#this is a very quick and dirty summary

[timelessjk]

somehow, you. | jungkook au

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ summary: he was the quiet one in class. the type who never talked unless called on, who looked at the world from behind thick-rimmed glasses and stayed out of everyone’s way. you? you were the girl everyone knew. the one who never let anyone in. you weren’t looking for connection, and he wasn’t the kind to ask for it. but still… he did. and somehow, it worked.

ratings: 18+

pairing: jungkook x fem reader

genre: college AU, emotional intimacy, slightly slow burned.

warnings: explicit sexual content including unprotected sex (not advised), soft but possessive dirty talk, emotional vulnerability, praise, mild insecurity and reassurance, and a rough but tender dynamic in an established relationship. and ofc…big dicc jungkook cause UGH.

word count: 5.2k

a/n: hi! ok so. this is my very first fic i’m posting and i’m actually kind of losing my mind about it?? originally it was supposed to be two parts (pt.1 soft, pt.2 smut) but i got carried away and ended up writing it all in one go because i wouldn’t shut up abt this two!!

*banners/dividers credits to the owners ♡ ྀི

thank you for reading!! leave your comments on what u think of my first fic 🥺! 🤍 - Sher

requests are officially opened!

The classroom always smelled like old air and pen inks, a familiar background hum to every forgettable weekday morning.

You sat at the back, as always, where you could stretch your legs, twirl your pen, and zone out without anyone bothering you. People knew you, too well.

Not because you tried, but because the world couldn’t help but notice the girl who always seemed a little untouchable.

Then the teacher changed the seating plan.

“Jeon Jungkook. You’re moving to the back, beside her.”

A ripple of murmurs went through the class, subtle but present. You could feel the stares. You looked up just in time to see him glance nervously your way before lowering his eyes and walking toward the seat beside you.

Jungkook. Everyone knew who he was, even if he rarely spoke. Top of the class. Never late. Always dressed clean, minimal, quiet. You didn’t expect anything from him. Didn’t need another nerdy guy going stiff just because you shared a desk.

But that day, he surprised you.

He sat down carefully, barely making a sound, and opened his book. No fidgeting. No glances. Just… stillness. Until you heard the smallest breath of a murmur.

“Chapter’s interesting,” he said, eyes still on the page.

You blinked.

“What?”

He didn’t flinch. “The reading. It’s good. Surprising, kind of.”

You studied him, confused. He hadn’t even looked at you. It was like he wasn’t trying to talk to you—just thinking aloud, and you happened to hear.

You didn’t answer.

But your curiosity flickered.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊⊹ꮺ˚

The next few days, he didn’t speak again. But he was always on time. Always glancing at your desk when he thought you weren’t looking—quick, nervous flicks of his eyes.

Then came the Wednesday.

You’d forgotten your pens, bag full of it. Not on purpose—just one of those mornings where you left everything behind. You muttered something under your breath, frustrated, and slammed your bag down.

Before you could think to dig through your things again, a sleek black pen rolled across your desk.

You turned. Jungkook was still facing forward, penless himself now.

“You sure?” you asked, surprised.

He nodded once. “I have another.”

You waited for a smile. A joke. Some kind of flirtation.

Nothing.

Just a calm silence.

It threw you off more than someone asking for your number ever could.

Then came the Thursday rainstorm.

You stayed behind after class, waiting for it to ease, stuck at the school’s entrance while thunder rumbled in the distance. Everyone else had already left, except for him.

He walked up beside you without a word, holding an umbrella. For a second, you thought he was going to walk past.

He hesitated.

“You live near East Gate, right?” he asked, voice low, eyes on the rain.

You narrowed your eyes. “How do you know that?”

He shrugged. “I’ve seen you leave that way. Every day.”

You didn’t answer.

He tilted the umbrella slightly toward you. “Come on.”

You stared at him like he’d grown two heads. But you followed.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊⊹ꮺ˚

That walk changed everything.

He didn’t try to impress you. Didn’t pry. Just walked beside you, holding the umbrella with quiet precision to make sure it covered you both.

When you reached your turn, you stopped.

“Why’re you doing this?” you asked, genuinely confused.

He paused. Looked at you for the first time, really looked. Eyes soft behind his wet fringe.

“Because you look like no one ever asks how you’re doing,” he said. “And i kind of want to.”

You stood frozen as he walked away, raindrops hitting your shoulders after the umbrella disappeared with him down the path.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊⊹ꮺ˚

From then on, he became your quiet shadow.

Always beside you in class. But not in a clingy way. He respected your space but showed up when it mattered.

One morning, you came in late, eyes puffy from a night you didn’t want to talk about. You slumped into your chair, hoodie up, bare faced (that rarely happens whenever you go to class) sleeves tugged over your hands.

He didn’t say anything.

But when you finally looked at your desk, there was a folded note, written in perfect; clean handwriting.

“It’s okay to have days like this. You’re allowed to fall apart sometimes. I’ve got notes if you need them.”

You folded the paper slowly. Pressed your lips together. And something inside you melted.

You weren’t used to being seen like that.

You weren’t used to someone not asking for anything in return.

That day, you turned to him and whispered, “Thanks.” giving him a small smile.

He looked up, startled, as if he wasn’t expecting you to respond.

He then smiled, unsure, but real.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊⊹ꮺ˚

You think to yourself, you might fell for him. Maybe. Which is a weird feeling to you.

Given that you both barely have a proper (real) conversation.

Well you did exchange numbers—that’s because you both somehow were assigned to work together, so Jungkook thought it would be better to interact outside of class.

For study purpose of course.

Eventually both of you did text one another occasionally. Just short texts nothing conversation worthy.

Yeah, you felt this weird butterflies.

But, you didn’t fall all at once.

It happened slowly. Over study sessions you didn’t consider were study sessions, coffee walks that became routines, quiet texts late at night when he’d ask, “Did you eat today?” and would not stop asking until you said yes.

Over the time, during study sessions, you found yourself laughing around him. Trusting him.

Letting your guard down without realizing it had dropped.

One night, you asked through text, in your bed, loneliness crept again, “You know i’m kind of… a mess, right?”

He replied few seconds too fast.

“I know,” he said. “But you’re the kind of mess that makes sense to me.”

And you fell.

Quietly. Completely.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊⊹ꮺ˚

You weren’t sure when the lines blurred. When study sessions became excuses to sit a little closer, or when shared coffee turned into shared glances.

Jungkook didn’t rush anything. He never did.

But one Friday, something shifted.

He caught up with you after class, his hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up, headphones around his neck, looking nervous in a way that made your heart weirdly ache.

“Hey,” he said, walking beside you. “There’s this exhibition at the design building… the one with digital installations. I thought maybe you’d like it.”

You turned to look at him. “You inviting me?”

He nodded, looking at the floor. “If you want. No pressure. It’s tomorrow.”

You almost teased him. Almost said something sarcastic just to keep things from feeling too serious. But something in the way he looked open, nervous. The sincere in his eyes made you soften.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’d like that.”

⋆. 𐙚 ̊⊹ꮺ˚

The exhibition was small. Kind of quiet but dreamy.

Digital light shifted across the walls like watercolor in motion. Projected clouds drifted across the floor.

Every room had its own ambient sound. It’s soft, with the electronic music and echoing whispers. It should’ve felt awkward, being alone together in that hush.

But with him, it didn’t.

You stood in one of the installations surrounded by cascading lines of digital rain, blue and silver glowing all around and he looked at you like he wanted to remember the moment.

“I like this,” you said quietly.

He glanced at the ceiling, then back at you. “Me too.”

A beat passed.

“Honestly… i didn’t know if you’d say yes,” he admitted. “To coming here.”

You tilted your head. “Why not?”

He looked at you. “Because i’m not like the other people you talk to.”

“You mean the loud ones? I don’t talk to just anyone, anymore. Besides, didn’t we spend a good amount of time together for the past month to be considered as…friends?”

He smiled, barely. “Yeah. The ones who know what to say. And yeah i knew that but still, i thought it was just a study session, coffee catch ups with you—that you’d rather spend your time with your other…friends.”

You shifted your weight. “Maybe i got tired of people who always know what to say and FYI, i’d rather spend my time with you.”

Silence.

Just the sound of soft electronic rainfall.

Then he said it so low you almost missed it.

“I really like being around you.”

You turned to him, heart suddenly too loud in your chest.

He’s so dreamy, handsome.

“I really like being around you too.”

And he looked at you like you’d just said the one thing he’d been waiting to hear.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊⊹ꮺ˚

Your first kiss wasn’t at the exhibition.

That night had already held enough. The way he kept sneaking glances at you while pretending to read the plaque beside a sculpture, the way his hand hovered close to yours but never quite touched.

You walked the whole gallery like that, quiet but full of something neither of you wanted to name yet.

Later, he offered to walk you home. You said yes.

The air was cold but not bitter, the city dim and quiet in that in-between hour.

Your footsteps echoed against the pavement, your breath blooming white in the air. He kept his hands in his coat pockets, close but not brushing yours.

“Did you like the exhibit?” he asked, his voice low and a little shy.

“I did,” you said. “But i think i liked walking around with you more.”

He turned his head slightly, surprised. “Yeah?”

You nodded, not looking at him. “It was… nice. I don’t usually do things like that. With people.”

Jungkook was quiet for a moment. Then “You mean dates?”

You blinked. “Was this a date?”

His voice went even softer. “I wanted it to be.”

You stopped walking. Your apartment was just ahead, but you didn’t want to go in yet. The moment felt full.

Suspended.

He looked at you, eyes searching. “Can I be honest?”

You tilted your head. “Aren’t you always?” you giggled.

He smiled faintly. “I think about you a lot more than i should.”

You swallowed. “What does that mean?”

“It means i’ve liked you for a while. Even before you started talking to me.”

“You’re not exactly… forward, you know.”

“I didn’t think i was your type.”

“You’re not,” you said simply. “At least, not what i thought my type was.”

His expression didn’t change much, but you saw the flicker of hope behind his eyes.

You glanced down at your keys, twisting them between your fingers. “You’ve been patient with me.”

“I don’t mind waiting,” he said. “But sometimes i think… i just want to know if i’m the only one feeling this.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

His scarf was wrapped high, almost to his mouth. His cheeks were pink from the cold, eyes warm, uncertain, but wide open.

He wasn’t trying to be smooth. He was just there, telling you the truth.

So then, slowly and tentatively, he stepped closer, his breath shallow.

His voice barely carried “Can I kiss you?”

You felt everything in you pause.

And then “Yeah,” you said softly, heart pounding.

“Yeah, you can.”

He didn’t hesitate after that. He leaned in, hand rising to your cheek, thumb brushing gently across your skin. His lips met yours in a kiss that was soft, slow, careful.

He was learning something sacred; he didn’t want to rush what he’d waited so long to feel.

When he pulled back, your lips still tingled from the warmth of him, your chest full and fluttering.

You smiled, breath curling in the air. “You always this careful?”

His voice was low, but sure. “Only when it’s important.”

And you knew, right then, it was.

You didn’t talk much after that kiss.

Not because it was awkward. Because it wasn’t. It was the kind of silence that wrapped itself around you like a blanket. Soft, steady, enough.

He waited for you to open the door. Didn’t push. Just gave you that small smile, the one he only ever gave you and said, “Text me when you’re inside.”

You nodded, stepped in, and closed the door.

Then leaned your forehead against it.

You were in trouble.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊⊹ꮺ˚

The next few days were different in all the ways that mattered.

You still sat beside each other in class. Still studied together in the library. But now there were new things. A small, subtle shifts.

His knee brushed against yours and didn’t move. He’d lean in when he spoke, voice softer. You’d catch him looking at you, and this time, you didn’t look away.

You weren’t used to this version of yourself; unguarded. And Jungkook, for all his quietness, seemed to understand that.

He never rushed you. Never asked “what are we?” or “where is this going?”

He just stayed.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊⊹ꮺ˚

It wasn’t planned.

The day had been normal. Classes, campus noise, another group project that had you rolling your eyes while Jungkook just quietly took notes. He always took notes, even when no one else cared. You liked that about him. You’d never told him.

You were both walking back from campus, the sky soft with evening gray, when it started to drizzle.

Jungkook held his bag over your head.

You laughed. “You know i’m not gonna melt, right?”

He just looked down at you. “You’re still cold when it rains. You get quiet.”

You didn’t answer. Mostly because he was right. You did get quiet.

And he noticed.

By the time you reached your apartment, your hair was damp, and your mood had shifted. You weren’t sad, just heavy.

One of those days. You didn’t say much as you opened the door and let him in.

Jungkook toed off his shoes carefully, still holding that nervous energy he always carried when he was in your space. You dropped your keys in the bowl by the door and stood in the kitchen, hands on the counter.

“Want tea?” you asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”

The silence between you was soft. Not tense. Just full of all the things you weren’t ready to say out loud. You made tea. He sat at the table. You sat across from him, knees brushing under the wood.

Then, out of nowhere, you said it.

“I don’t let people in.”

He looked up, startled. You weren’t looking at him—just staring into your mug.

“I don’t know how to do that,” you continued. “It’s easier when no one expects anything.”

He stares.

“I never expected anything,” he said.

You finally looked at him. He looked… calm. A little sad. But calm.

“I just liked being around you.”

You nodded slowly. “You still do?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Even more now.”

The air between you shifted. Slowed. Deepened.

And you whispered, “Stay tonight?”

He didn’t ask questions.

So he said, “Okay.”

⋆. 𐙚 ̊⊹ꮺ˚

You sat on the floor of your bedroom while he changed into the extra clothes you gave him. A quiet hum played from the speaker, barely audible.

When he stepped back into the room; barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up, eyes soft, you suddenly felt that aching fear again.

What if you messed this up?

What if it didn’t last?

And then he crossed the room and knelt in front of you.

His hand rested gently on your knee. “You don’t have to be anything for me,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to perform. Or smile. Or fix anything.”

You looked down at your lap, fighting the warmth in your throat.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admitted.

“I’ll wait while you figure it out,” he said.

Just like that.

No grand declaration. Just steady, honest patience.

You reached for his hand and held it.

When you finally crawled into bed beside him, there was no space left between you. You pressed your back to his chest, his arm wrapping loosely around your waist. His breath tickled your shoulder.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” you whispered back. You meant it.

You woke to the quiet shift of fabric. The soft sound of him sitting up beside you.

Morning light filtered through the curtains in a pale blur. Your back was still warm from where his arm had rested. You blinked slowly, your mind caught between dreams and now.

Jungkook was already awake, hoodie wrinkled, hair messy from sleep.

He was sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve.

He looked like he was thinking too loud.

You propped yourself up on your elbow. “Hey,” you said, voice scratchy.

He turned to you immediately, like he’d been waiting. “Hey,” he echoed. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

You sat up slowly, pulling the blanket around your shoulders. “You okay?”

He nodded. Then shook his head. Then let out a quiet breath, like he wasn’t sure how to start.

“Can i ask you something?” he said softly.

You stilled, heart already beginning to tap faster in your chest. “Yeah.”

He looked down at his hands, picking at a loose thread on the cuff of his sleeve.

“I don’t want to ruin anything. I’m not trying to pressure you,” he started, voice careful. “But… what are we?”

You didn’t answer right away.

His eyes lifted. “I just…last night meant something to me. You mean something to me. And i know you don’t let people in easily. So i don’t want to assume anything, but i also don’t want to keep pretending this is just… nothing.”

You watched him for a moment, your throat tight.

“I didn’t think you’d ask,” you murmured.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re usually the quiet one. Yknow.. the patient one.”

“I still am,” he said. “But being patient doesn’t mean I’m not feeling things too.”

You swallowed, fingers tugging at the edge of the blanket. “I’m not good at this. I don’t know how to explain what i feel when i’m with you. It’s new. And a little scary.”

He nodded slowly. “Same.”

You looked at him. “But i don’t want it to be nothing either.”

Jungkook’s expression softened. “Yeah?”

You nodded, quieter this time. “Yeah.”

He shifted closer, his knee bumping gently against yours. “Then maybe… we don’t have to label it yet. But I just needed to know i wasn’t alone in it.”

“You’re not,” you said.

You meant it.

Jungkook exhaled a breath he’d been holding. Then reached out, tentative at first and he curls his fingers around yours.

“Okay,” he said, voice warm now. “Then i’m yours. However long it takes.”

You smiled, eyes stinging just a little. “You’re really not what i expected.”

He grinned finally, “I get that a lot.”

And in the quiet that followed, your fingers remained laced with his.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to run.

It had been a month.

One month since Jungkook had leaned across your front step and kissed you like it mattered. Since he’d touched your face like he was afraid you’d vanish if he blinked too fast.

And somehow, things still felt new. It’s still unreal in moments like now, with him sprawled across your bed in a hoodie, reading on his stomach, feet swaying behind him like a kid.

You were half-working on an assignment, half-watching him.

“You’re staring,” he said without looking up.

“I’m admiring,” you corrected.

He turned his head just enough to catch your smirk, then gave a small smile. “Baby,” he said under his breath, “you’re distracting.”

“You like it,” you replied, nudging his leg with your foot.

He hummed. “I do.”

⋆. 𐙚 ̊⊹ꮺ˚

Your relationship had grown into something… daily. Quiet rituals that made your chest ache. He’d walk you to class with your fingers looped in his sleeve. He’d wait for you outside the library, sipping iced coffee and reading the latest novel you lent him. You started wearing his hoodies without asking. He stopped looking surprised when you kissed his cheek mid-sentence.

But even with the sweetness, there was still something unspoken hanging between you.

Something warmer.

Like tonight.

He was still lying on your bed when you finally gave up pretending to work and climbed over him, plopping yourself beside his back with a sigh.

He closed his book and peeked at you. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “You’re just comfy.”

He let out a soft laugh. “You say that every time you use me as a pillow.”

“Because it’s true, baby.”

You shifted, laying your head against his back. Your palm flattened over his spine.

Jungkook went still for a second and then melted.

“Do you…” you hesitated, unsure why your throat suddenly felt tight, “do you ever want to do more than just lie here?”

He was silent for a moment.

Then, softly: “Yeah. I do.”

You sat up a little, just enough to look at him.

His cheeks were already flushed.

“I just never know if you’re comfortable,” intertwining your fingers together.

“Or if you want to. I’ve never really… gotten this far before.” he added.

You blinked. “You haven’t?”

He shook his head. “I’ve dated a few, but it never got serious. And no one ever really looked at me like you do.”

That last part made your chest squeeze.

“You mean like you hung the stars?” you teased gently.

He smiled, eyes shy. “Kind of, yeah.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers through his hair. “You’re not the only nervous one, baby.”

“I’m not?”

You shook your head. “I’ve been with my fair share of…flings? boyfriends? whatever you wanna call it—but it never felt right nor did it worked out, obviously. It always felt like they expected something from me. You don’t.”

Jungkook shifted, sitting up properly now. You were both facing each other, legs crossed.

“Can i ask you something?” he said quietly.

You nodded.

His voice was careful. “If we… wanted to try something. Anything. Would you tell me if you weren’t ready?”

“Always,” you promised.

He reached forward, brushing a thumb against your cheek. “Okay.”

You leaned into his palm.

And after a beat, you whispered, “Would you kiss me now?”

His lips twitched. “I’d give you anything you want.”

When he kissed you slow and warm, one hand still cupping your jaw, it felt like everything in the world slowed down. Like it was just you and him, tangled in hush and trust.

You shifted closer, your hand slipping beneath the hem of his hoodie, resting just above his waistband. You felt him freeze, just slightly.

“Too much?” you whispered.

“No,” he breathed. “Just new.”

You smiled into the kiss. “We’ll take it slow.”

“Promise?” he breathes into the kiss.

“Promise.”

And when he pulled you fully into his lap, burying his face in your neck with a soft laugh, it felt like something more than new.

It happened on a night that didn’t feel special; no candles, no dramatic music, just the two of you in your room after dinner, legs tangled on your bed, warm with laughter and full from pasta Jungkook had insisted on cooking himself.

He was wearing gray sweatpants and one of your oversized shirts, sleeves pushed up, his hair messily falling across his forehead.

You had just pulled him down for a kiss. Playful, slow.

But then it lingered. Deepened.

And something shifted.

His tongue slipped against yours, deliberate. His hand came up to cup the back of your neck, pulling you closer like he couldn’t help himself anymore.

When you whimpered against his lips, he pulled back slightly, gaze heavy-lidded.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low and rough.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah. Just… wasn’t expecting you to kiss me like that.”

He brushed your cheek with his thumb. “Like what?”

“Like you’ve been waiting to.”

“I have been,” he murmured. “For so fucking long.”

Your chest tightened, breath caught in your throat.

“We’ve kissed many, many times before?,” you giggled.

And then his lips was on yours again, more desperate this time.

Jungkook leaned over you, pressing you into the mattress, his body slotting between your thighs like it was instinct.

You felt how hard he was through the thin fabric of your shorts. He wasn’t trying to hide it. He wanted you to feel it.

“Jungkook,” you breathed, tugging at his shirt. “Please.”

He sat back just enough to yank it over his head, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. “You sure?”

“Baby,” you said, reaching for him again, “I’ve never been more sure.”

Something in his expression cracked open at that relief, hunger, something fierce and protective all at once.

“Then let me have you,” he said, voice dark, breath ragged. “Let me fuck you like you deserve.”

The way he said it, with need dripping into every syllable made your whole body shudder.

He tugged your shorts down fast, your panties going with them. When you gasped, he kissed the inside of your thigh, then hovered over you again, his cock straining visibly in his sweats.

“God,” he whispered, eyes raking over you. “You’re so fucking pretty like this. Laid out for me.”

Your hands reached for him, desperate. “I want you, Jungkook. I don’t wanna wait.”

“You won’t,” he said, voice curling around you like silk and smoke.

He shoved his pants down just enough to free himself, stroking himself slowly as he stared at you.

“You’ve got no idea what you do to me,” he murmured. “No idea how long i wanna be inside you.”

You reached between your legs, spreading yourself open for him.

His mouth dropped open slightly. “Fuck.”

He lined himself up, eyes locked on yours. “Tell me if i go too fast, okay?”

You nodded, heart hammering. “I trust you.”

That did something to him.

He pushed in slow, deep, all at once.

Your breath hitched, legs trembling.

“Holy fuck,” Jungkook groaned, head falling to your shoulder. “You feel like heaven. So wet for me already.”

You clung to him, nails dragging lightly down his back.

“Move,” you gasped. “I need you.”

He obeyed without hesitation, pulling back, then slamming into you again with a rhythm that made your head spin.

It was hard and deep. Like he knew exactly how to tear you apart and put you back together.

“Baby,” he breathed, panting against your throat, “you’re taking me so well.”

You moaned, legs tightening around him.

“You always this tight, or is it just for me?”

“Only you,” you choked out, voice cracking. “Only ever been like this for you.”

That made him growl.

“You feel perfect. Like you’re made for me.”

Every thrust dragged a whimper from your lips. Every kiss to your neck made you melt further under him.

You could feel how careful he was, even in the roughness. Like he wanted you to feel claimed, but not hurt. Never that.

“You like when i talk like this?” he asked, voice low in your ear.

“Yes,” you moaned. “Fuck, Jungkook.”

“You make me lose my mind, princess. Got me thinking about you all day. Couldn’t wait to fuck you full of my come inside.”

Your back arched, nails digging into his shoulders.

He shifted his hips, angling deeper. “You gonna come for me like this? Gonna come on my cock hm?”

You nodded desperately, tears brimming at the corners of your eyes. “Yes….don’t stop.”

“Look at me,” he whispered.

You did.

And in the silence that followed, he slowed down, but pressed in deep and stayed there.

His body trembled above yours, like he was holding something that wasn’t his release, but something heavier.

You cupped his cheek gently. “Jungkook?”

His voice broke.

“I love you,” he whispered; then again, faster, almost panicked. “I love you so much it’s scaring me.”

You stared up at him, eyes wide.

“I—” His throat worked as he swallowed, his brows drawn tight with emotion. “I never thought i’d have this. You. I never thought someone like you would ever even look at me.”

“Jungkook—”

“I used to watch you,” he continued, voice cracking. “In class. You were always so confident. So distant. But then you sat next to me,” he growled. “God, i still remember the way you looked that day. I thought it was a joke. Like there’s no way you would sit beside me.”

Your chest ached. He kept going.

“But you did. You stayed. You talked to me. You let me see pieces of you no one else gets to. And i still don’t know why. I still think maybe you’ll wake up and realize you could do better and just… leave.”

You shook your head, eyes stinging.

“But you don’t,” he whispered. “You stayed. You’ve been patient with me when i don’t know what to say. You still kiss me like i matter.”

His voice dropped lower, barely a breath.

“I don’t know what i did to deserve you. But fuck—i’m so glad you exist. I’m so glad you sat next to me.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

He saw the silence as hesitation, and something in his face crumpled.

“It’s okay,” he said quickly, pulling back just slightly. “You don’t have to say it back. I just….i needed you to know. Even if i’m not what you expected. Even if I’m not enough.”

And that’s when it hit you.

This boy; this quiet, soft-hearted boy had been holding it in for months.

You surged up and kissed him.

You kissed him like you were giving him an answer.

He gasped against your lips when you pulled away.

“I love you,” you whispered. “Are you kidding? You’re everything i want and more.”

He blinked, stunned.

“I didn’t say it sooner because i was scared i’d ruin this,” you said. “But Jungkook… you are everything i could ever ask for.”

He let out a shaky breath, half a laughing, half a sobbing as he kissed you again, deeper this time, needily.

You weren’t sure what hurt more. The way he was moving inside you, or the way he was looking at you.

Like you were something he’d never believed he could have.

Every thrust was deep, steady, but trembling with emotion. He was holding on for dear life. His forehead pressed to yours, sweat on his brow, his breath hot and uneven.

“God,” Jungkook groaned, voice raw, “you feel so good, too good.”

You cupped his face again, thumbs brushing over his flushed cheeks. “You can let go. i’ve got you.”

But he didn’t. Not yet.

“I don’t want this to end,” he whispered. “I don’t want us to end.”

“We won’t,” you said softly. “I’m right here baby.”

He choked on a breath, hips stuttering. “I’ve never… never loved anyone like this.”

You nodded, tears welling. “Me either.”

And still, he didn’t stop moving. Not when your body clung to his like a prayer, as your nails curled against his back, while your lips parted with little gasps that sounded like his name.

“Let go, baby,” you whispered. “I want you to come inside. Cmon baby.”

His pace faltered; sharper, desperate. “Can’t believe you’re mine,” he breathed. “Can’t believe it’s you.”

Then, with a deep groan against your neck, he finally gave in as he shuddered in your arms, body tensing, spilling into you like it was all too much and not enough at once.

You held him through it.

Through the tremble in his limbs.

He whispered “I love you” that followed on the heels release. Ropes of come dripping out as he pulls out slowly then inside again. You moaned at the sensation.

He didn’t move for a while. He just stayed there, inside you, wrapped around you, like he couldn’t stand to lose the warmth.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, stroking his hair. “You don’t have to hold on so tight.”

He nuzzled into your shoulder. “I want to, though.”

“I know,” you smiled. “Me too.”

Eventually, he shifted, settling beside you, your bodies still tangled beneath the blankets.

The silence was heavy but comforting. No more fear. No more holding back.

Just breathing. Together.

You turned to look at him, and he was already watching you.

“What?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He traced your jaw with his thumb, eyes soft.

“Out of everyone in this whole world… somehow, it was you.”

Your chest ached.

You kissed him, slow and deep and sure.

And you thought, yeah.

Somehow, it was him too.

[gojonanami]

❝ 𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ! ❞

❝ THEY TOOK YOU. SO SATORU GOJO DID THE ONLY REASONABLE THING — HE TOOK THEIR LIVES ! ❞

✧ pairing: gojo satoru x sorcerer!reader

✧ summary: satoru gojo rarely loses his cool. except when it comes to you. so when you get taken and found hurt, he takes matters into his own hands to find out who did it and make them pay.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, canon compliant, feral gojo, acts of violence, reader gets kidnapped and attacked, gojo goes insane, gojo clan sucks, higher ups get asses best, yaga and Ijichi featured, dom!gojo, breeding kink, dirty talk, oral (f), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, implied multiple rounds, swearing,

✧ w/c: 8,446

The worst mistake Satoru Gojo ever made that morning was to get out of bed.

If he had just stayed in bed that morning, turned his cellphone on silent, and basked in the warmth of the soft comforter you had picked out (even as you balked at the exorbitant price) and especially in the warmth of your embrace — the one place where it felt as if it was okay to be himself, just him.

And now it was just him.

Because you were gone.

When his phone rang that morning, your lips had been against his, indulging in a lazy morning tryst because for once, Satoru had been off duty — or he was supposed to be off duty. Your gaze had been the ones to stir him from sleep, as even in the embrace of sleep he couldn’t resist you or your adoring eyes — the very same he held more precious than his own.

“I didn’t even say anything, how did you wake up?” And his lips curl at your slight frown, his fingers brushing over the curve of your cheek.

“Thought my pretty wife was admiring my beauty while I slept so I had to wake up to the same,” and he’s leaning over to press lazy kisses along your jaw.

“Did you just call yourself beautiful?” You snort, and he grins, before falling into a playful pout.

“My own wife doesn’t think her husband’s beautiful?” And you’re rolling your eyes, before rolling over on top of him, your body only covered by the black t-shirt you had stolen from him last night, a small groan as he felt your very bare thighs brush against his boxers.

You were a goddess — your smile ethereal in the sunlight streaming in from the window as you leaned over him, and he was willing to worship all his life at your altar, if you would only give him a brush of your lips.

“Of course I think you’re beautiful, I’m the one always saying that anyway,” your lips brush his chastely, far too quick and teasing, “I was just imagining what Nanami would say if he heard that,”

“Oh? And what’s that, sweetheart?”

“He would say the size of your ego is becoming a threat to Earth’s atmosphere,” and Satoru raises an eyebrow.

“And my darling wife would disagree, right?” and you look away, biting back a smile, “eh? You’d let him say such heinous things about me?”

“It’s not heinous if it’s true—“ you gasp, and he’s flipped you on your back, pressing his lips to yours to swallow your words, along with your giggles, as you break free, “Toru! Ah—“ and he nibbles at your neck, “hey!”

“You have to pay for the consequences of your actions, baby, what kind of sensei would I be?” And you’re rolling your eyes.

“I’m not your student, ngh,” you’re gasping as his teeth sinks into your neck, “if anything, I’m the one reigning you in,”

“Well then,” he chuckled in his words, as his fingers trace your jaw, “I’ll have to show you how far your student has come then,” and his lips only brush yours, when his phone rings.

“Baby,” you sigh, and he’s glancing at the phone, a sigh on his lips, as he reaches for the phone, sneaking a glance at you, before he picks up.

You press sweet kisses to his chest as you hear the faint murmur of Yaga’s voice through the phone, hearing reports of the special grades they’ve been tracking, “Old man, this is the first day off I’ve taken off in so looooong,” and he holds the phone away from his ear until Yaga’s screams fade, “fine, fine, send Ijichi,” he hangs up while Yaga was still mid-yell, tossing his phone on the bedside table with a sigh, “sweetheart,”

“I know,” you cup his cheek, his lips in a pout not made for the strongest sorcerer, but for your Satoru, “I’ll be here when you come back — waiting very impatiently,” and he chuckles, his lips finding yours.

“How’d I get so lucky to have such an understanding wife?” And your lips curl.

“You annoyed her into falling in love,” and he gapes at you as you giggle, until he’s got you pinned underneath him yet again, “what? It’s true!”

“Then I’ll have to annoy you some more, just to make sure,” and he’s finding you in another kiss, until his devilish fingers run down your sides, beginning their assault on the spots that made you laugh the most.

You pulled your lips from his, squealing, “Nooooo! Satoru, stop!” you tried to push him off from tickling you, but he was the strongest for a reason—a reason you usually were very grateful for, but not right now. And finally he relented, as you gasped and chuckled still, lips in the most adorable pout, “you’ll pay for that,”

“Oh really? How’s that, wifey?” and you kiss his lips chastely, barely a brush, as you cross your arms, fighting back a smile.

“That’s the only goodbye kiss you get,” and he gasps, clutching his chest dramatically, before that smirk of his returns, “and you try to steal one and I’m making you sleep on the couch,” And he pouts, before you press a longer kiss to his lips, “you’re lucky I love you,”

Satoru grinned, “I know.”’

Yeah, he should have never gotten out of bed.

“Where is she?” For once, Satoru’s words were devoid of humor, the laughter and happiness sapped from his very essence the moment he had heard. The moment he had felt your cursed energy waver. All this time, Satoru’s eyes had been focused on the outline of your soul, no matter where he was, because you were always the one thing he wanted to come home to — that he needed to.

“I don’t know Satoru, that’s why I had called you,” Yaga runs his fingers through his hair, “goddamnit,” he swore, scrubbing a hand down his face, “the mission came from the higher ups, they wouldn’t give me the specifics, but they said it was confidential—“

“I don’t care for the details right now, do we know anything about where she is?” Satoru keeps his words carefully measured, muscles wound taut, the only thing keeping him from using blue to destroy Jujutsu Tech in one fell swoop was the thought of you, “did she tell you anything else—“

And Ijichi bursts in, brow furrowed, “Gojo, we have a lead.”

~~~

Was this how it would end?

You knew it was in your fate to die, eventually. A wretched cycle that all of you were forced to live. An endless baton pass that always ended with the last runner dying — nothing but a pile of corpses left behind and to look back on.

And it would almost be a relief, a blessing to finally be done — if it wasn’t for Satoru.

You knew he would blame himself for this. He always blamed himself. Blamed himself when he couldn’t beat Toji. Blamed himself when he couldn’t save Riko. Blamed himself when he couldn’t save Geto. Because he was the strongest, and that meant he should be able to solve everyone’s problems — do everything no one else can do, be everywhere at once, and never fail.

Never. And yet, that’s not what the sleepless nights he spent working told you. It only told you that jujutsu would take everything from him, if he let it, and he would let it, if only that meant he could do more good.

And he was so good. Even if he didn’t see it — you could almost feel the lingering warmth of his embrace this morning, the wide grin on his lips as he peppered kisses down your neck, and the soft gaze of blues made of affection just for you — you would always see it for him.

You don’t see the curse coming, your vision blurred from the last strike. The crack of your bones barely registers in your ears, the curse presses you into the wall, claws pressed to your throat, drawing blood to run down your neck.

“Now, now, we can’t kill her, at least not yet,” a voice calls out, “we were given strict orders to wait,”

The curse’s growl reverberated across your skin, a desperate growl deep in its chest, the string of control being pulled taut, as its black nails dig deeper into your side, until it dropped you onto the ground like a rag doll.

Your body ached only for moments before it was chased away by numbness. And you could only wonder if this was how they felt? Riko, Haibara, Geto, all the others you watched die — was this the pain they felt? The ache of muscles that they could no longer feel, the sticky wetness of blood that seeped from their unknowing bodies, and the cold thst crept up from the tips of your toes.

You wanted it to stop. You wanted to stop. But each time you felt the tug of the other side, you couldn’t let go. You couldn’t. Not when Satoru needed you.

Your eyes burn with tears. And you needed him.

~~~

“Where is she?” The same question was ringing in Satoru’s head over and over since he had heard.

Candle wicks trembled with fear, casting shadows on the wall that shivered in the presence of the man before them. The papered panels was all that stood between him and these old men — the very same that played with the lives of many day in and day out. It would be far too easy to kill them all — in fact, it would barely take any effort at all with his cursed technique.

But he wouldn’t allow them the warm embrace of an instant death.

“Such insolence — how dare you enter this place and speak—“

“You ought to be thanking me,” his power sparked in the glint of his eyes, the glow of the lit wicks catching in the hard blues, “for not bashing your skulls in and ripping your hearts from your chests from the moment I entered,”

A silence swept over the room, another voice speaking, “Gojo—“

“The next words out of your mouth better be an answer because I don’t want to ask again,” his voice fills the silence in the room, only broken by the sounds of the candles crackle, “where is she?”

“We cannot disclose where—“ there’s a loud crack, the splintering of wood and the wet squelch of flesh and blood, and a cold breeze swept through the room, the candles going out.

Satoru’s fingers dug into the soft flesh of his neck, forcing the broken floorboards digging into his wrinkled skin, “I said I want an answer, do you think I would think twice about killing any of you?”

There’s a pause and the silence is only filled by the sound of gore dripping down the paper screens and hitting the floor.

“The only reason I haven’t yet was there was no point to it — no meaning,” and he could see you this morning, his lips curled for you, a strangled choking noise leaving his throat as the pads of his fingers squeezed around his neck, “but now I have every reason to, so tell me before I lose my patience,”

A silence fills the room again, until one of them speaks, “Let him go, and we’ll tell you.”

~~~

“Who do you work for?” the words come out strangled, your fingers bunching up your soaked fabric and pressing it to the gash on your stomach, “why did you bring me here?” You force yourself not to give them the satisfaction of a flinch.

“Do you really think it would be that simple to get me to reveal the reason, jujutsu sorcerer?” you hear a distant laugh, “we have our reasons, isn’t that simple enough? Or rather—”

His footsteps clapped against the floor, your head wrenched upwards, as a small yelp escapes your lips, “does it matter when you’re going to die either way?”

And you grit your teeth, before spitting on his face, half blood, half saliva, “At least I don’t have to live a life as pathetic as yours,” his fingers squeeze at your chin, your jaw aching under his grasp.

“Pathetic?” He wipes his face with the sleeve of his shirt before, throwing you to the floor, body screaming in pain, but you refuse to show weakness, even as tears burn at your tear ducts, “And yet, I’m not the one bloodied and battered and two inches from death, bitch,” he scoffs, muttering, “I can see why they ordered us to kill you now, who would want someone like you around?”

“Now I’m listening, who gave you those orders?” Another voice says from behind him. The man freezes, while you lift your head, a small smile on your lips, “are you hard of hearing or just plain stupid? Well, I don’t really need to even ask that, do I?”

He was shrouded in shadow, but you didn’t need to see him to know it was him — especially as he tugged his blindfold down with two fingers, blue eyes devoid of any humor or joy, and instead only with hatred.

“Satoru Gojo,” the voice left the man’s lips slowly, but before he could react, the special grade curse that had held you was barreling towards him in a moment, before Satoru held it at bay with his infinity, the other curses following suit — how many did this curse user have in the room with him? Three? No more like five or six, but even so — you scoffed under your breath, it wouldn’t matter, “No, you idiots! Don’t—”

And in a moment, they are eviscerated — held back by his infinity, deep seeded growls and roars leaving their lips, “c’mon now, is this the best you can do? I was expecting more from those bold enough to take my wife, but I guess I expected too much,” he sighs, before he lifts one hand, “Cursed Technique Amplification, Blue,”

You barely can make out the screams from one another, the splatter of their essence raining down from above, until you hear footsteps rushing towards you, and you’re hauled to your feet, pressed against the cursed user, his hand around your neck.

“One more move, and I break her neck,” Satoru landed below with ease, his gaze raised until he met yours, and you saw it soften for you — a silent question of ‘are you okay?’ and your nod and a forced smile that told him you were okay enough.

“You can try,” his words were slow and measured, just as his steps towards you were, “but I don’t think you understand who you are dealing with,”

He tensed, fingers digging into your neck, “I know perfectly well who you are, Satoru Gojo, and I am not afraid to die by your hand for this,”

Satoru’s lips curled, “I wasn’t talking about me,”

The kidnapper’s eyes narrowed, “What?”

And you jabbed at his knee, the bone splintering under your force, but you barely hear the snap or his scream because of the blood roaring in your ears. You don’t spare a second before slamming your other hand into his head, nose breaking from your fist, blood splattering across your arm. You ready yourself for another move, before you felt him ripped away from you, a strong arm around you to steady you.

“It’s okay, I got you, sweetheart, it’s okay,” Satoru murmured, soft words meant to soothe you, as his body envelops your tense muscles, until you finally relax into his arms. Your eyes burned with tears, as you looked up at him, before your eyes slid to the kidnapper, Satoru’s hand around his throat.

“I knew you’d come for me, Toru,” you whispered, grasping onto the front of his jacket, “I knew you would,”

“I always will,” and his eyes turned to the man, voice even, “should I kill him once I’m done questioning him?”

You know he means it.

“I don’t know,” you reply, fingers curling as you pressed your face against his chest, “but I don’t want you to have blood on your hands, not for me,”

“It wouldn’t be for you. It would be for me,” he says softly, “but we can discuss it later,” and then others began to flood the scene, the sights and sounds feeling distant as your eyes drooped with exhaustion.

“Satoru, I’m—“ your voice broke, “I really tried—“

“Shh, you did great,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your head, as you finally succumbed to exhaustion, slumping over in his arms, “I’ll handle the rest.”

~~~

“You all must be wondering why I called this meeting,” Satoru said, standing at the head of the Gojo clan’s meeting room. It had been long since he had stood as the head, but far too short for his liking. He had discarded this part of his life as soon as he could, joining Jujutsu Tech without a second of hesitation, and continued to run the operations of his clan as an adult, behind the scenes.

But it seems he was too lax.

It had been a few weeks since the incident. You were asleep for a good day in and out while Shoko worked on you. She came out of your room, pulling off the surgical cap off her head, and Satoru got to his feet, as Shoko removed her gloves and mask, “She’s fine, Satoru,” and he sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“How bad was it?” he asks, and she tilts her head, hands slipping into her pockets.

“Are you asking that to know how badly she was injured or so you can do worse to whoever did this?” Satoru shrugs, lips parting and she holds up a hand, “never mind, the less I know, the better,” she grabs your file and opens it, “most of her injuries related to cursed technique burn out — it seems whoever took her used curse spirits to attack her, she mentioned when she was conscious briefly that they didn’t control the curses, but they seemed to be able to work with them somehow,”

“More intelligent curses have been appearing since Yuji became Sukuna’s vessel,” Satoru murmured, but this wasn’t related to the asparagus special grade or volcano head. It was separate — it was personal.

“But all of this to take a first grade sorcerer, why?” and he shakes his head.

“It wasn’t for her — it was for me,” and that’s why they hadn’t killed you, “is she awake?”

Shoko sighed, “She should be waking up in a bit. She didn’t need much aside from some RCT treatment and stitches for the wounds she sustained,” she places a hand on his shoulder, “go see her, and try not to murder anyone until she wakes up,” she turns to leave, heels clicking.

“Wait,” Satoru stops her, and she pauses, “I need a favor.”

~~~

Satoru never liked hospitals. He hadn’t spent much time in them for actual injuries, because of his abilities. However, he spent far too much time inside medical facilities for the Gojo clan’s required medical check-ups. It was to ensure the future head’s health, he was told, but really, it was an excuse to make sure their cash cow would still give them milk.

Because that’s all he ever was — a pawn.

But he had long shed that role, tossed it from the board, when he had left for Jujutsu Tech. But even so, he lingered outside your room, some things still stuck. Especially when he had new memories — of seeing his comrades dead bodies laid on cold metal slabs.

And would you have been another if he hadn’t made it in time?

Satoru shakes his head of his thoughts, and opens the door. You were still asleep. Tucked into the hospital bed, you looked so small somehow, fragile — two things he never saw you as. How could he have? When you were the one on his first day to greet him and then slap him when he had something pretentious or childish (neither of you remembered but you had insisted it was one or the other).

And he had never let you go after that. But now…he couldn’t even hold you.

The sharp beeps of the machine monitoring your vitals, connected by the tubes and wires that ran all over your body. He reaches for his blindfold so he can look at you, really look at you, but he can’t. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails digging into the soft of his palms,

But you were alive. You were alive. You were alive.

That’s what he had to tell himself as he drew closer to your side — no matter how you looked now, you were okay. And that’s what was most important.

“Are you going to brood by my bedside all day?” his gaze snaps to you, your eyes fluttering open still, still drooping and exhausted, but a soft smile on your lips, “Because hospitals are depressing enough, Toru,”

He chuckles, forcing his tears back and his voice to be event, “Sorry, sweetheart, I forgot to pull out the stops for you this time,” and his fingers find yours, lacing as they always did, but they felt so cold, “next time I’ll bring confetti, balloons, streamers, and I’ll serenade you even—”

You snort, “You may be the best at everything, but I know you’ll sing offkey on purpose just to piss off Shoko or anyone else that visits me,” and he laughs shakily, a sigh stuck in his throat.

He presses his forehead to yours, “I love you, so much, y’know that, yeah?”

“I love you too, so much, Toru,” you cup his cheeks, turning your head to press your lips to his hand, “thank you for saving me,”

“You saved yourself, I just cleaned up a little,” his lips find yours in a soft kiss, and your brow furrowed, “what? Are my kissing skills that bad?”

You roll your eyes, “No, but are you okay?” and he scoffs softly, shaking his head.

“You’re the one who got kidnapped and hurt, and you’re asking me if I’m—”

“Satoru, you asked me if you should murder that guy,” you tilted your head, “I know you’re not against killing if it’s necessary or deserved, but the way you said it, I got worried,”

“I’m fine, I just—” he cut off, “I just need to figure out who did this,” you squeeze his hand, “I have to,”

“Satoru—“

“I know you’re okay, but you don’t know how afraid I was that you wouldn’t be—“ he cuts off, “and it’s not just that,” his fingers curl around yours tighter, “it’s not just us we’ll have to worry about in the future. We’re already a family, but what will happen if someone targets you and our future kids?” He takes a shaky breath at the thought,

“I have to make an example.”

Your gaze grows sad, pressing a kiss to his lips, if only to ground him for a moment, “I know,” but you frown all the same, “but promise me, you won’t do anything stupid, ok?”

But he was far from stupid — but the people before him were as close as anyone could get.

“You all are aware of my wife’s attack a few weeks ago,” he said in measured words, swallowing the lump in his throat, “I’m here to tell you that she has succumbed to her wounds,” his voice wavered, breaking, “she’s gone,”

There were whispers and murmurs that swept over the room, all were silenced by the lift of a hand — one of the Gojo Clan elders, the geezer leader as he liked to call him.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Satoru,” he said, lips twisted in a fake frown, “we heard that your beloved wife passed from her injuries a week ago,”

“And yet, I see you’ve brought someone for me to meet,” his eyes slide to the woman dressed for a wedding rather than a meeting, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

The woman’s painted lips kept in a neutral expression, her body so rigid he could have mistaken her as a statue if not for his six eyes, and her eyes refused to meet his.

“Satoru, I understand you are mourning, but we have to think of the future of the Gojo clan, and our future place in the Jujutsu world is only as secure as the next heir—“

“And so you thought to disrespect my wife by trying to marry your choice?” but their brows furrow as he begins to laugh, one that sends shivers down their backs.

The elders all gape at him, sharing looks, before turning back to him as his laughter finally settles into a quiet chuckle, “Satoru, what is this?”

“It’s funny that you ever thought I’d fall for this bullshit,” he pulls off his sunglasses, cerulean eyes gleaming in the low light, “did you know my wife was never supposed to be sent on this mission? Or rather, there were no reports of cursed spirits in the area, but yet, orders came for her to report to where she was,”

A hush falls over the group, “And why are you telling us this?”

“Because I think you all have forgotten your place,” in a blink, he’s grasping the neck of the elder, the very same man who had taken him away from his parents at the age of two to ensure his training was done properly, “I am the strongest, not the Gojo clan. I’m the only Gojo needed for the clan to be prosperous,”

“You insolent child—“ Satoru squeezes around his neck, gasps and whimpers clawing their way out from his grip, veins bulging as he tried and failed to pull Satoru’s hands off. He had even let the old man penetrate his infinity and all he had managed was a scratch or two.

“You should be careful when you’re talking to the ‘child’ who has your life in his hands,” and he grows silent, “now, to get back to the point, where did those orders come from?”

A quiet washed over the room, the only sounds were the shaky gasps of the elder in his hand, “W-what are—“

“I had a chat with the higher ups — those rotten old geezers may not like me, but I know they like all their limbs intact,” he drops the elder and twists his arm behind his back, wrenching back until he heard a cracking noise, “and they told me the orders came from the Gojo clan, and I wondered why would my own clan send the wife of the head off to be executed,”

“Satoru—“ one of the elders spoke, and he tilted his head.

“If you want him to die, your excuses will only make this go faster,” and his mouth shuts, “I’ll take your silence as a confirmation that all of you had a hand in this,” he sighs, removing his sunglasses, running his fingers through his hair, “man, I’ve had conspiracies against me, but I never guessed you’d target the one person I value above everything else. But I knew you would fail her little test,”

He’s met with furrowed brows and gritted teeth, the elder looking up at him in fear, “W-what?”

“You see if I had it my way, I would have killed you all, no questions asked,” his fingers close over the top of his head, wrenching him backwards to meet his gaze, “But my wife, my very much alive wife,” he adds, with a glance to the woman looking increasingly faint with each second that passes, “she would want me to see if you’d come clean about the plan and whether some of you were innocent,” his lips curl, “but she doesn’t know the bloody history of the Gojo clan like we do,” and his fingers dig into the flesh of the elder, “so what’s a few more bloodstains?”

He tears off his head, screams ringing out as a rush of scarlet paints the walls, splattering across the other elders. The woman offered to be his wife rings over the others, her shrill shriek piercing their eardrums. It’s a dull thud as the lifeless corpse falls to the floor, as Satoru wiped the blood from his cheek, a cock of his head and eyes flashing with anger.

“You can’t do this! You—“ Satoru’s fist connects with his face, blood flooding his features.

“I can, because I’ve decided the Gojo clan needs to get rid of the tumors that infect it, and besides,” his body crumples to the floor as his foot slams into their stomach, a sick, wet noise that draws gasps and open mouthed silent screams from the others, “what are you going to do about it?”

“Please, please, she’s alive—” one of them begged, all of them falling to their knees, wrinkled faces contorted in fear, blown out eyes and faces wet with tears only making them more ugly than he thought was possible — he really couldn’t end up like these geezers, “we only wanted what was best—we wanted the next head of the clan to be even more powerful than you are—”

He laughs, not an ounce of mirth or levity, shivers running down the spines of the others who watched, as he stepped over the body of the elder, lips twisted into a wide grin, “And there’s your mistake,”

He loomed over the one who spoke, shadow cast over him, as his fingers curled around his arm, before breaking it off, spurts of blood splattering on his clothes, mixing with the other — some of it flecked across his face.

Satoru wiped his face with his forearm, tilting his head. He knew they were begging and pleading — lips moving, words forming, but it all fell on deaf ears. After all they had never bothered to listen to any sorcerer before, did they? Suguru’s face came to mind — flashes of the spring he would never get back — so why should he listen to theirs?

“You were too busy worrying about the next head, when you should’ve been worried about the current one.”

