhetorical question.

‘Yes, yes, yes!’ you call out anyway even though he doesn’t need the endorsement. You grab onto the pillows behind you as he jostles your entire body, making the bed shake on its frame. His lips catch one nipple after the other as they jiggle lasciviously under his movements.

‘Such a good girl, askin’ for what she wants,’ he grunts, regarding you with dark eyes. ‘Need to feel you cum on my cock. Will you give me one more, darlin’?’

You nod frantically as two of his fingers breach your swollen lips, and you suck crudely on them. You savour the look of utter abandon on his face as he watches your little show, tasting yourself on his skin. Now spit-slick, they retreat - almost reluctantly - from your mouth to find your clit again, sensitive as you shudder from even the gentlest touch. It won’t take much, his cock begins to hit somewhere deep inside that makes you quiver.

This one starts deep inside you. The beginning of a devastating high that swells and builds inside your pussy as he continues to pound into you, granting you no quarter - until you’re clenching desperately around him, tugging on his hair and screaming his name. His rhythm starts to stutter and broken words fall from his lips. ‘That’s it, darlin’ - you feel amazin’ - oh fuck yes, ride it out with me, ride it - I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna -’

Is it wrong that he wishes he’s fucking you with nothing in between? That he’s cumming into your bare, pulsing cunt, instead of the condom? That he wants to see you dripping with him, just so that he can swipe at the dribble and have you lick his fingers clean?

With one last push of his hips, his arms give and he crumples onto you, barely managing to hold his weight so he doesn’t crush you. He hums at the way your body rises and falls against him as you catch your breath. You squeak, voice hoarse from how vocal you’ve been, when he rubs his nose into your throat’s sensitive hollow. Your body instinctively seeks him out as you stretch languidly, movements slow as syrup as the adrenaline seeps from your system, only to leave a deeply sated exhaustion.

The sweat that’s pooled in the dip of his back is rapidly cooling, and he feels goosebumps break across your bare skin as the chill sets in. Shifting off of you, he presses his front to your back and yanks the duvet from beneath him to drape it over you both, pressing a wet kiss on the nape of your neck as his softened cock falls out of you, making you shiver.

The condom is so slippery with your cum that he can barely get any purchase on it. Carefully removing it and tying it up, he throws it at the trash can by the bedside table when you twist around to smile at him. He returns it, leaning over to kiss you.

‘Did you - was it - good for you?’ he asks with a touch of insecurity that you find infinitely endearing.

‘I would count any day with two orgasms as a pretty good one,’ you joke with a lazy grin, your eyelids drooping as you slide your hand over his bigger one, tracing your fingertips over the ridges and veins. ‘But seriously - I think you’ve ruined all future birthdays for me. So thanks for that, cowboy.’

And if you’re being honest with yourself - he’s probably ruined all other men for you as well.

But that’s a whole other can of worms you can’t open right now.

‘Good. That was exactly what I was goin’ for,’ he flashes you a playfully smug smile.

He gathers you into his arms so that your head is tucked underneath his chin, his body bracketing yours with an arm around your waist. Wanting to feel every part of you, he wedges a leg between yours so that he’s entirely tangled up in you.

He knows, without looking, the exact moment you fall asleep - your soft body going pliant in his grasp and your breath evening out all at once.

More often than not, he can’t sleep after sex. In that midnight purgatory, his fingers almost always itch for a cigarette that he has long given up and guilt usually finds a way to settle deep into his bones when the pleasure dissipates, leaving him staring blankly at the ceiling until it’s light enough for him to sneak out and drive away.

But tonight, he lets go of all of that.

Neither of you move until the morning light spills in through the window at sunrise.

Jack's Tinder profile:

Horsey notes (optional reading): Temperament varies widely by breed and by personality of each horse. The school I used to ride at retrains racehorses for schooling, and I don't think any of the thoroughbreds would let you anywhere near them with tinsel 😂 One thing that you could do with a horse is desensitisation training. It's a wonderful thing to do and you have a much safer horse if they don't spook at every little thing or sound.

#jack daniels fanfic #jack daniels x f!reader #jack daniels x you #jack daniels x reader #jack daniels x fem!reader #jack daniels #jack whiskey daniels #kingsman golden circle #kingsman fanfiction #agent whiskey x f!reader #agent whiskey x female reader #agent whiskey x you #agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey #jack daniels au #agent whiskey au

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drabbles-mc · 4 months

Text

No Good Time For This

Sydney Adamu x Richie Jerimovich

For the loveliest @hausofmamadas for the Fic in a Box Exchange

Warnings: 18+, language, smoking, all the chaos and ridiculousness you expect with The Bear

Word Count: 7.5k

A/N: the way i want to write 500000000 fics for SydRichie. But this is a start. Thank you Kay for giving me the chance to do this. Big loves to you 💕

The Bear Taglist: @withmyteeth @darqchilddaydreamz @garbinge @ashlingnarcos @narcolini @justreblogginfics (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

She considered it a small miracle, maybe even a blessing, that when she came back inside they were still sawing their way through the door of the walk-in. If it had been a normal Friends and Family night, she would’ve stuck around and waited for them to free Carmy from his self-imposed confines so that they could talk, rehash the things that had gone well, things that needed to go better next time. But it hadn’t been a normal one. Or maybe it had—she hadn’t had the pleasure of launching her own restaurant like this before. Everything about Sheridan Road had been different. So for all she knew the absolute bedlam they’d been dealing with was par for the course.

But she was still pretty sure that it wasn’t.

Either way, she knew that she wasn’t in the right headspace to stick around and try to talk it out with Carmy. There was no getting to the bottom of whatever everything was, not tonight. So she slipped through, grabbing her things as she went, not even bothering to hang up her brand new chef’s jacket in her locker. She’d just make a point to remember it in the morning when she was getting ready to leave. The immediate relief of one less thing standing between her and the door was worth the extra step tomorrow.

She saw the way that Ebra was looking on over the shoulder of the man who had shown up to free Carmy. That was enough to reassure her that she was free to leave. Even if she wasn’t, there was nothing that Carmy could scream at her for in that moment that he couldn’t just as easily scream at her for tomorrow. It could wait. He could wait. All the waiting that he’d made her do in the months leading up to this, she couldn’t deny that it felt a little right to leave him there and make him wait until tomorrow to see her or talk to her. She wouldn’t have gone out of her way to dodge him, but the universe was lining her up for the perfect shot at the moment, so she was going to take it.

When she walked out the front door, she wasn’t expecting to see Richie standing there smoking a cigarette, looking just about as lost as she felt. He turned around at the sound of the door shutting behind him. His eyes locked onto Sydney and he wanted to muster up some sort of reaction to it being her, but he just couldn’t quite manage it. There was the tiniest lift of his eyebrows, an almost imperceptible upward tilt of his head, but that was it. Sydney’s reaction was about the same.

“Thought you went home,” she said as she stepped so that she was beside him.

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

It was different, weird even, to hear Richie’s tone sounding so neutral. He always had some kind of an inflection in his voice, even if it was an annoying one. He was always yelling, or laughing, or arguing to prove a point that no one else in the world cared enough to try and make. Even his most pointless stories were always told with a sense of urgency. So to hear him sound like that, so flat and almost empty, after one of the biggest nights for them in the last few months, didn’t sit quite right.

There was a comment on the tip of Syd’s tongue, something to the effect of telling him that he should go home. Then it hit her that she didn’t really know if she wanted to go home either. She didn’t want to be inside, didn’t want to look Carmy in the eyes, but she wasn’t sure if she was ready to pack it in and head back to her apartment. She stopped herself from telling Richie to do something that she had no real interest in doing herself.

“That was…insane,” she said to him instead.

That got a hint of a laugh, more of a scoff than anything, out of him. But it was something. A feeling. “Yeah, yeah it fuckin’ was.”

“You did—”

“You know—”

They both started and stopped at the same time. They both chuckled awkwardly, shaking their heads. It always felt like they were either perfectly in-sync or constantly stepping on each other’s toes. At least this time the toe-stepping wasn’t accompanied by yelling.

Richie gestured for her to continue, the cigarette still in his hand tossing smoke everywhere in the process. “Go ahead.”

“You did…really great tonight, Richie,” she said with a nod.

He scoffed but cut himself short in the process. Take the win. He had to get better at letting himself take the win. After all, it wasn’t often that Syd was the one giving him any. “You too,” he let a pause linger for longer than necessary, a small smirk starting to creep its way across his face as he added on, “Captain.”

“Fuck off.” She said it with a laugh, no real heat behind the words the way that there had been in the past.

They both laughed, awkward tension starting to slowly evaporate, but the exhaustion still hung heavy in the air. Thick condensation that neither of them could shake off. It wasn’t until they both stopped laughing that Syd cleared her throat and prompted Richie to say whatever it was that he was going to say to her before.

He shook his head. He almost didn’t want to say it now. The moment was good. For all the bad moments over the course of the night, most of his moments with Syd had been good ones. He didn’t want to ruin that. They were laughing, and tired, and for a moment not stressed the fuck out about it all. He didn’t want to dredge it all up again. Looking over at Syd and her big, curious eyes, he knew that there was no saying, “Nevermind,” now.

He tapped the ash of his cigarette onto the sidewalk, a last-ditch effort of procrastination. “What I was gonna say, before you interrupted me,” he joked for a moment before letting his tone get serious again, “was that, fuck, I just—” He stopped and shook his head, already wanting to take it all back. He was long past the point of no return now. “You know you don’t have to just, fuckin’, put up with him being like that, right?”