~~~~

You were asleep.

Moonlight gave way to your features in the pitch black room, your soft breaths warming his fingers that ran over your cheek. Shoko had discharged you yesterday, and he had brought you home — but even now with you home, he couldn’t sleep. It felt as if you’d disappear the moment he took his eyes off you, slipping from his grasp just as you almost did.

But you didn’t. You’re here.

It was the same words you had whispered to him every night when he had curled up beside you, “I’m not going anywhere, I’m here, aren’t I?”

But you could disappear.

You could if he wasn’t there with you — if he wasn’t fast enough. Because he couldn’t be everywhere at once, not even the strongest could accomplish that. But he wanted to keep you safe all the same. Would it be selfish to lock you up? Hide you away somewhere others could never find you? Keep you hidden if only to keep you safe.

But you never would be safe, not while you were with him.

“Toru?” Your voice breaks him from his thoughts, eyes fluttering open to meet his as your fingers reach for his cheek, “is that blood?”

And he’s pinned your hands in a blink of an eye, quickly and quietly, “it’s not mine,” his gaze glows in the dark, catching the moonlight streaming in, and he’s leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Toru, what happened?” And he kisses along your cheekbones, your jaw, your nose, your chin, “Satoru—“

“I killed them,” his fingers trace the folds of the satin robe he had helped you into, brushing against the bandages that hid your wounds from his sight, but he could see them all the same, “the people who did this,”

Your brow furrows, “Toru, what do you mean the people who—“

“Why do you stay with me?” He leans down to find your lips in a bruising kiss, lips sliding against yours as his fingers undo the knot of your robe, letting the fabric fall away from your bare body.

“What—“ his lips part from yours, strings of spit connecting your mouths.

“Why do you stay with me when I’m a monster?” and your eyes soften.

“You’re not—“ and he’s cutting you off with another kiss, as your hands struggle under his grip, the other grazing down your side, finding the swell of your hip only to squeeze.

“I’m the perfect weapon,” he kisses down the side of your neck, teeth grazing against your soft flesh harshly, drawing a gasp from your lips, “I could have killed them all, because I know they all knew—“

“Knew what?”

“My clan elders — they wanted to have you die on a mission, they wanted to stage it, so they could have me marry who they wanted,” he pauses, drawing a finger down the valley of your breasts, “create a perfect heir,”

“Satoru—“

He kisses you again, swallowing your words along with your thoughts, parting only to speak, “so I killed them, I didn’t use my cursed technique, I wanted them to feel the pain they gave you, wanted them to feel a fraction of what you did,”

You can’t find a second to speak, his fingers now sliding up your bare leg, as he presses himself closer, erection against your inner thigh, “Toru, you didn’t have to put yourself through that—“

“I wanted to,” he parts your thighs easily, large palm spread against your inner thigh, fingers toying with the edge of your panties, “wanted to tear them to shreds for what they did to you — and what they wanted to do—”

“I’m okay, Satoru, I’m—” a bitter laugh leaves his throat, as his fingers find your bandages again.

“Do you call coming home half dead okay now by jujutsu sorcerer standards?” he shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair, “I told you after Suguru that I would fix this rotten jujutsu world,” he presses kisses up your thigh, “and their deaths did fix one thing — no sorcerer will touch you or our future children again, especially when they speak to the woman the clan wanted to marry off to when your body wasn’t even cold yet,”

“You left her,” and he nods, eyes unable to meet yours.

“I only killed the elders I gathered, anyone else was spared — they didn’t dig their own graves,” his hand loosens around your wrists and you reach for his cheek, cupping his cheek, despite the blood, “I don’t regret it, I’d kill anyone who hurts you, but I didn’t want you to see me like this,”

“Like what?”

“Like a monster,” and you click your tongue, his eyes flitting to yours.

“You’re my Satoru, not a monster, you did what you did to protect me, protect our family,” you murmur, “that’s just about the most Satoru thing you could do,”

“But—“

“And if you are deemed a monster anyway?” You lean up, fingers smearing the blood against your own cheek, “then I’ll just become a monster with you,”

He crashes into you with a kiss, cupping your cheeks, as his tongue slips into your mouth, “can you really be a monster, sweetheart?”

He drags his lips down your neck, his teeth grazing your soft flesh along the hollow of your throat, “T-Toru—“ and his lips find the swell of your breasts, his tongue dragging over your pert nipple, while his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, snapping it against your skin, “y’know I can be, I would be, for you,”

He peers up through half lidded eyelids, his thumb drags down your puffy bottom lip, “I can’t imagine someone so sweet like you as one,” he murmurs, as he pulls back, lips slick with spit, as he drags his fingers toying with the soaked fabric of your panties, “and I wouldn’t want to drag you down with me,”

Your fingers reach forward, propping yourself up on your other arm, “Drag me or not,” you cup his chin, “you’re stuck with me,”

“Can we make it a binding vow?” you roll your eyes, and his lips curl for the first time since he’s got here, “c’mon sweets, I have to get my reassurance somehow,”

You hold up the giant rock on your finger, the very diamond you had told Satoru was too much, “this wasn’t enough—” the last word is a bite back gasp, as he noses at the drenched crotch of your underwear, a deep inhale that has you squirming, “No, Toru—” but he’s pinned your thighs down, prying them open, as he gazes up at you.

“Uh-uh, princess, I don’t remember saying you could move, especially when you could reopen your wounds,” his nose bumps against your clothed clit, a wicked smile as he drags his tongue over the already wet fabric, “you still haven’t seen how much of a monster I can be.”

~~~

“Ngh, Toru, can’t, I can’t—” but you can — you know you can from the heat building in your sloppy cunt under already soaked through sheets, and he knows too well you can too, from the way your pussy flutters around his three fingers, knuckle deep as they piston in and out, while his mouth toys with your abused clit, “please—”

You lost track of how many times you had orgasmed — his fingers, his mouth, and sometimes both — he had pulled each one after the other, allowing small reprieves, only to bury himself back in. He had even had you ride his face at one point, and you were sure he’d suffocate under your drenched cunt, until he flipped you on your back again.

“Please what, sweets?” he slows his fingers, curling them a certain way that makes your lips fall open, “you’ll have to use your words,” he pulls back.

Chest heaving, chin glistening with your release, his tongue cleaned his lips off before he wiped the rest off, before pressing open mouthed kisses to your inner thighs. And soon enough, his fingers were sinking back into your messy pussy, splitting you open with his thick fingers.

“Didn’t you say you wanted this, sweetheart?” his words cut through the wet squelch of his digits fucking you open, “wanted to drag you down with you, wanted this—” and he sucks hard at your clit, tongue flicking over it, making your back arch, “wanted me to drag you down with me,” and he punctuates it with a thrust of his fingers, brushing against a spot that has you seeing spots, “gotta make good on your promise, and I have to erase all the pain they gave you,”

And you barely manage to latch onto the desperation in his voice, the way the facade flickers.

He fucks you ever so slightly deeper, and you cum hard, tearing through you as your body tenses, pleasure washing over you as it did every single other time, melding into the others, “Good girl,” he murmurs, as he works his fingers through your orgasm, the slick noises becoming white noise, until he finally pulls the digits from inside you.

Your eyes flutter open to the sight of him licking his digits clean one by one of your cum, his lips curled in a soft smile as they meet your gaze, his hand sliding up your thigh gently as it quaked, the very same fingers he had used to murder the people that hurt you, were so gentle when it was you — he was always so gentle when it was you.

But never himself.

You reach up for him, palm cupping his cheek, while the other finds his bare shoulder — clothes long discarded, “I love you,” and the cracks spread, spider webbing from the epicenter, “you know that right?”

His words seem caught in the back of his throat, “Even now?”

“Especially now,” and he’s pressing you against the mattress again, your thighs folded against your chest, legs slung over his shoulders, “you saved me,”

His gaze softened, “you saved me first,” and again and again, he couldn’t count the number of times you did, by just existing, pressing a kiss to the side of your thigh, “but if I’m too late next time?”

“You can’t be everywhere,” your fingers lace with his, “and I just need you,” and still in this situation, his ego can inflate at your praise — nosing at your thigh, a deep inhale, before dragging his tongue up the side of your leg, “only you.”

He drags his weeping erection over your soaked folds, leaking tip teasing your slit while he watched his pre mix with yours, “Think you need more than just me,” and when he lets the tip sink into you, your lips part with his name, just as your walls part for him, “want something else, wifey?”

“You’re the worst,” you look up at him, lips curling despite your pout, your fingers grasping at the sheets under you, as your cunt tries to swallow him whole, “Toru, how long are you going to tease me for?”

And he’s pulling out only to draw a groan from your lips, “If you’re such a monster, thought you could take it—“ and your hand reaches for him, tugging him close by his neck.

“I swear to god, if you don’t fuck me right now—“

He grins, “If you insist,”

Fuck.

He sinks into you all at once, all too fast and all too slow, balls deep as he bottoms out inside you, your walls fluttering only to pull him deeper, “fuck,” your head falls back as his tip brushes against your cervix, “too fucking big, I swear if you rip my stitches open—”

“You don’t think I cleared this before I decided to do this, baby?” He grunts, glancing down to see how your messy hole stretched open as he sunk into you, “can’t believe anyone thought I’d fuck anyone but you — you’re the only one for me, sweetheart,”

You couldn’t help but notice his eyes flicker to your pussy stuffed full with his huge dick, “You talking to me or my cunt—“ and he begins to fuck you, remark undercut by the moan that he pulled from your lips, “f-fucker—“

“That’s exactly what you wanted, isn’t it sweetheart?” the lewd sounds of skin slapping together filled the room, his soft grunts and your moans, “wanted me to fuck you open, yeah?” and he wanted this, needed this after this week — it had been too long since he felt you under him like this — real and alive, his name leaving your swollen, kiss bitten lips.

And you needed it just the same — needed his fingers to dig into the softness of your thighs, needed the way only he could fill every inch of you, needed the soft murmurs of how good you felt, how much he loved you.

“Fuck, Toru, so fast,” you whine, but how could slow down he when you felt so good — so wet and warm, you had joked he could cum just looking at you alone barely a fist around his dick, but it was true — and being inside you just made him unravel completely, all sense of himself lost and drowning in just you, “hngh, it’s so deep,” you babble, tears burning at the corners of your eyes.

“That’s right, sweetheart, gonna fuck you deep, gotta make sure you feel it don’t I?” he coos, and his hand snakes between your thighs, pressing his palm to the bulge in your stomach, making you gasp as your walls clench around him, drawing a grunt from his lips, “that’s it, good girl,”

You keen at his praise, the wet squelch of your cunt around his cock ringing in your ears, balls slapping against your pussy with a rhythm that echoes in your head, as your body arches into him, needing him deeper, harder, faster. He’s nearly rutting into you, his thrusts growing shallow as you clamp down on him, achingly close.

“Those old fucking geezers don’t know what they were talking about—“ he grunts, running his mouth all the same even as he sunk impossibly fucking deeper, “don’t know this is the only cunt I’d ever breed. The only one I’d ever breed. The only one I can. Know why?” And you only can whimper, as his fingers rub against your clit, “because this is the only one made for my cum,”

And his words push you over the edge, cumming hard and fast, head lolling back, as his tip bullies your womb, as he fucks you hard over and over through your orgasm, sending pleasure ripping up your spine. Satoru groans as he feels you spasm, soaking in him in your juices, as he watches a white ring of your cum form around the base of his dick, dripping onto the clean sheets with the evidence of your arousal.

He can’t hold back.

He rails into you, a moan of your name falling past your lips making you pull him close, shifting your legs around his back just so he can sink into you even a centimeter deeper—

“Fuck, g’nna cum,” he’s meeting your glazed over eyes, knowing “gonna fill you up, yeah? Get you nice and round with my baby,” he groans at the thought, the image of you carrying his kid, stomach swollen as you grow his child, “and they’ll know, all of them, that you’re the only one I’d cum in,” and he’s so close, dick twitching as your arms around his neck tug him close.

“Cum in me, Toru, give me our baby,” and that’s it, he’s spilling inside you, spurting his hot release inside, again and again, as he fucks it deeper, filling you up.

“That’s it, take every drop,” he’s relentless, until he finally eases from you, his release trickling out. A soft sigh parts your lips that grows into a sharp gasp as he’s already flipping you over onto your stomach.

“Toru—” you whine.

“Aw did you think we were done sweetheart?” a pillow cushions your still bandaged stomach, placed underneath to support you, a shudder down your body as he rubs his cock against you, as he leans down, hot words murmured against your ear with a grin, before he sinks back into you with one thrust, stuffing his spilling cum back inside, “One thing about monsters are that we also have monstrous stamina.”

~~~

It was early, but Satoru was already awake.

He always had trouble sleeping, but now? His eyes found your sleeping form beside him, under the covers and safe, just as he had left you that morning. He didn’t know if he’d ever sleep more than three hours now. He brushed the back of his knuckles over your cheek, but you needed sleep — one of three things you never could live without (food and himself being the other two). And you definitely needed it now, after he had kept you up — nearly all night.

You shifted in your sleep, revealing several blooming hickies and love bites he had littered your body with, lips curling at the sight, as he pulled the blanket back up around you.

He was selfish — he should have divorced you the moment he had gotten you back. Let you leave because it was the right thing to do — to let you live a life safe without him. But he couldn’t — because he couldn’t imagine waking another morning, spending another day without knowing where you were, how you were doing.

It was selfish. But you let him be — especially when it came to you.

And his phone vibrates on the nightstand, whirring again and again, as he picks it up with a sigh, Yaga’s name flashing on the display. He takes one last glance at you before slipping from bed, stepping into the living room.

“Sensei! To what—“ he hardly gets a word out before screams fill his ears. He rubs his chin, it was too early for this.

He makes out the words — Gojo clan, dead, scandal, murder (wasn’t sure if he meant if he was going to murder Gojo or he meant what happened to the elders).

“It was a clan dispute, there was no need to tell you,”

Satoru held the phone away from his ear, Yaga’s yelling told him everything he needed to know, “Yeah, yeah, I know, the higher ups know — or they probably do by now,” he almost chuckles at the thought, and how he would love to do the same to them — knuckles white as he grips his phone — love to make them feel the same pain the sorcerers cared nothing for felt, make them—

Arms curl around him from behind and he knows it’s you, his body relaxing into your touch with practiced ease, your face buried in his back. His fingers relax, finding yours, tracing over the back, as he lifts one hand to his lips.

—But it wasn’t the time for that.

“Fine, fine, no need to have a heart attack, old man — I’ll talk to them tomorrow,” Yaga was still speaking until Satoru hung up, turning to face yoy, your eyes half closed as his fingers found your cheek, “what are you doing awake, sweets?”

His lips curl as you lean into his touch, “you weren’t next to me when I woke up,” you murmur, nose brushing against his fingers as your eyes flutter open and closed, “how am I supposed to sleep when my pretty husband isn’t next to me?”

“Just pretty?” and you snort, as his arm sneaks around your waist, pulling you to his chest, your head right over his heart, a content sigh on your lips.

“Are you ever serious?”

“Always,” and you smile up at him, chin resting against him, “what is it? Do I got something on my face?”

“You think our baby will have your pretty face?” You hum, and his gaze softens at the thought, “I hope so,”

He grins, “You do huh? And here I thought my ego didn’t need more stroking,”

“It doesn’t, but my husband deserves every bit of praise he gets — because he doesn’t get enough,” you kiss him softly, nose bumping against his.

“You planning on showering me with your praise, sweetheart?” And your lips finds his again.

“Always,” and he’s leading you back towards the bedroom, “where are you—“ you squeal as he scoops you up into his arms and carries you back to bed, gently placing you down, a grin on his lips.

He drags his thumb down your kiss ruined lips, “Do you think I’m gonna let you leave this bed without breeding you right?” He clicks his tongue, “I’m far from done with you, wifey,”

You’re so beautiful, hair spread on the pillow like a halo, “So we’re not leaving until I’m pregnant?” Your fingers brush against his cheek, “we might be here a while,”

Satoru wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

He kisses you again, long and languid, “There’s nothing I want more than to stay in bed with you.”

✧ a/n: sorry i've been gone for a bit!! i got super busy with work and got hella writer's block and right when i was feeling ready to write-- i got sick. but i'm doing much better now!!

✧ taglist: @arrivedercis, @ssetsuka, @ch3rryistheg, @satorusmochis, @sunarins-bae, @blindbabycadder , @yihona-san06 , @dantaku , @archieballs , @ceruleansol , @mqcht , @xxemmarldxx , @chiyokoemilia , @theshylittleelfgirl , @rroseselavyyy , @out4thenight , @jatyes , @unreliablefangs , @sleazymac-n-cheesy , @celestialseasart , @minsified , @akemfs , @ranatherealestsigma , @zherryxtar , @virtualangelllllll , @itsmebien , @difluenza , @rougebrainsludge , @mochigod , @euphorism , @vii-is-free , @elliesndg , @beneaththelamina , @monarch-of-anime-simping , @hhimetsu , @simply-a-s1mp , @jennieclips , @svt-backup , @angelbunsx , @duhhitsmiranda , @satowooo , @fushitoru , @lesaurita , @briluvslee , @gojo-gets-me-wetter , @catsgomurp , @pinkyvomit , @hyori2 , @wakashudou , @celestialgojo , @sxnkuna, @nakariabnrb, @dazailover1900, @hanlay, @being-me-is-not-a-sin, @kxouri, @forest-fruits-jam, @spider-fan72, @strawmariee

[buckyseternaldoll]

you, unblurred.

Pairing: Post-Thunderbolts!Bucky x NewAvenger!Reader

Summary: You hated him. You swore you did. Until the dick pics you’d been seeing for months turned out to belong to your mission partner—the man who barely looked at you in daylight.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, mutual masturbation (via FaceTime), p in v sex (unprotected), first time sex (reader), dirty talk, breastplay (nipple sucking), wet grinding (clothed and bare), edging (reader), orgasm denial (brief), praise kink, possessive!soft!Bucky vibes, intense intimacy, post-orgasm shaking, soft aftercare cuddling

Word Count: 8.7k

You hadn’t even made it halfway through your first week and you were already public enemy number one in the eyes of Bucky Barnes.

Valentina hadn’t given you much warning. One curt message, no fanfare. Just a quick relocation order and the kind of tone that made it clear you weren’t allowed to say no. You were to report to the newly restructured Watchtower—what used to be the old Avengers Tower, now stripped of its former glory and repurposed for the next wave of heroes. Or, as the media loved to call it: The New Avengers.

But the title never sat well with you.

“New Avengers” sounded like cheap branding. A desperate repackage. Like you were standing in the shadow of gods and legends, trying on their hand-me-downs and pretending they still fit. You didn’t see yourself in that lineup. You didn’t want to. So you clung to something else.

You were Thunderbolts. Raw, messy, cobbled together by circumstance and grief, yes—but still sharp around the edges. Thunderbolts sounded tougher. Grittier. Real. You liked that.

Your first day was already a disaster.

You’d overslept after flying in from a red-eye, scrambled into your navy leggings and cropped black tank, hair still damp from a rushed shower and barely twisted into a low bun. One hand juggled your phone, the other a hot, nearly-overflowing paper cup of coffee. Wedged awkwardly under your arm? A grease-stained paper bag with a very loaded chili dog inside. Extra chili. Always extra chili.

You were running toward the elevator when the doors slid open—and you didn’t realize someone was standing inside until your boot clipped the edge of the hallway runner and you were airborne.

You collided full force with a solid chest, and everything you were holding—coffee, chili, dignity—exploded across the poor bastard who’d been unlucky enough to stand in your path.

Bucky Barnes.

Your coffee soaked the front of his dark red henley. Chili smeared across his chest. A fat drop of sauce slid down the side of his neck, and by some miracle, a single black bean clung to his collarbone like a badge of shame.

His eyes snapped to you—ice-blue and narrowing fast.

You froze. “Oh shit—I’m so sorry, I didn’t see—I’ll clean it, I swear—like, personally. Or I’ll run your errands for the week. Seven days. No questions—”

He didn’t say a word.

Just a hard exhale. A glare sharp enough to slice bone. Then he turned, dripping and silent, and walked off the elevator like he hadn’t just been assaulted by caffeine and chili grease.

You stood there in stunned horror, the doors sliding closed behind him.

By the time you finally made it up to the Watchtower’s main lounge—jittery, sweating, and still slightly smelling like cumin—most of the team had already gathered.

Yelena had taken one look at your half-spilled coffee and chili-smeared shirt and declared, “You look like chaos. I like it.”

John Walker gave you a nod and a raised brow, then returned to sulking over a protein shake.

Alexei had tried to pitch you on his “secret endurance routine” within the first five minutes.

You laughed. Politely declined.

It was messy. Loud. Barely functional. But comforting in a strange way—like finding out the group project you were forced into was at least full of people who didn’t take themselves too seriously.

Then you saw him again.

Bucky entered the lounge a few minutes later, now dressed in his black compression shirt and tactical pants—his training gear. His hair was damp, brushed back behind his ears, and his jaw looked freshly clenched. You straightened up instinctively, wiping your palms on your leggings, then took a breath and stepped toward him.

You opened your mouth to greet him, maybe even introduce yourself properly this time.

He walked past you.

Didn’t look. Didn’t stop. Just kept moving like you weren’t even there.

You heard him grunt—low, sharp, and unmistakably annoyed.

You knew it was meant for you.

A warning shot.

A sign of war.

—

It didn’t end there.

Over the next few days, Bucky made it very clear you were on his shit list. Every time he assigned training rotations, you got the worst of it. Your combat drills were brutal—sparring reps that left your ribs aching and your pride in pieces. While others got to rotate partners, you were stuck running simulations against one of the Widow bots that seemed permanently set to maximum aggression.

The gym sessions? A damn death sentence. Weighted vests. Endurance drills until your lungs felt like they were trying to claw their way out of your chest. No water breaks. No mercy.

He didn’t speak to you. Barely looked at you.

Except when he did, and it was always across the room—like he could smell your failure before he saw it. Like your presence alone was a personal offense.

You tried. You really did. But by week two, your patience ran out.

One late afternoon, you were in the pantry with Yelena, peeling open a protein bar and venting under your breath.

“He’s just—ugh, he’s a grumpy old bastard,” you muttered. “Looks like he hasn’t slept since the Cold War and acts like he’s allergic to joy. Like, take a goddamn nap in a grave already.”

Yelena snorted into her coffee, half-choking.

Unfortunately, you didn’t notice John Walker stepping in through the hallway behind you.

“You know Bucky’s just next door, yeah?” he said casually, leaning against the counter with that smirk he always wore when he was about to stir up some trouble.

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, so?”

John arched a brow. “And you do know he’s enhanced.”

“So what?”

“So…” He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. “He can hear all that shit you’re talking. Loud and clear. Pretty sure he’s listening right now.”

You froze mid-bite, mouth still half-open, stomach dropping like a stone.

Yelena widened her eyes in faux horror and whispered, “You’re so dead.”

You considered apologizing. Maybe retreating. Maybe fleeing the country.

But the truth?

You were tired of walking on eggshells. You’d tripped once. It was an accident. You hadn’t meant to spill anything on him. And if the great Sergeant Barnes wanted to crucify you over one clumsy mistake and make your life hell over a chili dog and a coffee?

Then let him.

You swallowed the bite, turned back to your protein bar, and said with zero remorse—

“Good.”

—

You didn’t stop shit-talking Bucky Barnes after that first day.

If anything, you escalated.

Not publicly—well, not all the time. But every night, without fail, you’d unload your frustrations somewhere far safer. Somewhere faceless. Somewhere private.

You had a fling.

Not a lover. Not even a real person, as far as you could prove. You’d met him long before this whole Thunderbolts mess started, back when your life was quieter, lonelier, when everything still felt like it was just slightly out of reach. You were still moving between safe houses and temp assignments then, with no anchor point but your own reflection—and a damn dating app that promised distraction if not affection.

He caught your eye immediately. Not because of the photos—there weren’t many—but the bio. Dry. Hilarious. And oddly sad in a way that curled around your ribs and settled there.

Been cold for a while. Warming up slowly. Thought maybe someone out there had the defrost button.

It made you pause. Laugh. Swipe right.

He matched with you in less than a minute.

The first message was a joke. Obscure, borderline ridiculous, laced in some cryptic code about how hard it was to feel human again in a world that never really waited for you. You responded in kind—half sarcasm, half curiosity. It spiraled from there. Inside jokes layered like bricks. Memes, strange hypotheticals, long nights of talking in half-truths and wry honesty.

And then, somewhere along the line… things turned filthy.

It wasn’t planned. It just happened. Like a switch flipped. One voice note became two. Then came the late-night confessions. The breathy admissions. The images. Not full nudes—he never sent anything that showed his face. But the way he described things? The way he talked? It made your stomach twist and your thighs squeeze together under the sheets.

His voice was low, rough in the corners, always a little tired like he’d recorded it with his head resting on a pillow. But the words were razor-sharp. Soft growls of praise. Dirty commands. Compliments that didn’t sound like he was bluffing, like he actually meant it when he called you his “good girl” or said he’d drop to his knees for you if you just asked.

And then there were the pics.

Oh, the pics.

Awkward angles, yes. But unmistakable. He was filthy thick. Curved slightly to the right. Veiny in a way that made your mouth water. Every photo was captioned with some deadpan comment that made you laugh and ache.

This angle is 90% countertop and 10% cock. Not sorry.

Too cold for dick pics but I suffer for art.

If I die of embarrassment, bury me face down so you can sit on my shame.

You’d called him the King of Come-dick (get it? Comedic Dick?), and he told you that was going in his will.

And even without a name or a face, you felt more seen in those chats than you ever had in real life. He made you laugh. He made you beg. He made you feel good.

But lately, those voice notes had taken on a different flavor.

Because now you were venting.

Every night.

After a day of getting your lungs torched by combat drills and your pride mangled by James freaking Barnes, you’d crawl into bed, roll onto your side, and let it all pour out.

Your messages to the fling started as innocent rants.

You ever met someone who just hates you on sight? Like your existence is their 13th reason?

He’s the human version of stepping barefoot on a plug. Like I’m convinced he’s been possessed by an ancient war ghost who hates fun.

I tripped once. ONCE. Now I’m stuck doing training reps that make my organs feel like they’re auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.

And your online fling—bless him—never once dismissed you. He didn’t ask too many questions. Didn’t push for context. He just listened.

Told you you were strong. That your instincts were good. That whoever was tearing you down probably didn’t deserve to know the real you. That maybe this guy—this “grumpy dickhead on permanent PMS”—just didn’t know how to handle someone like you. Someone bright. Loud. Capable. Free.

And God, those messages always left you warm. Floating. Like he saw you, even without seeing your face.

You never told him you were a Thunderbolt. Never mentioned the Watchtower. You kept it vague—just some asshole colleague with authority issues.

And he never told you where he was either.

You didn’t need names. Didn’t need faces.

It was better this way. Safer. More honest, somehow.

Besides, it wasn’t like you were in love with the guy.

It was just sex.

Just comfort.

Just a voice in the dark whispering that you were worth more than how Bucky Barnes made you feel.

And if, sometimes, that same voice made your breath hitch and your toes curl under the covers, whispering filth that left you gasping into your pillow?

Well.

That was nobody’s business but yours.

—

By now, the tension between you and Bucky Barnes had evolved into something legendary.

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t dignified. It was a living, breathing force that stalked every shared hallway, every joint training session, every goddamn mission briefing. You didn’t speak. He didn’t speak. But somehow, every grunt, eye-roll, sigh, and clipped command felt like it echoed through the whole goddamn Watchtower.

The others noticed.

They definitely noticed.

So much so that one morning in the lounge room—barely ten minutes into your coffee—Yelena snapped.

“For fuck’s sake,” she groaned, slamming her mug down a little too hard. “Can someone ask Bob to summon the Void again? I’m serious. Trap them in it. Lock it. Throw away the key.”

Across from her, Bob nearly choked on his protein shake.

He looked up, blinking. “You want me to… what? No. Absolutely not. Do you know how hard I’ve worked to keep that thing buried?”

She narrowed her eyes. “So don’t be the Void. Be Sentry. Throw Bucky somewhere far. Like Antarctica. That should fix it.”

You were already suppressing a laugh, staring into your bowl of cereal like it had the answers to your spiritual collapse.

Bucky, of course, was seated at the end of the long couch—tablet in hand, thumbing through mission briefs with a scowl that seemed surgically attached to his face.

“I heard that, Lena,” he muttered dryly without looking up.

Then he did look up.

Right at you.

The kind of look that scraped across your skin like ice on bare flesh. Not even anger anymore. Just a quiet, simmering disdain. A full-body ugh.

He dragged his finger across the tablet, ignoring everyone else, scrolling like you weren’t worth more than a line item in his day.

You bit the inside of your cheek, hard.

It had been days since you last messaged your fling—missions had kept you busy, bruised, mentally wiped. But today? You needed a lifeline. You needed him.

You reached for your phone under the table and typed, thumbs moving fast, tension bubbling under your skin.

Shitty day at work. Missed you a little more than usual today. Hope you’re alive and not plotting your escape from Earth.

A second later, a ding echoed across the room.

You didn’t look.

But from the corner of your eye… you saw Bucky smile.

Just the ghost of it, but it was there. Quick. Sharp. Subtle enough to vanish in a blink—but unmistakable. The corners of his mouth curved, softening his jaw, lighting up something that should’ve made him look kinder.

Instead, it pissed you off.

How could someone with a smile that beautiful act like such a piece of shit?

Your phone buzzed.

Hey babe. How bad are we talking? On a scale from paper cut to arson?

You nearly melted at the sight of the message. The nickname. The teasing tone. Like your body had been waiting to exhale.

Your fingers flew, fire in your blood as you rose from your seat and power-walked out of the lounge, phone still in hand.

You headed straight for one of the smaller mission debrief rooms—locked the door behind you and threw yourself into the nearest chair like it was a confessional booth.

Same old dickhead being a dickhead again. Just needed your voice or your cock. Either one will do.

It didn’t take long for the response to ping through.

Rough day too. Holding the world together with duct tape and a smile. My shoulders might collapse from all this weight.

You snorted softly, your anger already softening into something warmer, darker, messier. Your thighs pressed together.

Your fingers danced across the screen again.

Maybe a dick pic would help redistribute the emotional labor? 😌

You hit send.

Hot tension unfurled low in your stomach. That fuzzy, heavy pulse building behind your navel. You leaned back in your chair, the silence making your heart beat louder.

A beat passed.

Then the reply:

Not now. Mid-meeting. Bad time.

You pouted, eyes narrowing slightly.

Then your screen lit up.

Image received.

You tapped it open.

It was… tight. Somewhat zoomed in, framed awkwardly from waist down—but unmistakable. The outline of his cock straining against dark, snug tactical pants. Like it was furious to be caged. The bulge was obscene. Rude. Practically throbbing through the screen.

You blinked. Sucked in a breath.

Your pulse jumped.

Mmm, excuse me, bold and nasty? In a meeting?? Someone’s got issues 🫦

No reply.

You waited, but you weren’t upset. He disappeared like this sometimes—usually when work pulled him back under. You understood it. You respected it.

So you looked at the photo again.

Zoomed in a little.

God, it looked so good.

But then… something tugged at your brain. A weird, annoying sense of déjà vu.

The pants.

The texture of the fabric. The way they clung. The slight reinforcement at the side seams. They looked… familiar.

Too familiar.

You frowned.

Hadn’t you seen these somewhere?

But no—no, that was stupid. There were probably ten thousand pairs of pants like that in the world. You were just horny and paranoid.

And horny.

Mostly horny.

You shook the thought away, closed the image, and leaned back with a dreamy sigh.

Whoever your mystery man was… he was your safe space. Your escape.

And there was no way the guy sending you filthy bulge pics from some secret meeting was the same one currently glaring at you every day like you were a plague.

Right?

—

As if things couldn’t get any worse, Valentina had to stick her designer heel right into the wound.

She called it a “strategic adjustment.”

You called it cruel and unusual punishment.

From now on, until further notice—her favorite three words—you were to be partnered with Bucky Barnes. For missions. For sparring. For everything.

Her exact phrasing?

“For God’s sake, Barnes. You’re over a hundred years old. You’ve survived wars, Hydra, cryo, and three near-apocalypses. Fix this shenanigan already. Or I swear, I’ll fix it for you—and neither of you will like my method.”

You wanted to protest.

Bucky didn’t even blink.

Just gave her that flat, dead-eyed look that said he’d rather be in a Siberian prison than listening to this briefing.

So it began.

The first few sparring sessions were nothing short of apocalyptic. Poor coordination, missed cues, accidental hits that didn’t feel that accidental. Zero trust. Zero chemistry. Just bruises, swearing, and thick silence that felt louder than gunfire.

And finally, you snapped.

You threw your gloves across the mat, stormed toward him as he stood there like a statue, and spat the words out like venom.

“What the fuck is your problem, Barnes? Can you say something for once instead of treating me like I’m radioactive?”

His gaze lifted to meet yours. Calm. Unreadable. Stormy blue with something you couldn’t quite name hiding underneath.

He let out a breath.

“This is why,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly.

You blinked. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You’re still a kid.”

The words landed like a slap—sharp and low.

“What the fuck was that supposed to mean?” you shot back, voice rising.

He exhaled sharply, looked away like he was already done with the conversation.

“You’re not in the right headspace for this. Neither am I. Let’s call it for today. I’ll reschedule the gym session.”

He picked up his towel, unbothered, collected his things like your fury was a passing breeze. Then walked out.

Left you standing there. Burning.

You kicked the mat. “Fuck!”

It echoed. Pointless. No one heard.

Except the part of yourself you were trying desperately to ignore.

The part that kept noticing things. Soft, human things about him.

You’d been avoiding him for so long that you accidentally started watching him. Observing. Catching details you didn’t mean to.

Like the way he always knew what the team needed. Quietly. No fuss.

He gifted Bob a stack of niche self-improvement books—nothing preachy, nothing corny. Just thoughtful reads that let Bob’s mind wander somewhere better. Gave him a way out of his own head.

He remembered Yelena’s favorite protein bars. Replaced them in the kitchen when they ran out, even though no one asked.

And the chili dogs.

You didn’t eat lunch one day—too many back-to-back briefings. You hadn’t even said anything.

But there it was, sitting on your desk an hour later: a warm paper bag with a chili dog inside. Extra extra chili. No mustard.

Exactly the way you liked it.

You never told him how you liked it.

And he hated you. Didn’t he?

You laid flat on the training mat, arms spread out, chest rising and falling fast. Not from the sparring. From the confusion. The ache. The messy swirl of wanting and not wanting and wishing he’d just say what the hell he was thinking for once.

It made you miss your other one even more.

Your secret.

Your escape.

Your not-a-lover, not-a-boyfriend—your ghost between the sheets.

And it made you horny as hell.

Maybe it was the adrenaline. The sweat. The anger. Maybe it was the sound of Bucky’s voice still echoing in your ears. Maybe it was the impossible urge to burn everything down and touch yourself through the flames.

You grabbed your phone.

Your thumbs hovered for a second.

Then you typed.

Throbbing for you today. Thinking of trying something new. Facetime tonight? I want to see you. It’s time.

You stared at the message.

Then hit send.

Your heart fluttered like you just disarmed a bomb.

You’d never done it before—not live. Always voice notes. Pictures. Heavy breathing and whispered praise in the dark. But you wanted more. You needed to see him. To watch his mouth when he groaned. To show him your face when you broke.

Your phone buzzed.

One line.

Been waiting for that, babe. Can’t wait for tonight.

You closed your eyes. Smiled.

Something bloomed deep in your chest.

But then…

Bucky’s face flickered in your mind. That last glance he gave you before walking out—not cruel. Not angry.

Not… disgusted.

For the briefest second, it looked like he wanted to say something. Like he was holding back.

And that scared you more than anything.

Because what if?

What if all this time, he wasn’t just avoiding you?

What if he knew exactly what he was doing?

—

Night fell like it had been waiting all day just to wrap around you. Heavy, quiet, almost expectant. Like even the shadows knew what was about to happen.

You’d made the room exactly the way you wanted it—dim, intimate, anonymous. One small lamp by the bed, screen brightness lowered. Location off. Door locked. Twice.

He had your Apple ID now. You’d never given him your number. That felt too personal. Too dangerous. But your old burner email from when you were eight—the one that made you cringe now?

pwinceszz_n0body@yahoo.com.

Yeah. That one.

It made you feel hidden. Untouchable. Like no one could ever guess who you really were behind a name that dumb.

At exactly 9:15 p.m., your phone buzzed in your palm.

Incoming FaceTime call. From an email you’d never seen before—cryptic, strange: wolfhowling3333333333@icloud.com.

Your stomach flipped.

That was new.

You inhaled deeply, thumb hovering. Then tapped accept.

The call connected.

No faces. No hellos. Just dark screens and careful camera angles.

He had his camera angled low—blanket pooled around his hips, the lens tilted toward the rise under thin dark fabric. Boxers. Nothing else.

Yours was already aimed at your chest—lace crop top, black and barely-there, your nipples visible through the sheer. That was the rule. No real names. No faces. Just bodies and breath. Just touch without touching.

“Hey, babe.” His voice was soft tonight. Lower. Warmer. “Your room’s so dark. I can barely see anything.”

You smiled, voice light. “Same here. What are we—covert ops?”

He laughed quietly. “Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing I’ve done.”

There was a pause.

Heavy with something unsaid.

You reached over and adjusted your lamp just enough to cast a golden wash over your skin. Still cropped. Still framed. Just enough for him to see the swell of your chest.

On the screen, his hips shifted. The blanket moved slightly.

He let out a groan. “Fuck… you’re starting with that?”

You tilted your head, teasing. “What? You think I dressed like this for me?”

He chuckled. It sounded a little strangled.

You flipped the camera to the rear, aimed it lower—down your thighs, where the blanket still clung. Slowly, deliberately, you peeled it back. The cool air hit your bare cunt and made you flinch.

You didn’t need to look to know he was watching.

His voice thickened. “Jesus, baby… you’re unreal.”

You stayed quiet. Let him drink it in.

He shifted again. His hand slid down, over the bulge pressing hard against his boxers. You could see it straining—long, thick, clearly aching to be freed.

“You see that?” he murmured. “Already hard for you. Always.”

You moaned softly in response, your fingers teasing between your folds. Dipping slow. Making a mess of yourself just for him.

“God, yes,” you whispered. “You see this? So fucking wet. For you.”

His hand stroked himself through the fabric, slow at first. Measured. Like he was pacing it just for you.

Then—he dropped the phone.

Just for a moment. The screen tilted to black.

You heard a muffled shuffle of fabric. Movement. A grunt. The sound of him exhaling hard.

Then—

He picked the phone back up.

And there it was.

The cock you’d seen in pictures, now in motion. Hard. Heavy. Curved slightly to the right. Veins running along the shaft like paths you wanted to trace with your tongue.

You whimpered, breath catching. “God… your cock looks so fucking good.”

He wrapped his hand around it and stroked slowly, deliberately.

“Stroke it for me,” you begged, eyes fixed on the screen as your own fingers worked faster. “Let me hear you, baby.”

You turned off your camera for a second—adjusted your angle—then turned it back on. Still cropped. Still hidden. But now angled perfectly between your thighs. Slick. Open. Needy.

“See this?” you whispered. “See what you do to me?”

He moaned—deep, rough, just a little breathless.

The call dissolved into heat. Sound. Wetness. Praise. You whispered filth to him like prayer. He groaned your name like he was falling apart just for you. You were close. So close—

Until—

WEE-OO-WEE-OO. WEE-OO-WEE-OO.

The emergency siren shrieked through your phone like a gunshot.

You gasped and jolted upright—until you realized…

It wasn’t just coming from your phone.

It was echoing.

From his side too.

Same pitch. Same frequency.

Watchtower protocol.

Your heart seized.

You stared at the screen—just as he cursed under his breath.

“Shit.”

Then the screen went black.

Call ended. Gone.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your hands still between your legs. Your body raw with need.

But your brain?

Your brain was moving in slow, precise horror.

That siren wasn’t public. It wasn’t general Watchtower protocol.

It was specific.

Each mission pair had their own unique alert—encrypted, untraceable outside their shared comms. And that tone… that exact pitch sequence…

It was yours.

Yours and your assigned partner’s.

And your partner?

Was Bucky Barnes.

Your stomach clenched.

You stared down at your phone, pulse pounding. Your body was still humming from the aftershocks, but the rest of you was unraveling.

You blinked at the dark screen. Tried to breathe.

And then your mind began to pull—thread by thread—backward.

The voice. That low rasp that lived somewhere in his throat. Always a little tired. Always a little rough. You’d heard it in the sparring room. You’d heard it moaning your name in the dark.

The timing. The discipline. The almost militant sharpness of his replies. Always exactly on time. Always controlled.

And then—

The way he touched himself.

One hand.

Always the right.

Every picture. Every clip. Every motion you’d ever seen. Cock in his right hand. Phone in his left. You’d never seen anything else. Never thought to question it.

Until now.

Until you remembered exactly what his left hand was made of.

The vibranium.

Always gloved in daylight. Always held behind his back, or casually resting on his hip like it wasn’t worth using. Always there, but never used—not unless it had to be.

Your breath caught.

The pieces stopped falling.

They just… clicked.

The voice. The siren. The silence. The lack of left hand. The way he moved. The refusal to show his face. The email so purposefully anonymous. The instinct to keep himself hidden—just like you had.

You stared at your reflection in the black screen.

Still damp. Still trembling.

“…no fucking way.”

But there was no more room for doubt.

Because if your gut was right—and every part of you said it was—then the man who had just come for you in the dark…

…was the same man who couldn’t even stand to look at you in the light.

You weren’t just turned on.

You were completely, utterly fucked.

—

“Shit,” Bucky muttered, breath still ragged as he ended the call with a swipe of his thumb.

He was seconds from coming—already flushed, tense, his hand wrapped tight around his cock—when the emergency siren blasted through his phone.

His specific alert. High-pitched, short burst, then a long one.

And then… the echo.

The same damn siren, faint but unmistakable, bleeding through the other end of the call. His caller’s phone.

Your phone.

He froze.

Chest still rising and falling. Sweat on his neck. Mind racing.

It took him three full seconds to understand what it meant.

And when it hit—it hit hard.

You.

You.

The woman he was supposed to protect. Train. Lead. The one who spent every meeting glaring at him like he’d kicked your dog in a past life.

You were the one he’d been jerking off to for the last six months.

The one sending him voice notes at midnight. The one calling him baby and making him laugh without even trying. The one who knew exactly how to pull pleasure out of his body with just the sound of your breath.

He dragged a hand over his face. His heart was still pounding, but now it had nothing to do with arousal.

He leaned back in the chair, stared up at the ceiling, and cursed again under his breath.

He hadn’t known.

He swore he hadn’t known.

—Bucky’s POV—

The memory came back uninvited. That first day.

The elevator.

The hot splash of coffee—steaming, not just warm. It scalded straight through his henley, soaked the skin over his chest and shoulder. He bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood, just to keep from reacting.