Her brows drew together. “What?”

He nodded back towards the restaurant. “Carmy. You don’t have to put up with his whole, you know,” he gestured vaguely with his hand, less smoke in his wake this time, “toddler, bitch-boy routine.”

Syd couldn’t help but to laugh as she shook her head. “Richie, I mean, I get it, but I kinda d—”

“You don’t,” he cut her off, shaking his head. “Get back in his fuckin’ face when he gets at you like that.”

“Like you?” The words were meant to land as an insult, but she should’ve known better than to think that Richie was going to let them be one.

“Yeah! Like me!” He was hovering just beneath a yell now, but not really at her, still at Carmy. Syd just happened to be the person who was standing in front of him at the time. “Don’t let him think that that shit’s okay, you know?”

She shook her head. “He knows it’s not.”

“Then he should fuckin’ act accordingly!”

She knew that Richie wasn’t wrong. But she also knew enough, about Carmy and about the kitchen and about life, to know that it was lofty to think that her snapping back at Carmy all the time would be the magical cure for it all.

“I know,” she tried to be purposeful with her words, handling Richie with more care in that moment than she had in any other moment since she’d met him. “But can you at least agree that maybe, maybe it wasn’t the right time? You know? When we were all in the middle of the shit?”

The four seconds it took Richie to concede to what she was saying felt like they were actually much longer than that. He did give in, though. Shoulders dropping as he tucked his chin in a nod. “Doesn’t stop him though,” he muttered. “Fuckin’ baby.”

Syd didn’t even feel the smile creeping back onto her face, had no idea it’d made a reappearance. “Doesn’t stop you either, to be fair.”

“Pfft,” Richie scoffed as he flicked away the butt of his cigarette, “I don’t know what you’re talking about—I am the pinnacle of professionalism.”

“Richie.”

He rolled his eyes but there was a smirk on his face as he did. “Yeah, yeah. Not…not the right time.”

There was a pause, one that lasted long enough for either of them, or both of them, to go their separate ways. It’d been the longest night in the history of everything and there was no real reason for either of them to keep sticking around. Syd was vaguely aware of the fact that she probably still smelled like the back alleyway and her own vomit, and Richie was probably still forcing the last of the adrenaline out of his system. Even knowing that, though, neither of them moved. If anything, Syd was more tempted to just plop down on the curb than turn to start heading towards the station that would get her home. If she went home she would see her father. Her father who was currently so excited for her and proud of her, and actually showing it in a way that she could understand. She didn’t want to go home with the weight that was currently lingering on her shoulders and ruin that. It wouldn’t just be ruining it for her, it would be ruining it for him, too. If she could manage to wait a little while longer, she would. If Richie was going to give her a way to stick around, she was going to take it.

He wouldn’t be so bold as to say it, but Richie was glad that she didn’t seem to be in much of a rush to leave either. For as much as part of Richie wanted to be laying in bed staring up at his ceiling, he didn’t want to go back to the emptiness of his apartment yet. Carmy’s words were still bouncing around his head. They weren’t going to sink their teeth into him. He wasn’t going to let them do that. It wasn’t anything worse than what either of them had ever said to each other before. He was almost certain that they would say the same types of things to each other again at some point. All the personal growth in the world could never completely snub out those old habits. They would always come out of hibernation eventually. His fight with Carmy would hit him in waves over the next few days, but what was really pulling him under in the moment was something that he hadn’t seen coming. He knew that it was probably much more than just the fact that Tiff wasn’t at Friends and Family that was getting to him, that the issues and the need for closure there went much deeper than that. It was so much easier to attribute it to just one night, though, so that’s exactly what he was going to do for the time being. And if standing on the curbside with Sydney kept him from going home and staring at his ceiling and spinning out about things that were out of his control, then he’d keep doing it.

“Speaking of bad timing,” Syd started with a shake of her head, helping both of them procrastinate in the best way that they knew how.

“Oh shit,” Richie chuckled, “this is gonna be good.”

For a moment Richie was straddling between the possibilities of thinking that Syd was about to be complicit in her own bad timing, and thinking that her story was about someone else’s bad timing. They were both equally likely, given how things tended to go for all of them.

Syd didn’t know if she really even wanted to tell Richie what had happened. Or maybe want wasn’t the right word. She knew that she wanted to tell him, but she didn’t know why. She was, for the moment at least, probably better off not knowing the why. She also didn’t know how much telling him might end up backfiring on her. Want wasn’t the right word—should was.

Luckily for Richie, if there was one thing Syd had it was the ability to go for something even if it might blow up directly in her face after the fact.

“I think Marcus asked me out earlier.”

Richie’s eyes went wide. “Shut the fuck up.”

“I’m serious.”

“You think?” he asked, mostly mocking but also genuinely wondering how she could be uncertain about something like that.

“There was a lot going on!” She tried to come to her own defense. “There was a lot going on and I wasn’t exactly expecting it and he also didn’t really—”

“What’d you say?” He cut her ramble short, wanting to get right to the heart of it all.

“What?”

“He asked you out. So, what did you say?”

“You think I’d be standing here talking to you about it if I said yes?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Poor Marcus. That’s,” he glanced over at Syd, a shit-eating grin on his face, “that’s gonna be a tough one to come back from.”

She rolled her eyes, immediately regretting her decision to tell him. She knew it was coming, in a way, but she wasn’t going to let that take away her right to be annoyed. “Alright—”

“Sydney Heartbreaker Adamu,” he joked.

She wanted to be mad but she ended up laughing instead. “Shut up. Making me sound like some boxer.”

“Read all that Coach K shit and didn’t even end up in the right sport.”

She clasped her hands in front of her face for a moment, caught between praying and laughing a little harder at it all. “I think we’re all going to be busy enough so that it’s not going to be, like, a real—”

Sydney stopped herself mid-sentence when the restaurant door opened behind them. They each turned and looked to see Carmy walking through. However tired the two of them looked by that point, Carmy was about ten times worse and had twenty times more reason to be. There was a pause as they all stood and looked at each other—Syd and Richie looking at Carmy, Carmy going back and forth between the two of them. In the back of his mind he knew that he must’ve been interrupting something. He also knew that there should be something that he was saying but nothing was coming out. All the thoughts racing around his head and he couldn’t manage to externalize a single fucking one of them. Suddenly he found himself sitting there, spinning out and feeling embarrassed in front of two people he had worked so hard to fall into sync with.

Syd was willing to bite the bullet on behalf of everyone one more time. “We can talk tomorrow, Chef,” she said with a tight nod as she continued to look at Carmy.

He looked a little taken aback by the statement when he should have probably been nothing besides grateful. The last thing that he needed as to be getting into it with both of them in the middle of the goddamn sidewalk, especially not when they would both be teaming up against him. He knew that. But he also hated the feeling of being dismissed like he was a child who was getting suspended from school for the rest of the day. If he said that he was sure it would’ve been met by a comment from one or both of them that would have been to the effect of, “If you weren’t acting like such a child we wouldn’t have to fucking treat you like one.” And he knew that he’d deserve that too.

Carmy forced himself to nod, speaking somewhat to both of them even though he was still only looking at Sydney. It felt a little easier to do that, although he might feel differently after whatever conversation they would end up having tomorrow. For now, though, she was still safe.

“Tomorrow. Right. Yeah.” He nodded one more time. “Tomorrow.”

Carmy tried to get his feet to move but they wouldn’t. Richie could see it in Sydney’s eyes that she was about to take off. Home suddenly feeling like less of an uncomfortable notion when the other option was standing there with the two of them. He didn’t want to be left alone with Carmy, not so soon after everything else, so he beat her to the punch and rolled out before either of them could counter it.

“Night, Chefs,” he said in one sweep to both of them before turning and walking towards the lot where he’d parked his car.

Syd was the only one who said anything in return, Carmy only able to give him a nod in that moment. When Richie was far enough away to make the two of them look at each other again, Carmy wondered if Syd would change her mind and want to have a conversation with him about any of it, about anything really.

She ignored the hopeful look that was starting to creep into his eyes. “See you tomorrow.”

He got half a nod out before he gave up on it, already seeing the way Syd was stepping back to go on her own way as well. “Y-yeah. See you…see you tomorrow.”

Tomorrow came much faster than anyone at The Bear had really been bargaining for. It felt like it was forever away with how long the day before had seemed. Syd thought that she was ridiculously early in getting there but the first thing she noticed was that the lights were already on. It was a toss-up on who had gotten there before her, a fifty-fifty shot between the two Berzatto’s. It wasn’t a sure enough thing for her to want to walk in just yet. She knew that she and Carmy needed to talk, but that didn’t mean that she wanted to. Especially not first thing in the goddamn morning. Maybe it was Natalie. Maybe it was Natalie and they would lament together in the office and it would all be okay. But something in Syd’s gut told her it was Carmy.

She was so busy staring at the door that she hadn’t heard the footsteps getting closer. It wasn’t until Richie spoke that she realized she was no longer alone out on the sidewalk.

“Keep meeting like this,” he mumbled past the cigarette between his lips.

Her head whipped in his direction, and it wasn’t until she saw the amused look on his face that she processed what he said. Once she really heard it, though, it got her to laugh. “Funny how that works.”