He could’ve cursed. Could’ve snapped. But you were already panicking, mumbling rapid apologies, trying to wipe it off with your sleeve. He’d seen the horror in your eyes—wide and sincere and a little ridiculous, considering the chili dog now sliding down his shirt like it was trying to escape judgment.

So he said nothing.

Just clenched his jaw and stepped out the second those elevator doors opened, beelining to the men’s room. Cold water. Fast scrubbing. Quiet pain.

By the time he’d changed and returned to the lounge, he barely had time to scan the room before John Walker waved him over.

“Bucky,” John had said, holding out a tablet. “Priority situation in the Balkans. You’ll want eyes on this.”

Bucky was halfway across the room before he noticed you were there—standing off to the side, a coffee-stained shirt clinging to your frame, looking small but composed, like you were trying not to exist too loudly.

He hadn’t even realized he’d brushed past you until later.

To be fair, you were… small. He towered over you by nearly three and a half heads. And when his mind was in mission-mode, everything else blurred.

But from that moment on—you were cold. Icy. Guarded. Like he’d somehow declared war just by existing.

—

It wasn’t hate.

Not from his side.

Far from it.

Your file had flagged you as physically promising but slightly under-trained in stamina and real-combat conditioning. So he’d structured your simulations to push you—to meet you at the edge of your capacity.

He wasn’t trying to break you.

He was trying to build you.

And goddamn, you’d risen fast. Quicker than most.

You were smart. Sharp. Focused in a way that made him take notice. Your recovery rate improved. Your reflexes tightened. Your rhythm in combat sparring became beautiful to watch.

And yet, you never gave him anything back but sarcasm, glares, and whispered insults when you thought he wasn’t around.

He had heard you in the pantry that day—grumbling to Yelena.

“Grumpy old bastard,” you’d muttered.

He almost laughed.

Because… yeah.

He was grumpy. He was old.

He didn’t take it personally.

But it confused him.

He’d never insulted you. Never shut you down. Never raised his voice.

Even the damn chili dog—he ordered it because you skipped lunch. And because, after weeks of listening, he knew how you liked it. Extra extra chili. No mustard.

It wasn’t a peace offering. Not exactly.

He just… wanted to talk to you. Properly. Without you frowning at him like he was the plague.

But when he dropped it off at your desk, you didn’t even look up.

—

And now?

Now he couldn’t breathe.

Because the woman who shut down every attempt at conversation—the one who rolled her eyes during briefings, who sparred like she was trying to draw blood—

Was the same woman who sent him a voice note last week whispering “I wish I could ride you until we both black out.”

The same woman who tonight had parted her legs on camera, fingers working between her folds, moaning for him like it was a prayer.

And the worst part?

He liked you.

He already liked you.

Even before tonight’s accidental reveal, there was something about you that got under his skin. Your fire. Your mouth. The way you never let him off the hook.

It drove him crazy.

And now?

Now you were burned into his hands. His sheets. His bloodstream.

He groaned, dragging both hands down his face.

You were going to hate him.

You were going to find out. If you hadn’t already.

And when you did—

He wasn’t sure what would destroy him faster.

Your disgust.

Or your silence.

—POV end—

—

You got dressed fast.

That siren could’ve meant anything—civilian threat, global emergency, interdimensional chaos. You’d heard stories. One time they scrambled a team for a goose that got too close to a Stark satellite. Another time, someone joked it might be Galactus. No one laughed.

Whatever it was, you weren’t risking being the last one to show up.

You tugged on your gear, tied your hair up, and bolted for the elevator.

And then—ding.

The doors slid open.

And there he was.

Bucky.

Fully dressed in tactical gear, all buttoned up and brooding like usual. Black compression shirt, black pants, boots laced with military precision. His eyes flicked to you once—just a glance—and then back to the elevator panel. But the tension? Instant. Thick.

It had only been a few minutes since you were both naked, panting, whispering filth into your screens. You could still feel the echo of his voice in your bones. Still hear the ragged way he said “fuck, baby” like he was breaking.

You kept your eyes forward.

You meant to keep them forward.

But your gaze dipped anyway. Just for a second. A glance.

Black tactical pants.

The same ones.

The exact same fit, the same cut. The same pants from that picture. From when he said he was “in a meeting.”

Your stomach dropped.

Your eyes flicked back up—and met his.

Caught.

He saw it.

He saw you seeing it.

Your head snapped to the side, heat crawling up your neck, burning into your ears.

Shit.

The silence pressed in on all sides, humming with everything neither of you were saying.

Then you forced yourself to speak.

“Can we talk… after this? After whatever this whole thing turns out to be?”

Bucky didn’t move much. Just a slight nod, his voice low and steady.

“Sure thing.”

—

The siren turned out to be a false alarm.

A rat.

A rat had chewed through a critical cable cluster near the ops wing. Short-circuited a core and triggered multiple alerts. It was now extra crispy and mostly unrecognizable.

The debrief was short. Everyone dispersed.

You didn’t even breathe until the elevator doors closed again.

Then, his voice beside you.

“Talk in my room? Or do you want the common area?”

You looked up at him, fingers fidgeting at your side.

“Somewhere private. Your room sounds… nice.”

He nodded once. Wordless again.

You followed him down the hall. Past mission boards and storage units.

When he opened his door and let you in, you were hit with the quiet scent of aftershave and clean cotton. Dim lighting. Neat, except—

Your eyes caught it.

The bed.

Blanket slightly skewed. Pillow dented. The indent of where he’d been sitting when the call came in. Like you could trace the shape of him from the air still hanging around it.

He didn’t say anything about it. Just walked to the small kitchen island and poured a glass of water. One for you. One for him.

You sat down on the stool beside him, fingers wrapping around the glass like it could anchor you.

Silence stretched.

And then he spoke.

“So…”

You looked up. His eyes were on the counter. Then on you.

“I know you probably hate me right now. Or want to kill me. Or both. And I get it,” he said, voice low, careful. “But… I’m not gonna pretend I regret any of it. The voice notes. The pictures. That call.”

That call. The way he said it sent heat crawling up your spine.

“I never hated you,” he added, softer now. “Honestly, I never understood why you hated me.”

You blinked.

Your voice came out quieter than you expected. “What are you talking about?”

He looked at you fully now. Not like a soldier. Not like a leader. Just… Bucky.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said, the words coming quicker now. “You assigned me harsher drills than Yelena or Ava. You didn’t look at me. You didn’t talk to me. You treated me like I was on your shit list from day one.”

It wasn’t accusation this time. Just confusion. Honest and aching.

Bucky’s lips twitched—not in amusement. Just… exasperation. At himself.

“I never meant to make you feel that way,” he said. “I thought I was doing my job. Training you based on your stats. You’re… more capable than most, and I didn’t want to hold you back. That was it. And yeah, I’m not great at small talk, but I swear—I wasn’t ignoring you.”

You stared at him. Processing.

“Even the chili dog?” you asked, a faint smile threatening.

He cracked the smallest smirk. “Extra extra chili, no mustard. You looked like you were gonna pass out from hunger. Seemed like the least I could do.”

You looked down at the counter, your fingers inching closer to his. Slowly, purposefully, you touched your fingertips to the edge of his vibranium hand.

He didn’t move.

You swallowed.

“You know, Bucky,” you said, voice quieter now. “I liked what we had. That connection, when we didn’t know who we were. When it was just… voice and breath and instinct. Felt honest in a way nothing else has.”

You met his eyes again.

“I don’t want that to be ruined because I misread you. Because I let my anger get in the way. That’s on me. And I’m sorry.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. Not annoyed—just like he’d been holding that breath for days.

“I don’t want it to be ruined either.”

There was a pause.

You felt it first.

The shift in the air.

The hum.

Your thighs clenched, your body already remembering the sound of his voice, the weight of his moan, the way he said babe like it was a promise.

You leaned in slightly, just enough.

“In all honesty,” you murmured, “I don’t want it to stop. I don’t want us to stop. I mean, if you’re done with it, I’ll get it. But…”

You tilted your head, your voice a little more playful now.

“I’ve never liked a cock this much in my life. And that cock happened to be yours.”

That did it.

Bucky froze. Blinked. Then his ears went red—just a little. His jaw tightened, but not with anger.

The tension snapped.

And the room started heating up again.

Fast.

—

Your mind could barely register what had happened.

One second, you were sitting on a stool at his kitchen island—nervous fingers tracing your water glass, heart beating louder than the silence.

The next?

You were in his arms.

Your legs wrapped around his waist. Your back against the wall. His mouth on yours—crashing, pulling, devouring.

It was messy. A little rushed. Reverent in its desperation.

Like something ancient had finally been set into motion.

Like this wasn’t just inevitable—it was fated.

You clung to him, hands clutching the collar of his shirt, your mouth parting under his as he kissed you harder, deeper. Tongue slipping past your lips like he already knew what you tasted like.

He walked you backward, blindly, the metal plates of his vibranium arm pressed firm against your thigh. You barely noticed the shift until he sat down at the edge of his bed, dragging you down with him, your thighs straddling his lap like you’d always belonged there.

The kiss never broke.

Only deepened.

Your fingers dove into his hair, tugging hard at the roots, and he groaned into your mouth. His hands were everywhere—the metal one gripping your thigh tight, anchoring you to him, while the warm flesh one came up to cradle your jaw.

His thumb stroked slow, soothing circles into your cheek, a contrast to the way his mouth devoured you.

Then his hand slid lower.

Over your neck.

Down to your chest.

And then—he cupped your breast.

You gasped into the kiss. His thumb brushed over the peak through your shirt. He pulled back just slightly, breath ragged, eyes blown black with need.

“Fuck, doll…” he rasped. “You’re so soft.”

His palm squeezed gently, reverently, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“No bra?” he asked, voice hoarse, lips still grazing yours.

“Non-padded,” you whispered, your fingers finding his vibranium wrist and guiding it higher, sliding it over your other breast.

“Jesus,” he muttered, gripping it with care, the cool metal pressing through your shirt as he kneaded both like they were a goddamn miracle.

You reached down, starting to unbutton your shirt from the bottom.

But he stopped you.

His hand caught yours gently. “Lemme,” he breathed, already slipping the buttons open with a surprising ease, one by one, baring more of your skin with each.

When he pushed the fabric aside and saw the bra—thin, delicate, your nipples barely hidden—he groaned.

“Goddamn,” he whispered. “Been dreaming about this… for way too long.”

He reached around you, unhooking your bra with a flick of his fingers.

And when they spilled free?

He froze for half a second. Jaw tight. Throat flexing.

“Fuck me…” he muttered, his hands sliding back up to cup you properly now—skin to skin.

You were already grinding against him. Slow, controlled, your clothed pussy pressing against the thick ridge in his pants.

He let out a low sound. A growl.

Then dipped his head.

And devoured you.

His mouth latched onto one nipple, tongue swirling, lips sucking hard enough to make you arch into him. His metal hand squeezed the other breast, thumb flicking the peak in lazy circles.

You moaned, loud, fingers gripping his shoulders, nails dragging along the fabric of his shirt.

Every flick of his tongue sent electricity down your spine. Your panties were already soaked. The pressure in your core was unbearable. The need clawing at you from the inside out.

“Bucky—fuck—” you gasped, as he moved to your other nipple, worshipping it with the same urgency, same hunger.

He moaned in response, mouth full, pulling back only to whisper, “You sound even better like this. In real life. On top of me. Falling apart.”

You whimpered.

Because it was too good.

Too perfect.

You’d never had sex—not really. The only thing that ever “took” your virginity was a purple dildo named Tomdildody that lived in a shoebox under your bed.

But this?

This was everything Tomdildody could never be.

This was hot breath and strong hands and the delicious stretch of a man who wanted all of you. Not just your body—but the sounds you made. The way you shivered. The way you whispered his name like it was your final prayer.

Your thighs clenched tighter around him, your hips rolling now, slow but shameless, as his tongue dragged one last, greedy circle around your nipple before he looked up at you.

He was wrecked. Eyes dark. Lips slick. His hands still full of you.

You were already shaking.

And it was only the beginning.

—

You slid off his lap without a word.

Your body moved on instinct now—too hot, too full, too overwhelmed to think. You stood at the edge of the bed and peeled off your pants, one leg at a time, your soaked panties clinging to your folds before you yanked them down and tossed them aside.

Bucky followed your lead, rising from the bed like a force of gravity had pulled him up behind you. He undid his belt with one sharp pull, shoved his tactical pants down, and yanked off his boxers.

You froze for a beat.

They were the exact same ones from the FaceTime. Black. Faintly stretched at the waistband. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist and your pussy clench with anticipation.

He sat back down—legs spread, cock heavy and flushed between them. Thick. Glistening. Leaking at the tip like he’d been waiting hours for this.

You climbed into his lap again, bare skin on bare skin now, your knees pressing into the mattress as you straddled him. You sank down just enough for your soaked cunt to drag along the length of him, slow and hungry.

Wet, filthy squelches echoed in the quiet room. You both moaned—loud, ragged, desperate.

Your forehead dropped to his shoulder.

“Let me feel you, Bucky,” you begged, your voice shaking. “I need it. I need you. My pussy wants you so fucking bad…”

You rolled your hips against him again, your slick coating him, teasing him. Your walls clenched at nothing—frantic for him, aching to be filled.

His breath stuttered. Then he growled.

“Fuck, baby…”

He gripped your thighs—metal on one side, warm skin on the other—and lifted you just slightly like you weighed nothing. Then with one hand, he angled his cock and pressed the tip against your entrance.

And when he lowered you down?

Plop.

His cock slid in with ease—your body parting like it had been made to take him. Welcoming. Greedy. The stretch made your mouth fall open. He was thick, curved just right, sliding into you like a prayer answered.

Both of you moaned—loud.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, clutching him. His hands stayed firm on your hips, anchoring you, grounding you.

“Jesus,” Bucky whispered, voice wrecked. “This feels so… unreal.”

He pulled out slightly, then slid back in with a guttural groan. “You feel like heaven, sweetheart. Fuck.”

You barely managed a sound—just a gasp, eyes fluttering shut as your walls clenched around him involuntarily.

“God, your pussy feels so good. So fucking good,” he murmured, his forehead dropping to your chest as he rolled his hips into you. “I wanna live here.”

You let out a sob of pleasure.

Because this—this was bliss. The kind of sex that made you forget time, space, rules. The kind that made your thighs shake and your stomach tighten and your soul hum.

You bounced on his lap in slow, messy thrusts. He met every movement with a snap of his hips, driving deeper each time. His cock rubbed every right place inside you, that slight curve hitting your sweetest spot again and again, forcing sounds out of you that you didn’t know you were capable of.

“Fuckfuckfuck—Bucky—oh my god—” you cried out, hands gripping the back of his neck, pulling him close like he could stop your body from combusting.

He moaned your name.

Over and over.

Like he was tasting it. Claiming it. Like it lived in his blood.

“Say it again,” you breathed, dizzy from the rhythm. “Say my name.”

He thrust up into you with purpose—sharp, needy—and whispered it like it was holy.

“Baby…” he gasped, voice shattering at the edges. “God, you feel so fucking good—fuck, I’m not gonna last.”

And then he said it—your name.

Low. Rough. Worshipful.

Like it wasn’t just something to call you, but something etched into him. Something his. He kept saying it, over and over, like it grounded him. Like it was the only thing he could hold onto as he drowned in the feel of you.

You were unraveling.

Clit grinding into the base of his cock with every drop of your hips. Slick running down his thighs. Your body clenching tighter around him with every thrust.

You didn’t care who heard.

You didn’t care who knew.

Because this was the best thing you’d ever done.

The most right thing you’d ever felt.

You were full of him. Wrapped around him. Buried in him. And as your orgasm started to crash through your belly in pulsing, blinding waves—

You knew this was more than just sex.

This was the beginning of everything.

—

You moaned into Bucky’s ear, breath hitching, hands clawing into his back.

“Baby, I’m so fucking close—harder, baby—don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

God, he didn’t.

His grip tightened on your hips, the vibranium fingers splayed with reverent strength, anchoring you to him as he bucked up harder, faster, deeper. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room—slaps, gasps, choked curses. Heat built between your bodies like friction could burn through time.

And then—

It hit.

Your orgasm shattered through you like something sacred. A wave that cracked your spine and left your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Your body trembled, clenching around him, pulling him deeper even as your climax dragged you under.

Bucky groaned into your shoulder, one final thrust before he pulled out, gasping through his teeth as he spilled across your belly, thick ropes hitting your skin, streaking your thighs. You could feel his chest rising and falling under you, faster than usual. Ragged.

And still—you collapsed against him. Boneless. Wrecked.

He caught you instantly. Wrapped both arms around your waist and held you close like you were something he’d been fighting to protect this whole time. His breathing slowed quickly—thanks to that goddamn serum—but you could feel something different in him. Something deeper than just release.

It wasn’t just sex for him.

It hadn’t been for you either.

You stayed like that for a long while—just breathing, just tangled. Your face buried in his neck, skin warm and slick with sweat and something else you didn’t have the language for yet. Something like peace.

Eventually, your arms slid up to hook around his shoulders, and you lifted your head—only just—to find his eyes. Those steel-blue eyes that always looked like they’d seen too much. But now?

Now they were soft. Glowing. Staring at you like you were some kind of beginning.

“That was…” you started, voice raw, shaky with the aftermath.

You paused.

Then you smiled, just a little.

“That was my first time.”

Bucky blinked. Like he hadn’t heard you right. Like the Earth had tilted sideways under him.

You touched his cheek, thumbing at the stubble there.

“And it was the best,” you whispered.

His throat bobbed. He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at you, as if the words would never be enough. But you could feel it in his hands—the way he held you tighter. How he kissed your forehead, slow and reverent. Like you’d given him more than just your body.

You let him pull you under the blanket with him. Still bare. Still warm.

You curled into his chest, his arm wrapped snug around your back, your leg draped over his. One of his fingers traced circles into your spine, and he whispered things into your hair you couldn’t quite make out—murmured words like baby and you feel like heaven and can’t believe it was you.

And for once, there were no missions. No sirens. No grudge hanging heavy in the air.

Just the quiet weight of new beginnings.

You closed your eyes against his collarbone, and for the first time since joining this chaotic team, you let yourself rest.

Where it was safe.

Where it was warm.

Where he was.

[simpforboys]

Surprise! (3)

Drew Starkey x fem!singer!reader

Summary: reader and Drew celebrate the release of the ‘Perfume’ music video!

Warnings: fluff, smut, oral (f receiving), praise, swearing, male masturbation, dirty talk, missionary position, sex on couch, daddy kink, protective piv sex, boob worship (?), drinking wine, fangirling

Part one, part two, part four

taglist is full :(

Two weeks had went by.

Two long, busy weeks of you not hearing much from Drew, other than the promotions and photo stills you would send him.

It was finally the release day, and within 18 hours, the video had already reached 200 million views.

You were currently sitting on your light grey couch, flicking through Netflix movies when your phone buzzed with a notification.

Drew Starkey: Hey, congrats on the success of the video. I’m still very honored you wanted me to he apart of it. You still down to celebrate?

Oh.

In all honesty you were expecting Drew to stop talking to you after the shoot.

But within those two weeks, you were both extremely busy, so reaching out was hard.

That didn’t mean you two didn’t text at all, it was just two or three messages a day.

Drew was notorious for being a bad texter, not to mention how filled up his schedule was.

So you never took it to heart. Or, at least tried.

But seeing the notification that he actually still wanted to hang out, wanted to celebrate with you…

Your User: hi, thank you so much! i’m still so happy and grateful you said yes <33

Your User: and yes i’m still down to celebrate!! when are you free?

Maybe the double texting was too much, but you were already a glass of wine in, and texting your celebrity crush.

To your surprise, he replied pretty quickly.

Drew Starkey: I’m actually free rn surprisingly, are you?

Oh.

You were in fact free, but ready was the better question.

No, you were not ready to see Drew fucking Starkey, especially looking like how you were currently dressed.

Only wearing sweatpants, a shirt that is three sizes too big, fuzzy socks, and no bra was not exactly presentable to meet the love of your life.

Your User: yes, but i look absolutely horrible rn

Again, another quick response.

Drew Starkey: I doubt that. Can I come see you?

You typed out a message.

Your User: CNEOSHWOSHEODNEOWHSOWBSIFBEOSBAJDBDKDHOSBSKSBDJSHS😜✊👍😜🤭🔥🫶😩

That was what you really wanted to reply with, but instead went for something more nonchalant.

Your User: yeah, you want my address?

It was never good to share your address to anyone online, especially after only meeting in person twice.

But it was Drew Starkey. You would send anything to that man, no questions asked.

Drew Starkey: Yes please

You had spent the last 30 minutes frantically cleaning your apartment. Not that it was a complete mess, but you did want it to be cleaner than what it was.

A soft knock on your door was heard, heart pounding in your chest, hands shaking with nervousness.

Peeking through the peephole, seeing his familiar face was enough to make you almost back out.

Why did you have to be so fucking nervous? He was just a man.

Your fingers unlocked the door, opening it gently.

“Hey, Y/n.” Drew smiled warmly at you, holding a bouquet of flowers.

“Hi… come on in.” You grinned back, trying to hide the feeling in your chest.

Drew’s long legs guide him inside the apartment and he takes a second to look around.

It was cozy, and definitely you.

“I got these f’you.” He hums, holding out the flowers.

“Oh, these are my favorite flowers, Drew… you didn’t have to do that.” You awed, taking the bouquet as he practically handed it to you.

He knew they were your favorite flowers. He might have looked up y/n l/n’s favorite flower onto Google. Not that he would ever admit that, though.

“Really? Damn, lucky pick, I guess.” He chuckled, scratching the side of his neck a little sheepishly.

Putting the flowers in a vase, you realized that he was wearing sweats and a hoodie. It was 10:23pm on a Friday, and clearly you two were appreciating a night off.

It made you feel better about your outfit.

“Do you want anything to eat or drink? I have white or red wine, beer, vodka, soda, water…” You trailed off your options.

“What’re you drinking?” He hummed.

You nodded over to the coffee table, an open bottle of wine with a half filled glass on it.

“Wine.”

“I’ll just have some of that, then.” Drew murmurs.

You grabbed another wine glass and walked over to the couch, hearing his feet behind you.

Sitting down on the couch, you got all comfortable underneath the blanket again, then reached over to pour him a glass of wine.

“Cheers, to the success of ‘Perfume’, and to you.” Drew says softly, holding his glass out for you to clink.

Feeling your face grow a bit warm, you tapped your glass with his.

“Cheers to you being amazing.” You took a sip of the wine, your eyes locked onto his blue ones.

“You have a nice apartment, by the way. Forgot to say that.” He hums.

“Thank you, I wanted to make it as cozy as possible for those rare times I am at home.” You explain.

"Yeah, I get that. Life nowadays is just so hectic." He agrees, blue eyes trailing over your face, as if committing each feature to memory.

"Well, yeah. You're all big and famous now," you tease.

He chuckles sheepishly, his large hand running along the back of his head.

"You have any big plans coming up?" He asked you.

"Yeah, actually. I'm supposed to be preforming at the iHeartRadio Jingle Ball festival in a week," you nod.

"Really? Damn. That beats me, then." He joked.

"What do you have coming up?" You questioned.

"Variety is going to have Harris Dickinson and I do that Actors on Actors interview thing."

"Yeah? That sounds fun," you hummed.

The two of you spent an hour and a half talking about life, success, and just got to know each other.

You both finished the bottle of wine and were now onto your second bottle, the two of you tipsy as you giggled on the couch.

Your body felt warm and you weren't completely sure if it was from the alcohol or the fact that a beautiful man was sitting a foot away from you on your own couch.

Drew felt the same, and one specific joke you made had him laughing a little too hard. His eyes creased in the corner as he smiled, those pretty dimples on display.

But when his large hand went to rest on your knee, the wine in your system completely fought off your anxiety, making you more relaxed.

You found yourself leaning into his touch, your hand resting atop of his.

"Your laugh is so cute, Drew," you murmured.

"Yeah? You're cute," he responded.

You bit your lip, eyes locked onto his. "Is that the alcohol talking or you?"

He grinned, shaking his head.

"That's me talking."

Oh.

"You're sweet..." you trailed off, trying to ignore how butterflies filled your belly.

He just hummed, a comfortable, tension-filled silence falling between you two.

"So, you really had a crush on me for four years?" He teased, squeezing your knee a little.

"Oh, god. We're back at this now, huh?" You grumbled in embarrassment, although there was no real malice behind your tone.

He smirked, licking his lips. "We never left it."

"I certainly did."

"Yeah? You don't have a crush on me anymore?" He murmured, the playful tone in his voice making your stomach turn more.

"I didn't say that...." you trailed off, picking at the extra skin near your nails.

His eyes trail over your form again, taking in every inch of you he can see that's not hidden by the blanket on your lap.

"Hm? Sorry, I didn't hear you."

You rolled your eyes, face hot. "I'm sure you didn't."

He laughed, scooting a little closer to you so your legs were touching.

"'m just fucking with you," he said softly.

"I know..." you glanced over at him, eyes instinctively falling down to his pretty lips.

It had been too long since you felt them on you.

Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the boost of confidence Drew had gotten, but he slowly leaned in, his free hand going to run his index finger and thumb on your chin.

"Is this okay?" He asked quietly.

"Yeah... yes..." you breathed out shakily, heart racing.

He hummed, gently connecting your lips to his own.

Feeling that familiar, addictive spark when his skin touched yours. You immediately kissed back, your left hand going to cup his jaw.

Kissing. You were kissing Drew fucking Starkey. And it wasn't for work, wasn't for cameras. He kissed you first.

Within moments, he was laying you back on the light grey couch, the fluffy blanket being left abandoned on the floor.

His tongue was in your mouth, sculpted body hovering over yours. Your thighs were spread for him to nestle in between, left hand still cupping his strong jaw, right hand in that soft brown hair.

On instinct you pulled a little on the strands, making him grunt into your mouth. He disconnected your lips, trailing sloppy, needy kisses down your jaw and neck.

Chests pressed together, it was as if you two couldn't get any closer.

"Mhmm... Drew..." you whimpered softly when he nipped at the skin of your pulse point.

"Yeah? That feel nice, sweet girl?" He murmured, voice muffled from his attention on your neck.

You nodded, legs squeezing him in between your body.

"Can I take your shirt off, baby?" He asked, not wanting to do anything you weren't desiring.

"Please.." you breathed out, heart racing, stomach flipping.

His large hand slipped the oversized fabric off and over your head, a small whine leaving him when he saw your pretty tits.

"Fuck, Y/n... you been hiding these from me?" He mumbled teasingly, continuing his line of kisses and nibbles down your collarbone, in between the valley of your breasts.

"All you needed to do was ask," you panted. Your back instinctively arched up, your chest needing some attention from his warm mouth.

He groaned at your answer, moving slightly down your body until he was eye level with your hard nipples. He swirled his tongue around the bud, blue eyes locked on your face when he sucked your nipple into his mouth.

Your body jolted a little, making him hold your side with his left hand, his right hand massaging the other stiffened bud.

He switched sides after a few moments, relishing in the sounds of your pretty moans and pants.

But something else was throbbing and aching, desperately needing his attention.

"Drew," you whined.

"Hmm?" He hummed, still worshipping your boobs.

"Need you."

"Yeah?" He cooed, reluctantly disconnecting his mouth from your right nipple as he continued to kiss down your stomach.

You nod, breathing short and needy. He got to the waistband of your sweatpants, looking back up at you.

"You can take those off too." You gave permission, already knowing what the man was going to ask.

He wasted no time in slipping the fabric down your legs, readjusting so his face was in between your spread thighs.

"Look how you ruined these panties, pretty girl... you're so needy f'me, huh?" He murmured softly.

All you could do was whine when he pressed a tender kiss to your clothed clit, the fabric absolutely soaked. It had been way too long since you'd had sex.

His large hand slid the fabric down your thighs, leaving you completely bare for him.

"So beautiful, baby. So beautiful..." he muttered, talking more to himself than you.

Your legs twitched when he flicked his tongue against your clit, hands digging in his hair.

"Drew--"

"I know, baby. Let daddy eat this pretty pussy, yeah? Just sit back and relax."

A needy whimper left your mouth, but you didn't respond. Not that you could, as he licked a stripe from your pulsating hole to the top of your clit.

He hoisted your thighs over his broad shoulders, moaning a little at your taste. His movements became more eager, beginning to lap at your cunt like a starved man.

Right hand in his hair, left hand gripping the couch. Your eyes rolled back, hips bucking up towards his face.

He made a grunt directly into your clit, another jolt of pleasure going into your body.

"Daddy... fuck..."

His piercing blue eyes were feeding off of your facial expressions, his cock throbbing in his own sweats.

He slipped two fingers into your cunt, focusing his mouth on your clit. His left hand slid down his own pants, beginning to palm his cock through his boxers.

"Yeah? Is daddy making you feel good, sweet girl?" He coos, whining a little as his own hips buck on the couch, desperate for more friction.

His noise and hips bucking made your cunt clench around his fingers, as if trying to pull him in deeper.

The knot in your stomach was already forming, almost embarrassing how quickly he turned you into a mess.

Legs trembling over his shoulders, hips rocking against his face and chin. You couldn't even announce you were coming, mind fuzzy from the pleasure.

He hummed when he noticed you releasing, continuing to lap up all your juices as he came in his pants.

When your body calmed down, he pulled away from your pussy and kneeled in between your legs.

He peeled his own hoodie off, revealing that perfect, toned body of his again. Your eyes drank in the sight, licking your lips.

“You’re so hot, Drew…” you murmured.

His ears were ringing, need coursing through his veins as he slipped off his sweats and boxers.

You had to physically hold back a gasp when you saw his cock for the first time.

People had always written it differently in all those guilty pleasure Rafe Cameron fanfics you would read when you couldn’t sleep.

But seeing it in person was just a whole new experience.

It was long and thick, which was to be expected. The man radiated big dick energy.

Pretty mushroom tip that was still leaking, his pubic hair slightly fuzzy as if he hadn’t shaved it in a week.

“Holy shit…”

“Mhm? Better than you imagined?” He asked teasingly, a smirk on his face as he grabbed a condom from his wallet.

You couldn’t help but playfully roll your eyes, a small snicker leaving you.

He rolled the condom onto his shaft, moving to hover over you again.

“Are you sure you want this, Y/n?” He asked softly, eyes gazing intently into yours.

“Yes… please fuck me, daddy.”

He let out a small groan, nestling himself in between your thighs. He used a long, strong arm to grab a couch pillow and tuck it under your hips.

You watched as he teasingly slid his head up and down your slit, tapping it against your throbbing bundle of nerves.

“Don’t tease me, please,” you beg.

Your pretty begging weakened his resolve as he slowly slid into you.

Whimpers and noises of pleasure left the both of you at the feeling, a course of energy being shared within your two bodies.

He kept pushing until he was all the way inside, giving you a moment to adjust as he captured your lips in his.

Your hands roamed over his biceps and back, loving the way the muscles flex against your palms. His skin was burning, adding to the electric feel.

When he felt you stop tensing around him, he began to slowly pull back, before pushing in, creating a delicious rhythm.

“Fuck… you feel so fuckin’ good, baby.” He moaned.

Your legs tightened around his hips, a noise leaving you as he rubbed right against that spongy spot.

“So deep, Drew… can feel you so deep,” you whined in between breaths.

“Yeah? You take this dick so good, pretty girl.”

His movements were getting a little rougher with every minute passing, both of you needing this.

Your crush on him for four years, the sexual tension you shared in the music video, the chemistry when you first met him on The Tonight Show.

It was all so surreal and felt like you were living straight out of a fanfic or dream.

His head dropped down to your chest, clearly having a thing for your hardened nipples as he nibbled gently.

Maybe one day Drew would fuck you without the condom and be able to feel your warm, velvety walls squeezing him without the protection.

He could dream.

“Shit, shit, shit.” You swore, the pillow under your hips allowing for his tip to kiss your cervix with every thrust.

“Mhm, yeah. Good girl.” He praised breathlessly, feeling a little lightheaded from everything.

The couch creaked a little beneath you two, your nails digging into his back.

He was already close, eyes fluttered shut as he lifted his head to press a kiss to your forehead.

His calloused thumb went to rub your clit, making your legs twitch around his sculpted hips.

Your cunt squeezed around his cock, your belly on fire with your building orgasm.

“You gonna cum f’me, sweet girl?” He choked out, hips snapping against yours.

“Y-yes!” You squeak, mind hazy, body trembling.

“Yeah… that’s it… let me feel you…”

His breathy words, deep penetration, and touch on your clit sent you over the edge again.

You moaned loudly, clinging onto his body as he talked you through your orgasm.

He was also talking himself through it, feeling his cock twitch as he spilled his seed into the condom.

His body was still against yours, both of you catching your breaths from the intensity.

He pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead again, his chest rising and falling.

“You okay?” He asked you softly.

“Mhm… ‘m good…”

You kissed his lips again, more gently this time. His nose brushed against yours when he pulled away, lips connecting to your cheek.

He reluctantly slid out of you, kneeling between your legs again as his blue eyes gazed down at your cunt.

“Did you bring any more condoms?” You ask after a few moments.

He looks at your face, then reaches over to grab his wallet. He pulls out two more condom wrappers.

You grinned, licking your lips.

“So are we going two more rounds or what?”

tags!!

@slut4you @sweetlike-sugarplum @snowtargaryen @fastlovela @christinechickiee @ahgrace6 @evermorx89 @loren8818181 @eddiemuns0nl0ver @sophiesmovingcastle5 @chimchimjiminie16 @amel1ee @reader1402 @tqd4455 @rxeae @caraxes-syrax @shrimpybbq @drewstarkeysbabe @rafeswhoooreee @meropeeonmee @rafeluvrr @marvelahsobx @raeven-marie43 @fallout-girl219 @brendazzlingg @10ava01 @secretsideofbree @drewstarrrkey @p0gue420 @gibson-g1rl @kiiyomei @spiderstyles04 @sexualparkour @vinaluvsu @domainexpandme @mariadu2 @toterry @taliawz @always-reading @angvl3tears @iloveoldermenn @aesthetic-lyss @lover-girl-estxx @cadhlabear @kaiparkerwifes @herbookgarden @luvleyshif4 @caraxes-syrax @mymultiveres @reader1402 @dinnodallas @darkreymbow @vinaluvsu @sarahskywalker-amidala @christinechickiee @hoelesslyt @tincanhat @scenesofobx @james-bucky-barnackle @angvl3tears @belledawnidk @millietozier @vrsluts @chimmysoftpaws @brathwaite444 @urmanicpixieangelgirl

[darkbluekies]

Edmund coming home to a darling who keeps having "nightmares" but one day he sees a bruise and finds out the maids have been hurting her, causing her to cry

"Name"

Yandere!king oc x fem!reader

Summary: Edmund realises that the maids have been bullying you behind his back ... and he's furious.

Warnings: bruises, bullying, threats of harm and murder, jealousy, darling feels responsible/guilty for their deaths, guilt, mention of murder, possessiveness

Word count: 1.8k

He’s had to work night multiple weeks in a row, leaving you alone in the bed chamber for hours before he joins you, often in the transition between night and the cold hours of the morning. It had been fine in the beginning. Dare you admit you even found it a bit therapeutic? Being alone for once, without him, where else he’s breathing down your neck like some kind of puppy. 

But then it had shifted. The maids who usually patrolled the corridors started sneaking in when it was clear that Edmund wouldn’t come. At first they talked to you about mindless things that seemed harmless, but you could feel something in the air. That feeling, the one where you know the second you part ways, they’ll start talking. Laughing. Mocking. They always asked you about your background, made comments about your clothes and jewelry. Never any direct critiques, but not any compliments either. A grey zone that made your stomach uneasy.

The talking didn’t last long. In a matter of a few days, it shifted. Evolved to something worse. Darker. They have started to mock you to your face when no one else hears, and hit you when you cry. You don’t dare say anything back, just take it … knowing very well what will happen with them if Edmund gets to hear you shout. So every night you bite your lips shut and take it. 

A part of you screams that you should tell Edmund. Let them die, let them see you’re not someone one can mess with and get away with … if only if it wasn’t for the fact that they will die. Edmund’s not a half-assed guy. His love is never a “I would kill for you”-mantra. He has, and will undoubtedly, kill for you again. Over and over. He’d kill anyone you point at, if you wanted to. And oh, how it makes you feel dirty. You’re not the one pulling the trigger or swinging the sword, but you’re the commander. The reason why. In some capacity, you would be a murderer. 

It doesn’t matter how much you hate these women. Death—murder—is never a justified punishment. Not for jealousy. They deserve to be removed and possibly punished, but not killed. Never killed. Their deaths will wreck the lives of innocents who have nothing to do with their behaviour. And you will be blamed. 

You look down at your arms. The darkness hides the marks, but you feel them like bleeding, salt infected wounds. Edmund hasn't noticed. When he comes to bed it's dark enough to hide them. In daylight they're hidden under your extravagant dresses, thanks to Edmund's modesty rules. 

Maybe you want him to notice. Maybe you want a reason to tell, to get comforted and reassured that their words aren't true. To have someone on your side. Maybe you want him to never find them. 

You sob, pulling the covers closer to your body. They've left for the night. You should lay down and try to sleep, or at least pretend to. But you're unable to. Your body refuses to move from its sitting position. If you lay down and they come back you're powerless. Three against one. One laying down. Easy to overpower.

You're not sure what you're most scared of them doing to you. Cut your hair to the scalp? Touch your features and make you unrecognizable? Too ugly to be attractive to him? They've threatened it one time— “what if we just decide to break your nose? Your jaw? Who'll love you then, your majesty? You'll be thrown to the slums, like everyone else. You're not untouchable just because he finds you pretty. That ‘prettiness’ can easily be taken from you.”

Or are you more afraid of them killing you? They've gotten worse over the days. A quick slippery slope down to madness wouldn't be impossible. They could easily pin you down and slit your throat, stab you.

You’re too in your own head to hear the door opening. 

“You’re still awake?” 

Edmund’s voice rips you out of your thoughts. You gasp, breath getting caught in your throat. Your hands are about to move up to your cheeks to wipe your tears, but you know he’ll catch that. Instead you turn your head away slightly, hoping the darkness will hide the tears streaks. His footsteps seem to echo behind him. 

“My jewel, you’re supposed to be asleep by now”, Edmund says and you feel the bed shift as he sits down. “Having trouble sleeping?”

You nod without looking at him. It has the opposite effect you wish for. 

“Why aren’t you looking at me?” 

His fingers touch your cheek, turning your head to him. You’re unable to stop it. You meet his eyes, those ice blue ones that seem to glow in the dark, and feel yourself crumble under his gaze. Your eyes fill, once again, with new tears. Edmund’s jaw clenches and he quickly moves closer. 

“What is it?” he asks, voice tight. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

You shake your head, lowering your chin. Edmund’s eyes start to wander, desperately looking for clues. His eyes stop at a particularly dark spot on your shoulder, just below the neck line of the flowy night gown. His fingertips touch it gently, as if trying to see if it’s real, and you flinch away before you can react. 

“Y/N …”, Edmund breathes out. “What the hell? Don’t tell me that’s what I think it is.”

When you don’t answer, he shifts closer. Close enough for you to feel his breath on your skin as he brings a small, electrical lamp close enough to see the bruise clearer. There’s only a word leaving his throat, but it is enough. “Name.”

“No.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“It won’t solve it.”

“It will. It’ll stop them from hurting what’s mine. Give me the name.”

You turn your head down, looking at your hands trembling in your lap. 

“It’s not ‘the’ name—”

“There’s more?” His voice has a sharper edge. “Okay then, give me their names.”

“I don’t want blood on my hands.”

“There won’t be any blood on your hands. Only mine. No one else is allowed to touch you. Nothing else, is allowed to. And if you don’t tell me who gave you these ugly marks I will hunt them down, and I’m sure a few innocent will be struck that way. Give me the cowards names. Do you think a king will let his queen be hurt by unworthy?”

You don’t answer. The sobs come back, rippling through you. You’re on the edge now, so close to ending someone’s life. You have the gun in your hand and all you need is to pull the trigger … or put it down. But if you put it down, he’ll pick it up and shoot without hesitation. As long as you hold the gun … nothing happens.  

“Gosh, these marks makes me nauseous”, Edmund gags as he holds your arm in his hands. He has pulled up the sleeve to get a good look at them. “So brutal.”

“Please don’t look.”

“Tell me their names. My pretty jewel, tell me their names. Please, Y/N. Tell me who did it.”

You shake your head again, sobbing. Edmund sighs heavily. 

“Can you at least tell me how long it’s been going on?” he asks, and you can hear the frustration in his voice, even if half of it is pure worry. 

“Since you started working night”, you mumble, hiccuping through sobs. 

“Since I started work— … you have to be kidding me?”

You shake your head. Edmund bites back a scream and looks around, as if trying to find something to ground himself on.

“So, people have been coming in here when you’re alone and hurt you?” he asks, voice shaking. “And you’ve been silent about it? It’s been two weeks. Why haven’t you said anything?!”

“Because I’m scared, Edmund …”

His eyes immediately soften. Not to a gentle one, but one that isn’t piercing. He pulls you closer, letting you rest your head on his shoulder. 

“Y/N, darling”, he says with his trembling voice. “I’m the king. I am the highest power in this kingdom, yeah? You are my wife, correct? You are the safest person in this country. But I can’t help you if you refuse to tell me when someone is hurting you.”

“You will kill them.”

“Damn right I will. That’s what happens when people think they can touch what’s mine. Touching you is a war crime and I will not let them get away with it.”

He cups your wet cheek, turning you to him. 

“Who hurt my pretty girl?” he whispers sorrowfully. 

Your finger trembles on the imaginary trigger. And, before you can register it, you press. 

His face lights up—not in a happy way, but relief. He’s about to fly up form the bed, but you grab his arm. 

“No, no, Edmund please!” you plead, voice breaking with sobs. “Don’t leave me!”

“I will get those bitches for this”, he tells you, his voice now a venomous deadly calm. “I will snap their necks myself.”

“No … no please, don’t go.”

You hug his arm, pleading over and over again. Edmund seems torn between revenge and protection, but in the end he gives in and climbs back into the bed, pulling you flush against him. 

“Fine”, he gives in, squeezing your trembling form. “I will let them have their final night … but tomorrow they’ll get what they deserve. For now I’ll take care of my beautiful queen.”

He kisses the top of your head. 

“I will never let those creatures near you again", he promises, showering your face in kisses. Too soft for his usual behaviour. “They don’t deserve to touch you. Only I am. I am the only one worthy enough to touch you. To kiss you. To hold you. To be near you. To see you. Tell me what they did to you.”

So you do. His grip on you tightens for everything you tell him, but his lips never leave your skin. They burn. 

“I’ll enjoy tomorrow morning”, he decides, moving even closer to you, snuggling. “I’ll kill them slowly—well, if you can snap someone’s neck slow—and enjoy every bit of it.”

He holds you close, running his fingers through your hair. You feel his cold, golden rings against your scalp. Your face is tucked beneath his chin, against the warmth of his neck. It’s as if he wants to pull you into him, become one with him. As if you’re only safe if you’re beneath his skin. 

“You’re so soft in my arms”, he whispers. “Really soft. Only mine.”

He hums and rests his cheek against your hair, falling asleep. But you? You won’t sleep for a long time. Relieved that you no longe have to carry it yourself … guilty that you’ve pulled the trigger. But you wouldn’t have won anyway. He always does. He always gets what he wants in the end … and this time, it’s to protect you. 

[geminiwritten]

safehouse ; joaquín torres

fandom: marvel

pairing: joaquín x reader

summary: you're an ex-assassin trained by hawkeye and black widow, and your old friend sam needs your help on a mission alongside his new protege... but things don't go exactly to plan and you end up indefinitely stuck in a safehouse with joaquín

notes: danny ramirez has me in such a chokehold, he made me write smut!!! kind of... upon reread, i feel like this might flop? and i'm a little extra nervous about it because it's my second first attempt at smut, so i hope it doesn't suck! please, please, please let me know what you think! i need feedback! and also, sorry if it's shitty, i'm so out of practice with marvel, i'm just feral for this man...

warnings: swearing, sexual tension (lots), mention of guns / weapons, very minor descriptions of violence, italics, mention of a toxic ex and toxic behaviour, very out of date marvel knowledge, super horny, and SMUT-ish? (masturbation, dirty talk, thigh riding) so 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 15295

“I’m going to do a quick sweep,” Joaquín says. “Make sure we weren’t followed.” 

You nod once, doing your best to flash the hottest man you’ve ever seen a cool, easy smile. 

“Copy,” Sam says as he walks further into the house. “Echo, you’re with me. Let’s clear this place.” 

You roll your eyes and follow Sam deeper into the safehouse, forcing yourself not to glance back as Joaquín slips out the front door. 

“That’s not my name anymore,” you mutter, sheathing a dagger in your thigh holster. “And would you slow down?” 

Just an hour ago, you were waiting at a secret meet-up spot for Sam to fill you in on this special mission he needed your expertise for. You weren’t keen on coming out of retirement, but he’d practically begged you over the phone—and you had no excuse good enough to say no. 

So there you were, waiting, when all hell broke loose. You don’t know who they were, but they came at you hard and fast, raining hellfire just as Sam—and his stupidly gorgeous protege—showed up. You fought your way out and found refuge in this safehouse. Now all you need to do is make sure you’re actually safe before figuring out what the fuck just happened. 

“All clear,” you tell Sam as you return to the landing just inside the front door of the old townhouse. 

He nods. “Looks like we’re good.” 

You tuck your gun away and start fiddling with a strap on the sleeve of your jacket, keeping your gaze locked on Sam beneath a furrowed brow. You’ve always been particularly good at death stares, and if Sam was a lesser man, he’d probably keel over by now. 

But instead, he grins. “What’s that look for?” 

“You know damn well what this look is for,” you mutter. 

He raises his brows, waiting for you to snap. 

It doesn’t take long. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” you hiss, just in case Joaquín is within earshot. “Two weeks ago you just happen to be in town, we catch up for a drink, and I drunkenly confess that I think your little protege is hot. Then all of a sudden, there’s a mysterious mission that requires both of us?” 

He chuckles quietly, eyes sparkling with amusement. “I’d call that a coincidence,” he says. “Oh, and I think your exact words were a walking wet dream with a stupidly perfect smile.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Whatever you’re playing at, stop it. I’m here now, so I’m going to help us get out of this mess—but that’s it.” 

“Would you calm down?” he sighs, leaning back against the wall—awkwardly, thanks to the shield on his back. “The kid has a thing for you too, so I just thought—” 

“What?” 

He rolls his eyes. “He’s like... obsessed with you. As soon as he found out I was catching up with you the other week, he wouldn’t shut up about it. Kept saying how he used to track your missions when you were working off-book with Hawkeye and Widow.” 