He nodded towards the restaurant before lighting his cigarette. “Ready to do it all over again?”

“No,” she answered immediately. “That’s why I’m standing out here on the,” she shook her head, “on the fucking sidewalk.”

He stepped in a little closer so that he was standing right beside her, as close to shoulder-to-shoulder as they could manage given their height difference. “How bad could it be, right?” he asked with a shrug, sleeve sliding against the material of her winter jacket.

The laugh that she let out was loud, almost involuntarily so. One of the only people who really knew just how bad it could get besides her was Richie, and that’s what nearly had her in stitches. “Fuck off.”

He flicked his cigarette away, not anywhere near done with it. More of a habit than a need, now. He placed his hand on her shoulder closest to him. “C’mon, Chef. Let’s get this over with.”

It took Richie less than ten minutes to come to regret those words. He and Syd had gone inside, Syd had put all of her things away in her locker, and that was when both of them heard shuffling around coming from inside the office. Carmy and Richie had said plenty to each other the night before—it was Sydney and Carmy who needed to actually have that first initial conversation. All Syd could make herself do was look at Richie as he looked at her, and finally she pushed the door to her locker shut. Neither of them said anything to the other. Richie just gave her a slight nod of reassurance before she went on her way.

The last thing he heard before Syd shut the door to the office was her saying to Carmy, “Hey, so, I think we really need to talk about last night.” The first thing he heard after that was Syd shouting, “Okay, well, it is a fucking problem!” Richie had no idea what was said between them between those two sentences, but he had no doubt that Syd was right, that whatever was being brought up and discussed was, in fact, a problem. Part of him wanted to linger, knowing that the two of them would undoubtedly get loud enough and stay loud enough for him to hear pretty much everything that was said, but he didn’t. He’d get the liner notes from one of them, or both of them, before the day was out. He was willing to settle for that. He went back out to the front of the house and made himself busy there instead. Purpose.

By the time that everyone else started to trickle in, the yelling had stopped. The tension wasn’t gone but at least they were no longer about to throttle each other. The office was Natalie’s head of operations once more the way that it should be.

“Where the fuck is Marcus?” Carmy asked as he was taking stock of everyone that was in the kitchen.

Syd shrugged, eyes glued to the counter in front of her. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything from him.”

“Did you call him?”

She didn’t turn her head to look at him, but her eyes flicked over to Carmy. “Did you?”

He raised his eyebrows, and Sydney could see it on his face that he was fighting the urge to say something that would kick everything off again. If it had just been the two of them he wouldn’t have held his tongue. As it was, he just shook his head and took off towards the back door so he could make the phone call.

Richie appeared right by Sydney’s side, seemingly out of nowhere the way it always seemed to be now. He leaned in close and kept his voice quiet, which seemed to be another new skill he honed in recent weeks, so that only Syd could hear him, and hear the humor in his voice. “Think he’s blowing us all off because you—”

“I do not think he’s blowing us off because of that,” Syd cut him off, shaking her head and trying not to let it show that she found it almost as funny as it was annoying coming from Richie.

The smug grin on his face grew a little wider. “Told you it was gonna be a hard one to come back fr—”

“Richie, do you remember how unpleasant it was last time I stabbed you?” She paused long enough to look at him, not long enough to let him answer the question before continuing on to say, “Our knives are so much nicer and sharper now, you know?”

He chuckled, holding his hands up. “No need to get stabby—just paying you a compliment.”

It wasn’t until that moment that Syd realized just how close Richie was actually standing to her. She didn’t want to think about it. There were so many other things that she needed to be thinking about. Things that mattered in that moment, like the restaurant, like Carmy being one mishap away from falling completely fucking apart again, like Marcus being MIA. She didn’t need to be thinking about Richie standing close to her and the way warmth rolled up and down her spine like someone was dragging their fingertips there.

Richie was either too busy being amused with himself to notice the shift, or just oblivious because nothing prior to that moment would’ve given him any inkling that he would elicit that from her just by invading her personal space the way that he always did with her and everyone else. Or maybe, Syd thought for a moment, he noticed and was just being kind enough not to say anything at work in front of everyone. That was a short-lived moment.

Regardless of the why, Richie switched tracks. “Speaking of people being butthurt—how’d it go with Carmine this morning?”

Syd rolled her eyes, split-second infatuation completely gone. “It went great, yeah. Super…super productive. Did you not hear it?” If her sarcastic tone was a tangible object it would’ve been a lead brick dropping directly onto Richie’s toe.

He shook his head, trying not to smile and failing miserably. “Only a little bit of it.”

“How did that little bit sound?”

He gave a fake impressed frown and nod. “Productive, I’d say.”

She knew he would be able to tell that she didn’t really mean it when she told him, “Fuck off,” but it still felt good to say it.

“Told you, sweetheart,” he rested his hands on her shoulders for a brief moment, “Peak of Professionalism.”

“Yeah,” she rolled her eyes, smiling as he walked away to start taking care of more pressing matters, “add it to your resumé.”

The next dinner shift was about as much of a scramble as the previous one had been. Different, but similar. Marcus being MIA made things difficult, but there was something to be said for Carmy not being locked in the freezer this time around. Chaotic, but manageable—that was something they were all used to.

“All good, Chef?” Richie asked when he walked back into the kitchen to grab some of the plates that were up.

Syd was nodding, eyes still locked on the sea of slips in front of her. “Yes, Chef.”

Richie had a plate in each hand but he still paused beside her. “Hey,” he paused and waited for her to finally look over at him, “you’re doing good.”

Syd expected to want to come back with something snarky, but instead the smile on her face was genuine. “Thanks—”

“Doing as good as I did last time? Well,” Richie said with a shrug, trying not to laugh, “we’ll see.”

She immediately dropped her eyes back to the real task at hand, partially to focus but mostly so he wouldn’t be able to see her trying not to laugh. “Need to see those plates walking, Chef.”

He laughed, already stepping away as he said, “Yes, Chef.”

Sydney was sure that there was a universe out there somewhere, where she got along easily with both Richie and Carmy. As it stood, however, she seemed to be stuck in a world where she could only ever manage to be on good terms with one of them. For the longest time it was her and Carmy—a united front in a way against the rest of the restaurant. Part of her thought that shifting to The Bear was only going to strengthen and solidify that. They were supposed to be partners, after all. Much to her surprise it seemed to be doing the exact opposite. It was more complicated than just the two of them ‘not getting along’. The problems ran deeper than that, had a reach farther outside the kitchen than that. Regardless of the reasoning behind it all, it left the two of them feeling about as far apart as they’d ever been since she’d shown up to stage when they were still The Beef. She couldn’t simply storm out and walk away like she had before, not with how deeply she was entrenched in it now. She had to adapt, had to figure it out even if Carmy seemed to be incapable of doing the same.

Apparently an integral part of the adaptation process was her and Richie mending things between them. There was never really a conversation about them filling in the cracks of the foundation between them. They never sat down across the table from each other and spelled out everything that they were sorry for—that wasn’t how they were wired with each other. They understood, though, one good turn deserving another. They both knew that there was more to be said about them being on the same wavelength in the kitchen, that that change alone said more than a plain apology ever would. To being combatants on opposites sides of the fight to being each other’s touchstone in the middle of the chaos was a one-eighty that neither of them ever would have been able to call. They never really said anything about that either, but they made sure the other knew that they were grateful for it.

“You heading out soon, Chef?” Richie asked after a long minute of watching Syd fuss over produce placement and organization on the cart.

Her eyes flicked over to the clock on the wall before they finally landed on Richie. She hadn’t even noticed the time going by. “Yeah. Soon.”

He didn’t mean to smile but he couldn’t stop himself either as he walked closer. “What’re you doing?”

“I feel like this could be better.”

“Better?” He laughed. “It’s fuckin’ vegetables, Syd. How—”

“Not everyone in this kitchen is six feet tall, Richie.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m six-one,” he paused for emphasis, “But I see your point.” He looked at her as she went to look away. “You really think you’re gonna crack the code tonight?”

“I might! I could. Probably.”

He was shaking his head but he knew that she was probably right. Usually if she thought on something hard enough she’d get to the bottom of it one way or another. “Alright,” he conceded as he took a small step back. He leaned against the counter behind him, crossing his arms over his chest as he waited.

It took longer than it should have for her to notice that he was still standing there. She tried to ignore the way her heartbeat quickened just slightly. “You don’t have to stay, you know.”

“What if there’s a vegetable-placement-related emergency tomorrow and you’re not here?”

“Where else would I be?”

“Stuck in the freezer,” Richie said with a laugh despite the fact that the door to the walk-in was in perfect working order now. He gave them each a moment to laugh at that, knowing that joking about it was the only way to cope with it at this point. “Anyway, what if there’s an emergency and I’m the only other one who would’ve had the answer if I had just stuck around?”

“Your head is a very dramatic place to be,” she said, smiling and knowing enough to not argue with him further or try to insist on sending him home.

She didn’t stick around for as long as she would have if she had been alone. Throughout the process of opening The Bear she had spent plenty of late nights at the restaurant on her own and she didn’t think twice about it. Things had to get done and she was fine being the one to stay late and do them. It felt different knowing that Richie was there and waiting on her, though, even if he wasn’t saying anything or trying to rush her.

“I don’t think I’m getting this tonight,” she finally conceded.

Richie chuckled, stepping forward again. She didn’t shy away from him encroaching on her space. He looked over her shoulder, hands stuffed into his pockets. “Maybe there’s nothing to get.”