You raise your brows, crossing your arms. “Oh, cool. So he’s a stalker obsessed with a version of me from years ago? When I was training every day and hadn’t just been dragged out of retirement.” 

Sam gives you a flat look. “Would you stop calling it retirement? It was an elective hiatus—at most—and you’re still in your physical prime.” 

“Yeah,” you scoff. “Tell that to my knees.” 

Sam smirks. “I’m sure Joaquín won’t mind if you can’t get on your knees. Laying down would be just as—” 

You cross the room in one step and punch him in the shoulder. “Dude! Seriously?” 

He chuckles. “Okay, look, I wasn’t lying about the mission. I really do need your help on this. And so what if maybe you find a little love along the way? You’re both into each other and I know you both very well. You’d be great together. Plus, you’re both equally irritating, so really, this is an entirely selfless act. Why would I want to double your annoyingness?” 

You sigh and lean back, propping one arm on the post at the end of the stair banister. “It just doesn’t work like that, Sam. Not for people like us. We don’t date—it’s not realistic.” 

He rolls his eyes again and pushes off the wall. “Whatever you say, Echo. But I can see the way you’re looking at him. So if you want me out of the house, just say so. I’ll go for a walk or something.” 

Then he winks and turns into the small living room, making the cheap furniture look ridiculously tiny compared to his broad, geared-up physique. 

After a hot minute of seriously considering whether or not you could get away with ditching this mission entirely, you sigh and follow Sam—stripping off your gear as you go. 

You unzip your jacket and shrug it off, tossing it over the back of the couch as you pass through the living room. There’s a narrow archway leading into the kitchen, where Sam is already cracking open the fridge like he owns the place. You stop at the island counter and reach up to slide your weapons harness off your shoulders. It drops into your hands with a familiar weight before you set it on the bench. 

Next, you unclip your belt and bend down to unfasten the straps of your thigh holsters, tugging them free one at a time. You reach lower, dragging a short dagger from your boot and adding it to the pile. Then your gloves—peeled off and tossed carelessly onto the heap of weapons—before grabbing the hem of your long-sleeved tactical shirt and yanking it over your head. 

You’re down to your compression shirt—tight, unforgiving, and clinging to your body like a second skin—as you lean one hip against the counter and finally let out a breath. 

“Damn,” a voice says behind you—Joaquín. 

He’s standing just shy of the archway, making it look comically small with the bulk of his gear. His cheeks are flushed, dark curls damp with sweat, and his lips curved into a soft, crooked smirk. 

You want to say something snarky—ask if he sees something he likes, maybe point out a non-existent drop of drool on his chin. But you can’t. Because you’re giving him the exact same look—all heat, all want, no shame. 

Joaquín isn’t just gorgeous, he’s fucking badass too. You nearly lost your cool when he wrapped you in his arms during the earlier ambush, just before rocketing into the sky. You weren’t scared—just absurdly, wildly horny for the hot guy with mechanical wings flying you to safety. 

“Alright, you two,” Sam says, dropping a half-empty bottle of orange juice on the counter. “Save the saucy looks for later. First, we need to get in touch with the Secretary of Defence—see if we can start an investigation into whoever attacked us. Then we’ll figure out how long we’re stuck here.” 

Joaquín eyes the juice suspiciously. “How do you know that’s not expired?” 

Sam lifts it up. “Oh, it’s very expired.” Then takes a swig anyway, grimacing as he swallows. 

“Gross,” you mutter, turning toward the sink. 

You twist on the tap and squirt a half-crusted blob of soap from the sad little pump bottle on the windowsill, scrubbing the dirt and dried blood—thankfully not yours—off your hands. 

“Alright,” Joaquín says, “how do we contact the Secretary?” 

- 

Two weeks. It’s been two whole weeks of living in this godforsaken townhouse in bum-fuck suburbia, with barely any information on the assholes who forced you into hiding. 

All you do know is that they were after you. 

Yep. Someone’s been holding a serious grudge, just waiting for you to crawl out of retirement to make a move. So Sam made the call—told you to lay low at the safehouse, use an alias in case any nosy neighbours came sniffing around, and to simply wait while he tries to dig up more information on whoever sent the thugs. 

And the worst part? He assigned Joaquín as your full-time protection detail. 

Which means not only are you stuck in this crusty old house, but you’re stuck with one very attractive, very tempting man who apparently has no idea just how goddamn gorgeous he is. 

“You finished with this?” Joaquín asks, brows raised as he slowly reaches for the plate in front of you. 

You’re standing at the kitchen island, bent forward with your elbows on the bench and your chin resting in your palms. Across from you, Joaquín is washing dishes. Shirtless. Wearing nothing but a loose pair of grey sweats, skin still damp from the shower, curls sticking to his forehead, and looking like every fantasy you’ve ever had come to life. 

“Hello?” he says, waving a soapy hand in front of your face. “Anyone home?” 

You blink and force your eyes away from the absurd perfection of his body, dragging them up to his equally unfair face. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, cheeks warming. “Yeah, I’m done.” 

He flashes that boyish grin, picks up the plate, and turns back to the sink—letting you go right back to ogling him in peace. 

Your eyes drift over the muscles in his back, watching them roll and flex as he scrubs. You’re nearly tempted to dirty another dish just to keep the view going. Because this? This right here—domestic Joaquín, shirtless and glistening—is enough to keep your imagination busy for a very long time. 

Not that you’ve had much opportunity to indulge those fantasies, because Joaquín is here all the damn time. He only leaves when Sam calls him out—usually for groceries, clean clothes, or a quick intel drop. 

You’re almost never in the house alone. 

Which means your fantasies have been... limited. Mostly to rushed moments in the shower or late at night, when you’re pretty sure—hoping—that he’s asleep. 

“You know,” he says, breaking you out of your dazed—and admittedly filthy—thoughts, “if someone told me a few weeks ago that I’d be stuck in a safehouse with the Red Echo, I probably would’ve fainted.” 

You frown curiously, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Really?” 

He nods. “Really.” 

When he turns around, your breath catches. Yeah, okay, you saw his abs like five minutes ago, but that doesn’t make them any less ridiculously sexy. 

“Why’s that?” you ask, determined not to let him fluster you any more than he already has. 

His cheeks flush, eyes dropping to the dish towel he’s drying his hands with. “I was, like... obsessed with you. I’m sure Sam mentioned it. Used to track your missions with agents Barton and Romanoff. Thought you were the coolest assassin ever.” 

You let out a soft laugh, straightening up and leaning a hip against the counter. “Do I live up to the legend, then?” 

His eyes widen as he nods. “Oh, yeah. You’re badass.” 

You feel your cheeks heat even more, quickly dropping your gaze to hide the stupid smile trying to sneak its way onto your face—just because he called you badass. 

Despite living together for two weeks, you’ve mostly avoided getting too personal. Most of your time has been spent in companionable silence, watching TV or reading. When Sam’s over, you all talk and joke, but when you’re alone, you let the tension do the talking. Exchanging nothing more than heated glances and softly spoken words. 

You’re not entirely sure why you’ve kept your distance—maybe because you know this is temporary, and you don’t want to get too attached. But it’s getting harder by the day. Joaquín is charming. And so painfully attractive that playing it cool is starting to feel impossible. 

“It wasn’t that badass,” you say, folding your arms. “Working with Clint and Nat, I mean.” 

He frowns, unconvinced. “I find that hard to believe.” 

“No, really,” you insist. “It was brutal, mostly. I got beaten up, like, a lot. I wasn’t raised an assassin like they were—I had to learn. So if I wasn’t getting my ass handed to me in combat, it was one of them kicking my butt during training.” 

He chuckles. “Really? Who was worse?” 

You bite your lip to keep from smiling—his grin is stupidly infectious—and tilt your head in thought. 

“Hm,” you hum. “I know I should say Nat, but... it was probably Clint.” 

Joaquín raises a brow. “How?” 

“Oh, he was like a drill sergeant. Had me learning everything, all at once. My hands were bleeding from archery, my limbs were bruised from hand-to-hand, and my head was always throbbing from getting slammed into mats. And he didn’t let up. Told me the enemy wouldn’t, so why should he— unless I was genuinely wrecked. Nat was a little more forgiving. I think her childhood made her more empathetic when it came to training. She didn’t want to push me too far. Clint, though? He needed me to be tough. It was a good dynamic—very good cop, bad cop.” 

“Wow,” Joaquín murmurs, eyes a little dazed as he just stares at you. 

You pause, brow furrowing. “What?” 

He shrugs, tearing his gaze away as he turns to hang the dish towel over the oven handle. 

“Nothing, just...” He looks up at you again, all warm eyes and stupidly perfect cheekbones—like he doesn’t realise how dangerous he is. “You’re really cool.” 

“You’re pretty cool too, Falcon,” you say, letting a small smirk curl your lips. “With or without the wings—I know you’re a badass too.” 

He meets your stare with dark eyes full of challenge. “I am pretty badass. Could probably give you a run for your money.” 

The mood shifts, the light teasing between you pulled tighter—tension creeping in, hot and deliberate. 

You arch a brow. “You think?” 

He nods, arms crossing over his bare chest in a way that makes your thighs clench. “I do.” 

“Bold, Torres,” you murmur, narrowing your eyes. “Care to prove it?” 

He steps around the kitchen island—two strides and he’s in your space. “Name a time and place, cariño.” 

“Right now,” you say, holding his heated stare. “Backyard.” 

That panty-melting smile flashes across his face as he leans in. “You’re on.” Then his voice drops—lower, rougher, almost lethal. “Be lying if I said I haven’t been dying to get my hands on you.” 

Your heart lurches, then takes off, sending a hot rush of blood straight to your head. 

“Professionally, of course,” he adds quickly, and you might’ve believed the cool confidence if it weren’t for the blush creeping up to the tips of his ears. 

“Of course,” you echo, your voice soft—breathless. 

The air between you thickens, crackling with heat as your eyes lock—tension simmering, slow and dangerous. 

Then his phone chimes, and you both flinch. 

He moves to check it while you step back, letting out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. 

“Just Sam checking in,” he mutters, glancing up. “Should I tell him I’m about to kick your ass, or...?” 

You roll your eyes. “Try it first. Before claiming victory.” 

Then you turn and head into the small living room, taking a right at the front landing and making your way down the hall toward the back door. 

The backyard isn’t much—patchy grass, some cracked pavers, and a chain-link fence that barely shields you from nosy neighbours. But right now, with Joaquín standing across from you, shirtless and barefoot in the glow of the setting sun, it might as well be an arena. 

“You sure you’re ready for this?” he asks, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, all cocky grin and coiled muscle. 

You roll your neck and stretch out your arms. “Oh, I’m ready.” 

He waits a beat before making the first move—a quick step in, testing you with a light jab. You dodge easily, grabbing his wrist and twisting, using his momentum to spin him around. He grunts, surprised, but recovers fast, sweeping a leg toward yours. 

You jump, laughing as you land and press your body into his from behind, locking an arm around his throat in a loose hold. “That all you got, Torres?” 

He chuckles, low and warm. “Just getting started.” 

He bucks back hard, breaking your hold, and in the scuffle, you both stumble—him catching your waist, you grabbing his shoulder—and suddenly, you're tangled, chest to chest, breathing hard. 

“Careful,” he murmurs, his breath hot on your skin, “you might enjoy this a little too much.” 

“Speak for yourself,” you shoot back, but your voice is ragged, traitorous. 

He smirks and tries to pin you, but you twist at the last second, hooking your leg around his and taking him down—landing right on top of him. 

Straddling him. 

You both freeze. 

Your thighs press against his hips, your palms on his bare chest, heat sparking where your skin meets. His hands hover near your waist, not quite touching, but God, you can feel the tension in his fingers, the flex of restraint. 

“Not bad,” he says, voice low and uneven. 

You smirk, grinding your hips just slightly—for dominance, of course. “Say it.” 

He looks up at you like he’s starving. “You’re dangerous.” 

“And?” 

His hands finally settle on your hips. Firm. Possessive. 

“And you’re really, really hot when you’re trying to beat the shit out of me.” 

Your next breath shudders out of you. 

And then the back door creaks open. 

“Am I interrupting something?” Sam asks, arms crossed as he stands on the porch. 

You jump off Joaquín like you’ve been burned, nervously brushing non-existent dust from your knees. 

“Nope,” you say, way too fast. “Just sparring.” 

Sam raises a brow. “Sure. Sparring. What’s that move called? Cowgirl?” 

Joaquín, still on his back in the grass, just grins up at you. “Maybe we could try reverse later.” 

You narrow your eyes, pursing your lips to keep from grinning. “Without an audience, preferably.” 

“Promise?” he asks, his gaze shameless. 

You can’t stop the quiet laugh that slips out as you shake your head, leaning forward to offer him a hand. Joaquín takes it, and you help him off the ground before turning back to Sam. 

“So, Cap,” you say. “What’s up?” 

“Just checking in,” he replies, eyes flicking suspiciously between the two of you. “I texted Joaquín to let him know I was dropping by.” 

Joaquín scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah... not gonna lie, I didn’t fully read the text.” 

Sam raises his brows. “Distracted?” 

His tone is playful, but you catch the underlying suggestion—it’s a test. Joaquín is still on duty. He’s your protection detail, and he’s supposed to be focused. 

“It was my fault,” you jump in. “I bet him he couldn’t take me in hand-to-hand.” 

Sam snorts. “Please. All you’d have to do is flash him a smile and he’d be on his knees.” 

Joaquín’s jaw drops, his cheeks going a deep, furious red. 

You turn to him, grinning. “Is that true?” 

He stares at you with wide brown eyes. “I—I mean, well—no, but—” 

“Save it, man,” Sam laughs. “You’re just digging yourself deeper.” 

Despite the nerves fluttering in your chest, you keep your cool. You pat Joaquín’s bare chest—your palm lingering just long enough to feel the heat of his skin—before turning back to Sam and walking toward the porch. 

It takes Joaquín a full minute to remember how to move, but eventually he follows. You all make your way inside and settle into the cramped little living space, listening closely as Sam delivers a brief—and rather disappointing—update. 

They still don’t know much about who ordered the hit on you, but they’re not giving up. New leads might turn up in New York, and they’re even considering reaching out to the Winter Soldier and his new team. 

“So what does that mean for us?” you ask, gesturing vaguely between you and Joaquín. “We’re surviving just fine, but I’d really like to get back to my life. And I’m sure Joaquín would—” 

“Actually,” Joaquín cuts in, flashing that crooked grin that threatens to short-circuit your brain, “I think I’m having more fun here.” 

He even throws in a wink for good measure. 

You feel your cheeks warm, but Sam keeps talking, mercifully ignoring the exchange. 

“I know it’s not ideal,” he says, “but it’s the safest place for you right now. And I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you. I was the one who dragged you back to work, so I’m going to be the one to find these guys and stop them.” 

You take a deep breath and let it out slowly, sinking back into the couch. “Alright, fine. But if we’re stuck here indefinitely, I’ve got a list of demands.” 

Sam nods. “Anything. Just say the word.” 

The next afternoon, Sam returns with everything you asked for. He brings a large duffel packed with the exact clothes you requested, a trunk full of groceries—including all the pantry staples that the house has been lacking—and the box from under your bed containing... personal items. 

“I had a Secret Service agent swing by your apartment,” Sam says, setting the box on the coffee table. “No one opened it, but something definitely started... buzzing on the way over.” 

Your eyes go wide as you snatch the box off the table. “What the fuck, Sam?” 

He chuckles. “Hey, you’re the one who needed it.” 

“Yes,” you snap, cheeks burning. “Because it’s got personal shit like tampons and pads—which I’m going to need if we’re stuck here for another two weeks.” 

Joaquín’s laugh carries from the kitchen, where he’s putting away the groceries. “What else is in the box?” 

You shoot him a look over your shoulder, eyes narrowed and lips twitching. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” 

“Cool it, you two,” Sam says. “You might be stuck with each other for a while. Don’t make it weird.” 

- 

The next week is nothing if not weird. And tense. And so full of heat and frustration, you’re surprised the walls haven’t caught fire. 

Because after that little spar in the backyard, something shifted—snapped, like a rubber band pulled too tight. Now, you and Joaquín just can’t seem to stay out of each other’s way, no matter how hard you try. 

He’s everywhere. In the kitchen when you’re trying to make coffee—shirtless and smug, all lean muscle and unintentional teasing. He’s always leaning in too close, brushing your waist with his fingertips, pressing his body against yours to reach for something he absolutely does not need that badly. 

And the couch. That small fucking couch that leaves no real space between the two of you. His leg against yours. His arm slung casually behind your shoulders. The whole tiny room suddenly suffocating with his heat, his scent, the sheer proximity of him turning your brain to static. 

Then there’s the time you turned the corner just as he was grabbing his towel out of the dryer—both of you freezing as you came face to face with damp skin, low-slung fabric, and absolutely zero shame in his smirk. 

In that moment, you decided—two could play at this game. 

So, you stopped wearing pants. Not all the time—just before bed. Sometimes it’s little booty shorts, or cute boyleg underwear. But mostly, it’s just an oversized tee and nothing else. 

And the way his eyes track your bare legs like he’s a man starved? Yeah. You’ve noticed. 

But then there was the morning you’d opted for a bath instead of a shower—to deal with the ever-building frustration twisting low in your belly. You were already settled in the steaming tub, surrounded by bubbles, one of your favourite toys waiting on the vanity… when he fucking walked in. 

You both froze. Eyes wide. Lips parted. His gaze drifted to the magenta-pink silicone on the counter. And then he grinned—slow, wicked, and impossible to look away from—before dragging his eyes back to yours. 

You shouted at him to get the hell out. Which he did. Eventually. Without even pretending not to sneak one last glance at the toy. 

That was the final straw. 

You need boundaries. Rules. Anything to help you survive this unbearable, unrelenting tension crackling between you. Before one of you snaps and professionalism goes flying out the window. 

“I think we need to set some ground rules,” you say, planting both hands on the kitchen island. 

Joaquín turns away from whatever he’s stirring on the stove, brow raised and an amused smirk tugging at his lips. “Rules?” 

You nod. “Yes. Boundaries. Something—anything—if we’re going to survive this.” 

He chuckles under his breath. “Alright. What kind of boundaries?” 

“First,” you say, narrowing your eyes at his bare chest, “you need to start wearing shirts.” 

His brows lift, brown eyes sparkling with mischief. “Really?” 

You nod again, firm. 

“Okay,” he says, “then you have to wear pants.” 

“Fine,” you mutter. 

“Fine,” he echoes, turning back to the pot on the stove. 

“And you need to knock,” you add. “I don’t care what room it is, or if you just saw me walk away. Knock.” 

He laughs, shoulders shaking as he stirs. “Noted. Must knock.” 

“Good.” 

You hesitate, debating how to phrase the next rule without admitting just how badly you want it. 

“And no—” you clear your throat, “no touching.” 

That gets his attention. He turns back around, smirk softer now, more curious than cocky. “No touching?” 

“Exactly. If you need to get past me, just say ‘excuse me.’ And we can get Sam to bring over a bean bag or something. That couch is way too fucking small.” 

He watches you closely, tongue dragging slowly across his bottom lip before he catches it between his teeth. The sight alone steals your breath—but then he moves. He steps away from the stove and toward you, all heat and intention, bringing with him that warm cinnamon scent that scrambles your thoughts and short-circuits every nerve ending in your body. 

“You really don’t want me to touch you?” he asks, voice low. 

“There’s…” you swallow, “there’s no need for you to touch me, so…” 

He tilts his head. “Nothing you need that might require a little contact?” 

You freeze, like your brain just blue-screened—unsure whether to slap him, kiss him, or straight-up combust. 

“No,” you manage, though your voice is breathy. Traitorous. 

“Okay,” he says easily. “I won’t touch you.” Then he leans in, voice low and smooth. “Not until you’re begging me to.” 

Your breath hitches, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?” 

He straightens, grin cocky. “You heard me.” 

“You think I’m going to be begging you to touch me?” 

He nods once. “Oh, yeah.” 

You scoff. “No chance, Torres. If anything, you’re the one who’s going to crack first.” 

“That so?” he says, arching a brow. “Sounds like a challenge.” 

You take a step back, crossing your arms. “You’re on.” 

His gaze tracks your face like he’s memorising it, heat pulsing between you. One wrong move and this whole damn place could go up in flames. 

“Any other rules?” he asks. 

“Not yet,” you reply, letting your eyes drop to his chest. “Now put on a shirt.” 

He arches a brow, gaze dropping as he steps back just enough to get a better look. “Then you better put on some pants.” 

“Fine,” you huff, turning on your heel and storming out of the kitchen. 

Behind you, he lets out a low whistle, voice pitched just loud enough for you to hear. “You are fine.” 

And the worst part? It still makes you blush. That smug little comment sparks something inside of you, heat curling low in your belly—warm, aching, and impossible to ignore. 

You’re pretty sure you’ve just made the dumbest bet of your life. 

After pulling on a pair of sweats and giving yourself a whispered—but stern—pep talk in the bathroom mirror, you head back downstairs. Joaquín’s got a shirt on now and is ladling something hot and delicious-smelling into a bowl. 

“Smells good,” you say, stopping on the other side of the island counter. 

He wipes the edge of the bowl with a dish towel before sliding it toward you. “It is good.” 

Then he hands you a spoon before fixing his own bowl and standing across from you at the bench, just as you’re gently blowing on your first spoonful. 

“Sopa de fideo,” he says. “Mexican noodle soup.” 

You take a cautious taste—and nearly moan, just barely stopping the sound from crawling up your throat. But Joaquín isn’t stupid, he sees the way your eyes glaze over and your shoulders ease in quiet bliss. 

“Told you it was good,” he says, wearing that infuriatingly smug look. 

Your cheeks warm under his gaze—those big brown eyes locked on you as he lifts his spoon to his mouth. It shouldn’t be erotic. And yet, the way his lips close around the spoon before dragging it out again sends heat straight between your legs. 

You swallow hard and prepare your next spoonful, letting it cool while praying he can’t read you as easily as you suspect he can. 

“So, you cook and you fight. What’s your angle?” 

He cocks an eyebrow as he swallows. “My angle?” 

“You’re almost too good to be true,” you say, fighting the urge to melt at that stupidly gorgeous smirk. “So why are you single?” 

He shrugs, casual as anything. “Just waiting for the right girl.” 

Your brows lift. “Oh, really?” 

He nods and takes another spoonful like it’s no big deal. 

“What’s she like, then?” you ask, trying to match his calm confidence. 

He grins—mischievous and warm, with a spark behind his eyes that makes your chest tighten. 

“Oh, she’s awesome,” he says. “Total badass. Ex-assassin. Worked with the Avengers. Can definitely kick my ass—it’s super hot.” 

You roll your eyes and shovel more noodles into your mouth before your smile gets out of hand. 

“She’s stupid pretty too,” he adds. “But obviously doesn’t know it.” 

Your face heats to an impossible degree, and you drop your gaze to your bowl, pretending to study the swirling noodles. 

“And she’s smart,” he goes on, completely unperturbed. “Witty as hell. The verbal warfare? Honestly, it’s better than foreplay.” 

You almost choke, barely managing to swallow without incident. When you look up, he’s just standing there, all cheeky and red-faced like he didn’t just soak your underwear with three lines of dialogue. 

“Wow,” you mutter. “She sounds pretty great. Sure you’re up for the challenge, though?” 

“Oh, I’m sure,” he says, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on the counter. “I know her weakness.” 

You lean forward too, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Kryptonite?” 

He shakes his head slowly, eyes darkening. “Me.” 

It’s just one word, but it slides in sharp and smooth—curling under your skin and lighting you up from the inside. 

You want to reply—say something snarky, or at least tell him he’s full of shit—but you can’t. Your voice is stuck somewhere in your chest, tangled up with the fire burning hot and bright for the man grinning at you. And goddamn, he might just be right. 

You finish your dinner in mostly comfortable silence, too flustered to manage much more than the occasional hum of agreement while Joaquín talks. His smile never fades, and that infuriating sparkle doesn’t leave his eye—not for a second. He knows he’s got you breathless, rattled, right where he wants you. And if you’ve got any hope of winning this bet, you’re going to need to flip the script. 

“I’ll wash up,” you say, already rounding the island toward the sink. 

He steps aside, placing his empty bowl into your outstretched hand with a note of hesitation. 

“You sure?” 

“You cooked,” you say with a nod. “I’ll clean.” 

He moves a few more steps around the bench, trading places with where you’d eaten your dinner. 

You turn to the sink and start the tap, sliding the plug into place before adding a generous squirt of dish soap to the growing pool of hot water. Then you move to the stove, wiping it down with a sudsy cloth and scrubbing at a few stubborn spots where the sauce had dried. 

Once the sink is full, you plunge your hands into the bubbly water and start with the cutlery. You keep your head down and your eyes on the task, refusing to give in to the weight of Joaquín’s stare burning into your back. 

“So,” he says after a beat, voice laced with something devious, “you clean and you fight. Why are you single?” 

You roll your eyes, grateful he can’t see the stupid smile tugging at your lips. 

“That’s kind of a long story,” you reply. 

He chuckles. “Baby, we’re stuck here indefinitely. No story could be that long.” 

Your heart stutters at the pet name. It’s tossed out casually, with no serious intent—but it still leaves you feeling way too warm. 

“I guess not,” you say with a breathy laugh. “I’m single because I choose to be—after a series of poor decisions. And I became single after my last boyfriend because... well, apparently my taste in men needs work.” 

“How bad are we talking?” he asks. 

You shift a handful of soapy cutlery into the empty side of the sink and rinse them under the cold tap. 

“Short version? He was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent turned HYDRA,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “The long version involves a lot of weird behaviour, some questionable kinks, too many fights to count, and probably one of the most violent breakups in history.” 

Joaquín raises his brows. “You kicked his ass, right?” 

“Oh, yeah,” you reply, turning back to the sink. 

“Good,” he says simply. 

You reach back into the water, feeling around for any remaining cutlery when— 

“Fuck,” you hiss, yanking your hand out of the sink. 

Blood smears across your knuckles and trickles down your wrist in a messy streak of crimson and bubbles. 

“What happened?” Joaquín is beside you in an instant, his eyes wide, hands hovering like he wants to help but isn’t sure where to start. 

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “I’m fine. It’s not that deep—it just looks worse with the water—” 

“Pause the bet,” he says firmly, cutting you off as he steps in and gently wraps his hand around your wrist. 

“Joaquín,” you sigh, “I’m okay. I’ve had worse.” 

He doesn’t look up. His eyes stay fixed on your hand, brow furrowed. “I don’t care. I’m helping you.” 

He leaves your side for only a second to grab the first aid kit from the cupboard above the stove. Then, without a word, he takes your uninjured hand and leads you to the lounge. 

“Sit,” he says, voice low. 

You do as you're told, sinking into the cushions as your heart thunders in your chest. He sits beside you—close. Too close. His thigh presses against yours, his warmth wrapping around you like a blanket. And his scent—ugh—like fresh-cut cedar and rain-damp leaves. But there’s heat beneath it, too. Something rougher. Like sweat, smoke, and the kind of trouble that finds you even when you hide. 

“You alright?” he asks, opening the kit on the coffee table. 

You straighten, quickly realising that you'd been slowly leaning into him. 

“Yeah,” you mutter. “I’m good. Sorry.” 

He chuckles softly, then takes your injured hand again—holding it in his lap like it’s the most important thing in the world. He works quietly, carefully, seemingly unaware of the tension crackling between you as his fingers graze yours with the utmost care. 

It’s almost hypnotic, the way he moves—cleaning the blood, dabbing antiseptic, wrapping your knuckles with gauze. But even when he’s finished, he doesn’t pull away. His touch lingers, his thumb stroking softly over the delicate bone in your wrist. 

His eyes flick to yours, then drop to your mouth—lingering there as he leans in. 

“You know,” he murmurs, “if it weren’t for this bet…” 

His hot breath brushes your lips, and your heart starts to beat so hard you wonder if you’ll survive it. 

"You’d what?" you ask, trying to sound steady—but your voice betrays you. 

“I’d kiss you,” he whispers. 

Your breath catches. Your chest aches. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears—so loud you can’t hear a single thought. 

You want to let him. You want to close the space between you and let him do every wicked thing he’s thinking. But you can’t. You won’t. You need to win. 

Instead, you smile—slow and dangerous. 

“Bet’s back on, Torres,” you say, standing as you slide your hand from his. 

You head back to the kitchen, steady and deliberate, refusing to let him see just how much he’s gotten to you. 

Behind you, he exhales a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters. 

You don’t look back, but your grin is smug—and you just know his is cocky. He’s loving the chase just as much as you’re loving the game. 

Back at the sink, you crouch down to rummage through the cupboard for the pair of rubber gloves you know you saw earlier. Once you find them, you slide them on with a snap and return to washing up, ignoring Joaquín’s protests. 

Eventually, he gives up with a dramatic sigh and grabs a dish towel, falling into step beside you to dry and put things away. The air between you simmers with silence—thick and heavy, like steam clinging to your skin. You exchange the occasional quiet ‘excuse me’, the barest brush of hands, and a few glances that linger a second too long. But mostly, it’s just tension. Hot and unbearable. 

The kitchen is too small. The space between counters is too narrow. And Joaquín is far too fucking attractive to focus on anything else. That soft smile. Those gentle, dark eyes. The sharp cut of his jaw, dusted with just a hint of stubble. And his curls—God, those curls. They make your fingers twitch with the urge to sink in and pull. 

As soon as you finish wiping down the sink and peeling off your gloves, you open your mouth to say you’re heading to bed—but Joaquín beats you to it. 

“I think I’m gonna call it a night,” he says, already edging out of the kitchen. “I know it’s early, but I’m... spent.” 

You nod, heartbeat still a little too fast. “Yeah. Me too.” 

“I’ll be quick in the bathroom,” he adds, flashing a soft smile. “Good night.” 

“Night, Torres.” 

And then he’s gone. 

You wait a few minutes before following, keeping yourself busy by wiping down the benches—again—and tidying the lounge room. Once you hear the soft click of his bedroom door shutting, you quietly pad upstairs and slip into the bathroom. 

You’ve each got a drawer in the vanity now, and you’ve promised not to look in the other’s... though the curiosity is killing you. Not that you really care about toothbrushes and dental picks—because of course he uses them. Have you seen those teeth? No, what you’re more interested in is whether there are any... toys. Or condoms. 

Because really, why would he need condoms at a safehouse? 

To fuck you, maybe? 

God, you hope so. 

Barely clinging to your restraint, you brush your teeth, wash your face, and tiptoe into your room. 

The house is almost too quiet tonight. And oppressively warm. You’re not sure if it’s the creeping summer heat—or just the tension between you and Joaquín—but either way, you need to let off some steam. 

There’s only one thin wall between your room and his, which isn’t ideal for what you’re about to do—but you’re pretty sure you’ll go insane if you don’t. So you suck in a deep breath and quietly slide the box from under your bed, picking out your quietest—you hope—vibrator before climbing up onto the mattress. 

Every shift of the sheets and every sharp inhale feels too loud in the dark room. You try to stay still, to keep calm, but your body won’t listen. It’s too wound up. Too eager. 

You shimmy out of your underwear and toss them toward the foot of the bed, letting your knees fall open as you move the toy to the apex of your thighs. You’re just about to press the little button when— 

A groan. 

Soft. Clipped short. But it definitely happened. 

“Holy shit,” you whisper, scrambling onto your knees. 

You know Joaquín’s room mirrors yours—bedhead pressed against the same wall—so you inch up and press your ear to it, holding your breath. Listening. 

There’s the quiet rustle of sheets. Barely audible. The faint whisper of wind—your window, probably. And then—a sigh. Soft and breathy. 

Your eyes widen as you lean impossibly close. 

Another groan—louder this time. Not stifled. 

Oh, God. Is this real? 

Then you hear it. The quiet slap of skin on skin. A steady rhythm, fast and getting faster. 

Holy fucking shit. 

You drop back onto the mattress, toy still in hand, and resume your position. You suck in a breath as you press the cool silicone to your core, hissing it out through your teeth at the contact. 

Then—a hitched breath. Sheets shifting. Silence. 

Oh. He heard you. 

Fighting a wicked grin, you press the button and the toy hums to life in your hand—a soft whimper escaping your lips as you melt into the pillows. 

Through the wall, you hear a strangled, “Fuck.” 

Your heart leaps—racing now, pounding against your ribs. 

You squeeze your eyes shut and picture him. Sprawled on the bed. Eyes dark and dazed. Boxers shoved halfway down his thighs. Hand wrapped tightly around his cock. 

It makes your thighs quiver. 

Another groan rumbles through the wall, and you arch into the toy, pretending it’s him instead—his hand, his mouth, his breath hot on your skin. 

“Oh,” you sigh, all hesitation gone. “Joaquín.” His name slips from your lips like a prayer. Barely audible—but you know he hears it. 

Because his rhythm falters—then quickens. His breath is shallow and sharp now, rough and uneven. 

Normally, you’d take your time—drag it out until the ache is unbearable. But not tonight. You can’t stop. You won’t. Not with the image of him burning in your mind—eyes squeezed shut, brow furrowed, lips pink and parted as he pants. 

You’re already close. So close. 

And by the sound of his soft whimpers—threaded with your name—he is too. 

You bite your lip to hold in a moan, desperate to hear his sounds over your own, but it escapes anyway—soft and broken. 

Then you hear him. A low groan. Raw and wrecked. 

You writhe against the sheets, your hand shaking as it clutches the toy. Whispers. Sighs. Soft moans—some his, some yours. At this point, you can’t even tell. All of it winds tight behind your hipbones, pressure threatening to burst. 

Then his breath hitches. Stutters. Breaks. And your name—your name—leaves his mouth in a low, guttural groan. 

It isn’t quiet. 

It isn’t hesitant. 

It’s loud. And it’s enough. 

You break. 

His name tumbles from your lips, over and over, a reverent chant as you fall over the edge—boneless, breathless, and blushing. 

- 

You wake too hot and far too exposed, sunlight spilling through the blinds you forgot to close. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, your thoughts still slow and hazy— 

Then you bolt upright, the memory of last night burning fresh in your mind. 

Fuck. 

The sound of the bathroom door closing—right across the hall—makes you jump. Your head snaps toward your own door, left ajar in your rush to get to bed. God, that was stupid. 

After a solid ten minutes of berating yourself for acting like a cat in heat, you finally drag yourself out of bed and pull out some clothes. You wait until you hear Joaquín leave the bathroom before darting across the hall and practically slamming the door behind you. 

You spend longer than usual in the shower, one eye on the door through the fogged glass. You’re not sure what you’re hoping for—maybe that he’ll walk in by accident again. Or on purpose. Maybe join you. Show you exactly what he’d been doing to himself last night. 

The thought alone makes you ache, your thighs pressing together instinctively. 

You shut off the water, dry off, get dressed, and brace yourself to face the man who starred in every hot dream you had last night. 

Maybe you need a new house rule: no mutual masturbation through the wall. 

“Morning,” Joaquín says the second you step into the kitchen. 

He’s leaning against the counter beside the coffee machine, one hand cradling a mug and the other braced casually behind him. His eyes are dark and wicked, glinting with something that makes your heart stutter. 

“Morning,” you mutter, keeping your gaze low as you head for the fridge. 

“Sleep well?” he asks. 

You swallow hard, willing your cheeks not to flush. The asshole knows exactly what he’s doing. 

“Yeah,” you say lightly. “Great sleep. You?” 

“Best I’ve had since getting here.” 

You nod, lips pursed as you pretend to study the fridge’s pitiful contents. “That’s good.” 

A beat of silence follows—thick and humming with everything you’re both refusing to say. 

Then he breaks it with a simple, “Coffee?” 

Your stomach growls in response, and when you glance over your shoulder, it feels like all the air has been knocked out of you by just how downright delicious he looks. He’s in a muscle tee, arms bare and still gleaming from the shower, curls damp and falling over his forehead. His smile is devastating—lazy and knowing—and has no business affecting the parts of your body that it is. 

You snap your eyes to the machine instead, clearing your throat. “Yes, please.” 

He nods, sets down his mug, and reaches into the cupboard for a clean one. You stay planted on your side of the kitchen island, knowing damn well that you might not make it out of this room with your dignity intact if you get any closer to him. 

It doesn’t take long before he sets the steaming mug of fresh coffee on the bench in front of you. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, wrapping your hands around it. 

He nods, watching as you blow gently across the surface of the liquid. 

When you glance up, he raises his brows—a silent question. 

“It’s hot,” you say simply. 

He chuckles, low and warm. “Like last night.” 

Your eyes go wide, and you nearly drop the mug. 

“The temperature,” he amends quickly. “Just couldn’t cool down. Summer is definitely on its way.” 

You narrow your eyes, carefully setting the mug back on the counter as you drag your tongue along your top teeth. He just stands there—smug and unrelenting. 

“What happened to boundaries?” you ask, arching a brow. 

He laughs again, and the sound is somehow hotter than the coffee. “What do you mean? A wall is a boundary, isn’t it?” 

Then he turns, drops his mug in the sink, and flashes you one last, infuriating wink before strolling out of the kitchen—like he didn’t just fry every nerve ending in your body. 

You spend the rest of the day avoiding him. 

You can’t so much as be in the same room without seeing mental images of him sprawled naked on his bed, getting himself off to the thought of you. 

And God, doesn’t he know it. 

The smug smile on his lips hasn’t faltered in hours. Every time you pass him—every time you glance at his stupidly handsome face—there it is. Those pretty pink lips, curled into the most delicious, insufferable smirk you’ve ever seen. 

If Sam doesn’t find whoever’s trying to kill you soon, you might just die stuck in this safehouse with Joaquín. 

Then it hits you. 

You’re out on the back porch, a book in your lap, pretending to read when the idea flashes through your mind like a lightbulb flicking on. Your eyes go wide and you shoot up from the old porch swing, your book dropping to the ground as you sprint into the house. 

“Joaquín!” you call. “Joaquín, I think I know who it is!” 

You turn into the lounge room—empty. 

Then duck into the kitchen—also empty. 

When you spin around to double back and check the other side of the house, you run right into him. Chest-first. Firm, warm… and damp. 

You glance up. “What the fuck?” 

He’s in gym clothes, sweat trailing from his cheekbone to his jaw, curls sticking adorably to his glistening skin. He must’ve been working out. Where? You have no idea. But whatever he was doing was clearly working his body, and it’s probably a good thing you hadn’t witnessed it. You might’ve dropped dead on the spot. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, slightly breathless, a hint of panic in his tone. 

You step back quickly, dragging your eyes up to his face—away from the tight gym clothes that are making your mouth water. 

“I—I think I know who it could be,” you say. 

He frowns. “Who?” 

“Whoever’s after me.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. Remember last night, I told you about my ex?” 

He nods. 

“Well… when we broke up, it was messy. He tried to get me to join HYDRA. Told me he loved me and couldn’t live without me. Said I didn’t know the whole story, but once I did, I’d want to join them.” You hesitate. “I told him to eat a bag of dicks. Then it got physical. We fought. He almost had me—but I got lucky. I couldn’t kill him, though. So I let him go.” 

You feel almost stupid admitting it, but Joaquín doesn’t look even remotely judgmental. 

“The last thing he said to me,” you continue, “was that he’d never give up. That he’d find a way to get me back or—” 

“Or what?” Joaquín prompts. 

“Or he’d kill me.” 

His brows shoot up. “Oh. Okay. Yeah, that’s probably something you should’ve told Sam earlier.” 

You shrug, sheepish. “I kind of forgot. I didn’t take it seriously. He always said stupid, dramatic stuff like that.” 

Joaquín blinks hard, like he’s physically stopping himself from rolling his eyes. “You really need better taste in men.” 

You glance up at him through your lashes, dragging your bottom lip between your teeth. “I’ve got much better taste now.” 

He inhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut like you’re dangling a drug in front of a recovering addict. 

“You’re going to kill me,” he mutters, stepping back. “We need to call Sam.” 

You nod, eyes shamelessly glued to his ass as he turns away. “Yeah. Call Sam.” 

A few hours later, under the cover of darkness, Sam arrives, and you all gather around the small kitchen island to discuss the possibility that your ex is behind the attack. 

It all seems to add up, and Sam quickly calls the contact in the Secretary’s office who’s helping him. He explains the situation, gives your ex’s name, and starts organising a team to locate and apprehend him. 

You want to ask if you can come along—this is your mess, after all—but you know he won’t say yes. And a small part of you wants to stay here, in the house with Joaquín, because suddenly this little townhouse feels a lot less godforsaken than it did before. And you don’t really want to leave… 

“Alright,” Sam says, sliding his phone into his pocket. “They’re looking for him now. They’ll let me know as soon as they have any leads, and then we’re going in. He’s been mostly MIA for the past few years, but when he’s popped up, it’s been suspicious.” 

You nod. “So, he’s still HYDRA?” 

Sam shrugs. “I’m not even sure HYDRA is still operating. But whatever he’s up to, it’s definitely nothing good.” 

“Why?” Joaquín asks, his eyes locked on you, a playful smirk trying to appear but looking a little forced. “Thinking about getting back together?” 

You narrow your eyes, lips pulling into a soft, amused smile. “Torres, are you irrationally jealous of my ex?” 

He scoffs. “No. Absolutely not. Just—” 

“Oh, man,” Sam sighs, shaking his head. “What the hell have I done leaving you two alone for this long?” 

You roll your eyes. “Shut up, Sam.” 

Joaquín chuckles. 

Sam’s eyes narrow at you, amusement written all over his face. “Did I hit a nerve?” 

You ignore him and turn to leave the kitchen. 

“You know,” he calls after you, “you have my blessing. If you two want to fuck, I don’t—” 

“I’m going to shower now,” you cut in, shooting a lethal glare over your shoulder before disappearing around the corner. 

You hear them both giggling as you ascend the stairs, rolling your eyes again when you reach your room. You grab some clean clothes and carry them into the bathroom—only to realize your towel is still in the dryer. You start the shower, letting it heat up, then duck out and begin heading downstairs to get to the laundry. 

But then you hear your name and freeze mid-step, leaning over the banister to listen closer. 

“So,” Sam says, “you two haven’t… you know?” 

“No,” Joaquín replies. “We haven’t slept together.” 

Sam chuckles. “You sure? Because you can practically taste the sexual tension in here.” 

There’s a brief pause, then a heavy breath—Joaquín’s, you assume. 

“Something… kind of happened last night.” 

Your eyes go wide. No way he’s about to tell Sam— 

“We could hear each other,” he says, “through the wall.” 

Another pause. 

“Doing what?” Sam asks slowly, as if unsure he really wants the answer. 

“You know,” Joaquín says. “Getting off.” 

“Oh, my God!” Sam exclaims. 

You drop your head into your hands, cheeks burning against your palms. 

“Shut up, dude!” Joaquín hisses. “I doubt she’d want me to tell you that.” 

“Then why did you?” 

“You basically asked!” 

Sam scoffs. “I asked if you’d slept together. Not if you’d jerked off on opposite sides of the wall. Jesus Christ, how old are you? Eighteen?” 

“Shut up,” Joaquín mutters, his voice muffled like he’s covering his face. 

You start quietly continuing down the stairs, deciding you’ve eavesdropped enough. Until— 

“Okay,” Sam says, “so if you’re into each other, why haven’t you slept together?” 

“I don’t know, really,” Joaquín replies. “She’s cautious, I think. And I don’t want to pressure her. But God, it’s so fucking hard.” 

Sam chuckles. “I bet it is.” 

“Dude,” Joaquín says, deadpan. 

“What?” 

Joaquín sighs, exasperated. “Look, I really like her. She’s so much cooler than I ever imagined. I don’t want to blow it by—” 

“Blowing it?” Sam cuts in. 

“How old are you?” Joaquín fires back, and you can almost picture him narrowing his eyes at his mentor. 

“Sorry,” Sam mutters, though he’s still laughing softly. “I’ll stop.” 

“Good,” Joaquín says, taking a deep breath. “I’m going to ask her out properly once all this shit is over. I want to try actually dating her. Like, romantic-styles.” 

Your heart thuds harder in your chest, your pulse pounding in your throat. 

“Romantic-styles?” Sam repeats. 

“Yeah. Like flowers and dates, stolen kisses, late-night talks, anniversaries, handmade cards—” 

“Making love under the moonlight?” Sam interjects, voice dramatically wistful. 

“Yes,” Joaquín says firmly. “I want to make love to her under the moonlight, goddammit. I want all the dumb, romantic, cheesy shit you see in movies. Because I like her. A lot.” 

Sam whistles under his breath. “Damn, son. I think you’re whipped.” 

“Shut up,” Joaquín mutters. 

You’re frozen halfway down the hall toward the laundry. Your cheeks are burning, your heart is racing, and you can’t remember how to breathe. Everything Joaquín said is possibly the lamest thing you’ve ever heard—in real life—but somehow, it’s making your head spin and your chest ache. 

Then you hear footsteps. 

Startled, you hurry down the hall, silently thanking your years of training for lightning-fast reflexes. You duck into the laundry, grab your towel from the dryer, check the hall is clear, and bolt back upstairs. 

Then you lock yourself in the bathroom. Panting like you’ve just run a marathon and blushing like a fool in love. 

After an intentionally cold shower, you throw on a pair of sweats and an oversized tee before making your way back downstairs. The house smells like roasted garlic with a hint of herbs—rosemary and thyme, you think—and the closer you get to the kitchen, the richer and more mouthwatering it becomes. 

By the time you step into the kitchen, you’re practically drooling. And not just because of the drop-dead gorgeous man at the stove, cooking like it’s his own personal brand of foreplay. 

“Damn,” you sigh. “That smells incredible.” 

Joaquín grins over his shoulder, flipping something in the pan without even looking. “Garlic and herb roasted chicken, with caramelised onion and sweet potatoes.” 

You lean forward and rest your elbows on the kitchen island, propping your chin in your hands. “It’s like you walked straight out of some lonely housewife’s favourite sexual fantasy.” 

Sam chuckles from across the room, one shoulder braced against the wall. “You sure it’s not your fantasy?” 

You roll your eyes. “Why are you even still here? Shouldn’t you be out looking for my asshole ex?” 

“I’m off the clock until we’ve got a confirmed location,” he says with a smug grin. “And Joaquín invited me to stay for dinner.” 

You stand upright, crossing your arms and scowling at him. “This is a safehouse, Sam. We’re supposed to be undercover, not hosting dinner parties.” 

He raises a brow. “If you want to talk about the stuff you’re not supposed to be doing in this house, we can—” 

“Okay!” Joaquín cuts in, just a little too loudly. “Dinner’s ready. Let’s plate up.” 

You and Sam both glance at him with narrowed, knowing eyes. His cheeks are pink, brows lifted, and his mouth is pressed into a tight smile. 