She let out a short sigh. “Yeah.” She pressed the heel of her palm to the edge of her forehead for a moment. “Maybe.”

Sydney wasn’t looking at him but that didn’t stop Richie from looking at her. His eyes raked over her profile, unable to make himself look at anything else. He took in a slow, deep breath, knowing that there were words on the tip of his tongue that he just couldn’t let himself say. Part of him wanted to, just so it was out there in the open and he wouldn’t have it hanging over his head anymore. That same part of him also couldn’t help but to sometimes think that he wasn’t the only one who felt the way that he did. It took two, right? To make things work the way that they had been?

But he didn’t want to be the next person that she talked about to someone after hours, another story of some poor sucker who couldn’t read the room and had the worst timing in the world. He didn’t want that. It was a little selfish, sure, but the outcome was still the same—their dynamic would keep.

Syd turned around, thinking that she was just going to go and grab her things from her locker. She stopped on a dime, though, when she saw how close Richie had been standing to her. She looked up at him, eyes wide as an awkward laugh slipped past her lips.

“What’s up?” she asked, not moving away from him if he wasn’t going to be moving away from her.

He gave a small shake of his head. “Nothing.” He took a tiny step back, just enough so that if he needed to, he could say that he made an effort to put some distance there. “You, uh,” he motioned back over his shoulder, “you good to go?”

Syd didn’t want to admit that she was disappointed by the sliver of space that Richie had put between them, by the fact that he was ushering the moment to a close before it had even really gotten started. She didn’t want to admit it but she knew that she was. All she could do at that point was hope that it wasn’t written all over her face.

“Yeah. Yeah I just gotta grab my stuff.”

Richie nodded. “Right.”

There was a moment, the two of them standing close even though they weren’t as close as they had been but still feeling just as close. Maybe it was all in his head, or maybe it was the fact that he couldn’t stop studying Sydney’s face and in the process maybe he noticed that she was staring at his lips but he didn’t want to think too much about any of that.

And apparently Sydney didn’t want to think too much about it either because she forced herself to take a small step to the side as she said, “I’m just gonna…grab that…”

“Yeah,” he said, sounding more defeated than he meant to. It wasn’t until she was a few more strides away and out of earshot that he dropped his head and whispered, “Fuck me,” to no one other than himself.

Neither of them said anything about it the following day. Or the day after that. It didn’t matter how often it crossed each of their minds, the possibilities of it all. There were too many other things to handle, too many other moving parts that required their attention. At least that’s what they each told themselves anyway, that and they each tried to assure themselves that there was no way the other could really feel the same way. They were Syd and Richie after all. In what world would things play out like that for them?

For all the havoc it was wreaking on them internally, their saving grace was that they were still able to manage work just fine. Or, as well as they ever had. Bumps and mishaps and screaming matches with Carmy still peppered in for good measure. But they still had each other’s backs, and Syd wished that she knew how to thank him for that without making it weird or blowing up her own spot about it all. It should’ve been easy, but then again nothing with them really ever was.

Sydney didn’t say much when Richie snapped back at Carmy in her defense, saving her the trouble of getting into another argument with him herself. She didn’t comment on the way that his voice had an extra layer of firmness to it when he came to her defense. She just gave Richie a nod and a silently mouthed, “Thank you,” after Carmy walked away. And when Sydney cut Carmy short when he was getting after Richie for things that weren’t actually his fault, Richie didn’t say anything then either. Syd would give him the look, the slight tilt of her head and raise of her brows to ask if he was alright, and rather than say anything in response Richie would just rest his palm against the center of her back for a moment before diving right back into it all.

The Bear had been silent and seemingly empty for a while, dinner service long since done and over with. Sydney was making the final rounds through, reassuring that everything was in the right place for the next day. She still hadn’t gotten around to rearranging the produce but she found herself smiling regardless anytime she thought about it.

She shut off all the lights in the kitchen as she made her way out towards the dining area. She swung the door open with more force than she meant to as she stuffed things haphazardly into her bag.

“Oh, shit,” Richie said with a surprised laugh. “Just crashing through here like that?”

Her eyes widened. “Shit. Fuck, sorry. I didn’t know…I thought it was just me here.” She paused. “What are you still doing here?”

He shook his head slightly, like he was going to dismiss the question. Then he remembered who it was that he was talking to. “Thought I had something but,” he fiddled with the fork on the tabletop, “I think I’m just going fuckin’ insane at this point.”

Sydney laughed as she walked over so that she was standing beside him, staring down at the same table he was. “This place will do that to you.” There was a breath of a pause between them before Syd blurted out, “Are you okay?”

He contorted his face in confusion. “Am I okay?”

“Yeah. I mean, I know that Carmy has been—”

“Carmy has been the same little bitch he’s always been,” Richie cut her off, simultaneously rude and assuaging her worries. “Nothing changed there. New fancy restaurant and he's still the same fuckin’ toddler. Now he’s just a toddler in debt to fuckin’ Cicero.”

Syd smiled and shook her head. She should’ve known better than to expect a real answer. “Right. Well, if there’s anything I can do…”

“You’re already doing it,” Richie replied before thinking better of it.

“What?”

He froze for a moment before clearing his throat and making himself speak. “You tell anyone I said this and I’ll deny it. I’ll deny it and I’ll get you fucking fired…somehow,” he said and they both laughed quietly before he continued. “But you said it, you know? You called it.”

“Called what?”

“You said that this place could be good. You said it didn’t have to be shitty and you were right. And you made it, you know, not fuckin’ shitty.”

It was one of the realest, most direct compliments he’d ever given her. Or anyone, really. “Thanks.” She paused for a moment as she gnawed the inside of her lip. “It wasn’t just me, though.”

“Talkin’ about Fak?” he joked, trying to erase the tension he felt starting to bubble up all over again.

Sydney laughed. “Yeah, obviously.” She let it hang in the air for a moment before she reached and rested her hand against the outside of Richie’s bicep, pads of her fingers making the fabric of his suit jacket give into her. “It was you too, Richie. You know that, right?”

He didn’t know why his face felt like it was on fire all of a sudden. “Nah, I mean—”

She wasn’t having it. “You make this place good. It’s not, you know, it’s not The Bear without you here.” She gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He forced himself to stop looking at the table and look at her. He was looking for any sign of her backpedaling, waiting for the first hint of sarcasm, but it never came. It was just her there with all of her honesty and her hand on his arm. And suddenly he became very aware of how much closer to him she’d drifted.

He should just say it. That was all he could think as he stood there with her. It’s all he could ever manage to think about in their small moments together like that. He should just fucking say it. He should tell her how he feels. There had to be something to it, right? There was no way that it could all be in his head. And yeah, maybe the last guy thought the same thing but now Richie was standing there with Sydney practically melting into his side while he was about to start melting into the floor. He didn’t want to just be another story that she passed along to the next guy, a cheap laugh at his expense when he wasn’t around, but if that was the price he had to pay to find out if he was living in some form of delusion, maybe it was a price he was willing to pay.

“Syd?” He almost didn’t recognize his own voice, the hesitation in it.

“Yeah?”

She sounded hopeful, which made him hopeful in return. “There’s never a right time, you know? For a lotta shit? I…I know that.” He cleared his throat. “And maybe this is really fuckin’ stupid of me, because we’re finally figuring our shit out and you shot down the last guy but I just gotta say it. I know it’s bad timing but let’s be real it’s not like any of us here ever really have good timing for shit like this.” He studied Syd’s face, looking for any traces of negativity and somehow still missing that she was holding her breath in anticipation. “I think that you, fuck, you’re the greatest thing that’s happened in a long time. To me. And yeah, there’s the restaurant and the rest of it but, but it’s…it’s you.” He punctuated his statement by putting his hand on her shoulder.

Syd thought her heart was going to beat hard enough to crack its way right through her ribcage. “Richie—”

“And if you gotta go all Heartbreaker on me I get it but—”

“Richie,” she repeated herself, just enough to get his attention. “You’re right.” She paused, soaking in the shocked look on Richie’s face as he tried to figure out which part she thought he was right about. “There’s never a good time.” The shock faded to disappointment but she paid it no mind because she knew where she was going next. “But this might be, you know, the best time. The only time. And,” and moved her hand from his arm so that it was resting on top of his hand on her shoulder, “I’m sick of trying to wait for some sort of sign that says it’s the right time. Honestly? I think,” she laughed, “I think this is it. This is the sign.”

The apprehension drained out of him instantly as he listened to each word she said, soaked up the warmth flooding from her hand into his. “Yeah?” he still had to ask, hopefully to a painful degree.

She nodded as she squeezed his hand. “Yeah.”

For once he couldn’t think of anything to say. So he did the next best thing. He turned just enough so that he was facing her, hardly giving either of them time to overthink their way through it as he leaned in and kissed her, his lips catching hers.

His hands cupped both sides of her face, channeling all the instances of almost and maybe into that one action like he was afraid it would be the first and last time. He wanted to make it worth it, wanted to make sure she knew.

Syd felt the way that he leaned down into her, eager, hopeful. She was instantly lost in the way his lips moved against hers, allowing herself to get swept up in it all as her hands fell to rest on his arms—steadying him, keeping him there although he had no intention of trying to be anywhere else.

It was just the two of them in the darkness and quiet of the restaurant, and for once neither of them had the urge to say anything at all.

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