With a sigh, you decide to let it go and start laying out plates and cutlery while Joaquín serves. Each of you gets a full plate of the mouthwatering dinner he’s somehow whipped up, despite constantly complaining about the grocery situation Sam leaves him with. Then you all move into the dining room on the opposite side of the entrance hall from the lounge. You’ve barely used it since hiding out here. It’s small, just like the rest of the house, and wouldn’t comfortably seat more than four people around the circular table. 

It’s quiet at first—the only sound the soft scrape of cutlery on plates as you all dig into what is, frankly, an obnoxiously delicious meal. You can feel Sam’s eyes flicking between you and Joaquín, that annoying little half-smirk tugging at his lips. 

You can also feel the heat of Joaquín’s thigh brushing close to yours—because for some stupid reason, you decided to sit next to him instead of Sam. 

“She’s all tough now,” Sam says, leaning toward Joaquín and eyeing you as you sip your wine, “but just wait until she’s had two more glasses.” 

You set your glass down with a little more force than necessary. “I will bury you in the backyard, Wilson.” 

Joaquín chuckles, eyes still on you even as he mutters to Sam, “Pretty sure that’s the fourth time today she’s threatened someone with murder.” 

Sam raises his brows, that smirk deepening. “And you still want to date her?” 

Joaquín grins—all cocky charm and perfect teeth. “Are you kidding? That’s half the appeal.” 

Your wide eyes snap to his, heat rising from your chest right up to the tips of your ears. 

“What?” he says with a casual shrug. “It’s true.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut and pinch the bridge of your nose, silently begging the floor to swallow you whole—just to escape his stupidly perfect face… and Sam’s insufferably smug one. 

After a beat of silence—far too brief for your liking—Sam starts up again, eyes locked on you and sparkling with mischief. 

“So, what happens if it is this ex-boyfriend of yours?” he asks. 

You raise a brow, swallowing your mouthful of food before replying, “Isn’t that your job, Captain America? Last I checked, lowly civilians like me don’t get to decide the fate of the bad guys.” 

“But if you could,” he presses, propping one elbow on the table, “what would you decide?” 

You bite your lip, gaze drifting to a blank spot on the wall behind him as you consider it. 

“I’d probably kill him,” you say simply. “Or send him to the Raft.” 

Sam’s brows lift. “Really? That harsh?” 

You nod, stabbing a piece of potato like it insulted your bloodline. “He’s an asshole. And obviously a dangerous one. So if it’s between my life and his? I pick mine.” 

“Wow,” Sam mutters, glancing down at his plate. 

You frown. “Why is that surprising? He’s a dirtbag.” 

“I mean, now he is,” Sam says with a shrug, his eyes sliding—none too subtly—toward Joaquín, “but from what I heard, the two of you were pretty serious. Like, real serious.” 

“From what you heard?” you echo, incredulous. 

“Yeah. Barton and Romanoff used to mention it. Apparently, you were talking marriage. Settling down. Getting out of the game.” 

You drop your knife and fork like they’ve scalded you, lips parting in disbelief at the sheer nerve of the man across from you. 

Joaquín shifts beside you, visibly tense. His jaw works as he stares down at his plate, knuckles white around his cutlery. 

“Seriously, Sam?” you ask, leaning forward. “You’re asking me if I’m still in love with the man we think just put a hit out on me?” 

Sam just nods and pops another bite of chicken into his mouth, utterly unfazed. 

There’s a beat of silence. 

Then— 

“Are you?” Joaquín asks. 

Your eyes snap to him, brow furrowed. “No, you idiot. I’m not.” 

Then you turn back to Sam, who’s clearly seconds away from laughing. “And you—what the hell was that? Just because I once considered marrying someone I was in a committed relationship with doesn’t mean I’m still hung up on him. In fact, if he wasn’t actively trying to kill me, I wouldn’t even be thinking about him right now. Because you know what? The only goddamn thing on my mind lately is this—” you shoot a pointed look at Joaquín, heat blooming in your chest— “this unholy combination of soft curls and filthy intentions—which, by the way, you are one hundred percent aware of.” 

Sam makes a choking noise, but you don’t stop. 

“So don’t play dumb. Or coy. Or whatever little psychological warfare tactic you think you’re running to stir shit up. We don’t need your help turning up the tension in this house.” You stand abruptly, flustered and flushed. “It is already stifling in here. And I swear to God, I am this close to snapping.” 

Then you pick up your plate, turn on your heel, and storm back through the house toward the kitchen—heart pounding in your ears, and face so hot you’re amazed you haven’t already burst into flames. 

“What did she just call me?” you hear Joaquín ask. 

Sam chuckles. “I believe it was an unholy combination of soft curls and filthy intentions.” 

Joaquín laughs quietly, and you hate the way the sound alone makes you smile. 

“Damn,” he mutters. 

“She likes you, Falcon,” Sam teases. “The big bad assassin lady likes you.” 

You roll your eyes and drop your plate on the kitchen island, deciding to finish the annoyingly delicious dinner before cleaning up. 

Fifteen minutes later, once you’ve decided you’ve regained enough dignity to face them again, you move your empty plate to the sink and head back to the dining room. Without saying a word, you stack their plates in one hand and grab your wine glass with the other, downing the rest of it in two bitter gulps. 

Then you return to the kitchen to start washing up, half-listening as their conversation drifts from the dining room to the lounge. 

Once everything is clean, you refill everyone’s wine glasses and join them in the lounge room, dragging a chair in from the dining room since there’s no space left on the tiny couch. 

Thankfully, the conversation doesn’t stray far from work. Joaquín asks Sam about the plan once they manage to locate your ex, and Sam reassures him that they—whoever he’s working with—have it covered. You can tell from Joaquín’s steady stream of questions that he’s worried. And it’s not just the standard concern for civilian safety. He’s worried about you. 

And damn if that doesn’t make your heart ache a little. 

Eventually, Sam flicks on the TV and picks a movie. You can tell he’s had enough of Joaquín’s interrogation, so you play along and pretend to be invested in whatever crappy comedy he’s chosen. 

On your way to refill everyone’s glasses, you grab a spare blanket and lay it out on the lounge room floor. Then you steal two cushions off the couch and settle down on the blanket, wine in hand, pretending to watch the screen while trying very hard to ignore the weight of Joaquín’s gaze. 

An hour and almost two bottles of wine later, the movie ends, the screen bathing the dark room in soft white light as the credits roll. 

“Alright,” Sam sighs, tipping the last of his wine into his mouth. “No way I’m getting home now. I’ll crash on the couch.” 

You and Joaquín snap toward him in unison—eyes wide, lips tight. 

“What?” he deadpans. “I’ve had too many drinks and I don’t feel like catching a cab. You two can keep it in your pants for one more night.” 

Joaquín takes a long breath through his nose, his jaw flexing with tension. You’re not sure what shifted in the last couple of hours—maybe Sam’s meddling worked—but the tension in the room is unbearable. Your heart won’t slow down, your skin feels too hot, and honestly, if you don’t feel Joaquín’s hands on you soon, you might actually go feral. Claws out, back arched, hissing kind of feral. 

“Alright,” Joaquín mutters through clenched teeth. “Take the couch.” 

You collect the empty glasses and take them to the kitchen while Joaquín grabs the blanket from the floor and drapes it over Sam, who’s settling into the world’s smallest couch like he owns the place. Then you move quietly back through the lounge room and meet Joaquín at the bottom of the stairs. The air between you is practically humming—so thick with tension one spark might blow the whole house sky-high. 

“G’night,” Sam mumbles, entirely too smug. 

“Night,” Joaquín replies, clipped. 

“Night,” you echo, with a glare over your shoulder. “Hope your back hurts in the morning.” 

Sam chuckles behind you, completely unbothered by the two of you stomping up the stairs like thunder. 

You head straight for the bathroom, flicking on the too-bright light before stopping in front of the vanity and grabbing your toothbrush from the cup beside the sink. 

Your reflection is a perfect mirror of how you're feeling—which is absolutely and completely wrecked. Your hair’s a mess, your lips wine-stained, your cheeks flushed, and your eyes wide and dark with an unrecognisable kind of hunger. 

It’s almost laughable, the way your reflection exposes just how utterly undone you are by the man standing beside you. 

Joaquín grabs his toothbrush and silently takes the tube of toothpaste from your outstretched hand. Then you both take turns wetting your brushes before wordlessly starting to brush your teeth. 

You glance at him in the mirror, shamelessly studying the pretty features of his perfect face—soft curls, straight nose, sharp jaw, and those same wide, hungry eyes staring intently at his own reflection. 

His elbow brushes yours, but he doesn’t seem to notice—not in the same way you do, at least. A sharp jolt of electricity shoots up your arm and through your shoulder, making you shiver. 

He catches your eye in the mirror and pauses, quirking a brow—just the tiniest, stupidest smirk. But it still sends your heart vaulting into your throat. 

The heat in your cheeks intensifies as you duck your head and focus on rinsing. The water is cold as you splash it over your mouth, but it does nothing to cool the fire simmering beneath your skin. 

“This is torture,” he mutters. 

You dry your mouth on a towel before straightening, frowning at him in the mirror. “What?” 

He gives you a flat look. “This. You. Me. Captain fucking America sleeping on the couch.” 

Your breath stutters, and you have to grip the counter to steady yourself. “It’s one night. We can do one more night.” 

Joaquín blinks, then turns toward you—actually looking at you, not your reflection. “One more night,” he says quietly. “Then what?” 

Your eyes drop to his lips, lingering there as his tongue flicks between them. “You know what.” 

“Say it,” he mutters, stepping closer. 

Your breath hitches, still locked on his mouth. 

“One more night,” he repeats slowly. “Then… what?” 

You let out a shaky breath and take a reluctant step back. “Then…” You swallow, lifting your gaze to meet his. “Then you fuck me so hard I forget why we waited this long.” 

He stops breathing. 

His eyes go wide—impossibly dark. His whole body goes still. 

Your stomach flips. Your knees wobble. But somehow you keep moving, brushing past him and walking straight into your room. 

You feel the heat of his gaze on your back. The phantom drag of his fingers down your spine—even though he hasn’t touched you. Not properly. Not since you made up that stupid, wildly ineffective rule. 

You shut the door without looking back, not trusting yourself to survive what you’d see—him, still standing there. Mouth open, eyes black, foamy toothbrush dangling stupidly from his lips. 

God, even dental hygiene is sexy when he does it. 

You fall face-first onto the bed, groaning into the sheets. 

It’s going to be a long fucking night. 

You spend an hour trying to fall asleep. Tossing, turning, blankets on, blankets off. One pillow, two pillows, fluffed pillow, no pillow. Nothing helps. 

Sleep evades you. 

You’re too hot. Too wound up. The wine and the tension are thrumming through your veins like electricity. Your pulse won’t slow. Your breath won’t settle. All you can think about is Joaquín—his stupid smile, his eyes, his lips, his hands. The way all of it would feel against your burning skin. The way he’d unravel the knot sitting low and tight behind your hipbones, slow and deliberate and maddening. 

It’s too much. You can barely breathe. 

You need to do something. 

After what feels like an eternity, you throw the blankets off and lean over the side of the bed, reaching underneath until your fingers find the box. You slide it out and fumble through its contents for your little bullet vibrator. It’s not the quietest, but it’s efficient—and at this point, you don’t care what Joaquín hears. You just need release. 

You use your phone’s flashlight illuminate the box, but after a few seconds of empty searching, you remember… it’s in the bathroom drawer. 

Of course it is. 

With a quiet sigh, you swing your legs off the bed and pad softly to the door, careful not to let the squeaky hinges whine too loudly. You don’t bother with the lights as you tiptoe into the bathroom, stepping up to the vanity and slowly sliding open the top drawer—your drawer. 

You quickly find the small vibrator and wrap your fingers around it before gently shutting the drawer. Then you turn and tiptoe out of the bathroom, your bedroom door in sight when— 

Joaquín steps into your path. Shirtless. Curls a mess. Nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants slung dangerously low on his hips. 

You duck your head and try—feebly—to sidestep him, but he moves with you, crowding into your space until your spine meets the bathroom doorframe. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice low and rough. 

He steps in closer, slow and deliberate, and the hallway suddenly feels too small. Too warm. His face is cast in soft shadow, but you can still see every perfect line—sharp cheekbones, full lips, that frustratingly elegant nose. The kind of face sculptors dream of and sinners pray to. 

But it’s his eyes that undo you. 

Dark. Wild. Burning with something untamed. Hunger, yes—but barely restrained. Like he’s holding himself back with a single fraying thread, one you’re both terrified and desperate to snap. 

You manage the smallest nod. 

He edges even closer, his bare chest now just a breath from your peaked nipples beneath your thin cotton shirt. 

“You’re not wearing a shirt,” you murmur, voice embarrassingly breathless. 

His jaw ticks as he looks at you—like he’s trying not to do something reckless. Then his tongue slides slowly across his bottom lip. “You’re not wearing pants.” 

“Guess we’re both breaking rules,” you whisper. 

He lifts a hand to your face, knuckles grazing from your cheekbone down to your jaw. “What’s one more, then?” 

Your breath hitches, heart pounding in your throat. “Which one?” 

He hums softly, his eyes trained on his fingers as they ghost along your jaw and down the column of your throat. 

“Guess,” he says quietly. 

Then he grips your chin. Hard. Fingers digging into your jaw, forcing your mouth open. 

“You have no fucking idea how hard it’s been not to touch you,” he growls. 

Then he surges forward and crushes his mouth to yours, all heat and hunger and pent-up fucking agony. It’s not soft. Not sweet. It’s a collision—teeth and tongue and a groan so guttural it vibrates against your lips. You gasp into him and he swallows it whole, devouring you like he’s starving. 

Your head hits the doorframe with a soft thud, but you don’t care. You’re too far gone. His hands find your hips, rough and possessive, gripping you like he wants his fingerprints embedded in your bones. 

You whimper—and that’s all the encouragement he needs. 

He shoves a knee between your legs, pressing his thigh up against your core. The pressure punches the air from your lungs—hot and perfectly placed—and your hips grind down on him before you can stop yourself. 

He groans into your mouth, deep and wrecked, and then his teeth catch your bottom lip in a sharp, punishing bite. Not enough to break skin, but enough to make you gasp. 

“Shh,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Gotta keep it down, baby. We’ve got guests.” 

Then he kisses you again. Harder. Desperate and possessive. Like he’s trying to brand you with his mouth alone. 

You try to lift your hands—to touch him, to feel—but he’s faster. He catches your wrists and slams them above your head, pinning them with one hand as the other slides down and cups your breast, rough and reverent all at once. 

You gasp against his mouth, a shocked, breathless sound that he swallows greedily. 

Then he stills. 

His eyes drag up to where your hands are trapped. To the shape pressed between your fingers—small, hard, and anything but innocent. 

He pulls back just enough to uncurl your grip, slow and deliberate. You try to pull away, but he’s stronger—too strong—and within seconds, he’s holding the little vibrator up between two fingers. Right in front of your face. 

“This what you came out here for?” he asks, voice ragged, low, thick with disbelief and something darker. 

You can’t answer. You’re too stunned. Your breath is coming in shallow gasps, your chest rising and falling like you’ve been sprinting. 

He drops his gaze to your lips, then back to your eyes. And smirks. 

“Nah,” he murmurs, voice like smoke. “You don’t need that.” 

The vibrator drops from his hand, hitting the floor with a soft, humiliating thunk. 

For a moment, neither of you move. 

Then he’s on you again. 

His mouth crashes into yours—devouring, claiming—like he needs you more than air. Like kissing you is the only thing keeping him alive. 

You moan into him, fingers twitching with the need to touch, to claw. He releases your wrists and you drop them instantly to his shoulders, then into his curls, grabbing hard enough to make him groan. 

His hands find your hips again, rough and greedy, dragging you closer until his thigh slots back between your legs. The pressure is maddening. Perfect. You grind down with a gasp, hips rolling instinctively against the solid muscle. 

He pulls back just enough to smirk against your mouth, that dark, cocky glint flashing in his eyes. “Yeah,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Just like that.” 

His fingers tighten on your hips, guiding you into another slow, filthy grind. The drag of fabric against your clit electric. You whimper and drop your forehead to his, your breaths mingling in the heat between you. 

Every rock of your hips sends sparks shooting up your spine, the ache between your legs growing unbearable. His thigh flexes beneath you—deliberate, teasing—and you feel his breathing start to match your own, ragged and fast. 

“Gonna cum on my thigh, baby?” he asks, breathless but teasing. 

You can’t form words. You just whine—a needy, broken sound that ghosts past your lips and makes him chuckle, low and dangerous. 

“That’s it,” he mutters, guiding you a little higher on his thigh. “That’s my girl.” 

You grind harder, chasing the friction, the pressure, the devastating edge that’s so close it hurts. His hands are locked on your hips, dragging you over him like he wants to leave bruises behind. 

“You feel that?” he rasps, mouth brushing your jaw as he speaks. “How fucking wet you are for me?” 

You nod—frantic, breathless—but it’s not enough. He growls low in his throat and suddenly pulls you down harder, his thigh flexing beneath you. You bite down on a cry, head tipping back against the doorframe as your body trembles. 

“You’re so fucking hot like this,” he breathes, watching your face like it’s the most obscene thing he’s ever seen. “Soak my leg, baby—come on.” 

One hand slips up your shirt, calloused fingers grazing the bare skin of your belly before cupping your breast—no bra, just heat and softness and a tight nipple begging for attention. He rolls it between his fingers, rough and greedy, and your hips jerk in response. 

“Jesus, you’re so fucking responsive,” he mutters, leaning in to bite down on the soft skin beneath your jaw. 

You gasp, nails digging into his scalp, dragging him closer. 

“Please,” you whisper, not even sure what you’re begging for—release, more, everything. 

He lifts his head, eyes dark and glittering with wicked intent. “You wanna cum for me, baby?” he asks, voice thick and taunting. “Wanna make a mess all over my thigh like a needy little slut?” 

You whimper—pathetic and wrecked—and he smirks. “Then take it. Rub that desperate little pussy on me like you mean it.” 

He moves his thigh up harder, fingers biting into your hips as he guides you, using your body like it’s his to play with. And it is. 

You’re grinding shamelessly now, panting into his mouth, broken noises falling from your lips as the heat builds. You’re close—so fucking close. Muscles tightening, vision going spotty— 

“Cum for me,” he growls. “Right fucking now.” 

And you do. 

With a strangled whimper, you break—hips jerking, thighs quaking, mouth falling open in a silent scream as pleasure tears through you like a live wire. You bury your face in his neck, biting down on a gasp, desperate to stay quiet. 

A muffled moan slips out anyway, ragged and breathy against his skin. He groans, low and wrecked, one hand fisting in your hair as your body trembles against his. 

“Shh,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, even as his thigh flexes beneath you to draw out every last wave. “You’ve gotta be quiet, baby. Sam’s just downstairs.” 

But you can’t stop shaking—your orgasm crashing over you in hot, relentless pulses—your nails clawing at his back, your teeth sinking into his neck to stifle another sound. 

He holds you through it, breath thick and uneven, a dark smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he feels you unravel. 

“So fucking good for me,” he whispers. “So sweet when you try to behave.” 

He kisses you again—slow, filthy, coaxing you through the aftershocks with soft praise and a hot tongue. His lips drag along yours like he can’t get enough, like he’s trying to taste every noise you made. 

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathes, eyes half-lidded and burning. “So fucking sexy.” 

Then, without warning, he lifts you—strong arms locking under your thighs, making you gasp as your legs wrap instinctively around his waist. You cling to him, giggling breathlessly against his shoulder as he starts walking down the hall. 

His mouth finds your throat again, biting softly as he mutters, “You know I’m not stopping ‘til you’re ruined for anyone else, right?” 

You let out a wrecked little laugh, and he grins—dark and dangerous. 

“Gonna fuck you so good, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, voice wrecked and wicked. “Gonna make that pretty little mouth scream my name ‘til it’s the only word you know.” 

You shudder—helpless, breathless—and he chuckles low in his chest, kissing the hinge of your jaw as he kicks open his bedroom door. 

- 

The door clicks softly shut behind you as you both step out into the hall, but neither of you move. 

Joaquín’s back hits it a second later, pulling you with him—your chest flush to his, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a moan. 

“Joaquín,” you sigh, warning in your voice but no real conviction behind it. 

“Mmh?” He leans in, mouth already dragging along the curve of your jaw, his hands low on your hips. “Just one more.” 

You bite back a grin, threading your fingers through his messy curls as his lips brush yours—soft, slow, intoxicating. His tongue teases your bottom lip, coaxing it open, and before you can stop yourself, you’re kissing him again. 

Deeper this time. Greedy. Sweet. A little wrecked. 

His hands wander. Squeezing. Grabbing. Remembering every filthy, delicious way they unravelled you last night. 

He trails kisses along your jaw, down the column of your throat, sucking a bruise into the dip of your collarbone as he lowers himself slowly. 

Dropping to his knees. 

You tip your head back, lips parted and panting softly. 

“We—We have to go downstairs,” you murmur, though you don’t try to move. 

“I am downstairs,” he mumbles, lifting the hem of his shirt to kiss your stomach. 

You let out a shaky little laugh, your breath hitching as his tongue slides over your hipbone. 

His hands slip up beneath the shirt, fingertips dancing over your hot skin like he’s thinking about dragging you back to bed. Again. 

You’ve been trying to get downstairs for over an hour now. This is the furthest you’ve gotten. 

“You’re not helping,” you hiss, voice catching as his knuckles graze the underside of your breast. 

“I’m not trying to.” 

You thread your fingers through his curls and tug, reluctantly pulling his mouth away from you. He looks up at you through thick lashes, eyes dark and hungry, grinning like a man thoroughly satisfied with his own choices. 

“Come on,” you sigh softly, wanting nothing more than to have his head between your legs again like it was twenty minutes ago. 

He rises to his full height with a playful eyeroll, slipping one hand into yours and lacing your fingers. Then he uses his free hand to cup your head and pull you toward him, pressing a tender kiss to your temple before turning down the hall. 

“Let’s get this over with,” he says with a soft chuckle. 

You giggle quietly, biting your lip to stop yourself from begging him back to bed. 

Halfway down the stairs, he leans in, lips brushing your ear. “You realise I’m gonna spend all day thinking about what you sound like when you cum.” 

You nearly trip, but he catches you easily—smug and warm behind you, his laughter a hot puff of air against your neck. 

You elbow him, but you’re smiling, flushed and glowing and absolutely ruined. 

You let him lead you into the kitchen, fingers still laced together, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. You try not to look like someone who’s just had every bone in her body melted and rearranged—but the limp in your step and the heat in your cheeks aren’t exactly subtle. 

Sam’s already there, leaning casually against the counter beside the coffee machine, mug in hand. His eyes sparkle with that familiar, knowing mischief the moment you enter. 

“Well, well, look who finally decided to join the land of the living.” 

You pause at the edge of the kitchen, but Joaquín doesn’t. 

“Morning,” he says easily, strolling over to the coffee machine like he hadn’t just threatened to make you scream his name five minutes ago. “Coffee?” 

Sam takes a long, deliberate sip from his mug. “It’s probably cold by now. Didn’t think you two were ever coming down.” 

You press your lips together, fighting back the embarrassed smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. Joaquín just shrugs. 

“We got distracted,” he says, opening a cupboard and pulling out a mug. “Important business.” 

Sam snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, I heard. Whole neighbourhood did.” 

You choke on your breath. “Oh my god.” 

Joaquín turns to you, mug in hand, a smirk spreading across his face—smug and utterly unrepentant. “She’s loud when she’s happy.” 

Your eyes go wide, and you’re surprised you don’t implode on the spot. 

Sam groans, setting his mug down with a thud. “Jesus Christ. I take it back. You’re officially banned from happiness.” 

Joaquín just grins wider. “Too late.” 

You drop your face into your hands with a soft groan. 

“At least one of you has the decency to blush,” Sam mutters as he walks past you. 

You drag your hands down your face and shuffle further into the kitchen, stopping at the island across from where Joaquín is pouring two cups of coffee. 

He nudges the mugs toward you, but neither of you makes a move to grab one. Instead, he steps around the island, slips his arms around your waist, and pulls you in—pressing you flush against him as he buries his face in the curve of your neck, breathing you in like he’s trying to memorise every trace of you. 

All of it completely shameless, even with Sam just a few feet away on the lounge, sipping his coffee and looking vaguely traumatised. 

Honestly, though? You can’t bring yourself to care either. 

Your hands drift up Joaquín’s arms to link behind his neck. 

“You hungry?” you ask. 

His head snaps up, eyes dark with immediate interest. “Yes.” 

You roll your eyes, thighs clenching despite yourself. “Not like that. I meant actual food. You know—sustenance.” 

“The other thing is sustenance,” he mutters, mouth finding your neck again. 

“I’m still here,” Sam calls. “And you’re still not quiet. Do either of you know how to whisper?” 

Joaquín lifts his head and glances toward the lounge. “We didn’t invite you to stay. Feel free to leave anytime.” 

Sam shakes his head, laughing in disbelief. “You two should be thanking me.” 

You frown. “For what?” 

“Introducing you,” he says, pausing like he expects applause. Then he sighs and adds, “And tracking down your shady ex.” 

That gets your attention. Both you and Joaquín straighten, turning toward him. 

“You have a location?” you ask. 

Sam nods. “We’re organising a strike team. Intel says he’s been renting this place under an alias. Plan is to hit him when he’s not expecting it.” 

“Tonight?” 

“Tonight,” he confirms, pushing off the lounge. “Which means I’ve got a team to prep.” 

He moves into the kitchen, drops his empty mug in the sink, and glances back at you. 

“If your hunch is right and he’s behind everything… you’ll be able to go home soon.” 

You nod, trying to ignore the tight knot forming in your stomach. “Great.” 

Joaquín slowly releases your waist and lifts his coffee, taking a sip to hide what you know is a frown. 

You wait for Sam to gather his things and bid you both goodbye, stepping out the front door with a knowing smirk and muttering something about ‘getting the house fumigated’ after you two finally move out. 

When the door clicks shut behind him, you turn to Joaquín, who’s settled on the tiny lounge, elbows resting on his knees and fingers steepled beneath his chin.  

“Hey,” you say softly, stepping in front of him. 

His hands immediately find your hips, like that’s where they’re meant to be. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, tugging you onto his lap. 

You straddle his thighs, hands pressed to his chest. “You know,” you say, resting your forehead against his, “if you wanted to stay here a while longer… I wouldn’t be opposed.” 

He huffs out a soft laugh, breath ghosting over your lips. “Yeah? You want to stay in this tiny house with paper-thin walls?” 

“I’d stay anywhere with you,” you whisper, so quiet it barely registers—as if saying it aloud makes whatever this is feel real. Too real. 

His breath stutters. His fingers tighten at your waist. 

“Really?” 

You nod. “Yeah.” 

“What about my apartment in D.C.?” he asks, leaning back to study your face with wide, hopeful eyes. “It’s not much bigger than this, but—” 

“Okay,” you interrupt, pressing your lips together to keep from grinning like an idiot. 

His eyes go even wider. “Really?” 

You nod again, giggling. “Let’s call it an indefinite sleepover. Just in case you get sick of me and want to send me back to my own place.” 

He laughs too, the sound rumbling deep in his chest beneath your palms. “I’m never gonna get sick of you.” 

“You sure about that?” you tease, shifting your hips to grind down against him. 

His breath catches, lips parting in a soft sigh. 

“Baby,” he whispers, “we’re just getting started.” 

Then, before you can blink, he lifts you, flipping you onto your back and pressing you into the couch cushions. He hovers over you, lips finding yours like they belong there—sliding against yours and stoking that slow-burning flame deep in your belly. The same flame he lit the first day you met. The flame that now blazes so bright, your whole body glows—burning beneath his touch. 

He pauses, forehead resting against yours, breath warm and uneven. 

“You know,” he murmurs, voice thick with promise, “I plan on making you forget your own name by the end of today.” 

You grin, tugging him down for one last kiss—soft, slow, but packed with everything you feel. 

“Good,” you whisper against his lips, “because I don’t want to remember anyone else’s.” 

END.

[cryptictongues]

The Thrill of the Chase

pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Mutant!Reader rating: Explicit (MINORS DNI; 18+) word count: 7.1K summary: Logan ate part of your sandwich, so you stole his cigars. Things turn out differently from what you were expecting.

warnings: fluff and smut, teasing, slight predator/prey trope, banter, making out, dirty talk, oral (f and m receiving), vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, squirting, soft!dom Logan

Author's Note: My first Logan fic! X-Men used to be my world and the fact it is making a comeback has rejuvenated me. Also, I was picturing Logan from the first three trilogies but DOFP!Logan also crossed my mind so :)

Please read my pinned post before following me! Minors and ageless blogs will be blocked as this blog’s content is NSFW.

[AO3 link]

It was getting close to evening, everyone doing their own thing to unwind after a long day of classes and teaching. You had planned to do the same thing, planning to grab a quick bite in the kitchen before getting ready to relax in your room. You were whipping up a quick and easy sandwich, assembling it onto a plate before moving it to the island in the middle of the kitchen. You went to get a soda from the cupboard, only for your skin to raise as you sense something is about to happen: a certain someone was about to come take your sandwich. 

“If you take one bite out of my sandwich Logan, I will kick your ass.”

You turn to see him, eyes wide along with his mouth, about to chomp into your dinner. He closes his mouth, only for him to keep the sandwich in his hands and an “innocent” smile on his face. 

“Oh, you mean this sandwich?” 

You shut the cupboard door, walking over to him with a stern, playful look. You know he is messing with you. That has been the dynamic of your relationship with him. Ever since he decided to stay here at the school and join the X-Men, you two have grown closer and closer, enjoying each other’s company over anyone else. It didn’t matter what either of you did. You both thrived in the presence of one another. 

But something that has become common practice as of late was playful in nature. You both have always teased, but it has recently ramped up. If one of you started it, the other would find a way to end it before starting again. It was the push and pull between the two of you that you loved, and it has only made you long for him. You want to believe he feels the same, but even your mutation of precognition can’t fully confirm that. 

“Yes, that is my sandwich. I worked very hard on it. I'll have you know.” You are standing in front of him now, having to look up at him slightly as you wait for his next move. 

“I’m sure you did. It looks delicious.” He says, but rather than looking at the food, he is looking right at you. Cheeky bastard.

“Y-yeah, which is why I am asking you to put it down so I may enjoy it.” 

“I don’t know. I think I wanna have a taste first.” 

His hazel eyes are staring you down, almost begging for you to make a move. In reality, you really didn’t care if he ate it. You could easily make another and enjoy dinner with him. But you know that isn’t what he is doing right now. He is playing with you, wanting to rile you up. Well, it takes two to play that game.

“That sandwich is very precious to me. I’d think before you act.”

“Oh yeah?” He smirks, bringing his face closer to yours. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll take something precious of yours.” 

He chuckles, turning his face to the sandwich. “I’d like to see you try, sweetheart.”

He takes a huge bite out of your sandwich, his eyes closing as he chews. You purse your lips, watching him savor your meal with gusto. You know he is overexaggerating to truly get at you, but little does he know you have a trick up your sleeve.

“Enjoying my meal?” 

He turns back to you, swallowing before licking his lips. “Very much. I may have to take another bite.”

You get up in his space, settling onto your tippy toes so your face is by his ear. You let your breath waft against his skin, causing a shiver to shake his core. You can tell he is anticipating what you will do, always highly enjoying your responses to his antics. Oh, he is so in for it.

“That’s okay. You can have it.” You let your pointer finger trace his collarbone that is very much on display from his white, fitted tank. “And you want to know why that is, Logan?”

He takes a deep breath, very apparent that your actions are doing something to him. His left hand lets go of the sandwich to settle on your hip, squeezing the flesh slightly to ground himself. It is actions like that that make you believe you do something to him. Like you drive him just as insane as he does to you. You bring your left hand to his head, pulling him down so you can really get into his ear. 

“That’s because I know where you keep your special cigars from Cuba, and I am going to take them.”

You couldn’t have run fast enough. You are already shooting for the stairs, taking two steps at a time as you speed to his room. You knew it had taken him a second to realize what had happened because by the time you got to his floor, you heard him yelling your name. 

You burst into his room, locking it quickly. It was only to buy some time, for you knew he had a key. You were giggling as you went to his bookcase, plucking out the blue, hardcover history book. You open it, and smile as you see the unopened cigars there in the deep hole where text used to be. Just as you close the book, you hear heavy footsteps reach the door and a jingle of keys.

You panic, needing to find a way out before he opens the door. You could run around him, but you needed a head start. You could hide and wait for him to leave but you knew he’d sniff you out. There was only one option left, and that was to go out his bedroom window. You hear the key enter the lock, and with a quickness you didn’t think you had, you unlocked his window and flung it open. Just as the door busted open, you crawled out. You grasped onto the ivy that clung to the school’s exterior and began to climb down. 

“Oh, when I get my hands on you, you are in for it!”

You look up to see Logan’s head popping out the window. He has a scowl on his face, but you could see the wild look in his eyes. You knew he was enjoying this, for he loves the chase.

“This is for taking my sandwich!” You yell, and continue making your descent. 

You hear the window close, which makes you go faster, knowing he is rushing down those stairs to meet you at the bottom. You could sense that he would go to the front door, so once your feet touch the grassy floor you run to the back door. Opening it quickly, you determine your next move. He is probably at the front, ready to intercept you, giving you the opportunity to hide somewhere. 

You rush to the hallway where many of the classes are held. You run into the first classroom you see, its door already open. You see the large oak desk at the back of the classroom, and quietly walk up to it. It has a space for leg room, so with haste you crawl in it, pulling the chair in carefully to not make any sound. 

Your heart was racing, adrenaline thrashing as you hid. You try to steady your breath, trying to keep quiet. The atmosphere has become eerie, the silence defying as you try to keep it that way. You try to listen for any other sounds over your pounding heart, when another wave of cognition hits you. You can see it clearly, where he finds you under the desk, hands on either side to block you in. You know you need to move on, so you go to move the chair, but you suddenly halt when you hear his voice boom nearby.

“Where is she?” 

You cover your mouth, trying to hold in your breathing as well as the gasp that almost shot from your mouth. His voice was coated in gravel, and absolutely primal. Even from afar, it was clear he was worked up, and it made you embarrassingly wet. 

You hear footsteps enter the hallway, heavy boots against the shiny wooden floor. At first, you think you may have a way out, hearing him pass the room you were in, but you aren’t so lucky because you hear him stop. You grip onto the book and your mouth, even though you know it will do absolutely nothing. You know he senses you, and it is confirmed when you hear footsteps enter the room. You hear him inhale deeply, exhaling with sigh only to turn into a deep rumble. 

“I know you are here.” He is slow in taking his steps, and each step gets closer and closer to your hiding place. 

He sniffs deeply again, growling this time around like he was a wild animal. “No point in denying it. I could smell you the second I walked into the hall.”

You know he will find you, and he will block you in. So you decide to take a risk before he closes in on you. You push the chair out far enough to crawl out, before standing up behind the desk. You put your hands up with the book in your left one, trying to show off a sign of surrender. 

“You have nowhere to go, dollface. No point in trying’ to run for I’ll snatch you up real quick.” 

“You must really want your cigars back to block me in like this.” 

He steps even closer, with him now standing right in reach of the book. He could easily grab it and take it, for he is much stronger than you. But he doesn’t make a move, staying glued to his new spot. You don’t know what’s running through his head, his eyes trained on you. It isn’t until he places his hands onto the desk that you take a step back and drop your hands. 

“You’re wrong.”

You raise a brow, not sure what he is getting at. “What do you mean?”

He smirks, leaning his body over the desk. “It isn’t the cigars I’m after. Not anymore.”

Your heart is in overdrive. You know the answer, it is becoming obvious. But you ask anyway. “Then what are you after, Lo?”

“I think you know the answer. Now it is a matter of will you let me take what’s mine.”

You want to give in. You are becoming more aroused by the second, but you are starting to really enjoy the chase. Seeing how much it gets him going, to see this side of him, only makes you want to push him more. You want to see what he will do, especially when he gets his hands on you.

You walk around the desk, book of cigars still in hand, getting closer to him until you are toe to toe with him. “What’s the fun in surrendering?”

He quickly blocks you in, the desk pressed against your back. He has the most seductive, but feral grin upon his lips, like he thinks he has won his prize. His head leans down to yours, forehead against forehead, before he whispers his next sentence against your lips.

“The fun is in what follows.”

His lips are on yours, desperate and needy. You can’t help the moan that leaves your throat, mind going hazy as his lips devour. You have craved him for so long, you want this to last forever. However, you cannot give into him like this. You will not make this easy for him.

One of your hands goes to the hem of his tank, fingers lingering before going under. He feels so solid, the coarse hairs on his tummy spread thick as you go to his left side. You can feel him shudder over you, and you try to hold back the smirk that wants to curve onto your lips. You move your fingers sporadically over the left side of his ribcage, causing him to jump back. This gives you the chance to run like hell.

“Hey! That’s unfair!” You hear him yell and it makes you giggle profusely. You must thank Jean later for letting you in on that little secret; that the broody, grumpy man with the metal bones was insanely ticklish. You wish you could turn to see his full reaction, but you are too determined.

You can hear him running right behind you, and you have never been more aroused. You shouldn’t feel so turned on by Logan chasing you around, but the thrill of the chase was seeping into your loins and you were addicted. 

More people had shown up around the school, meeting with friends to study or hang out for the evening. You were dodging people left and right, and everyone looked perplexed as they saw Logan charging his way towards you. Many of them probably assumed it had to do with the book you were holding, and while they would have been originally right, they are no longer even close. 

You don’t have time to hide again, not with him so close behind. You make it back to the stairs, hauling ass as you try to make it to your room. You can hear him right behind you, breathing heavily and grunting with each step. Your room is at the end of the hall, and you are basically flying with how fast you are running. The second you reach the door, you swing it open and throw yourself in before slamming it. You had gotten it shut, mentally pumping your fist in victory, but by the time you went to turn the lock, it was too late. The door flies open, sending you back a couple feet back as Logan stands at the door's entrance. 

“I have you right where I want you. No more running.”

If looks could kill, you’d be ash. He enters your room, closing the door behind him with his eyes staying on you. He takes one step forward, with him now hovering over your smaller form. The way he is looking at you makes your knees faint, for you felt you could hear what he was revealing with his stare. 

“I still know your weakness, Logan.” You smirk, holding the book up to your face to dodge any attack he was planning. It is pointless, you know, but it is the best defense you’ve got. 

“Do you now?” He walks towards you, in step with you as you go backwards. The back of your knees hit the edge of your bed, telling you that you truly have nowhere else to go. He is right on you, grinning now that he has the upper hand. 

“I’m afraid that book won’t save you from me.” He snatches the book, tossing it to the side of the bed. 

You are in for it. You don’t know what he is planning, and the element of surprise has overcome you. However, with the way he is looking at you, you guarantee that what is about to happen will be just as exhilarating as when he was hunting you down. 

“What do you plan to do with me, hm?” You let your fingertips walk along his chest, dancing all the way down to his side like you did earlier. 

He is quick to grab your hand, bending down to lift you up in his arm before tossing you onto the bed, following swiftly as he pins both hands above your head. 

“Don’t even think about it. I know you all too well.” He growls through his teeth. “As for what I plan on doing, what’s the fun in telling when I can just show you. Would you like that?”

You simply nod, breathless at how he is handling you. However, that wasn’t good enough for him, as he takes hold of your wrists in one hand so his other one can grip your chin.

“I wanna hear you say it, pretty girl.”

You huff, getting frustrated already that he is dragging this out. With your legs still free, you wrap them around his hips, your heels digging into his back causing him to grunt. Your lips are practically on his, faint contact making you antsy. “Show me what you’ve been wanting to do with me.”

Your lips are squashed by his instantly, hunger and desperation clear. His hands go to your thighs, grabbing at the flesh. With your hands free, they go straight to his hair, gripping and tugging on it which causes him to moan hotly into your mouth. 

His hands travel up to the hem of your blouse, pushing the fabric up past your stomach before his hands go under. You moan at the contrast, rough hands, that have been through so much running along your unmarred body. He swallows what you give him, groaning happily at the effects he was causing.

You are in heaven. You never thought you would be here like this with Logan. You never thought you would be under him at his complete mercy. It makes a shiver travel down your spine, traveling right to your core that is a heated mess because of the man before you. To be with the man you have pined for is riveting, and you could cry that he seems to return those feelings.

You don’t know what triggers your mutation, but it is sudden. Your vision goes blurry, a strong aura surrounding you. It is overwhelming, a whimper bubbling from your throat as you see what is about to happen. Logan releases your lips with a grunt, looking at you intensely as you start to shake. You feel his rough hands cup your soft cheeks, stroking them gently. 

Your cheeks feel hot, your vision turning you into a horny mess. Your hands grip onto Logan’s chest trying to ground yourself to reality. It’s too much. Your visions rarely last long for they are just snippets of future events, but this was different. It was as if you were in a trance, and could feel everything he was doing to you. You don’t know if it is your heightened emotions, especially with him right on you. All you knew is that pleasure was present, and you were starting to fall apart. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” You can hear his demeanor change, worry laced in his tone.

“Fuck,” you couldn’t help but moan, unable to control yourself. “I can feel everything, Logan.”

There is a pause, hands still touching your face. A few beats later, he lets his right hand go down, only to stop at your thigh squeezing tightly. 

“Tell me what you see, baby.” 

The rumble in his voice intensifies everything, causing you to grip onto him tighter. “Oh God please don’t make me say it out loud.”

You try to look away, but his left hand shifts so it is grabbing your chin. He forces your head back up, bringing his face down to yours like he had in the classroom. His breath fans over your lips, taking in the way they move as sounds leave them. 

“I’m fucking you, aren’t I? Making you lose yourself on my cock? Is that what you are seeing?”

You can barely talk, too enthralled in your vision. You grab the hand that is on your thigh and bring it to the top of your black pants. Logan gets the idea and angles it so he can slide his hand into them. His fingers brush over the fabric, feeling the damp spot that has formed drastically. You hear him curse under his breath, the vibrations hitting your lips as they brush against one another without full pressure. 

“Oh sweetheart, you are so wet.” He murmurs, pulling his hand out to bring it up to his nose, inhaling deeply before releasing a sound so feral that you could sob. “And you smell so fucking good.” 

You can’t help but nod, not knowing how to respond. All you know is that you need him. Need him to take you on your bed and do whatever he wants to you. You’ll take anything he is willing to give you, for all you want is for him to make himself known to you. 

His hand had gone back down to your crotch, cupping your pussy through the material. “Does she want more attention?”

“Logan, please do something.” You choke, your mind steadily coming back to reality, but still not fully letting go. You start to grind down on his palm, desperate for anything he will give you, but he removes his hand, going to the back of your head to grip tightly.

Damn him!

“I know she deserves something, but do you? Do you deserve me after getting me so worked up like that?”

“Logan, I am begging.” You cry out in frustration, your nails digging into his chest causing him to groan lowly. “I want you. God, I’ve always wanted you so please take what’s yours!”

He is back on you, kissing you till the air in your lungs dissipates. He starts to kiss away from your swollen lips, kissing down to your neck. He nips at your pulse point, going up to your ear to give it a light lick before going back down. With every kiss, he takes a deep breath in, which only makes him get more aggressive. Soft kisses turn to an open mouth lather to nips that could have easily broken the skin.

“I don’t think you know what your scent does to me. It draws me in every time.” He bites down particularly hard at your collar bone, and you wouldn’t be surprised if blood had come to the surface. 

His hands come back up to the front of your blouse, carefully unbuttoning the garment before revealing your breasts that are almost spilling out of your bra. His hands mold over the cups, squeezing hard and slow as he makes his way to your sternum. 

He is being so gentle with you, a complete 180 from how you thought this was going to go. He was so rough with you in your head, fucking you until you couldn’t even say a word. This side of him was endearing, but you crave more from him.

“For someone so feral for me, you sure are taking your time.”

He bites the top of your left breast, making you gasp at the sudden pain. “I don’t think you are ready for that side of me, dollface.”

Your right hand goes to his head, taking a handful of his hair and yanking his head up. You know he wants to absolutely ravish you, and if it’s some convincing he needs, some convincing he is going to get. 

“When I said to take what’s yours, I meant it. I want you to make me beg until I’m dumb, so fucking do it.”

“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you, Princess.”

His hands go under your top from the back, unclipping your bra before letting them resurface. He starts to yank your top off from the shoulders, only to smack your thigh that causes a light sting.

“Arch that back for me.”

You do as he says, allowing him to take the rest of your top off along with your bra. He flings them both across the room, only to do the same with his tank. You’ve seen his upper body plenty of times, as there would be instances in which he disregards it for a training session. But this? This was very different. It’s a different atmosphere, and rather than everyone getting an eye full of his muscular, hairy body, it is now for your eyes only. 

He’s looking down at you, pupils flared as he takes you in. You shiver as his palms stroke your tummy, slowly going up until they encompass your breasts. Your nipples pebble from the rough texture of his skin, and you can see it excites him. So much so that he takes the opportunity to take your nipples between his fingers and pulls them gently with a pinch. Your back bows off the mattress, adoring the pain he is providing, and let out a mewl as he lets go to run his thumbs over the tender peaks.

“You sound so good,” Logan murmurs. “I need to hear more.”

His right arm goes under your back to keep you up, holding you there as his mouth goes to your left breast. He takes your nipple into his mouth, sucking with his eyes still on you. Your cheeks flush, head tilting to the side to avoid looking at him. It’s too much. It’s too fucking much. 

Whimpers slip from your mouth, his treatment of your breasts making you want to rub your thighs together to soothe the ache, but he keeps your legs open. He eventually does the same to your other breast, working to match the work he left on your other nipple: hard, and tainted red.

He lets up, sitting on his knees as he unbuttons your pants, hands sliding the material down your legs in earnest. He tosses your heels off before stripping away your bottoms, and he hums as he admires the black, lacy thong you adorn. 

“Fuck,” he snaps the elastic, eyes entranced. “You sure you didn’t see this coming earlier? Wearing something sexy like this?”

“They work better with my pants.” You huff, his fingers lightly running along your covered slit.

“Hmm, no wonder your ass looked so good today.” He grins. “But this pussy? I could play with her all day.”

He lowers himself, sliding off the bed only to bring you with him, your body gliding across the comforter with ease. He clutches onto your thighs, letting your legs rest in the crook of his elbows. He keeps his hold tight, bringing his lips down to kiss and suck on your thighs. You gasp at the aggressiveness, swearing you will see dark purple marks on you later. You moan at the idea, as it feels like he is finally claiming you; like are his to mark, to claim, to fuck, to love. 

He makes his way to your center, sniffing deeply before releasing a feral growl. He lets the tip of his tongue lightly drag from the bottom to the top of your heat, still fully covered by the damned thong. He flicks at your clit, a ghost of a touch that has you bucking your hips. And he draws back every single time. His self-control is impressive but frustrating all the same.

He starts to suck on it through the material, creating a bigger wet spot with his spit. The more he pushed his tongue against your folds, the more the material would rub just right against you. It made you clench, panting at how much he is teasing you. He pulls away, blowing on your sensitive spot which only makes you whine.

“Awe what is it?” He chuckles, the vibrations barely hitting where you need him. “You want my tongue to play with you?”

His hand lets go of your thigh, fingers tracing the fabric before pulling it to the side. “Lucky for you, I love to play.”

He goes right in, mouth over your bud as he consumes your very being. Your hands shoot to his hair, not prepared for the onslaught of pleasure he is delivering. The swirls he is landing on his target is mind numbing, a tangible pressure that makes you want to curl in on yourself. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, the sound vibrating right on your clit. It makes you buck your hips up, but his left arm presses you down to keep you secure. 

“I know you want more, but you are going to have to be patient. I’m not done tasting this sweet pussy. Fuck, you are so sweet.”

You feel one of his fingers near your hole, circling it teasingly before pushing in. His tongue is back on your nerves, mouthing covering it to add slight suction. Even with his big fingers, it’s not nearly enough. 

“Logan, please add another.” You say, emphasizing as you clench down on his single digit. 

He sucks a little harder, ripping a yelp from your throat. Still, he listens and inserts a second finger with the first. He goes in and out, drawing sighs from your lips as he builds you up. His mouth is going crazy, moving his lips with a vengeance. Your blood is hot, traveling down as your release starts to come to the surface.

You can’t stop clamping down on his fingers, your pussy having a mind of its own. He is pistoning them now, causing your fluids to make its way down your ass onto the comforter. The sounds coming from his handiwork edge you further, your release imminent. 

“Oh God, Logan! I’m cumming!” 

Big mistake on your part.

He pulls away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A smug look appears on his face, and you have the urge to shove his face back into your aching cunt.

“Your first time cumming with me will be on my cock, sweetheart.”

He pulls your thong down your legs and moves you back to the front of the bed. He stands before you, making light work of removing his belt from the loops of his jeans. His jeans are next, pulling them down with his briefs. 

You don’t know what you expected. You weren’t surprised with how well endowed he was, not with the way he is built. But to see it in person is so much different from your imagination. The details that your mind didn’t conjure up, especially the vein that starts from his lower stomach to the tip of his cock. It makes you salivate, wanting to run your tongue along it. 

“You like what you see, darlin’?” He noticed you staring, but you have no shame. Not anymore.

“Yeah, want it in my mouth so bad.”

He walks over to you, his cock in your face. His hand goes to your head, stroking the baby hairs that are starting to stick to your temple. “As much as I would love that, I am dying to give you the fucking you deserve, sweetheart. However…” he brings your head up closer to his cock, your lips not even an inch away. “How about you get it nice and wet for me.”

You don’t have to be told twice. You work up a good amount of spit, letting it drip from your mouth onto his hard cock. You start to lick at the sides, spreading your saliva all over until he is covered. You are basically making out with his dick, your lips and tongue moving like you had when you were kissing him earlier. It isn’t until you get to that vein of his that you start to go wild, licking it up and down. 

Logan is groaning deeply, and pulls your head back, a string of saliva connecting before breaking apart. You hear him curse under his breath before crawling back onto the bed, his hands holding your face as he brings his lips to you. His kisses are slow this time, letting it sink in that this is happening; that you two are about to be connected. 

“You did such a good job. You are such a good girl.” He murmurs against your lips before sitting up. 

His dick is now sitting heavy on your mound, and the weight of it feels delicious. He taps it against your clit a few times, your hips thrusting up in kind. 

“You ready for me, sweetheart?” He lets his cock rut into your folds, thrusting up into your clit. “I think that sweet thing of yours is.”

“Give it to me, Lo. I need you so bad it hurts.” 

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take that pain away.” He promises.

And as promised, he places the tip right at your aching hole and pushes in slowly. Your jaw slacks, the pressure as he continues his descent much more intense than you anticipated. It’s been so long since you’ve given yourself to someone. It all feels new, and you are thankful; thankful that it's with him.

He is fully seated in you, and you can only describe it as euphoric. With the way he sits heavy in your cunt, filling you up completely, you can honestly say that this was meant to happen. Logan was meant to be with you in every single possible way imaginable. It’s the only explanation.

“How does it feel, baby?” Logan asks, hands rubbing up and down your thighs soothingly. 

“It feels,” you whimper, gripping down on him. “It feels so good, Lo.”

“Yeah? My cock makin’ you feel good, doll?” He groans, clearly being affected by your behavior. 

Before you can mutter a pathetic answer, your brain turning to mush, he shifts back. His cock slides out until the mushroom head is at your entrance, and then he slams back in; hard and slow. 

The constant back and forth of his cock has you shaking, his hard thrust knocking the air out of your lungs and the slow thrusts feeling oh so good. And with the way he is watching you, his face mimicking yours as he receives his own pleasure, is sending zaps of electricity to your cunt. It makes you grasp onto him hard as he gets you more worked up.

Logan sits up straighter, grabbing your right leg and bringing it up to his shoulder. His left hand keeps it steady as he speeds up slightly and presses gentle kisses to your ankle in the process. It lets him go deeper, kissing your cervix every time it goes in. The pressure feels incredible, and the more he speeds up, the more your cunt starts to spasm out of control. 

“That’s it, baby. You are taking me so well, like you were fucking made for me.” He growls out, biting your ankle. 

“God yes, Logan! I’m yours!” You cry out, him and his cock making you utterly delirious. “You were made for my pussy!”

“Fuck, you got a mouth on you.” He chides, his right hand going to your right breast.

He is squeezing your tit so tight; his hips are on autopilot with how fast he is taking you. Your hands don’t know where to go, going from gripping the fabric below to holding onto his wrist. He is putting you into a completely fucked out state, and you can’t get enough of that treatment. 

You can tell you are on the precipice of cumming. You are clenching on and off rapidly, no longer in control of your muscles. The sounds coming from your coupling, wet smacking echoes that are music to your ears. You can feel the telltale sensation of being overwhelmed, and you know you are now on the track of no return. 

“Logan, baby, I’m gonna cum!”

He snarls at you, a crazed look in his eyes as he slams into you. He lets go of your tit to grab your chin, keeping your eyes on his. “Do it, darlin’. Cum around my cock.”

You are over the edge in seconds, a silent scream taking over as you tremble and quake. Your pussy is convulsing like crazy, small gushes of liquid coming out. You see Logan look down at where you two are connected, and he is grinning like crazy.

“What a fucking sight. There isn’t one thing about you that isn’t pretty.”

You could sob at his words, especially with how overstimulated you are becoming. You work his cock, wanting him to cum inside of you. 

“Give me your cum, Logan. Fill me until I’m dripping.”

Your words must have triggered something because next thing you know he has let go of your leg and face and is falling onto his forearms with his mouth landing on yours. You hear the sound of his claws, completely unsheathed from his skin, causing him to bellow into your mouth, rutting like a madman which causes cum to leak out from your hole onto the bedding. 

He slows down, milking out the rest of his spend before stopping all together. He lets go of your lips gasping, face buried in your shoulder as he tries to calm down. Your hands go to his back, massaging the taut muscles as he shakes. 

“Fuck, Logan,” you sigh, catching your breath as you come back to earth. You feel so relaxed, even with your guts feeling completely rearranged.

You hear his claws sink back into his skin, and it is then that he pulls out, falling to the other side of the bed. His chest is going up and down with every heavy breath, and you can’t help but admire him like this. 

He turns his head over to you, his hand coming to grab the hand by your side. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

You make it over into his side, head laying on his chest as you both bask in the post-sex glow. You can’t help but smile at this turn of events, not expecting to have been in this position with Logan. But here you are, laying on his chest with his arms around you. 

You notice something in your peripherals and see splintering from the headboard of your bed. There are six holes in the wood, and it sends you into a laughing fit, a euphoric glaze covering your entire body. 

“What’s so funny?” He asks gruffly, pulling you into side as you continue to laugh.

“Your claws pierced my headboard.”

You see him glance back, and you see him sigh, relaxing more into the mattress. “I’ll fix it up for you, darlin’. I’m sorry about that.”

“No need to say sorry.” You snuggle your face into his skin, breathing in his natural musk as you relax more into him. “I just can’t believe we did that, but I’m glad it did.”

“I can say the same.” He murmurs, stroking your hair gently. “Seriously, I gotta know, did you see this coming?”

You shift up, going to lay your arms across his chest only for you to rest on them. You look into his eyes and the need in them is still there, but not in the way they were before. They were searching, looking for any confirmation that what you both just did truly meant more. It makes him look vulnerable, something he rarely shows. It makes you smile at the prospect of him opening up even more. 

“Not until today. It’s strange now that I think about it.”

“And why is that?”

“I never saw you coming, I guess. Even when it is clear as day how you felt about me, I never got anything that told me it was real. I didn’t want to potentially screw anything up between us.”

He hums, a look of contemplation on his face before taking a hand and rubbing his face, a long sigh coming out in the process. “I suppose that’s my fault.”

You can’t help but look confused. His fault? “Why do you say that?”

“I haven’t been fully honest, but ever since I came here, no matter how welcomed and appreciated I am here, I have contemplated leaving.” His hand leaves his face to go behind your neck, lightly scratching the skin at the nape before continuing. “I’ve been alone for a long time. Having a family has never been in the books for me. It is easier to not let people in.”

“So, that’s why I couldn’t see you coming. You hadn’t made up your mind?”

“It’s possible, but it’s just a theory.”

“But, if that’s the case, have you made your mind up?” You start rubbing his chest with your palm, feeling his heart pulse slowly. You are confident you know the answer now, but you want to hear him say it.

He grunts in laughter, shaking his head slightly before letting his fingers curl around the back of your neck. “I think you know the answer, princess. But if you really want to know, come up here.”

You push yourself from him, moving so you are straddling his torso. He brings his hands to your face once more, pulling you down so you are face to face with him. He kisses you, slowly initiating intimacy with his lips. He isn’t saying anything, but you can feel what he is saying through the act alone. 

“I can’t close myself off from you,” he says between kisses. “And I don’t want to. Especially if you’ll have me.”

“I think you already know the answer to that, Lo.”

“Still, I wanna hear you say it.”

You pull away so you can look into his eyes, giving him all the sincerity you can muster. “I love you, and I want you to stand by me.”

He smiles teeth and all, and pulls you back down, kissing all over your face causing you to squeal. “Hmm I love you too, sweetheart. Always have.”

You both stay like that for a while, basking in each other's company in post-coital ecstasy by continuing to taste one another. Another thought came over you, and you can’t help but laugh again.

“If I had known sex would make you like this, I would have made a move a long time ago.” Logan jokes, breathing them in. 

“I’m sorry, but I’m laughing because it took me taking your cigars hostage to do it.”

Logan throws his head back, chuckling at what you presume is the same thing you are laughing about.

“Speaking of those cigars, can you grab them for me?”

You perk up, pushing away from him to lean over to your side of the bed. Your fingers stretch for the book, getting a grasp on it before getting settled back with Logan. He pulls you in quickly, hurdling you into his side. You see he has his lighter ready, which he must have grabbed while you were getting his cigars.

“You gonna smoke one?”

He hums, taking one out. “I only smoke these on special occasions. I think this qualifies.”

He carefully unsheathes a claw, cutting the end before it sinks back under his skin. He flickers the lighter, letting the bright flame linger on the end to get a good burn going. He then lays back, pulling you even closer into his side, before taking his first puff. 

You smile, laying your head against him as you let your eyes drift closed. You feel yourself drifting away, the smell of his cigar and the sound of his pulse lulling you to a deep sleep; a sleep with dreams that you hope feel like déjà vu in the near future.

[justevelynnnn]

Mark talking you through it

Pairing: Mark Grayson x Fem!reader

Summary: Mark takes your virginity and talks you through it

Warnings: Smut smutty smut, dirty talk, reader is afab, virginity loss, some profanity

A/N: i have so many ideas and things in the works but so little time 😭 also it’s exam season…but i have a duty to keep y’all fed so enjoy this crumb for now (sorry it’s short!)

You had never done anything like this before.

All the sensations and touches and feelings were new to you. A lot of it felt amazing.. his hands, big and calloused from fighting, were gentle on your bare skin. He was very attentive to how you reacted to everything.

It was after a homecoming game.

He’d forced the guardians to cover for him if anything came up and decided to spend the night with you. It was great especially given that you could finally spend time with him. You didn’t care what you two did. Sometimes you guys binged a show, other times it was a simple walk around campus or a park…

As long as you got to be with him.

However, this particular night after the game you two ended up making out and naked on his bed. It wasn’t big, just a twin xl like all the other dorms, but it was enough for you both. A bed’s a bed after all. He was experienced, at least from what you could tell. He didn’t seem too nervous or shy even.

He moved with confidence, but still asking for consent with everything before he actually did it. It was a bit cute but you truly admired that about him.

Everything was going great until you really looked at him…down there, and something in your head made you freak out.

He was actually kind of big, at least bigger than you expected, and that thick vein running up the side wasn’t helping calm your nerves either.

“Will that even fit?”, You whispered looking down. You looked into his eyes a bit worried. Your legs also close, but you did that unconsciously.

“I’ll go slow..” He kissed you gently, looking back into your eyes with a soft expression and a hand caressing your cheek. “And we can stop if it gets to be too much. Promise.”

You just nod and wrapped your arms around his neck as he positioned himself between your legs. You knew he was strong but sometimes you forgot exactly how strong. It wasn’t big something about the way he pushed your legs open and how a hand held your hip in place…

You quickly snapped out of thought as you felt his head push against your slick entrance while simultaneously brushing gently against your clit. He teased a bit so he could gather some of the wetness to coat himself for an easier slide inside. It already felt so good and he wasn’t even in you yet.

Then, he slowly pushed inside.

It was painful, and a stretch, too. Even going slow you had to stop him when he was halfway in to get used to him, a shaky hand pressing against his hardened abs. He peppered your face with kisses in the meantime until it started feeling okay. Then “okay” slowly became fucking amazing.

His size was still a bit much though, but god did he talk you through it.

It was getting overwhelming quick as he slowly thrusted and his strong arms caged you in. And, he just filled you up so good all you could do was whine and moan. It became so much that you started to cry a bit from the pleasure.

“I know baby, i know.” Mark whispered close to your ear. His voice was breathy and husky now. “I’m right here.. You feel so good. Fuck—, so fucking good baby..”

You couldn’t respond.

Not even if you wanted to.

As he bottomed you out and started picking up his pace all you could do was say his name over and over.

“You’re taking me so well. I knew you could do it, so proud of you…” He groaned while kissing your neck. He said you looked pretty under him too but you could barely hear that part as you were so focused on how good it felt.

The bed stared squeaking louder as he was getting close with you not far behind but you knew he wouldn’t finish before you. The second he started huskily telling you to let go and “finish all over him” it was over.

“That’s my pretty girl. So good for me.” He cooed. He held you by your sides as you came even gently still thrusting to add to it.

And even after he pulled out and finished on your stomach and thighs he was still saying filthy things.

“Look at you, so pretty even all messed up like this..”

That sock never came off that door that night.

[navybrat817]

Kneel for Me

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: You're done with work, and Bucky is eager to have you.

Word Count: Over 2k

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, porn with very little plot, oral sex (m. receiving, f. implied), implied unprotected v. sex (wrap it before you tap it!), dirty talk, bit of fluff, established relationship, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)

A/N: @fckmebarnes gave me permission to run with this post. I appreciate you, my lovely! Also submitting this for @avengers-assemble-bingo Kinky Bingo (prompt - "kneel for me"). ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You slumped in your desk chair and sighed. Work was finally done for the day. You could sign off, relax, and have that movie night with Bucky. It worried him that you'd work a little over since it had been busy, but you thankfully didn’t have to worry about getting trapped at the office or dealing with traffic. You ended your week at 40 hours and not a second more.

“I’m done! I’m free!” you called out, frowning when you took your earbuds out and left the office. The place was quiet. Bucky didn’t keep the television or music too loud anyway thanks to his sharp hearing, but you didn’t hear a sound. Maybe he decided to take a quick nap or read while he waited for you. He was also stealthy as hell and could’ve moved around the place without drawing attention.

As if Bucky read your thoughts, he let out a moan from the living room. The sound was so sexy that you stopped in your tracks. It didn’t matter if Bucky Barnes moaned, growled, whimpered, gasped, each sound was a blessing and erotic music to your ears. Not only that, it was your name that he moaned.

Suffice to say your panties were already damp when you found the strength to walk again.

“Bucky?” you asked, locking eyes with him once you made it to the living room.

Your beautiful god of man sat naked on the couch, his metal arm draped over the back as his eyes slid up and down your body. Shivering under his heated stare and watching as the blue of his eyes faded to a small ring around the blown pupils, you stood mesmerized as he spread his legs more. He was like a king, powerful, imposing, commanding. And everything about the man was big; thick thighs, broad torso, ripped arms, and a massive cock that he lazily stroked.

Doing your best not to drool, you couldn’t help the whimper you let out. He was so hard, so big, and it was all for you. Another pair of panties thoroughly ruined thanks to him, the way he always ruined you.

“Finally.” The husk in his voice made you shiver again. “Hope you don’t mind that I started without you.”

Knowing him, he likely counted down the seconds until you signed off. “You don’t plan to finish without me, do you?” you asked, starting to strip down. He licked his lips at the sight of you and groaned when your breasts spilled free. It didn’t matter how many times he saw you naked, it was always like he was seeing you for the first time. If anything you felt more confident in your body thanks to him.

“I plan to finish in or on you. Maybe both. Figured I’d start with your mouth,” he smirked, nodding to the floor. He already had a pillow waiting for you, not wanting your knees to feel sore. The thoughtful gesture spread more heat through you and made your heart race. He was also thoughtful enough to put a towel underneath himself to not get the couch dirty. “How badly do you wanna suck my cock? Dyin’ to get your pretty lips wrapped around me.”

You whimpered again. You loved this sexual side of your man, unafraid of being vocal. Intimacy and trust had taken time, and it was worth every second. He was worth every second.

“Before I even think about sucking your cock, are you even going to ask how the rest of work was?” you teased, tossing your ruined underwear at him once they were off.

He caught them easily and let out an obscene moan when he put them to his nose and mouth. Your exhale was shaky as he moaned again into them and stroked himself faster. “How was the rest of work?” he asked against the fabric. “Fucking Christ, these are soaked. You smell so good. This all for me?”

“It’s always for you,” you said, tempted to dip your hand between your legs and touch yourself like he was doing. “And work was fine.” He would've known if it was anything other than fine since he liked to check on you.

“You work so hard, sweetheart. You deserve a reward,” he smirked, setting the underwear aside. “So I’ll ask again- How badly do you want to suck my cock?”

Watching him smear the precum around the tip with his thumb, it was a feat you hadn’t dropped right to your knees. “Enough to beg for it,” you admitted. Who wouldn’t want to suck his cock? Who wouldn’t beg for him?

“I won’t make you beg. I’ll give it to you,” he promised, beckoning you forward with a metal finger. He’d get you off, too, since he was a giving partner like that.

You strode toward him naked, confident. Before you could drop to your knees, he lunged forward and gripped the back of your head. His mouth met yours when your lips parted, swallowing down your gasp. Pliant and eager, you allowed him to take control when his tongue plunged in and didn’t stop him when the metal hand slid from the back of your head to your front.

“You’re addicting,” he breathed, making you gasp again when he brushed his thumb across a hardened nipple. “I’ll never get enough of you.”

Your throat went dry at the raw desire in his eyes, wishing you could form a coherent response. After everything he experienced, he deserved to have whatever he wanted. And what he wanted was you. It still made your head spin.

“Oh, yeah? Then how badly do you want me to suck your cock?” you asked.

“Enough to beg for it,” he replied, repeating your words. He’d get on his knees if you asked, something he’d never do for anyone else.

“I won’t make you beg. I’ll give it to you,” you smiled, repeating his words back in turn.

He let out a sharp breath. “Kneel for me,” he ordered, something tender in his gaze when you obediently dropped to your knees. Bringing a hand to your cheek, your skin warmed under his touch. “You’re so fucking beautiful, sweetheart.”

Your heart thudded against your chest. “You’re beautiful.” Bucky was a work of art that some higher being deemed too perfect in creation and gave him scars to take that perfection away. It only made him more beautiful in your eyes. You wanted him to see how much you wanted him, wanted him to feel it in his heart.

“Show me with your mouth how beautiful you think I am,” he whispered.

You’d show him that, and how much you loved him and more.

Gently batting his hand away, you replaced it with yours and gripped the base. Your walls clenched, wanting to feel that thickness inside you, but you'd be patient. Breathing over the head of his cock and gazing up at him, you pressed a kiss to it and licked the drop of precum from your lips. The flavor exploded on your tongue, taking over the way he always took over.

He groaned and bucked his hips slightly, demanding more of your mouth when you sucked the head in and didn’t go further. You wanted to tease him a little, but relented and took a bit more in. “Feels so good. Your mouth is perfect. All of your holes are perfect,” he growled, putting a hand on your head again but not pushing you down. “And they’re just for me.”

You moaned, swallowing as much of him down as you could at his possessive tone. The first time you went down on him your eyes watered when he hit the back of your throat, but now your throat relaxed and made room for him. He carved out a home for himself in every part of you.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his thrusts shallow at first as he held you in place. “Should take a picture and show you how pretty you look with my cock shoved down your throat.”

You keened and let him glide along your tongue, your clit throbbing and hole clenching. He could take as many pictures as he wanted. And squeezing his thigh, you silently gave him permission to use you, to take what he wanted. As if he didn’t get that message loud and clear, you gave his heavy balls a gentle squeeze, too.

His control snapped.

You whined and looked up at him. You had to be a sight to behold, your lips stretched around his girth, saliva seeping from the corners of your mouth, a little shine in your eyes. And him? His cheeks rosier than usual, eyes half lidded, mouth parted as he panted. He was on the verge of ecstasy. That was what you did to each other.

“That’s it. That’s my girl. Take it,” he praised, pushing faster, deeper. You breathed through your nose and tried to bring a hand between your legs to relieve yourself, but you froze when he narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you fucking dare. That’s my pussy, and I’m getting you off after this.”

You whined again. Of course he would. But if your pussy was his, then his cock was yours and you were going to show him that.

You dragged your tongue along one of his veins, knowing how insane it drove him, before you bobbed your head at an almost punishing pace. “Gonna make me come,” he groaned to warn you, but you didn’t let up. You wanted to make him come just like this. Down your throat or on your face, it didn’t matter. You wanted him to claim you as much as you were claiming him.

His cock pulsed and he trembled before he grunted your name. His eyes nearly rolled back when his hips stuttered, lost in the heat of your mouth as he came. The taste of him hit your tongue before he pulled you off, hardly giving you a chance to suck in a breath or swallow as the rest of his release splashed on your lips and chin. He wasn’t kidding when he said he’d finish in and on you.

You felt debauched, owned, and perfect.

“So fucking beautiful,” he panted, smearing his taste across your lip with his thumb before you sucked it into your mouth. “And so greedy,” he teased.

“It’s your fault,” you said, your voice raspy before he brought a bottle of water to your lips. Of course he had that beside him. You would’ve noticed if you hadn’t been so occupied by the sight of him jerking off.

“Glad I could get you addicted to me,” he smiled, leaning forward once you had enough to drink. It was true. Bucky Barnes was an addiction. “Are you okay?” he asked, concern suddenly etched on his handsome face.

You smiled when his fingertips skimmed your throat. As insatiable as he was, he never wanted you sore or uncomfortable. “More than okay,” you promised. You would’ve given him a sign if you weren’t, and he would’ve picked up on any discomfort.

“Wasn’t too much?” he pressed just to be sure.

“Never,” you promised, kissing his lips. He would never be too much for you.

He sighed into the kiss. “Then come here.”

“What are you…” Your eyes widened when he made you straddle him, keeping you hovered over his cock. He was still hard. Or was he hard again? Damn super soldier and his stamina.

“Told you I’d get my pussy off. Not about to leave any of your holes empty tonight,” he smirked, rubbing the head along your wet walls and licking the remainder of his release from your chin. “After I’m done fucking you, you can sit on my face.”

You shuddered and gripped his shoulders when he kissed the corner of your mouth, desperately wanting him to fill you up and have his stubble leave a delicious burn once he feasted. “We aren’t watching movies tonight, are we?”

“No, but this is much more fun.” You had to agree. “Now take a seat because we aren’t done by a long shot.”

Hope you lovelies enjoyed! Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[sincerelyneo]

cowgirl | p.js

“the bull i ride is not mechanical”

💿now playing: cowgirl by nicki minaj, lourdiz

❯ summary: Watching his city-girl girlfriend ride a mechanical bull in front of his childhood friends—and a crowd of sleazy locals—Jisung starts to feel both irritated and horny…but mostly horny.

❯ pairings: jisung x fem!reader

❯ genre: western!au, smut, boyfriend!jisung

❯ words: 3.6k

❯ tags:18+ minors dni!, jealousy, cat-calling, unprotected sex (don’t do this!), creampies, dom!jisung, dirty talk, overstimulation, swearing, gendered terms, literally just them fucking in cowgirl for 3k words.

Jisung had never brought a girl home for the holidays—especially not a city girl. But here he was, leaning against the doorframe of his childhood bedroom in his parents’ ranch, watching you fuss with the hem of your dress in the mirror. The corners of his mouth twitched upward. He could already hear his friends teasing him. 

“Babe…” he began, sneaking up behind you to wrap a hand around your waist. “It’s just a little dive bar. You don’t have to wear a dress—”

You turned to face him, one perfectly manicured hand resting on your hip, the fabric clinging to your curves in a way that made his mouth go dry. “The dress is cute, Jisung. I’m wearing it.”

You pick up the black heels Jisung had picked out for your birthday—surprisingly pretty for a country boy with calloused hands and mud-splattered boots. Slipping them on, you smile as he takes you in from head to toe with a thick gulp. 

“It’s not that it’s not cute,” he mumbles, shoving a hand through his hair. “It’s just… People don’t usually dress up to drink beer around here.”

You grabbed your coat and gave Jisung a quick peck on the cheek, effectively shutting down any of his further protests. He always does this, gets in his head about the silliest things. 

 “Well, maybe they should,” you quipped, your heels clicking against the wooden floor as you headed for the door. “And besides, I’m not from around here.”

Jisung sighed, reaching for his own jacket while trying to ignore how the sight of you in those heels made his chest tighten. “It’s a small town, Y/N, we don’t get newcomers often. People are gonna stare.”

You paused at the door, glancing over your shoulder with a teasing smile. “Let them.”

Jisung shook his head, his lips twitching into a reluctant smile as he followed you out to his truck. The drive to the bar was quiet but comfortable, the faint hum of country music from the radio filling the car. He stole glances at you as he drove, his chest tightening every time he caught the way the traffic lights reflected off the pretty necklace settled into the cleavage of your chest.

That measly little jewel probably cost the same price as the dive bars around here, if not more. When Jisung finally parked in the gravel lot, you stepped out, your heels clicking sharply against the ground like you were walking into a five-star restaurant instead of a bar with duct-taped barstools and a jukebox that only half-worked. Jisung couldn’t help but laugh softly to himself—his friends were going to have a field day ribbing him for this.

Inside, the low hum of chatter and the twang of a guitar drifted from the jukebox, and the faint smell of beer and peanuts lingered in the air. Jisung spotted his friends immediately—Chenle, Mark, and Jeno huddled around a table in the corner, beers in hand, their laughter loud. 

“There he is!” Chenle’s voice rang out over the chatter, a wide grin spreading across his face as he stood to clap Jisung on the back. His eyes flicked to you, his grin growing impossibly wider. “And this must be the city girl we’re always hearing about.” His eyes flick to your feet. “The one with fancy heels.”

“Very fancy,” Jeno added, his eyes also dropping to your shoes. 

You roll your eyes and bite back a retort. Instead, you allow them to lead you to their table, which was already sticky with spilt beer and the remnants of forgotten nachos. You perched carefully on the edge of your seat, legs crossed, the hem of your dress riding just a little higher than Jisung would’ve liked. He sat beside you, thigh pressed against yours, one hand lazily draped across the back of your chair, the other resting possessively on your knee. 

Mark raises his bottle toward you. “You’re a good sport for coming out tonight. Most people from the city would’ve run a mile the second they saw the mounted deer heads in here.”

“I’m not that brave,” you let out a playful chuckle, “I gotta say, they’re a little creepy.”

Just then, Jeno leaned in, nodding toward the little crowd gathered near the back of the bar. “You’re just in time. Jaemin’s up.”

All eyes turned toward the mechanical bull, where Jaemin—one of Jisung’s childhood friends, apparently known for his total lack of fear and abundance of poor judgment—was psyching himself up to take on the challenge. The operator hit the switch. The bull kicked into motion.

At first, Jaemin held on surprisingly well. Cheers echoed through the bar as he flailed his free arm dramatically, hamming it up like a true showman.

“Look at him go!” Mark hooted.

“He’s gonna break his tailbone again,” Jeno said around a mouthful of fries.

Then the bull jerked hard left—and Jaemin was launched like a rag doll, landing on his back with a loud thump and an even louder groan.

You visibly winced. “Ouch.”

Chenle caught it. Instantly.

“Aww,” he drawled, tilting his head toward you with a mischievous smirk. “That too rough for you, city girl?”

Jisung didn’t miss a beat. “Watch it.”

That only made Chenle grin wider. “What? I’m just saying, we all know you, she probably can’t handle anything that gets a little rough and tough.”

You turned slowly, lips curling into a sweet, deadly smile. “Is that right?”

Jisung shifted beside you, hand tightening just slightly on your thigh. “Babe…”

But you were already standing.

“Someone sign me up,” you said, downing the last sip of your drink and tossing your coat onto the back of your chair. “I’ll show you what a city girl can handle.”

The boys went feral. Chenle practically howled, Jeno pounded the table, and Mark nearly fell off his chair.

Jisung stared at you, his eyes sharp and teeth tight. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” you tossed over your shoulder as you made your way toward the pit.

Jisung watched you walk away, his jaw slack. “You guys are so dead if she breaks her ankle.”

You made your way, weaving through the crowd with determination, the clink of your heels on the wood floor cutting through the noise of rowdy laughter and country music. You weren’t doing this for them—not really. This wasn’t about proving something to Chenle or Jeno or any of the wide-eyed boys hollering from the table. This was about you.

You were sick of the looks. The patronising smirks. The constant “city girl” jabs. Like wearing lipstick and spending money on jewellery made you fragile. Soft. Less than.

As you approached the edge of the bull ring, a few older locals, all men, leaned against the rail, beers in hand, smirking like they’d already written you off. 

“Careful up there, sweetheart,” one of them called. “That thing’s mean.” Another one chuckled. “Don’t chip a nail.”

You didn’t even look at them. Didn’t blink. Just climbed the platform with a calm, practised grace, heels disregarded now, your bare feet silent on the rubber mat as you swung one leg over the mechanical animal.

The bull was cool beneath your thighs, the leather seat slightly worn down. You wrapped your fingers around the rope, adjusted your posture, and locked your legs like you’d seen Jaemin do—except you meant business. No theatrics. No flailing limbs or cocky smiles.

The operator raised a brow at you, half amused. “You need me to show you the ropes, Princess?”

“No,” you said. “Start it.”

Behind you, the boys were still hooting—Mark yelling something incoherent, Chenle practically foaming at the mouth—but your eyes stayed fixed forward. Your jaw clenched.

You weren’t here to play cute.

You were here to hold on.

And prove every last one of them wrong.

The bull jolted beneath you with a sudden snap of motion—but you didn’t flinch.

You wrapped your fingers tighter around the rope, feeling its rough texture against your skin. Your legs locking around the bull's body, thighs flexing and back arching to hold on as tight as possible as it bucked and twisted beneath you.

The crowd leaned in, watching as you matched its rhythm with so much control. Every roll of your hips, every sway of your torso—it wasn’t just balance. It was command.

You weren’t holding on for dear life like Jaemin had. You were riding it. Owning it.

And people noticed.

“Holy hell,” someone near the front hissed through clenched teeth. Then a whistle cut through the air, followed by a crude comment that made Jisung’s knuckles go white.

“Damn, whoever she’s riding like that at night is a lucky son of a bitch.”

There were groans, gasps, even a few slow claps as you leaned back just enough to taunt gravity—and won. The hem of your dress rode high along your thighs, pink panties peeking out just enough to tease, your hair whipping around your face. 

Jisung’s jaw locked. He hadn’t taken his eyes off you once. His fingers drumming furiously against the beer bottle in front of him, the other hand clenched in a fist on his thigh. Every lewd comment hit him like a shot to the gut.

Mark leaned in, grinning. “Dude, your girl is killing it.”

Chenle howled beside him, half-laughing, half-stunned. “Woah. I take everything back—she might be the hot—”

“Finish that sentence, Chenle, and I will murder you,” Jiusng deadpans, making his other friends laugh. 

But he wasn’t laughing.

Not even close.

All he could do was watch as you swayed effortlessly on top of that bull, powerful and magnetic, while a sea of half-drunk cowboys who didn’t deserve to look at you muttered under their breath like they were seeing something holy. And they were, except it wasn’t theirs to gawk at. 

His jaw ticked. His eyes stayed locked on you. And his pulse pounded with something that felt a whole lot like possession.

Not because he didn’t want you to ride.

But because they didn’t deserve to watch.

The longer you rode, the tighter Jisung’s grip on his beer bottle hardened. He didn’t care if it smashed and sliced up his skin; nothing would compare to the rage bubbling in the pit of his stomach right now. Every time you shifted, every time your body moved with the bull, your tits bounced, dress rode up, comments flew.

He felt like he couldn’t breathe. 

His chair scraped back across the floor with a harsh screech as he stood, the sound sharp enough to cut through the cheers. His eyes were locked on you—still moving like you belonged up there, and he hated it. He cut across the floor, ignoring the way heads turned as he passed, ignoring the crude commentary still dripping from the lips of too many drunk, wide-eyed men. He had to, if he didn’t, he’s certain he’d be facing an assault charge. 

You caught him approaching from the corner of your eye just as the bull slowed, the operator eyeing Jisung warily. You gripped the rope with one hand and looked down at him, breathless but unbothered. 

“Stop, Y/N,” Jisung growls, his voice carrying over the buzz of the bar. “Get down.”

Your brows lifted, chest still heaving, but before you could answer, a guy at a nearby table—cowboy hat tipped too far back, lips shiny with beer—slurred, “Aw, c’mon, man. Don’t kill the fun!”

“Yeah, man! She’s giving us a show. She’s got that bull beggin’ for mercy,” another slurred voice. Then another: “She’s got me beggin’ for mercy!”

You felt the shift immediately—not in the machine beneath you, but in the room. The energy, the tone. The cheers had morphed into something different. Something gross. Objectifying. Disrespectful.

Your eyes flicked to Jisung.

Standing at the edge of the pit, hands clenched into fists at his sides, jaw tight enough to crack. His eyes burned—worry and anger twisted together behind the fury of protectiveness. You could practically feel it pulsing from him, the way his whole body was saying: Enough.

And that’s when you made your decision.

You swung your leg over the bull and dismounted in one smooth, grounded move. The guys nearby booed. Someone whined, “Aw, c’mon, sweetheart, don’t stop now,” but you ignored them.

Because the only person in the room whose opinion mattered was the one pleading with you. You walked right up to him.

He looked at you, eyes stormy. “You’ve made your point,” he said roughly. “We can leave—”

You didn’t let him finish. Instead, you reached up, tugged his hat off his head, and slid it onto your own, tilting it just so.

His breath hitched.

“I may be a city girl,” you said purposefully loud enough for every invasive man in that dive bar to hear, “but I know the rule…” 

You stepped in closer, chest to chest, your fingers curling around the front of his shirt.

“Wear the hat…” —your voice dropped to a whisper, sultry and teasing as your lips brushed his ear— “…ride the cowboy.”

Jisung’s breath stuttered. A growl curled low in his throat. His hand was on your lower back in a second, guiding you, almost possessively.

“Truck. Now.”

You don’t really remember much after the dive bar—just a blur of quick goodbyes, the creak of Jisung’s truck door, and the hum of tires on gravel. What sticks with you is the way his fingers curled tight around the steering wheel, the hard line of his jaw, and the thick, loaded tension hanging between you as he drove back to his family’s ranch. 

That same tension that followed you up the porch, then slammed you against the living room wall. His mouth on yours—hot, messy, impatient—while old family photos rattled and fell to the floor.

And thank God his parents weren’t home. Because fuck, nothing was going to stop him from making sure you kept your promise.

Ride the cowboy. 

You had no problem putting on a show for every fucker within a five mile radius—so when Jisung hooks your legs around his waist, carries you to his bedroom, and finally gets you naked, exposed and laid out bare for him, he decides he wants a show of his own.

The exclusive one.

The private one. 

The one just for him. 

“Sit on my cock, Y/N,” he says, voice almost pleading but overpowered with a command. 

He’s looking at you, at the mess he’s made you in the last ten minutes with his tongue. You’re completely wrecked—chest falling with shaky breaths, lips swollen, skin flushed and covered in the marks he likes to leave behind. Marks he wishes were permanent. 

Because look, Jisung may be desperate right now, but he’s not selfish with you. Never would be. He always makes sure you cum first—likes to wring you out until you’re trembling—before expecting you to take his cock. 

“Don’t make me beg,” he mutters, leaning in, breath hot against your cheek. “Not tonight. Because I won’t.” 

You pout, teasing, hips shifting to straddle him and make him twitch beneath you as he slides up the bed, resting his back against the headboard. 

“But I like it when you beg.” 

“And I like being the only one who sees your panties,” he bites back, eyes narrowing. “But that didn’t happen tonight, did it?”

Your smirk fades just a little, and he lets out a low growl, hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise. 

“So, sit on my cock, baby,” he says lowly, “Ride me. Because that’s the only way this is going to work tonight.”

You bite down on your lip, fingers wrapping around the base of your boyfriend’s cock as you run him through your dripping folds, teasing his head slick and slow. “God, I think I love it even more when you’re bossy.”

You breathe out—barely a whisper, words all shaky and broken because you sink down on him. Your pussy taking every impaling inch of him inside you through a single motion. Jisung’s head falls back, dilated eyes fluttering closed as his pink lips part on a sharp exhale. 

“Move,” he growls instantly, hand gripping a handful of your ass, fingers digging in hard.

It’s different tonight. Jisung usually likes to take his time. Wants to feel every second of the way you fit around him—loves to savour the stretch. To sit in the feeling of knowing he’s the closest he can possibly be to you before chasing his high. But right now, that isn't that. Now there’s no patience, no softness in his tone.

This isn’t needy. It’s commanding. Dominant. And you’re not about to deny him.

You start to move—gentle at first, just to tease, rolling your hips in lazy circles as you adjust to the full size of him. And the way he watches you… it pulls a needy little sound from the back of your throat.

His eyes are glued on you. Hooded and dark. Jaw locked as he drinks in every inch of your body. The bounce of your thighs, the way your tits move with each grind, the slick drag of your cunt around him—it’s all too much and still not enough.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, fingers digging into your skin, guiding your pace as you start to ride him harder. “Look at you…taking me like that.” 

You toss your head back with a moan, letting his grip take over your rhythm, whilst he watches like he’s mesmerised—obsessed. Because he is. 

His hands slide up your waist, thumbs brushing over your hips before he moves one to your stomach, pressing down just enough for you to feel where he is inside you.

“Right there,” he murmurs, breath catching. “You feel that? That’s mine. All fucking mine. All fucking yours.”

You whimper, grinding down harder as his cock hits that spot that always makes your legs shake. Jisung’s eyes darken even more—half-lidded, smug, wrecked.

“God, you’re so hot,” he sighs, one hand coming up to cup your breast while the other stays pressed to your stomach. “So fuckin’ good at this now.”

“Always been good at this,” you say, breathless, trying your best to stay in control—but that one comment. It has him bucking up suddenly, pulling a sharp gasp from your lips.

“Yeah?” he rasps, voice rough as his hands guide you to ride faster, harder. “You think that’s all you, baby? It’s not. I taught you this.”

Your eyes flutter, the words hitting just as deep as his cock. “Jisung—”

He grins proudly. “I made you this good. Trained you to ride my cock just like that. Look at you—fuck—you take me like you were made for me.” His thumb brushes over your clit, teasing and pressing. “My perfect fucking girl.”

You can’t even form a proper response—just moan and clench around him as you chase your high, the pleasure climbing fast and sharp.

“Remember when you couldn’t even take half of me without crying?” he murmurs, grinning through gritted teeth. 

You lean forward, palms on his chest, moving faster, harder, desperate. "Jisung," you gasp, nails digging into his skin. "I'm close—"

The tension in your body reaches a breaking point. The desperate roll of your hips, the way he hits all the right spots—it’s too much. And then, fuck, it hits. The pleasure crashes over you, your pussy trembling, clenching around him like a vice. You collapse forward into his neck, kissing along the curve of his skin as you whine, your orgasm rippling through you, gripping tight around his cock.

But Jisung doesn’t stop. He holds your hips in place, groaning as your walls flutter around him, his cock continuing to slide in and out of your pussy with a punishing force. 

“Don’t fucking stop,” he rasps, his breath hot against your ear. “Keep going, baby. Keep riding your cowboy like you promised.”

You can barely catch your breath, but his words push you forward. You force yourself to keep moving, keep meeting his thrusts even as your body trembles, still sensitive from your orgasm. His cock stays hard inside you, unforgiving, and his hands guide your every motion—pushing you to put on a show for him—for him alone.

“Fuck,” he groans again, his eyes locked on the way your body bounces over him. “Atta girl, Make it good for me.”

Your legs are burning from the effort, but you won’t disappoint him. You want him to feel as good as you do. So you push yourself harder, your hips rolling down onto him with all the control you can muster. The wet, slick sounds of your movements mix with the breathless moans escaping your lips. 

Jisung’s hands slip down lower, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing small, teasing circles that have you gasping. It’s as if he’s trying to kill you with the over-stimulation, and with the way he looks at you, you know—this is his way of punishing you for how mad he was earlier.

“I fucking love the way you ride me, Y/N,” he whispers, his voice rough. “You’re so fucking perfect—Fuck… I’m gonna cum,” he groans. His hands move to your waist, pulling you down harder against him, forcing you to take him deeper.

“Please,” you rasp, breathless. “I want to feel you… all of you.”

His hips thrust upward, meeting yours as he struggles to hold off any longer. With a final, guttural groan, his entire body tenses, and he cums deep inside you, holding you in place. You feel him pulse, his cock twitching as he rides out his orgasm, each throb shooting thick ropes of his cum inside you. His breath is fast, uneven, and his eyes are completely consumed by the sight of you, by the way your body moves with his.

He pulls you close, letting you collapse against him completely as a lazy smile spreads across his face. “Fuck, baby, what have you done to me?” he murmurs, “I think you’re gonna have to ride me every time we fuck from now on.”

Now that doesn’t sound like a bad idea…

[ohbo-ohno]

animal, sick as they come

summary: Ghost has been starving his whole life. Never enough food to fill his stomach, never enough blood to cover his hands, always leaving him hungry and ready to snap. You’re the supposed solution to his problem, willing or not. (or: the kidnapped home chef au)

wc: 14.2k

cw: graphic nonconsensual sex, kidnapping but you’re lowkey chill about it, rough sex, pain play, dirty talk & light degradation, non-consensual spanking, rough/painful anal sex, gratuitous description of cooking/food written by someone who once lit a pot of boiling water on fire and is really just trying her best

read on ao3 - see the pinterest board

You may have never been kidnapped before, but you can’t imagine this is how it’s supposed to go.

The masked man looms in the doorway to the kitchen, shoulders so wide that he can’t stand in the opening properly because he wouldn’t even fit, the very top of his head hidden by the worn frame. He’s a beast of a man, hulking in every sense of the word, and you can’t help but wonder how he managed to sneak up on you in the first place. Surely you’re not that unaware of your surroundings? He’s easily 6’4, probably no less than three hundred pounds.

Not much time had passed since you’d woken in a dark room with a thudding pain between your temples, mouth dry and throat swollen. You were sure you’d been blindfolded at first, eyes dry and heavy, until ice-cold water splashed onto your face and your eyes flew open on instinct.

He’d just… been there. One minute you were walking home, trying to avoid large puddles and squinting through pouring rain, and the next you were shivering and scared, your captor towering over your crumpled and bound form.

You’d lost control of your bladder the moment the sight of him registered. He’d looked down, snorted, and lumbered away to find a hose. 

You’d been inconsolable when he told you to strip, shaking with your sobs and keeping your arms wrapped tight around your chest. Even when he’d grunted ‘m not gonna fuck you when you reek of fuckin’ piss, you hadn’t been able to calm enough to follow his demands. It was only when he’d reached up to run a hand over his face and his shirt lifted just enough for you to get a glimpse of the piece on his hip that you’d been snapped away from your panic.

You can see the shape of it now, tucked in its holster. You’re fucking terrified that at any moment he could pull it out and end your life, like that. It would take hardly any effort at all. Just a twitch of the finger and bam, you go from captive to corpse.

“How long’ll it be?” The man grunts, massive arms crossed over his chest, breaking you out of your fearful stupor. 

You blink at him, wide-eyed and silent. He’d given you clothes – clothes that fit, to your comfort and horror – so you’ve been spared the further indignity of forced nudity, but the extra layer doesn’t make you feel much safer. 

He dips his chin when you don’t answer, dark eyes boring into yours. That only makes you clam up more, joints stiff.

He huffs. “Dinner. When’re you gonna fuckin’ feed me, bird?”

You stare at him, baffled. “What?” It’s the first word you’ve said to him without sobbing, and your voice trembles, shrill and weak.

He steps forward, angling his shoulders to fit into the room, fuck, and you skitter back, pressing yourself to the wooden cabinets. They’re tall, taller than the countertops in any house you’ve ever lived in, and the lip presses into the middle of your back.

“There’s food in the fridge,” he grunts. “Get to work.”

You’re not sure you could move even if you wanted to, your fight-or-flight instinct having settled firmly on freeze. 

He rumbles low in his chest and plants one hand on the island in the center of the kitchen, leaning over it. He’s so tall that his head nearly reaches the other side of the counter, hardly a foot away from yours. The counters are the perfect height for him. 

“What’s not clicking, girl?”

You pinch yourself, a quick twist of skin to make sure that this is all real and you’re not just trapped in the world’s most confusing nightmare.

“I-I don’t… you want me t-to cook? For you?” You manage, voice strangled.

He looks spectacularly unimpressed with your lack of understanding, and a distant part of you recognizes that you should probably be worried about making your captor displeased so quickly. However, the far larger part of you hasn’t had a rational thought since he hosed you down with freezing water and is still almost entirely useless.

He turns to the side to open his fridge, hand dwarfing the handle, and drops a chunk of frozen meat on the counter. It’s wrapped in brown parchment paper, a little string holding it closed. The fridge rattles with how harshly he closes the door and you can’t help but flinch. 

If he weren’t closer to the exit than he is to you, you’d have bolted away the second he turned his back. But he’s close enough that he could reach out and grab you with one hand if you got to the doorway, and you can’t even bring yourself to think about what he might do if you were caught. 

“Cook it.” He nods at the meat, voice bored like this is simple. Like it’s obvious, and your lack of understanding is an inconvenience that he’s rapidly losing patience with.

You listen, because it is obvious. He’s the captor, you’re the captive. At any moment, at the slightest whim, he could shoot you, strangle you, beat you, or a dozen worse things you can’t imagine for fear of ruining his dinner with your bile. 

He has every advantage and you don’t have anything but the shapeless hoodie and sweatpants he gave you. Here, you are nothing and he is everything.

So with shaking hands and tears streaming down your face nearly the entire time, you listen. 

You find a pan – he doesn’t help you and it’s incredibly awkward to try and dig around in unfamiliar cabinets without turning your back to him, but you manage it – and get the burner turned on. He steps out of the doorway again, still watching you from the hallway, and that gives you just enough bravery to inch towards the fridge, snatching the butter from it like he might lurch forward at any minute. 

It’s a good cut of meat. A ribeye, think and with not much fat on it. You’ve worked in the resturaunt business for a long time and it’s obvious to you that this is cut by a local butcher, not some packing plant. This is fresh. 

You have to stand with your back to the counter beside the stove to keep him in your eyeline. He doesn’t seem to mind, though the black balaclava covering him from scalp to neckline keeps almost all of his expressions a mystery to you. 

“How do you want it?” You manage to ask, after what must be five minutes of psyching yourself up internally and darting your eyes between him and the meat. 

“Rare,” he says, and you find that you’re not exactly surprised by his answer.

Basting the meat is the hardest part, but you manage. You’ve watched your father do this since you were born, spent countless nights in the corner of your parent’s restaurant watching line cooks and chefs and dishwashers and paying them all far more attention than you ever did your homework, nodding off in class the next day because the restaurant was open until eleven and your parents never once left early.

You could cook this meat in your sleep. Even with his minimal ingredients (he just shakes his head when you ask where the garlic is, and you quickly realize the only seasonings you have to work with are salt and pepper), you’re confident that the meat has come out tender and juicy, if flavorless. 

There are no sides. No drinks. No dessert. If you’d made this meal for either one of your parents, they’d lecture you for so long that the steak would go stone cold. 

You don’t have a plate to serve it on. When you ask tentatively about the dishes, voice hardly audible to even you, the man doesn’t answer. 

He instead begins to stride towards you, sending you careening around the island to try and keep as far from him as possible, hips crashing into the sharp edges of the counter and socks slipping across the tile. He ignores you completely as he leans over the over, sniffing loudly. 

You’ve thrown yourself, completely unintentionally, to the side of the counter with a large and well-stocked knife block. Before you even really think about it, you’re gripping a carving knife with both hands and holding it straight out in front of you, like you’re hoping he runs into you and impales himself. It’s probably your best bet, considering your knees are nearly knocking and barely holding you up.

He is entirely unconcerned by you. He grabs an oven mitt that was either always black or has been scorched so badly that it’s been darkened, the back of it split with its thin lining peeking out, and grabs the cast-iron by its handle, turning back to the rest of the kitchen. 

He snorts when he sees you, the sound distinctly amused and unafraid. “You think you could hurt me? With that thing?”

You may be shaking in fear, the knife quivering in front of you even with your knuckles clenched so tight they nearly spasm, but you still manage to find yourself almost offended.

“I’ll stab you,” you threaten, voice quiet but the steadiest it’s been since you woke up in that damp basement. “I’ll do it.”

The cheeks of the balaclava pull up, the imprint of his lips clear throught the fabric as he smiles, an indent where his teeth must be. “Don’t think you’ll like what happens if you try, pet.”

He steps around the island again, striding for the door and completely dismissing you. At least, that’s what you think until he calls, “Follow,” over his shoulder, like you’re an animal being called to heel.

The dining room is visible from the kitchen, a section of one wall carved out so you can see into each room from the other. You only lose sight of him for a second before he reappears on the other side of the wall, heading to sit at the table. 

The room has a horrible dark red carpet, the walls the same old-fashioned panneling as the hallway he’d dragged you down hardly an hour earlier. He seats himself at the head of a small rectangular table. It’s the only chair in the room despite the fact that five more could easily fit at the table, one leg shorter than the other. There’s nothing on the walls, no decor anywhere, just one table and one chair for one man.

You linger in the doorway, shifty and nervous, halfway to rushing back to the kitchen if only for some deluded sense of familiarity you’ve already built. 

“Don’t make me chase you,” he warns, eyes narrowing into a brief glare before he drops the pan in front of himself, silverware already set at his place, cast iron still smoking. “Neither of us’ll like it if you ruin my meal, bird.”

Then, he digs in. 

You’ve seen a lot of people eat. More people than you can count, in fact. You’ve seen them eat good food, bad food, life-changingly good and life-changingly bad food. As a child you’d been fascinated by the expressions on customers’ faces when they tried something new for the first time.

A woman with her eyes squeezed shut and eyebrows raised high as she bites into a new chocolate cake recipe your mother spent weeks making you taste test, moaning so loudly her husband had blushed. A man nearly collapsing over his bowl of soup on a cold winter day, just barely keeping his tie from falling into it as he desperately shoveled another bite into his mouth. You’ve seen people cry over your father’s wagyu, pepper your mother’s face with kisses after tasting her dacquoise.

This man eats like none you’ve ever seen before.

He’s like an animal. It takes him just a second to push his mask up to his nose, revealing pale skin decorated with atrophic and keloid scars both, then he’s pulling the pan as close to his chest as he can and hunching over it like a predator guarding its kill. 

He seems entirely unworried about burning his wrists on the edges of the pan, instead focused on tearing his steak into barely bite sized pieces with his fork and messily rubbing it in the extra butter still pooling in the bottom of the pan. 

He doesn’t even pick the first piece up with his fork. He pinches it between two fingers and pushes it between thin, scarred lips, ignoring what must be a burn on his fingertips. He chews twice, then swallows. His digits shine under the low light of his dining room, juice from the meat dripping down his fingers to cover his hand, nails choppy and with a little piece of fat stuck under one until he digs it out with his tooth.

You gape as he does it again and again, pushing two, then three pieces into his mouth at once as he works through the meat. 

It was a massive steak. It took more than half an hour to cook, if the clock on his stove is right. It’s gone in less than five minutes.

He moans as he eats, nearly pornographic in a way that makes you shift in discomfort. The steak is rare enough that the juice dripping from it is pink, the meat itself a brighter color than the man’s thin lips. Juice sluices down his chin as he chews with his mouth open, bits of the meat caught between crooked teeth. 

When he gets to the last piece of the cut, half of it submerged in butter, he holds it in front of himself for just a moment. Then, he turns to you for the first time since he left the kitchen.

His lips are flat, expressionless, as he holds the piece of steak up in front of himself. His elbow is planted firmly on the table to keep his hand in his eyeline, and he looks at you expectantly, silent. 

Your stomach growls, loud enough for him to hear. His lips twitch up in a smirk before he smothers it. You glare. You have no idea how long the drugs knocked you out for, how many days it’s been since your breakfast omlette. Standing over the oven, smelling the steak as it cooked, has made you hungry. 

The two of you are silent as you inch forward, hardly daring to lift your feet from the carpet. It doesn’t take you very long to reach the table, not when the room is as small as it is.

You shift the knife to just your dominant hand, your now free hand reaching forward slowly as you keep your eyes trained on his. The steak is still so hot that steam is still curling from the pink center of it, right between his eyes. He’s still as a statue.

Then, the second your fingertips brush the meat, he snatches it back, slipping it between his lips. 

You flinch back as your mouth drops open, offended and startled by his sudden movement. Your fist tightens around the knife, no longer so limp at your side. 

He chews with his mouth open, smiling meanly at you. His teeth are stained pink from the juices, and you think for a moment that it almost looks like his gums are melting. 

“Forget your manners, pet?’ He asks, only swallowing once he’s finished talking.

You wince at the lack of manners, your p’s and q’s brow beaten into you with a stiff wooden spoon to the back of your hand when you were young, shocked to see someone ignore what you’ve always seen as instinctual and then ask you about manners. “What?”

He leans forward in his seat, greasy hand set on his jean-clad knee. “You didn’t say please.”

You blink at him, caught in some sort of trance that you have no idea how to pull yourself out from. “Oh.”

He sits, still and silent, for several long moments, belly rising and falling beneath his folded fingers, before speaking again. “You’ll call me Ghost while you’re here.”

Your brows furrow a bit but you nod, fingers trembling where they rest limp against your thighs, knife almost entirely forgotten in this almost-hypnosis he’s dragged you into. You can’t quite make your lips move enough to give him a verbal answer, but he seems to accept the nod. 

He snorts, eyes narrowed as he looks at you. He doesn’t even have to tilt his head up even though he’s the one sitting. The realization makes you sweat, something hot igniting low in your belly. 

Before you even register that Ghost is moving, he’s snatched the knife from your now-slackened grip. He drops it into the pan immediately, the handle and blade both becoming drenched in the butter. 

You’d nearly forgotten you even had the knife but the lack of it now drags the fear back up your throat, makes your heartbeat louder and your fingertips colder. 

“Don’t need that,” he grunts, leaning back and folding his hands over his belly, fingers sliding against the fabric and already staining. This close, you can see that it hangs over the hem of his pants just enough to cover the button. You swallow thickly. 

“‘S good,” Ghost says, looking you up and down. Just like in the kitchen, the chair and table here are taller than what you used to, like they were tailor made for your captor instead of bought from a store. You’re only barely taller than him even as he sits, but he somehow still manages to make you feel like he’s looking down on you. 

There’s something in you that keeps you from backing away, even though being hardly a foot away from him makes the backs of your eyes sting with tears. It’s like your feet have sunk through the floor, like you’re up to your knees in shag carpeting and you can’t even try to get yourself out until the behemoth before you looks away.

“Congratulations, girl,” he rumbles, lips quirked up into a mean smile. “You just bought yourself a life, right here with me.”

You can’t stop the tears from falling, shaking hands clapped to your mouth in a fruitless attempt to muffle your sob. 

Ghost leans forward, smile growing when you stumble back until the small of your back meets the half-wall. “What’re you cryin’ about, doll?” He lowers his voice, like he’s sharing a joke with you. “Think I won’t treat my new pet well?”

Your heart feels like it’s going to beat so hard it gives out, its galloping thump felt even in your teeth, gums numbing. Your tears blur your vision, but you can see enough to know when he stands from his set, the chair creaking as he scuffs towards you.

He comes into focus when he crouches in front of you, his knees hovering just above your naked feet, toes curling into the carpet in a futile attempt to get as far from him as you can. 

“I won’t,” he says lowly, hot breath gusting over your face and lighting your nerves on fire. “Not until you earn it. Y’hear me?”

Whimpers eek through your fingers at his words. There’s something in his eyes that still looks hungry, little drops of grease dripping from Ghost’s fingers to your toes, and it makes you feel like prey just inches away from the predator’s jaw. 

His hand darts out, smacking your clothed thigh and making you yelp. 

“Don’t fuckin’ ignore me,” he snarls, sharp and sudden anger upon him like a wave, your thigh stinging from his hit. 

You nod as soon as the chain of words connects in your brain to mean something, head bobbing up and down quickly in desperation to avoid any more physical contact.

His eyes narrow, unimpressed. “Repeat it, then.”

“I have to–” you cut yourself off, breath suddering out of you almost painfully. “I have to earn it.”

“Earn what?”

Exasperation mixes with terror, eyelids straining to stay widened, unwilling to miss another twitch from him.

Think I won’t treat my new pet well? He’d said. You have to earn it.

You can’t think of a way to distill that down into a singular answer, not quick enough for him, at least. 

“I don’t– I don’t know,” you sob.

His movement is slow this time, but it’s no more possible for you to avoid his touch than it was when you hadn’t seen anything coming. His hand drags into your hair, nails catching on scalp, and he tugs your head back, slamming it into the wall. 

“Everything,” he hisses, the fabric covering his nose brushing against yours, snot sliding down your fingers. “You earn everything here. You work for it all. Get it?”

You can hardly nod this time, his fingers tightening around the strands of your hair and pulling at your scalp, but thankfully it’s enough for him.

“Good,” he spits, leaning back and standing, dragging you with him. 

Once you’re standing, half crouched to try your best to ease the pain rippling from your head but pushed up on your toes so his hand isn’t practically lifting you, Ghost grabs you by the elbow instead and drags you out of the room before you can even fully realize what’s happening.

He grabs you in the exact spot he had when he’d dragged you to the kitchen in the first place, each finger laid precisely where there were already bruises emerging. His grip so tight you can’t even think of trying to rip away – you imagine your arm would come off your body before Ghost’s hand came off of you. 

He drags you from the dining room and down a small hallway. From what you’ve seen of the house, and what you can remember that isn’t clouded over by a haze of panic, the floor-plan is closed off, more claustrophobic than anything else. 

Every room seems connected by a new hallway and they're each thin enough that you couldn’t walk by the man’s side – the two of you might not even be able to walk chest to chest without somehow getting wedged between the wood-panneling, considering the bulk of him. 

Your toes drag, catching on the warped wood floor as he pulls you behind him. Your hands are wrapped around his wrist in a wasted but desperate attempt to keep everything below his grip from going numb, leaving your choking whines and sobs and pleas to rush out of you, voice bouncing off the panneled walls. 

Ghost ignores you entirely, doesn’t even seem to notice when you dig your nails into his skin and you try your best to yank. 

You start to grasp at the walls, trying to slow his stride in whatever way you can. You have no idea where he’s taking you, no idea what you’d do even if you did somehow manage to break free from him, but you try nonetheless. 

He doesn’t react, no matter how much you scream and hiss, no matter how much you claw and kick and make your body dead weight, nearly breaking your wrist from the way you yank and twist. 

It’s only when your fingers catch on the edge of something thin that you’re given a tangible thing to wrap your hope around.

You only realize it’s a picture frame once you’ve already yanked it from the wall, the photo itself a complete mystery to you.

It’s the adrenaline that makes you pull back and slam the frame glass-first into the side of his head, reaching up as high as you can to make contact. There’s a horrible crack when glass meets fabric, a screech when you drag it down the side of his face, glass catching on mask and skin and more glass.

Ghost doesn’t let you go but he does stumble into the wall, grunting like a bull and batting your opportune weapon like it’s hardly more than an annoying mosquito, sending it crashing to the ground despite your death grip. 

He falls back into the wall, tugs you with him with enough force to nearly knock you off your feet, your head a mix of fear and victory and adrenaline and pain and more fear, coherent thoughts a far-off dream.

“Little fuckin’ cunt,” you hear him spit, heavy boot smashing fallen glass into further pieces as he turns to press you against the wall with his body, heavy and hot against you.

His eyes are raging, scarred lips curled to bare his teeth and little pieces of glass sticking from his skin and balaclava. 

You only have about four drops of blood to speak of for your desperate attack, and with your kidnapper furious and holding you down all you can manage to think is why the fuck did I do that? What was I thinking? 

There’s no room for anything but shame when you’re staring down the barrel of God only knows what he’ll deicde to do to you. 

“Off to a bad fuckin’ start,” he hisses, spittle landing across your cheeks. “Thought I’d be nice to you. Send you off to sleep with hardly a damn scratch.”

Ghost snarls, shakes his head like a beast shaking off fleas. Glass goes flying around his head. You can hardly breathe.

“Tha’s not good enough for you, is it?” He says, hand coming up to lock around your throat. You’d cry out if he left you enough air, but he’s squeezing so tight you can barely get enough breath to stay conscious. 

“You need a heavy hand, ‘s that it, pet? Need someone to show you what happens when you fuckin’ misbehave?” He pulls your head a few inches away from the wall on the last word, slamming you back enough to rattle your brain in your skull, eyes unfocused and hardly seeing and unable to groan with his hand squeezing your airway shut. 

You try to shake your head, can’t manage to do anything more than shift with the grip on your throat. You think, briefly, about how he could snap your neck with one hand. His palm rests over your vocal chords, fingertips pressing against the nape of your neck. A flick of his wrist and you’d be dead. You think your heart may give out, overwhelmed and unable to keep up with everything Ghost is drawing from you, spitting at you.

Capture myopathy, a friend told you once, sitting beside you in a required biology class only one of you was interested in. When a rabbit is so scared that their heart gives out on them and they die. Just like that. Snap. Easy dinner for a fox. Isn’t that sick?

Sick. She’d said. This, you think, is sicker than anything a fox could do to a rabbit. 

“You’re lucky your meat was good,” he says, tone calming into something less rageful and more frustrated, hand loosening enough to let you breathe more easily but still keeping you from speaking. “Don’t mind trainin’ you up knowin’ you’ll be an investment. Just need some work, huh?”

You try your best to nod, eager to pick training over certain death any day. 

He hums, thumb stroking the crease of your skin between neck and shoulder and you can’t stop your shiver.

“Don’t worry, bird.” His teeth gleam when he flashes them, finally leaving your space. He practically throws you in front of him with the hand on your neck, letting it shift to wrap around your nape so he can guide you forward. “I’ve had pets before. All those tears tell me you’ll at least be easier to break in than the boy was.”

You only have a brief moment to wonder who the fuck the boy is, if he’s in this house, and what that could possible mean for you, before Ghost is nudging open a rickety door and nudging you down the stairs. 

He lets you go once you’re firmly on the narrow staircase and taking slow, tentative steps out of fear you’ll miss one in the dark. Ghost takes his hand from you, looming as you make your leaden-footed way down.

You can’t stop your sniffles or your tears, terrified of the nightmares that must be waiting at the bottom of the staircase and back in the basement you’d woken up in. You know some of what waits for you, what the room will look like and what will be in it – Ghost had been with you since he dragged you to the kitchen, there would’ve been no time for him to change anything – but you’ve got no idea what training means or what Ghost will do to you when your feet hit concrete. 

You don’t move any further into the room when you reach the bottom, Ghost easily stepping around you and choosing to ignore you in favor of looking for whatever he’s decided he needs. The sight of a small carabiner with keys latched to one of his belt loops makes your idea of running back up to the door leave as quick as it comes.

“Over here,” Ghost calls, back turned to you as he crouches down and fiddles with something at the wall.

You don’t move, feet anchored to the floor.

He huffs when he doesn’t hear you following him, shifting one knee to rest on the ground so he can turn over his shoulder and level you with an unimpressed look.

“You really want to make me come get you?” He rumbles, and the threat is enough to get you rushing forward then pulling to just as sudden as stop just out of his arm’s reach. 

It doesn’t matter much, you can’t really do anything to stop him when Ghost’s arm darts back to grab you by the knee, his torso leaning back to get a hand on you and tugging you forward. 

You can’t keep yourself from falling to your knees right at his side, nothing around for you to grab onto other than him and even looking at a face-full of concrete you know not to make any unnecessary contact with Ghost, not if you can help it. 

The weight around your neck is sudden and unexpected, his quick movements around your head even moreso. You don’t even have enough time to decide if it would be worth it to try and fight him off before there’s a resolute click, and he’s pulling back with something thick wrapped around his knuckles.

It’s a chain. Silver, hardly a hint of rust on it, thick and well-kept, and leading right back up to your neck.

You don’t put it together until shaky hands come up to press around the- the collar. Thick leather, two or three inches wide, just tight enough that you can feel it on every exhale. 

A collar. A collar with a chain leash, heavy enough that you can feel the hint of pressure pulling you towards Ghost, the length of the chain that’s not tight in his fist resting in loops by his boot. 

You can’t do anything but stare up at him, wide eyed and trembling, can’t begin to think of what to do before he’s standing and tugging you with him.

“Here now,” he grunts, not bothering to give you any time to get to your feet. You sort of stumble after him, knee scraping the ground as your head is jerked along. You can’t let yourself lag at all, not unless you want to get dragged along by your neck.

You feel like you’re moving through quicksand, every move only making things worse for you. Every forced step forward is another step closer to him, every jerk of your head pulls at the hair stuck in the back of the collar that he hadn’t bothered to move before locking it onto you, every panicked breath only serves to keep your breathing short and hitched.

Ghost drops himself onto the small cot pressed against the wall, it’s metal legs creaking under his weight. You can’t straighten fully with how short he keeps the chain, which leves you in a terribly vulnerable hunched position, eye-level with his stomach and bent at the waist, knee throbbing.

“Over my knee,” he rumbles, voice quiet. “Get this over with.”

You stare up at him with wide eyes, panting open-mouthed, drooling. A panicked animal with its leg caught in a trap, unable to do anything but stare up at the jaws closing around its body.

“Please,” you beg, voice hardly a whisper. “Don’t hurt me.”

His eyes are hard behind the mask, mouth a firm line as he looks down at you. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat beneath the thick leather. 

Ghost doesn’t give you another chance to obey. One quick jerk of his hand and you’re toppeling forward, choking on spit and holding your hands out to catch yourself. 

He manhandles you quickly – one hand on the chain yanking it further down, head forced lower than his knee while his other hand grabs you by the hips and hefts you on top of him, elbow jamming itself between your thighs while blood rushes to your head. 

You yelp, legs kicking out as you push at the bed with one hand, the rough ground with the other, throwing your head back and forth as much as you can with the leash giving you almost no room to move.

“Settle,” Ghost hisses. You don’t listen, can’t listen with the way panic alone rules your mind, and in response he lands a harsh smack on the center of your ass, enough to push you forward a few inches.

Your pleas come to a sudden stop, breath stuck in your throat as you absorb the pain, a noticeable sting even through the sweatpants.

“You’re gettin’ fifty,” he grunts when you’ve gone silent, tucking two fingers in the back of your pants and tugging them down, lifting up one knee to lift your torso so he can yank them to your waist. “Take ‘em, then we’re done.”

“No, no, please, God,” you choke, one hand flying to your mouth and pressing against it. Tears stream down your face, cheeks blazing with heat, a horrible mix of terrified and humiliated that leaves you all but limp over his legs.

Ghost snorts above you and you jump when you feel his cold hand make a pass over the fat of your ass. “Won’t be thinkin’ that much longer.”

You only have a brief moment to think hysterically is he making a joke right now? before there’s a horrible pain on your ass, the smack loud in the otherwise silent room.

It takes a second for the pain to hit you, but when it does you yowl. You push up on his thigh with both hands as another smack rains down, pulling as hard as you can against the chain.

“Stop, stop, stop it!” You screech, toes sliding uselessly against the cement as you writhe, all of your struggles doing absolutely nothing to stop his hand from falling again, this time right on the center of both cheeks. 

“Y-You can’t- you can’t d-do this!” You wail, throat filled with tears and snot as you realize you can’t even get close to standing, not with his grip on the chain as immovable as it is. “Stop!”

His next smack is his hardest, his grip around the chain loosening at just the right time to allow you to be sent sprawling over his lap, sobbing at the pain that lights up your backside. It hurts, and now your forehead is nearly pressed to the floor, leaving you completely off balance.

Ghost grunts as he shifts one of his legs, tucking your flailing limbs between his thighs and forcing you to be bent over just the one thigh, knees hovering inches off the ground.

“Stop your fuckin’ wailin’, Christ,” he hisses, peppering you with more spanks, each of them as hard as the last and forcing all the air out of your lungs. “Damn lucky this is all you’re gettin’. I should make you count ‘em, start over every time you get one wrong.”

You cry out at that, wriggling desperately and only serving to push your ass further into the air, trapped on both ends.

“We’d be here all damn night,” Ghost mutters to himself, hardly audible over your fit. “One picture ain’t worth bruisin’ my hand over.”

Your feet just barely brush against his thighs when you manage to kick up, but you’re embarrassed to find that you don’t have the strength to do much more than hang limply in his hold, one hand reluctantly wrapped around his calf to keep yourself from falling to the floor. 

Your tears and sobs don’t stop as he continues his assault on your ass, but there’s a part of you that almost… settles. Not into the pain, not when he’s smacking you hard enough to jolt your body forward and make you wail at every new touch, but into the steadiness of his smacks.

He doesn’t wait more than a second between hits, each spank no heavier or lighter than the last. It hurts, hurts worse than anytime you’ve burned or cut yourself in the kitchen, but after the first minute or so your body comes to expect what’s coming.

That doesn’t make it any easier to handle. You couldn’t stop your crying if you tried, like his hand is resting on your tearducts instead of your ass, squeezing every bit of moisture out of your eyes. 

He stops at some point, hand resting on your cheeks. He squeezes, nails digging in deep, and pulls your cheeks apart. You sniffle at the indignity, free hand covering your eyes as your face crumples.

“Half way through now,” Ghost says, ignoring the way you cry out. You can’t imagine taking one more hit, let alone twenty five. 

He shifts back on the cot and for a moment you have absolutely no idea what’s happening. It’s not until he not-so-gently readjusts your legs, his own laid out flat in front of him with his feet hanging off the cot, your body readjusted so you’re lying properly over his thighs.

It’s more comfortable, certainly, but you’re not sure you want comfortable right now. It feels impossible to imagine the brute above you as thinking of your comfort, completely analogous to his actions and leaving you a confused and weak mess. 

Ghost shifts his hand along with the rest of him, dropping the chain entirely in favor of resting a heavy palm on the back of your neck, equally as effective at keeping you still. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t comment on your heaving breaths or shaking thighs, just lets you breathe with your hands curled beneath your chest and your forehead pressed to the thin sheet covering the cot.

The next spank catches you completely off guard, your body having gone limp and leaving you unprepared for the sudden pain. It reignites your sobbing, your throat on fire from all the screaming you’ve done. You can hear your voice crack as you absorb the pain, shoulder shaking.

“Christ,” Ghost sighs, hand briefly leaving your ass. 

He’s lifting you by your hair a moment later, thick fingers laced through the tresses as he pulls your head back and stuffs something in your mouth. You whimer at the feeling, tongue working at the frankly disgusting taste, brows furrowed.

“Keep that there,” he orders, and you just barely get a glance of the side of his head before he’s shoving you back down, face-first. You realize, blinking slowly, that he’s shoved his mask in your mouth. “Can’t be bothered to teach you to shut the hell up, gonna hafta work on that once you learn how to behave.”

He spanks you again and this time your sob is muffled as you bite down on the fabric and grind it between your teeth. 

His pace is slower now, hand more thudding than stinging. It feels like he’s putting his weight behind every smack, each one delivered with what you’re sure is bruising force. Though truly you can’t tell much of a difference, not with your whole ass already feeling like it’s on fire. 

It gets harder and harder to differentiate between new and old pain as he lays brutal spanks over spots that are already hot and throbbing, varying the strength of each smack this time. You sink into the pain, limp and unable to do anything but take it.

“Better,” Ghost says, the rough pads of his fingers rubbing your scalp when you jerk at the sound of his voice. His next hit lands on the crease between your thigh and your ass, but your whine is almost silent. “Can hear myself think now, for one.”

Another smack, and your body doesn’t even jerk this time. You’re not even fully present in yourself, mind floating. You don’t quite feel like an outside observer, more like you’re just a few inches removed from the situation. All your sensations feel dulled, and you bear the pain as best you can. 

“Can enjoy the sight too,” you hear him say, and suddenly there are pauses between each smack, a little break Ghost takes to rub your glowing ass and thighs as much as he wants before laying another handprint across your soft skin. 

“‘S too bad I don’t fuck where I eat,” he muses, and you groan into the mask at a particularly rough hit. “You don’t take much fightin’. I like that in a girl. Go down real easy with a firm hand, don’t you?”

You shake your head as best as you can, which really isn’t much at all. He snorts at your effort, tightens his fingers to keep your head still.

You’re sapped of all energy, unable to move even as his punishing spanks linger lower on your ass, and even when he bullies a hand between your thighs and spreads your legs.

“Look at that,” he says, voice low. You can feel it through his stomach, goosebumps racing from your ribs to the rest of you. “Dirty girl, are you?”

You’ve got enough wherewithal to try and squeeze your legs shut when his fingers prod at your center, yanked back into your body at the sharp turn from painful to… something else.

He strokes two fingers over your slit, and you groan at just how much slick you can feel him spreading. You have no idea when it happened, have no idea why it happened, but you’re drenched between your thighs. Your cunt feels as hot as your ass, and the realization yanks a horrible little whine from you.

“Guess that wasn’t much of a punishment,” Ghost muses, spreading your lips and letting cool air ghost over you. You feel him blow a breath across you and struggle more than you have since he’d laid you flat across him, knees coming to tuck up under yourself.

“No,” he says simply, landing a horrible, smarting slap to your pussy. It sends you flat to your tummy again, squirming against him and wailing through the pain. It hurts. “Down, girl. No strugglin’ now.”

He only continues to stroke you, now pushing the steadily dripping wetness from your clit to your asshole, making you tense and writhe where you’re pinned, his order ignored.

“Think I’ll do the last few here,” he says, landing another harsh smack to your center, this time focused on your clit. “Make sure you remember your lesson.”

He doesn’t wait any longer, just begins to lay quick, harsh slaps all across your cunt – your spread lips, your hole itself, your clit. Once, even, on your bottom hole, digging his nails into your stinging cheeks to spread you wide for him.

It hurts more than any of the smacks to your ass did, undeniably, but you’re sapped of all energy and find yourself hardly able to cry, let alone struggle. You’re too busy being swept away in a maelstrom of pain-pleasure you’ve never experienced before to even try defending yourself.

Your only option is to lie still and wait for him to finish with you. So that’s all you do.

It feels like it’s been an eternity when he finally stops. 

The hand near your ass gropes you firmly, pinching what you can already feel are tiny little raised spots from where his palm landed the hardest. 

You don’t have the energy to even think of struggling when he finally moves you off him, letting you flop uselessly to the cot as he moves out from under you. There’s the sound of metal clinking, the tension from the collar finally eased as he lets it go completely.

He doesn’t bother to pull your pants up, but he does nudge your legs closed. It’s a bit of decency you didn’t expect from him. 

You can’t do much more than blink wearily at him as Ghost reaches to tug his mask from your mouth, lip curling in disgust at the drops of saliva that fall from it. Good, you think. That’s just the start of what you deserve, bastard.

He crouches in front of you a moment later, bringing his face into full focus in front of you.

He’s… not traditionally attractive, that’s for sure. Even your defeated and exhausted mind can recognize that you would’ve avoided this man had you seen him on the street. Probably would’ve even risked being seen as rude and crossed to another sidewalk before he walked past you. Seeing as this is where you’ve ended up, your instincts wouldn’t have been wrong about him.

He’s got a square head and blond hair buzzed close to the scalp. The scars you’d seen across his cheeks and jaw extend further up his face, something textured across his temple that you can’t guess the cause of, eyebrows patchy and only half-grown in from burns, little bumps decorating his scalp.

But there’s something captivating about him. In his eyes, maybe, such a dark blue that you can only tell they’re not brown because he’s hardly a foot from you. There’s something about him that says look at me. Don’t forget where I am.

Though maybe, you think deliriously, you’re only thinking that because he’s the captor who just spanked your ass raw and dragged his fingers through your cunt.

“Rule one,” Ghost rumbles quietly, breath gusting over your lips. “You hurt me, I hurt you. Heard?”

It takes all the energy you have left to nod, eyes falling shut even as the little prey voice in the back of your head screams at the danger so near, never mind that you haven’t been able to do anything to keep him from you. You’re too loud to listen to the voice anyways, only a very distant part of you acknowledging it as you slip into a sort of half-sleep.

You don’t hear him leave.

From there you settle, bizarrely, into a routine. 

Every day begins with you waking up in the basement. Always before Ghost comes to get you, some primal instinct buried deep knowing that you need enough time every morning to brace yourself for seeing him.

He locks the chain, the leash, to a hook on the wall a couple feet above your cot every night, the key to the padlock always left on him. The chain is long enough to give you plenty of room to roll and shift in bed at night but it’s too short for you to reach the small bathroom across the basement. There’s no clock for you to keep track of time with but you spend what must be half an hour every morning just sitting on the cot, waiting for Ghost to come get you.

He’s always nearly stumbling when he comes down the basement stairs to fetch you, sleep keeping his bones heavy. It’s only in the mornings when you see him with his shoulders hunched, movements weighted down, any other time he’s perfectly alert. 

You think, at first, that your best shot at trying to hurt him would be in those early mornings when he’s groggy and slow moving, but Ghost never lets you off the chain when he’s like that. It’s always after he’s stiffened up, shoulders rolling back and permanent-scowl firmly back in place.

He’ll unhook the chain from the wall first, rarely saying a word as he half-drags-half-leads you over to the bathroom, doesn’t let you close the door while you do your business and shower.

(There’s a way he looks at you in the morning, when he’s at his rawest. Something animal and hungry in a way you don’t see even when you serve him his meals, pupils blown and lingering on your curves, unabashedly staring at your ass when you glance over your shoulder at him.

It had been terrible, at first, to get naked in front of him. He’d just stare, and most days you could see his hardness tenting his pants. Hell, some days he came down the stairs with his cock making itself plenty known, not a speck of shame in him.

You’d once listened to him jack himself off while you were in the shower. You’d had to step over the puddle of cum on the tile when he’d tugged you out of the room, nearly slipped into it when he’d pulled you just a little more harshly than usual.)

The chain stays in the basement, always unlatched from your throat along with the collar before he shepherds you up the creaky stairs, never much more than a foot or two away from you. 

Then, breakfast. 

It had taken a while for you to really believe him after he’d said you were only there to cook. What kind of person kidnaps a woman just to keep her as a private chef? But days went by where he never once touched you any more than necessary to get the collar on and off, his only reaction to your body a seemingly unintentional erection and usually ignored when you were naked. 

Days, weeks pass where all you do is cook. Three meals a day, snacks when he’s hungry (which seems to be always). 

Ghost’s cabinets were bare the first week of your captivity. He had enough meat in his freezer to last him months, but little else. There was a loaf of bread on the counter, a few condiments in the fridge with crusted lids and misshaped bottles, and some cans of soup in the pantry. Nothing else. He’d drop a cut of meat on the counter and expect you to work with it and seemed plenty content when you served him the blandest roast chicken of your life.

It took you three days until you worked up the nerve to ask him to go grocery shopping. It was the first thing you said to him that wasn’t a plea for your freedom. 

You’d been terrified that you’d end up face down ass up over his thighs again, your ass still bruised from his first punishment and his subsequent much quicker corrections. But he’d hardly reacted, had just given you a piece of paper and a short pencil with bite-marks on the eraser, told you to write what you thought you needed.

He locked you in the basement for hours (you tracked the sun through the sole window as best you could, left behind fear and anger for boredom around what you guessed was the three hour mark) when he left. Briefly, you’d regretted asking in the first place. If the bastard wanted to eat nothing but protein and die of a nutrient deficiency, who were you to stop him? It would serve him right.

But you have nightmares, sometimes, of being stuck in the basement. Your captor dead in his bed, fallen to the bathroom floor with his head cracked open, bleeding out in the forest one of the times he goes off hunting. And you, stuck here, chained to a wall. No key, no way out, no one to find you.

A part of you had breathed a sigh of relief when he came home, letting you up to the kitchen and supervising while you dug through the plastic bags and put everything where you wanted it.

He doesn’t… do much during the days, is the thing.

He goes hunting, sometimes. You find that that seems to be his most consistent outing. He’ll spend hours out there at a time, sometimes coming back with nothing and other times coming back with a twelve-point buck you watch him drain through the kitchen window. He also has to keep his weapons – his many, many weapons – in shape, and you find that it’s not rare to spend an afternoon watching him clean guns or sharpen knives.

You enjoy his hunting moods most. He’ll disappear for hours on end to even find his kill, then spend days skinning and preparing the meat, then doing whatever it is he does in his shed with the bits of the body he doesn’t bring you to cook. Those days spent in the forest or the shed for him guarantee you hours of time alone, which isn’t nearly so miserable when he doesn’t keep you in the basement. 

Sometimes he goes out after dinner. You’ll hear the front door slam shut after he locks you up in the basement, his truck’s old engine loud enough to be obvious when he revs it. You’re never sure where he goes, who he might even go with since he never takes calls, but you also have little interest in asking.

But most nights he watches TV. Almost exclusively old VHS recordings of The Price is Right, Wheel of Fortune, Password, and shows so out-of-date you’re sure you could count the pixels on the screen. He’ll roll himself a blunt and relax into an old recliner with cracked leather, eyes half-lidded and hazy.

(You watched him rest a hand in his pants, once. He hadn’t even been focusing on the TV, eyes far away and breathing heavy as he stroked himself slowly beneath his jeans. You don’t even think he finished, he was just… relaxing. You’d decided to just be glad he wasn’t coming after you for that job.)

Sometimes he’ll watch the same Manchester United games every night for a week straight, grunt approvingly or shout at the TV at the same points no matter how many times you’ve seen him watch it. By the end of your first month in his captivity, you could guess who scored every goal in the team’s 2012 championship game. You have absolutely no idea why he doesn’t just turn on the newest games.

You learn quickly that Ghost mounted a hook to nearly every wall in the house, and that he’s not shy about chaining you in the same place for hours at a time and leaving you to your own non-existent devices while he lumbers off. You spend the most time in the kitchen, undoubtedly, but you find that the horrible plush carpet in his living room isn’t too uncomfortable to sit on either.

It doesn’t take many days for your fear to turn to boredom, is the thing. Absolute, complete, mind-numbing boredom. There’s simply nothing to do but watch Ghost, and for a kidnapper he’s turned out to be spectacularly uninteresting. 

He’d laid out the rules in the first few days. You hurt him, he hurts you. Listen to his orders, don’t make him repeat himself. Don’t try to escape, you won’t find anyone to help anyway and he doesn’t want to chase you down. Don’t try to fuck with the food you make him, he expects good meals consistently.

It had been the third you’d struggled most with, though you could hardly blame yourself. You’d thought he was going to make you bleed when he caught you trying to throw yourself out of a recently-broken window.

He’d taken you over his lap a few more times for smaller infractions too. To make sure the lessons stick, he’d said. They did. Ghost hits hard, and even after just his first punishment you’d been plenty cowed. You don’t give him many reasons to punish you again.

The bright spots in your life are, as they have always seemed to be, food orientated.

There’s a part of you that hates how much time you think of ways to quite literally serve him, but you have nothing else to do. He may enjoy his shows, but after about two weeks you think you may go insane if you have to focus on much more Tom Kennedy in an other-wise silent house. 

You spend long hours staring out his windows at the foggy forest surrounding the cabin, running through the recipes you’d wanted to try before you’d been taken, notes for your parents’ dishes that were never listened to, plans on what you could make for Ghost himself with what he would provide.

And he does. Provide, that is. He provides plenty.

The fifth day of your captivity, he drops a chicken carcass on the wood island. Whole, unplucked, the blood from its neck still drying.

“I can’t…” You start, hesitating at the doorway to the kitchen as he moves further in. “I’m not a butcher. I can’t cook it like that.”

Ghost looks over at you, mask covering his expression. You find that it’s a fifty-fifty chance he doesn’t pull it on in the morning, dependent on some factor you’re not allowed to know.

“I’ll cut it up,” he grunts, turning his back to you and tugging a drawer open, digging around noisily. “Don’t need you to do anythin’ but cook it.”

You shift from foot to foot as he turns back to the bird, empty trash bag at his side and carving knife in his hand. 

For a man who you’ve always assumed to be inept in the kitchen, he handles the bird like a professional. He has it plucked in less than a minute, his mess minimal.

His butchering is less impressive, though no less effective. He’s a bit of a slob with his cuts, reckless with his knife in a way that has you craning your neck to see just how much breast is left on the bone. 

Ghost is slow-moving, careful in a way you’ve never seen him when he pops the thigh from the leg joint. It must’ve been a well-fed bird during its life, there’s plenty of meat for his thumb to dig into as he carefully rotates and pulls, not too much strength but not too little. A balance he seems to struggle to find before the thigh finally pops away from the body easily, and he moves on.

It’s… intimate is the wrong word, but it’s not far off. His hands – damp from being washed, something you’d been glad to see him do without you needing to draw his attention back to you – are shiny with the bird’s juices covering them, his thick fingers brutalizing the delicate, pale meat. The job is done quickly and cleanly enough to leave you plenty of meat.

He doesn’t butcher it completely for you. He leaves the wing connected to the breast, the breast and the tenderloin one large piece of meat when he lays his carving knife on the counter. His most precise cuts are around the oysters, each of them dug out and set to the side quickly. 

It’s not a quiet process, his knife cutting through bone and joint. But it feels particularly loud with the only other sound the soft humming of the fridge, the call of a bird outside the window. 

You feel squirmy for reasons you can’t quite place when he’s finished, bird butchered and glistening under the dim kitchen light. The look he gives you, heavy and stifling, doesn’t help. 

You make him get mason jars next time he goes to the store, mourning all the stock that goes to waste because you’ve got no way to store it. He praises the tenderloins you make for dinner that night, voice rough in a way that makes your cheeks heat.

Most of the food he buys for you to work with is store-bought, but the meat continues to be fresh. He enjoys the food most when he kills it himself – he moans when he bites into a piece of duck in a way that you feel no shame in calling pornographic – but you learn that he’ll settle for anything fresh.

There’s a calendar on the inside of the pantry. 

It’s an old military one, each of the pictures a dramatic shot of a soldier, covered in filth more often than not and staring across some sort of beautiful landscape. It’s from 2014, each of the pages worn and ripped where fingers have pinched and flipped. Each of the days is already marked off with an X in the box, some of them even with little notes written in different colors from over the years.

G birthday in Lancaster

S appointment - needs ride

L retirement on base

You know when he flips it to read June that you’ve been with him a month. You’re not happy, far from it, but you don’t spend everyday shaking in fear. 

You know what to expect from Ghost, he knows what he expects from you, and you’ve settled into an almost-peaceful cohabitation. 

He takes to ordering you prettier clothes about halfway through your second week. Sweatpants get traded in for sundresses and uncomfortably tiny shorts, sweatshirts exchanged for cardigans and low-back tank-tops. 

Some days, watching him feed the chickens through the window in your daisy-print sundress and flour-covered apron, you feel almost like a homesteader’s wife.

If not for the chains hanging from the walls, of course. 

You’re wearing one of those dresses when Ghost comes to visit you in the kitchen, nearly six weeks after he’d taken you.

He’d been letting you wander the house off-leash more and more, in small doses. Whether confident in his ability to catch you or your inability to get far from the cabin, you’re not sure, but you’re thankful nonetheless. You’re still a little sore from your last escape attempt, ass smarting from his belt, and haven’t quite gotten into your head to try again yet.

You’re leaning over the counter, tasting a fresh brownie from the middle of the pan while he smokes with his Wheel of Fortune on, having sent you off with a pat on the ass and a I want somethin’ sweet, doll. 

You’ve never been nearly as good at baking as you have cooking, and you’re not sure you’ve perfected your brownie recipe yet. But you’ve always had a bit of a sweet tooth, and Ghost keeps his house cold. Biting into a still-steaming gooey brownie, the top just enough of a crust to give the bite texture, the chocolate melting into your tongue, is one of the best things you’ve done since you first woke up in that basement. 

You don’t realize you’ve made a noise until there’s an echo behind you, Ghost’s groan so quiet it’s nearly drowned out by the TV in the other room.

You jerk back from the counter, hands braced on the rounded corner as you look over your shoulder, sure that there’s a pipe groaning in the wall.

Instead you see your kidnapper, already hardly a step away and boxing you into the counter, hulking body smothering you with ease.

Your spine goes ramrod straight, brownie abandoned in its pan as he presses himself into you, hard chest pushing against your softer back. You’re silent, stiff, too surprised and scared to do more than wait. 

“‘S got you moanin’ in here?” Ghost rumbles, heavy against you. “Thought I said I wanted a treat.”

“I–” You gasp, arching when he presses his hips into you. His sweatpants don’t do anything to disguise his length and you can feel every inch of him against your back. “I–I made brownies.”

“Hm…” One hand comes to rest on your hip, his head lowering enough that you can see his profile in your peripheral. “Let’s have it then.”

You don’t move at first, fingertips tingling and lips pressed tightly together.

He huffs, smacks your ass once. He pushes the fabric of your dress up just enough to clip your skin, simple granny panties doing little to soften the blow. You gasp and jerk forward, soft stomach pressing into the counter.

“Give me one,” he says, hand rubbing where he’d just spanked, fingertips just dipping under the edge of your underwear. “C’mon, bird, I want a bite.”

Your fingers quiver as you lift the brownie in your hand to his lips, holding it just over his shoulder as he feels you up with both hands, roughly kneading the cheeks of your ass as you try to stay as still as possible.

Ghost gives you more of his weight and bites the brownie, the sharp edges of his teeth scraping your knuckles. You jump at the feeling, unwittingly grinding yourself against him. 

“Fuck, pet,” he moans, face dropping to rest his forehead against your temple. You can do nothing but stare at the cabinet. “That’s fuckin’ delicious. I need another bite.”

You’re reaching towards the pan to cut him another piece when you realize he’s shifting to his knees behind you.

“Ghost,” you whine when he takes your hips in his hands, hefting you up so you’re fully resting on the island with your toes unable to even skim the tile. Your eyes are wide as you stare at the backsplash, unable to quite believe what’s happening.

“Hush,” he scolds, and you get a smack to the thigh for your trouble. “I want my sweet thing.”

Ghost eats your cunt the same way he eats your food: voraciously, messily, and shamelessly.

He gives you no warm up, no time to prepare for something he’s only hinted at wanting to do before. There’s one broad swipe of his tongue across your sex, then his lips wrapping around your clit and your eyes rolling back into your skull.

You’re not sure that he cares about your pleasure, but he’s certainly giving you plenty. He licks from cunt to clit again and again, tongue quick and stiff against where you’re sensitive and drawing breathy moans from you, nails scratching uslessly at the counter.

He focuses mostly on your hole, licking up your slick like it’s the best thing his tongue has ever touched and leaving you pushing back for more unconsciously, wanting more than just the tip of his tongue inside you. 

“Greedy,” he huffs when you nearly slip off the counter. He slips two fingers into your leaking hole and you squeal at the stretch, noticeable even with his mouth working you over. “This is for me, not you, pet. Settle down and let me eat.”

You cry out when he laps at your clit, quick, broad licks over the bud and just enough pressure to make your mouth hang open. He gives you almost too much suction, your brain rattling around between your ears when he crooks his fingers and tugs.

He uses just one hand on your thigh and two fingers in your cunt to shove you up the counter, giving him more space to have you practically sitting on his face. He laps around his own fingers, fucking with you just enough to coax more slick for him to drink, your knees knocking against the cabinet.

Eventually, what feels like it must be hours later, you come. The combination of Ghost’s fingers pressing at just the right spot, the suction on your clit and the sound of his mouth against you making you feel insane and finally pushing you over the edge.

It’s heaven, to have him lick and suck you through your orgasm. Your limbs feel tingly, bright white starbusts flying behind your eyes as you go limp across the counter, head pressing against the backsplash.

It isn’t until he doesn’t pull out his fingers, doesn’t pull his tongue away, that you start to feel truly gone, a puppet dancing to his tune, a piece of fruit squeezing whatever juice he wants into his mouth for as long as he wants.

“Not done with you yet,” you hear him murmur, the rumble of his voice against your cunt making you moan from overstimulation. “Gonna drain you dry, pretty thing. Shouldn’t have made yourself so sweet if you didn’t want me taking it all.”

You want to growl that you can’t make yourself taste like anything, but he slips a third finger into your hold, curls his fingers and rubs his knuckles against your g-spot, and you’re coming too hard to even attempt a protest.

By the time he pulls your dress back down and pets your ass, taking a brownie from the pan without even bothering to use the knife to cut himself a piece, there’s nearly as much drool dripping from your mouth as there is your cunt.

From there, your life centers around two things: food and sex. Both of them exist only because of and with Ghost, him your constant companion as you unwillingly grow more and more comfortable in his house. 

You cook him a stew made from cow leg he’d dropped on your counter that morning. Small russet potatoes float in the broth, popped into his mouth whole and swallowed almost as completely, pieces of carrots he chews to mush and celery he avoids, wine soaked meat leaving grease stains down his shirt. 

Ghost puts you on your knees beneath the table, feeds you his cock while he feeds himself your food. You suck him as well as you can, trace your tongue over the thick vein up the side of his cock, ignore the throbbing in your jaw and try to push his foreskin back to suckle on his head.  He wraps his fingers around the base of his cock, doesn’t let himself come until he’s finished with his meal. You can’t tell if his groaning is for your work on the stew or your work beneath the table.

Fuckin’ heaven, that mouth. Want me to send you off with a full belly, huh? Bet you like your meal as much as I like mine.

Half a dozen eggs, scrambled, served with enough bacon to make you feel sick from the smell alone and half-soaked in maple syrup. 

You, needy and desperate, grinding your cunt across his thigh. You lean back as far as you can with your hands carefully resting on the table at your back, desperate to avoid his syrup-sticky fingers, and end up with a view of his cock lancing you. He scoops your slick up with his clean fingers, picks up another piece of bacon and rips it in half, offers you the bit he doesn’t take.

Please, please, Ghost, I need it so bad, it hurts and it’s supposed to, love, I said I wanted a show with my breakfast, didn’t I?

A rack of lamb, sliding off the bone, bites of it shared between Ghost and you as three of his fingers work slowly in and out of your ass, leisurely and for his viewing pleasure more than your own orgasm. Red juices smeared across your lips and face, dripping down his chin and staining his fingers. A thumb on your clit, meat shoved between your teeth as you come. 

Gonna fuck you here too. Gonna make it hurt, listen to you cry a little when I eat. Oh, hush, you’ll be fine, don’t get yourself worked up. Not yet, at least. My cock’ll spread you out at least twice this much, save your tears for when you’ll need ‘em, pet.

Sticky fruit laid across your stomach, cantaloupe and watermelon and kiwi and banana. His fingers picking them off you piece by piece, savoring them as he fucks you hard. You laid flat to the table, legs spread why and throat sore from your cries, the stark difference between the way he relishes the food and the way he fucks you like an animal making you feel wanted in a way that threatens to drown you.

You need it bad, don’t you? Slut. Pretty, tasty, perfect little slut. Fuckin’ squeezin’ my dick off, goddamm, honey. Gonna fuck you full, gonna fill you up and feed you plenty. 

Stir fry you make with hog maw, a recipe you’d never tried before given to you by a girl in cooking school who was set to inherit her parent’s restaurant. His face moving between your cunt and his meal, your whines about a UTI and cross-contamination go ignored, and he holds his bowl beneath your cunt while he strokes your g-spot with two calloused fingers. 

Tightest fuckin’ cunt in the world. Pretty little thing and her pretty little meals, just made for me, huh? ‘S that right, pet? You’re made just for me and my mouth and my cock, hm? Gonna give me a nice little dressing for my food?

A night spent in his bed, after you make him angel-food cake from scratch. Waking up to a cock pressed against your ass, chain leash and collar heavy around your throat and locked around the headboard but the sheets soft under your skin, pillows thick and his own body warm in a way the basement never gets. 

Ghost isn’t awake yet. He’s snoring like a freight train, completely unaware of the way you stare at him in the blue-dark of the early dawn hours. 

The chain is heavy in your hand, cold against your soft palms. You feel almost like you’re in a trance, the world still hazy around its edges as you shift to kneel over him. 

You don’t know how much strength it takes to strangle a person, but evidentially you don’t use enough. 

You wrap the chain tight around either knuckle, press your hands hard into the mattress on either side of his head, and hold your own breath. His snores quiet, his breathing shudders. He coughs once, twice, you feel his hips and legs begin to shift beneath you and you really put your body weight behind your hold. He goes still.

Then, his eyes fly open. 

There’s hardly time for you to think fuck before he’s flipping you onto your stomach, harsh hand shoving you into the mattress while another rips the chain from your hands and pulls.

You wail a breath as your head is pulled back, scalp nearly touching your spine as Ghost forces your back into a steep arch, ass pushed into the air.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he hisses. You can’t tell if the heat in his words is rage or hunger or some sick mix of both, have even less of an idea which one you should be hoping it is. “You tryin’ to fuckin’ kill me?”

You can barely breathe through the anticipation, the fear that’s been gone for so many days suddenly wrapped around you as tight as the collar, but you find enough breath to shout when he lands a horribly heavy hit across your ass. 

“Ghost!” You shout when he only follows it with several more, eyes squeezed shut as he overwhelms you in pain and discomfort.

“What?” He snarls, fingers clipping your cunt and making your squeal. “What, now you don’t like pain? I watched you cream my cock without a single finger in your cunt last night, girl, but this?” Another spank, harder than you’ve ever taken and burning. “This too much for you?”

You huff, squirming as much as you can in your strained position. 

“You wake me up with a goddamn chain around my neck and bitch when I beat your ass for it?” His voice is nearing a shout now, thick with what you’re sure is anger. “You’re gonna try and kill me in my own fuckin’ bed and pitch a fit when I make you sorry?”

You can’t find it in you to do anything but cry, chest tight and eyes squeezed tighter while he doles out punishment, bruising slaps landing anywhere from your cheeks to your cunt to your thighs to your hole, his hand spreading you wide for him.

“Spread,” he grunts eventually, a harsh hand shoving your knees wide. “Need to get to that hole.”

You don’t get to listen, he makes you do what he wants without giving you a chance to, and then lays a dozen terrible, painful smacks to your asshole.

You’re nearly screaming through them all, feet slamming into the bed as the pain rushes through you. He yanks the chain hard when you try to pull forward and bury your face in the pillow, forcing you to keep the tortuous pose he’s holding you to.

You feel the bed rocking with the force of his hits, spit and tears dripping down your face as you can do nothing but lay there and take it. 

“Naughty, naughty fuckin’ thing,” he spits, two rough fingers pushing into your cunt with little care for your cry. “My own little chef tryin’ to strangle me, I can’t fuckin’ believe it. I bring you here to feed me, give you a load in your stomach anytime you need it, and you wrap your leash ‘round my throat?”

“I’m– I’m sorry!” You wail, inconsolable as he roughly rubs a palm over your clit, your cunt quickly getting slick. You’re still damp from the way he’d bent you over earlier, a mix of his and your cum wet between your thighs.

“Not good enough,” Ghost hisses. He quickly fucks his fingers back inside you, once twice, then pulls them out again.

You go taut as a board when those slick fingers move up, towards your far, far tighter hole.

“No,” you gasp, struggling even pinned as you are, a sense of panic shrouding your mind. “No, no, nonono, you can’t, oh God, please, Ghost, don’t–”

Ghost drops the chain in favor of grabbing you by the throat, tearing you back so violently that you’re staring at his sneer upside down. 

“Shut the fuck up.” His spit is tacky when it lands on your cheek, mixing with your tears, and his smile looks evil as he glares down at you. “Gonna make sure you don’t even think of that shit again. Gotta make it hurt if you’re gonna learn a lesson.”

You sob as he lets you go, head finally falling limp to the bed as you turn your face to the side so you can still breathe. You watch as he reaches for a half-full bottle of lube on his bedside table, the label peeling and stained. 

“Gonna cry for me some more?” He coos, laughing when you jump at the cold feel of the lube on your ass, thighs tense with nerves. “You know I like it when you make yourself look silly, pet. Go on, cry all you want. Still gonna fuck you.”

One finger pushes the lube into your ass, then two, then three. He gives you no time to adjust, only one thrust from each digit before he forces you to stretch further, lands slaps across your ass seemingly whenever he feels like it.

“Ghost, pl-ease,” you cry when you feel the hot head of him press against you, sure that it’ll be excruciating. 

He threads a hand into your hair, pulls you up enough that he can bend to speak into your ear.

“You’ll call me Simon while I fuck your ass,” he says, voice low. “I wanna hear you scream it when I hurt you, pet.”

You listen to him against your will, the scream he wanted tearing from you and echoing the sheer pain of being fucked by someone as massive as Ghost with such little prep.

Your hole feels like it’s on fire, the pain racing through the rest of your body and leaving you limp and panting, only able to close your eyes and endure as he mercilessly pushes forward, uncaring of your pained hiccups and cries.

“Simon,” you whine when he bottoms out, warm balls settling against your neglected cunt. “Hurts…”

His laugh is mean, nasty in your ear. “Good, fuck, say it again, girl. Tell me how much it hurts.”

“So bad…” is all you manage, even just those words warbling off into nothing as he pulls out, fucking himself back in with a harsh thrust that nearly chokes you. 

“Can’t believe you tried it,” he huffs, bracing himself over you as he sets a ruthless pace, no consideration for your comfort. You can see the chain in his right hand, feel the way it just barely tugs at your neck with how viciously you’re moving along the bed. “Been waitin’ for you to give me a chance to do this to you, to fuck you up.”

Your fists clench in the sheets as you do your best to breathe through the pain, the slide of the lube only making his thrusts marginally easier to endure.

“Been waitin’ to get my cock in this hole. Wanted to watch you cry and make you put your tears in the food, gape your little hole and make you ride me while I smoke, shit. Tightest ass I’ve ever felt, love, goddamn. ‘S that feel good?” A slap to the side of your face, rousing you. “You feel good with my cock drilling your little ass?”

“No,” you moan, miserable.

“Good,” he hisses, thrusts quickly becoming uncoordinated as he stares down at your ruined face, his eyes gleaming. “You’re so much sweeter when you’re hurtin’, girl. Wanna keep you like this all the time.”

You sob at the idea, already unable to imagine how excruciating it’ll be to sit tomorrow with your ass covered in welts.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Ghost pants, staring at you ravenously. “Cry a little more for me, attagirl…”

You feel his cum shoot deep inside you before his thrusts slow, the heat spreading as he fucked you through his orgasm, face twisted in pleasure. Your tears haven’t slowed, even as the pain lessened and lessened throughout your fucking.

“Fuck, fuck, that feels good,” he breathes, grinding himself against you as he empties the last of himself inside you.

You feel nearly catatonic as he pulls out, only able to whine when he slips free from your hole and then again when he rearranges you on the bed, limbs sore and neck stiff as he continues to hold you by the leash.

“Took it well,” he grunts, shifting to lay on his back again and tossing the lube to the table beside him. “You gonna pull that shit again?”

You sniffle shaking your head no, only verbally answering when he cocks an eyebrow. “No, Simon.”

He smirks. “I’d love if you did,” he whispers, like it’s a secret. “Would love if you gave me another chance to ruin you. Just go ahead, love. I’ll tear into you whenever you want.” He tilts his head, considering for a moment. “Whenever I want too. ‘Cause you’re mine to do whatever I want with, aren’t you?”

You nod, hands tucked beneath your chin as he tugs you closer by the hip, fingers pressing into rapidly developing bruises and making you whimper.

“Yeah, gonna fuck you ‘til you cry as often as I want. And you’ll gimme those tears every time, won’t you?”

All you can do is nod, a part of you calmed and feeling safer as you watch the predator’s teeth pull away from the prey’s neck when he nods.

The plate you balance is larger than your face and still nearly overflowing with food.

It’s filled to the edges with steak, mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, and rolls. You have a bottle of wine tucked under one arm, a corkscrew held between your lips and one glass in your hand as you saunter towards Simon.

“Smells good,” he grunts. You’ve learned that his compliments are concise but rare, and you greedily take in the praise from him. “Enough for us both?”

You snort. There’s enough food on your plate to feed five people, easily. But Ghost’s stomach is never-ending, and you’d made sure that there would be no way he’d go to bed hungry.

He spreads his thighs as you approach, pats one of them like you’re not already lowering yourself to him. He takes the glasses while you lay the plate, setting his silverware to the side as he opens the bottle and fills the glass nearly to the brim.

You hum as you take in a breath of the food, that familiar sense of pride from a meal well-made settling in your chest.

Ghost cuts the food while you lean back on his chest, watching his thick fingers work. 

He lifts one of the little pieces of steak to your mouth once he’s cut it, swiping it through the potatoes and guiding you to look at him with a finger on your jaw.

He presses the tender, rare meat between your lips and you take it greedily, letting your eyes slip shut as you savor the taste. He kisses you almost immediately after, passes his tongue over the food before you can even swallow, but lets you keep it.

You giggle when he pulls back, swiping a thumb over the potato on your lip. He picks himself up another bite, pinches a bit of carrot with his steak and swallows without chewing, a moan slipping from his lips. You feel yourself dampening against his thigh, breath hitching.

“Happy Valentine’s day,” you say, voice quiet and held just between the two of you.

He snorts, ever unromantic. “Eat up, doll. Wanna have you for dessert after a meal this good.”

You smile softly at him, opening your mouth willingly when he lifts a bite of food to your lips.

[yungistiny]

rage mode

[ J. Yunho ]

╚═════════

summary: in which yunho’s roommate likes to test his patience

warning: pissed off yunho, brat reader, slight audophilia, wooyoung is a little perv, slight choking, spanking, unprotected sex

pairing: gamer yunho x afab reader

genre: smut

word count: 2.2k

part two

masterlist

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“Damn it, y/n, stop fucking killing me!”

Yunho’s voice sounded beyond annoyed, borderline completely pissed off. You could hear it in the way there was a slight growl undertone in his deep, tired voice. It was well past midnight, himself and his two roommates along with some of their friends had been playing this new online co op game for the last… 4…. 5 hours? Honestly, Yunho had lost track of the time.

“That’s what you get for getting me killed earlier.” Y/N replied back, her voice filled with amusement and dripping with pettiness. Yunho had half a mind to pause the game, march across the hall to her bedroom and unplug her pc. She had been nonstop killing him for the last hour or so and Yunho was starting to reach his breaking point.

“It’s not fucking funny, y/n! And it wasn’t my fault you and Wooyoung are using the same character.” Yunho snapped into his headset. He had even told his two roommates that choosing the same character to play as would be confusing for everyone and a bad idea. Did they listen? Of fucking course they didn’t. “Y/N, I swear to god!” He growled, avoiding just being shot once again.

“Swear to god,” Yunho could practically hear the smirk she had as y/n teased him, sniping his player with quick precision, a frustrated snarl echoing in her ears from her headset as Yunho was clearly pissed. “what would your mother say?”

“Could you two like… I don’t care, fuck and shut up already?” Jongho was tired of their back and forth bickering. He could practically feel the tension between the two and he was three blocks away in his own apartment.

Yunho and Y/N both shut up, their silence suddenly very loud and noticeable. “Well that shut them the fuck up.” Wooyoung was snickering, San and Jongho both joining him. Both his roommates probably thought Wooyoung was oblivious to their little tryst they had going on but their walls were thin and y/n was very vocal.

“It’s after 2:00 am, I promised Seonghwa I’d meet him for lunch tomorrow.” Y/N was lying straight through her teeth but the guys were none the wiser as she left the game. Yunho sighed in relief to not have her constantly up his ass, actually being able to try and explore the new game and have fun without getting killed every few minutes.

Yunho was so focused in the game now he didn’t see y/n open her bedroom door across the hall, he himself had left his bedroom door open. Y/N glanced down the hall towards Wooyoung’s, his door was shut and she could hear him yelling at Jongho over something in the game. Dropping to her knees, y/n smirked, biting her bottom lip as she crawled quietly across the carpeted floor into Yunho’s room.

She paused a second, taking in his big frame in sitting slightly hunched over in his gaming chair, completely focused on the game, the clicking of the keyboard and mouse loud. The only thing he had on clothing wise was a pair of baggy gray sweatpants. His headset sat atop his messy dyed dirty blonde hair.

Yunho couldn’t hear her movements over Wooyoung and Jongho now the ones arguing in the game through his headset, but he certainly felt her when she brushed against his leg, crawling under his desk. He looked down at her as the game was on the load screen, y/n peeking up at him now between his legs. “What are you doing?” He mouthed so the others wouldn’t hear over the headset.

Y/N only smirked at him. This was payback for not only getting her killed in the game but how he left her edged and on the brink of orgasm the day before. They had gotten into an argument in the living room, something about someone going into Yunho’s room and turning off his pc while he had a game paused.

An argument that eventually lead to Yunho having y/n bent over the couch, a hand gripping her hair, head pulled back as he was hitting it from behind, the lewd noises loud, echoing in the apartment along with y/n loud cries and moans mixed with Yunho’s filthy words.

“You do that shit on purpose, don’t you?” His hand came down hard on her ass causing y/n to jolt forward and giving Yunho the perfect opportunity to grip her waist and yank her back, dick thrusting all the way back inside her aching, edged cunt. “Fucking brat.”

His hand was tangled back in her hair, yanking her up, y/n back against his chest just as keys could be heard at the front door. Yunho had pulled out of her and darted to his room, trying not to trip over his own feet. Y/N had snatched her discarded clothes up and darted to her own room just before Wooyoung walked through the door.

Yunho clenched his jaw as y/n glided her hands up his legs, fingers grazing his bellybutton before dipping into the waistband of his pants and pulling them back just enough to be able to pull his hardening dick free.

His dick always betrayed him when it came to her. “This is what you get for leaving me to finish myself yesterday.” She wrapped her hand around him, working a steady rhythm up and down his length until Yunho had to bite his lip to keep from moaning, his dick now fully hard and aching to be buried inside her, mouth, pussy, he wasn’t picky.

“Dude, you good?” Jongho asked when a deep moan escaped Yunho, echoing in his friend’s ears through their headsets when y/n tongue started licking at his tip, hand still jerking him, thumb tracing a prominent vein that had Yunho almost whimpering.

“I…. I yeah… I just stubbed my toe under…. my desk.” It was a terrible lie and it wouldn’t be a good enough excuse to cover up the almost growl that left him when y/n removed her hand to bring his entire length into her mouth, his tip hitting the back of her throat and causing her to gag at the fullness and stretch.

“Ok, what the hell?” This time it was San who called him out. Yunho switched his movements from the mouse to the keyboard, using one hand to continue playing while reaching down to tangle his other hand into y/n hair, gripping it and gaining control, making her slow down the sudden messy, gagging, bob of her head on his dick. “Wooyoung, you just ran right into that fucking sniper!” Yunho ignored San, heart racing, that familiar tightness in his stomach growing.

How Yunho managed to play with one hand y/n had no idea but then again, he was annoyingly good at everything. She could feel he was close, his dick twitching against her tongue as he continued to move her head, fucking her mouth at a steady pace as he continued playing the game. He was biting his bottom lip so hard to keep from making anymore noise, it would be suspicious if he just muted his mic, his friends are nosy and would ask questions.

Suddenly, a loud “FUCK!” left Jongho when his player was killed, loud enough to muffle the deep moan that left Yunho as he came, y/n swallowing every last drop of his release, tears slightly forming at the crease of her eyes due to Yunho pushing her head down as far as he could get her, y/n nose pressed against pelvis.

Yunho released the grip he had on her, his hand moving to cover his mouth as his breathing came out in shallow pants. Y/N gasped for her own breath, wiping at her face before crawling up into Yunho’s lap. He had to mute his mic then. “Are you fucking serious right now? Wooyoung is literally down the hall, my door is open and…”

“Shut up.” Y/N rolled her eyes at him because she honestly just didn’t give a shit anymore. They’d been sneaking around for over two months now and she was tired. So what if their friends found out? The worst they’d do is tease them before finding something else to throw dumb jokes at. “Besides…” she smirked, reaching without Yunho seeing her to unmute his mic. “you’re already getting hard again.”

If Yunho would just look at his computer screen he’d notice the way his friends players were no longer moving. If he wasn’t so distracted by the taste of himself lingering on y/n tongue as she kissed him, he probably would of noticed how Wooyoung, San and Jongho had all grown dead silent through his headset.

“Wait…” Yunho pulled his headset off, carelessly placing it onto his desk, pausing his game. He’d tell the guys he had to use the bathroom or something, whatever. He’d make something up. “Take this off.” He was pulling at y/n shirt, helping her take it off, tossing it behind him somewhere on the floor in his room.

Of course she had no fucking bra on, Yunho dove in, arms wrapping around her, helping y/n to get some friction through her pajama shorts against his dick as he pulled one of her nipples into his mouth.

“No teasing, you did enough of that yesterday.” Y/N pulled at his hair, yanking his head back, Yunho’s lips so plump, face flushed, ears red. “Just fuck me.” Yunho was so lost in her, the mere thought of having his dick buried inside her that he completely forgot his door was open, still no idea that his mic was not on mute.

“Look at you” Yunho was smirking now, hands gripping her waist to hold her still. “so desperate for my dick you almost got us caught.”

Almost? Y/N refrained from smirking back at his cluelessness, instead putting on her best pleading face, lips pouting, moaning his name as she could feel him, hard, pressing against her aching cunt through the silky lilac fabric of her shorts. “Come on, please…” She barely ever begged but she was damn horny. Another reason why she liked to push his buttons, angry Yunho was a complete turn on for her.

Yunho let her go, nodding his head at her as y/n was quick to crawl off his lap and remove her shorts, him lifting his hips in his chair just enough to give space to shove his sweatpants on down his legs, kicking them under his desk. “Ride me.” Yunho’s voice dropped, so deep it had y/n clenching around nothing as he guided her back to straddling him.

Yunho gripped a hand against one of the little arms of his gaming chair to help steady them as y/n own hands pulled herself up using his shoulder for leverage, Yunho’s other hand reaching to help guide his dick into her, moans leaving them both as he filled her to the hilt. Both of Yunho’s hands went to grip at her hips, y/n own going to tug at his hair, the other around his throat.

“Why are we still listening?” San exclaimed over his headset. The lewd noises echoing in their ears from Yunho’s end made it very clear what was going on. “Because it’s fucking hot.” Wooyoung stated, practically whimpering towards the noises of his roommates.

“Wooyoung, you fucking freak.” Jongho teased him before clearing his throat as a rather loud moan escaped Yunho, y/n name on his lips. “Dude, go do something! They’re your roommates.” He could go and tell them to shut the fuck up. The sound of them together a little too hot for all three of them listening. They all had a boner.

“Fuck…. you always feel me up so…. good….” Y/N was a gasping, crying mess. Legs shaking, breathless. She could feel her orgasm ready to burst with every touch of Yunho’s dick hitting her g spot. Her stomach was in knots, eyes practically crossed as he held her arms behind her, using his knees as leverage to pound into her from where she straddled him in his gaming chair.

Yunho was close too, thrusting sloppy and fast, kissing at any part of her skin he could reach from his position. “So fucking good….. so fucking good for me…” he was mumbling, moaning, whining against her throat.

“Mine.” He pulled back, smirking, pupils blown. “My brat.” Two more deep thrusts and y/n was coming with his name a scream ringing from her lips. Four more thrusts and Yunho was coming, filling her so fucking full his legs shook.

They both yelled, Yunho groaning when he broke the fall as their movements caused the chair to rock off balance, plummeting them both to the floor. Yunho’s arms were wrapped tightly around y/n, dick sliding out of her as she slipped up his body. Both of them were panting, breathless, both from post orgasm and the fall.

“Holy shit…” Wooyoung was standing in the doorway, gaze dark as he had been watching them from Yunho’s open bedroom door. It’s not like he meant to, he was gonna knock on Yunho’s door but then… well… he couldn’t fucking look away. His roommates were so fucking hot together. He knew they had to of noticed the prominent hard bulge in his loose black pajama pants.

“You guys want a third?”

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note: am I putting together a gamer yunho full story? well yes!

tag list: @autieofthevalley @hannahlilibet411 @lovinjjong @wisejudgedragonhairdo @soupbinlily @georgeanabanana @yunyuniverse @minkioswoo @ateezswonderland @thuyting @hum4n-e4ter @atinyyuyu @zerefdragn33l

[cloudyluun]

Easy Money | sugar daddy!harry

Summary: What started as a simple transaction—a way to make some quick cash—turns into something far more complicated when Harry refuses to keep things strictly business. He spoils you, adores you, falls for you. But when he finally confesses his feelings, you remind him this was never supposed to be real. The only problem? Somewhere along the way, it became exactly that.

Wordt Count: 8k

A/N: This was a very special request from one of my absolute favourite readers (you know who you are 😉). I had way too much fun writing this, so if you find yourself blushing, looking away from your screen, or needing a cold shower—just know, that was entirely the goal. Enjoy, you little troublemakers. 

Warnings: 

Smut (and a lot of it)

Sugar daddy arrangement turning very real

Power struggles in bed (both of them want control and it gets heated)

Dom!Harry / Bratty!Reader dynamics

Lots of teasing, dirty talk, and tension so thick you could choke on it

Angst & emotional turmoil (Harry catches feelings first and it hurts)

Over-the-top romance (he spoils her, worships her, and claims her)

Explicit language

Mentions of financial struggles

Soft, clingy aftercare that will make you feel things

Read responsibly. Or don’t. Just don’t blame me when Harry Styles takes over your brain. 

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Your phone buzzes with another notification from your bank. You already know what it says before you even look, but the sinking feeling in your stomach urges you to check anyway.

LOW BALANCE ALERT

You sigh, thumb hovering over the notification before swiping it away. As if ignoring it will make the problem disappear.

It doesn’t.

Bills are due. Rent is due. Your student loans are a monster looming over your shoulder, their presence suffocating no matter how much you try to ignore them. Every paycheck disappears the second it hits your account, and no matter how many shifts you pick up or how much you cut back, it’s never enough. The math simply doesn’t math.

You’ve tried everything.

Taking extra hours at work? Done. You’re already stretched thin, running on caffeine and sheer willpower.

Side hustles? Tried. You’ve scoured every "easy ways to make money" list on the internet. You’ve filled out mind-numbing surveys for pennies, signed up for focus groups that never picked you, even considered selling pictures of your feet, only to chicken out the second you realized you had no idea where to even start.

Asking your parents for help? Not an option. The thought alone makes your stomach twist with shame. You’re an adult. You should be able to handle this.

But you’re drowning.

And tonight, after another long shift, after tipping your last few dollars to the bartender in a desperate attempt to pretend you have your life together, you lie in bed, scrolling through your phone, searching for something. A solution. A miracle. A quick fix that doesn’t exist.

Your searches grow more desperate. How to make money fast. How to pay rent when you’re broke. How to get a sugar daddy—

You pause.

The words stare back at you from the search bar, your heart skipping a beat as you realize you actually typed it. You weren’t even thinking. Just letting your thoughts spill out onto the screen, every insane idea passing through your exhausted brain.

But now the idea is there.

And worse—it isn’t immediately repulsive.

It’s not like you don’t know what a sugar baby is. You’ve heard the stories, seen the jokes. Older, rich men paying younger women just to be in their presence. Some arrangements are physical, sure, but plenty aren’t.

And it’s not like you’d actually do it.

…Right?

Your finger hovers over the search results, heartbeat picking up. You tell yourself you’re just curious. Just looking.

Twenty minutes later, you’re staring at the App Store. A bright pink logo sits on your screen, the words SUGAR DADDY APP – FIND YOUR ARRANGEMENT TODAY! flashing below it.

You chew on your lip, pulse thrumming in your ears.

This is insane.

This is absolutely insane.

But what if—

What if it’s just casual meetups? Just talking. Just dinner. Some of these girls are getting their rent paid just for going on dates. What if that could be you? What if this is the answer?

What’s the harm in looking?

Before you can second-guess yourself, your thumb presses download.

The next few minutes pass in a blur. The app opens, welcoming you with a sleek, luxurious design; gold accents, elegant fonts, a promise of “mutually beneficial arrangements.” The signup process is shockingly easy. You pick a username, upload a picture (nothing scandalous, just a cute selfie), and fill out your bio.

“Young, fun, and a great conversationalist. Looking for someone who appreciates good company. Nothing serious.”

That should do.

Messages start coming in immediately.

And it’s exactly what you expected.

Older men with awkward, borderline sleazy messages. Some are direct, offering money in exchange for explicit favors. Others try to be charming but still give off a transactional vibe. None of them make you feel… good.

You sigh, already regretting this. Maybe this was a stupid idea. Maybe you should just—

MATCH!

A notification pops up at the top of your screen. You glance at it, ready to roll your eyes, until you see the name.

Harry.

You blink. That’s… different.

You click on his profile, expecting the same thing you’ve seen all night. But your breath catches.

He’s young. Well—not young, but younger than the rest. Late thirties, maybe early fourties. Sharp jawline, green eyes, a dimple that softens his otherwise serious expression. Dressed in a crisp, expensive-looking suit, but his tattoos peek out from beneath the sleeves, a contradiction that instantly intrigues you.

He doesn’t look like he belongs here.

But then again… neither do you.

Your pulse quickens as you stare at his profile, your fingers hesitating over the keyboard.

What do you even say to someone like him?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitation creeping in. A simple hi feels too basic. A joke might come off as trying too hard. But before you can overthink yourself into oblivion, a new notification pops up.

Harry sent you a message.

Your stomach flips. You exhale, steadying yourself before clicking to open it.

"Didn’t expect to find someone like you on here."

You blink. That’s… not what you expected. There’s no awkward proposition, no sleazy opener, no immediate offer of money in exchange for something degrading. It’s casual, almost intrigued. He follows up before you can reply.

"Not complaining, though. You look like you have good taste in wine."

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. It’s charming. Simple. Not overdone. And weirdly enough it works.

Your eyes flicker back to his profile. It really is almost too good to be true. His pictures look professional, but not in the this was stolen from someone else’s Instagram way. They’re polished but natural. He’s sitting in a sleek black car in one, leaning against a marble bar in another. His bio is short, to the point.

“Successful entrepreneur. Generous. Looking for good company, good conversation, and good wine.”

There’s no cringey flexing. No desperate attempt to lure someone in. Just confidence. And it makes you nervous.

Still, you answer.

"I do. But I don’t let just anyone buy me a glass."

A beat. Then:

"Let me take you to dinner and prove I’m worth it."

Your stomach knots. You tell yourself you should be skeptical, that this is exactly how people end up in shady situations, but… there’s something different about him. He doesn’t reek of desperation. He’s not trying to corner you into anything. If anything, he almost seems amused.

Still, you’re cautious.

"That depends on the restaurant."

His response is instant.

"Le Jardin."

Your breath catches. That’s not just a restaurant. That’s the restaurant. The kind of place that has a six-month waitlist and a menu with no prices because if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.

Before you can even process it, another message pops up.

"I’ll pay you $3,000 just to show up."

You sit up so fast your vision tilts.

Three. Thousand. Dollars.

For dinner? For a couple of hours of your time?

Your heart pounds. Your rent is barely half of that. That kind of money would give you breathing room, let you live for a moment instead of just surviving.

Your fingers tighten around your phone. Your brain is screaming at you to say yes. But a small part of you hesitates.

You’re not stupid. You know nothing comes for free.

"And what do you expect in return?" you finally ask.

His reply is simple.

"Dinner. Conversation. That’s all."

You swallow. You want to believe him. And against your better judgment… you do.

Your fingers shake slightly as you type out your answer.

"Alright. I’m in."

You set the phone down, staring at the screen as the reality of what you just agreed to sinks in.

You tell yourself it’s just transactional.

No expectations.

No strings attached.

So why does it already feel like something else?

You shove that thought aside as you get ready.

You’ve never been to a place like Le Jardin, never even been within walking distance of it, but you know what kind of people dine there. The rich, the powerful, the ones who don’t check price tags or worry about overdraft fees. You’re not one of them, and it makes your stomach twist as you stand in front of your closet, trying to figure out what to wear.

You settle on a sleek black dress—nothing too extravagant, but elegant enough to blend in. You keep your makeup simple, your jewelry minimal, but when you step in front of the mirror, something about your reflection feels different. Almost like you belong in this world. Like you could make someone believe it, even if only for one night.

The car Harry sends for you pulls up right on time. The driver is professional, dressed in a crisp suit, and doesn’t say much beyond a polite, “Miss?” as he opens the door. The ride is smooth, the city lights blurring past the tinted windows, and the entire time, your fingers twitch in your lap.

You tell yourself this is just a dinner. Just a business transaction. Just easy money.

But then you step into the restaurant, and your breath catches.

Le Jardin is breathtaking. Soft golden lighting, high ceilings, waiters gliding between tables like they’re floating. Everything about it screams exclusivity, like you’ve just stepped into a world not meant for people like you.

And then you see him.

Harry.

He stands as soon as he spots you, and for a second, the air shifts.

You were prepared for him to be attractive—you’ve seen his pictures, you knew what to expect—but this? This is something else entirely.

He’s tall, broad, the tailored lines of his suit clinging to him in a way that makes your mouth dry. Dark curls, sharp jaw, green eyes that flicker with something unreadable as he watches you cross the room.

And then he smiles.

Not a smirk, not a cocky I-have-you-right-where-I-want-you grin, but something softer. Something that makes his dimple crease and his eyes warm.

It’s almost disarming.

He pulls out your chair before you can even reach for it. “You look stunning,” he murmurs, his voice a low hum that slides down your spine.

You blink at him, thrown off. You expected arrogance, maybe a smooth line or two, but instead, he sounds almost… genuine.

You let him push in your chair, smoothing your hands over your dress as you settle in. “I try.”

He chuckles, a quiet thing, and as he takes his seat across from you, you realize he hasn’t stopped looking at you.

Not in the way the other men on the app did, like they were already calculating what they’d get out of you. No, this is different. It’s like he’s trying to figure you out, like he’s curious.

The waiter appears, offering an expensive bottle of wine without asking if you’d like to see the menu first. You don’t even know how to pronounce the name, but Harry just nods, thanking the server before turning back to you.

“So,” he says, resting his elbows on the table, fingers laced together. “Tell me something about you.”

You tilt your head. “Like what?”

“Anything.” He shrugs. “Something that’s not in your profile.”

You hesitate. You could give him something basic, something easy. But for some reason, you don’t want to.

“I hate tomatoes,” you say, watching for his reaction.

He blinks. Then laughs. A real, full laugh, his head tipping back slightly.

“Alright,” he says, still smiling. “Not what I expected, but I respect it.”

The conversation flows effortlessly after that. He asks questions—genuine ones—not just about you, but your thoughts, your opinions, things that have nothing to do with the arrangement. And he listens. Really listens. Holding eye contact like he’s hanging onto every word.

The food arrives—meals you can’t even begin to describe, flavors so rich you feel out of place eating them. But Harry makes it easy, never letting the moment feel intimidating.

At one point, he cuts a bite of his dish and lifts it toward you.

“Try this.”

You don’t even think twice. You just let him. Let him feed you, his fingers brushing the corner of your lips as you take the bite.

It doesn’t faze you.

But him?

He’s gone.

It’s subtle—the way his jaw tightens slightly, the way his gaze drops to your mouth for half a second longer than necessary—but you catch it. And for some reason, it makes you smile.

Dessert comes, and he reaches across the table, taking your hand in his. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a soft, absentminded motion, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“Can I see you again?” he asks.

The look in his eyes is something you can’t quite place.

You don’t hesitate.

You nod, lips curling slightly.

You’re getting paid, after all.

That’s what you tell yourself when the gifts start rolling in.

At first, they’re subtle. A bottle of perfume left on your doorstep, the kind you’d never splurge on for yourself. The packaging alone screams luxury, sleek and weighty in your hands. You hesitate before opening the attached note, curiosity bubbling in your chest.

“Reminded me of you. - H”

You roll your eyes, but a small smile tugs at your lips. You spritz a little onto your wrist, inhaling. It’s warm, sensual—notes of vanilla and something darker, richer. Expensive.

And then it doesn’t stop.

A few days later, a box arrives. Big this time. Too big for just perfume. You tear through the pristine wrapping to find a designer handbag nestled inside, the leather buttery soft beneath your fingertips.

Your first thought is: What the fuck?

Your second thought is: How much did this cost?

You barely have time to process before your phone buzzes.

Harry: Saw this and thought of you. Hope you like it.

You blink down at the message, at the bag, then back again.

Is this normal? you wonder. Is this what this arrangement is supposed to look like?

You send back a single text.

You: You’re insane.

His response is immediate.

Harry: I like spoiling you.

You don’t know what to do with that, so you just… let it happen.

At first, it’s funny. It feels like playing a role, stepping into a world you don’t belong in. You make jokes to yourself every time another absurdly expensive thing lands in your lap.

Then come the texts.

They start out simple, routine check-ins that could easily be brushed off.

“Morning, love. Hope today isn’t too stressful.”

“Made it home safe?”

“Sleep well?”

But then they start happening like clockwork.

Every morning, without fail—

“Good morning, darling.”

Every night—

“Sleep tight. Dream of me.”

You laugh when you read that one, shaking your head. It’s charming. Ridiculous.

And then there are the touches.

He kisses your forehead when he greets you, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. When he hands you a drink, his fingers brush yours, lingering a fraction longer than necessary. When you walk into a room together, his hand finds the small of your back, warm and steady, like he’s guiding you, claiming you.

The thing is… you don’t encourage it.

But you also don’t stop it.

Because—if you’re being honest?—it’s kind of cute.

And, really, what’s the harm?

You meet up with him again. And again. It becomes a pattern, slipping into your life with alarming ease. Lavish dinners, expensive outings, stolen moments where he looks at you like you’re something rare, something fragile.

Then, one night, it happens.

You’re seated across from him at a dimly lit restaurant, the hum of soft jazz filling the air. Your wine glass is half-full, your plate mostly cleared, and he’s been watching you all night—watching in that way he does, like he’s memorizing you.

And then, almost absentmindedly, he stirs his drink and murmurs, “Didn’t like being away from you today.”

You barely register his words at first, too focused on the way he swirls the amber liquid in his glass.

But then he looks up.

And there’s something there.

Something warm, something vulnerable.

“Missed you,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

You snort, reaching out without thinking, patting his cheek lightly. “That’s adorable.”

He huffs out a laugh, but he leans into your touch like a man starved, like it means something to him.

And that’s when it hits you.

Like a freight train, like a sucker punch to the ribs.

You’re in it for the money.

He’s in it for love.

You know it now. You’ve known it for a while, haven’t you? If you really take a second to think about it, you’d realize that every expensive gift, every lingering touch, every look of pure, devoted affection was leading up to this.

You should’ve seen it coming.

Maybe you did, but you ignored it. You chose to believe that this was just fun for him the same way it was fun for you. That he was playing along with the fantasy, indulging in the illusion of something deeper—just because he could.

Because it was easy. Because it was nice.

Because it meant neither of you had to be alone.

But Harry?

Harry was never playing.

And tonight proves it.

The restaurant is unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. You knew it would be.

With Harry, everything is excessive. He likes to spoil you, to spend absurd amounts of money just to watch your reaction. It’s fun for him, you think.

But this is different.

This isn’t just extravagant. This is romantic.

The entire penthouse-level dining room is bathed in golden candlelight, the glow flickering off the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the entire city. The table is set for two, an elaborate spread of silverware and delicate wine glasses that you already know you’ll be too nervous to touch. The scent of fresh roses lingers in the air, overwhelming but intentional.

It’s the kind of setup someone arranges when they’re about to propose.

The thought makes something uneasy curl in your stomach.

Harry has been off all evening. Not in an obvious way—no, he’s still charming, still soft-spoken, still perfectly polite.

But he’s quiet.

More than usual.

His touches have been different tonight, too. Deliberate. Lingering. When he pulled out your chair for you, his hands skimmed over your shoulders, his fingers trailing against your skin like he was memorizing the feeling. When he handed you your wine glass, he let his fingertips brush over yours, his touch slow, like he needed it. When you made a joke about the ridiculous amount of forks in front of you, he didn’t just laugh—he looked at you like you’d just hung the moon.

And the way he’s looking at you now?

Like he’s about to say something you won’t be able to take back.

You should stop this.

You should.

But you don’t.

Because you’ve spent so long pretending that this—whatever this is—can exist in some untouchable space. That as long as you don’t acknowledge the shift, as long as you don’t name it, it will stay the same.

But you were wrong.

And Harry?

Harry is about to prove it.

The room is quiet except for the soft hum of music in the background, the flicker of candlelight making shadows dance across his face.

And then—

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Your entire body locks up.

The words don’t register at first, like your brain is physically rejecting them.

Because, no.

No, that’s not what this is.

That’s not what this was ever supposed to be.

You feel your heart hammering against your ribs, something hot crawling up your spine, your throat suddenly too tight, your hands suddenly too still.

You blink.

He’s still looking at you.

Still waiting.

Like this is the moment everything changes. Like this is the moment he’s been waiting for.

Like this is the moment he gets you.

But he doesn’t.

He won’t.

You inhale sharply, your pulse roaring in your ears, the weight of his confession settling onto your chest like a ton of bricks.

His fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours, the warmth of his skin grounding you, holding you there like an anchor. Like he can sense that you’re about to run.

You swallow hard.

“Harry…”

The smile on his lips falters. Barely.

But you notice it.

You notice everything.

The way his fingers twitch. The way his eyes search yours, desperate. The way his jaw clenches, like he already knows.

You have to do this.

You have to say it.

Even if it feels like you’re about to carve him open.

Even if it feels like you’re about to carve yourself open.

You take a breath.

“This isn’t real.”

It’s quiet. A whisper. A tiny, fragile thing.

But it shatters him all the same.

You see it.

The way his entire body stills. The way the warmth drains from his face, his hands slipping away from yours so slowly, so painfully, like he’s forcing himself to let go.

Like he doesn’t want to.

But he has to.

His throat bobs.

His eyes flicker, something shifting in them—something soft breaking, something hopeful dying.

“Not real?” His voice is quiet, hoarse, like it physically hurts him to ask.

You open your mouth.

But nothing comes out.

Because what do you even say?

What could you possibly say to fix this?

To fix him?

To fix the way he’s looking at you like you just ripped the ground out from beneath him?

You weren’t supposed to mean this much to him.

But you do.

And that’s the problem.

The problem isn’t that he loves you.

The problem isn’t that he confessed.

The problem isn’t even that you saw it coming and did nothing to stop it.

The problem is that when he looks at you like this—like this—you don’t want to stop it.

His hands are still cradling your face, his thumbs ghosting over your cheekbones like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. Like if he just holds you tightly enough, he can will you into feeling the same way he does.

And maybe he can.

Because something about the way he’s looking at you now makes something deep in your chest ache. Makes something warm coil low in your stomach, makes your fingers tremble against the tablecloth.

You shouldn’t be here.

You shouldn’t still be sitting in this candlelit penthouse with him.

You should say something sharp and final, put an end to whatever this is before it gets worse. Before he gets hurt. Before you get hurt.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

Because his eyes are flickering over your face like he’s memorizing you. Because his lips are parted, his breath shallow, his chest rising and falling unevenly.

Because when he speaks, his voice is hoarse, wrecked.

“It is for me.”

It knocks the air right out of you.

It’s not pleading. It’s not even a question.

It’s just fact.

And you feel it—God, you feel it.

He has never been playing.

Not once.

Not for a second.

This was always real for him.

And now?

Now, it’s real for you, too.

You should pull away.

You should.

You should tell him you’re sorry, that you never meant to let it get this far, that you never meant to make him fall for you.

But instead—

You tilt your chin up, let your gaze lock with his, let the tension between you thicken and twist until there’s only one way this ends.

“Then make me believe it.”

It’s barely a whisper. But he hears it.

You know he hears it.

Because his entire body reacts—his grip on your face tightening, his lips parting, his chest rising with a sharp inhale.

And then, before you can think, before you can breathe, before you can stop yourself—

His mouth crashes onto yours.

It’s not soft. It’s not careful.

It’s desperate.

It’s months of lingering touches, of stolen glances, of suppressed feelings exploding all at once.

His hands slide from your face to your jaw, tilting your head up, angling you the way he wants, the way he needs. His lips move against yours with a hunger you’ve never felt from him before, all-consuming, his body leaning forward until you have no choice but to grab onto his shirt, fisting the fabric in your hands to keep yourself steady.

You gasp against his mouth, and he groans, deep and guttural, swallowing the sound like it belongs to him. Like you belong to him.

And maybe you do.

His hands are everywhere now—sliding down your neck, tracing your collarbone, curling around your waist as he yanks you toward him. The chair scrapes against the floor as he stands, pulling you up with him, pressing your body flush against his.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

Your fingers slip into his hair, tugging, and he growls, his teeth grazing your bottom lip, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you know you’ll feel it tomorrow.

You don’t care.

You don’t care about any of it anymore.

Not the arrangement.

Not the money.

Not the way you told yourself this wasn’t real.

Because right now, with his lips hot and insistent against yours, his body pressed against you like he needs you to breathe—

It is.

It is real.

And you want more.

“Harry,” you murmur against his mouth, your fingers tugging at his shirt, nails scraping down his back.

He groans, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath ragged. “Say it again.”

You shiver.

His voice is different now. Lower. Rougher.

More possessive.

You lick your lips, tilting your head, letting your nose brush against his. “Harry.”

It’s all he needs.

He moves fast. One second, you’re standing by the table, and the next, he’s walking you backward, his grip firm but gentle, like he’s guiding you, like he’s making sure you want this.

And you do.

God, you do.

The backs of your legs hit something soft—one of the long velvet couches lining the floor-to-ceiling windows—and then he’s pushing you down, following you without hesitation, his hands bracketing your hips, his body pressing you into the cushions.

His lips move from your mouth to your jaw, then lower, kissing, nipping, claiming.

“You have no fucking idea,” he rasps against your skin, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

You arch beneath him, your breath stuttering.

“How long I’ve waited for you,” he murmurs, his hands slipping beneath the hem of your dress, fingers dragging over bare skin.

Your nails dig into his back.

This is different.

This isn’t just sex.

This isn’t just fulfilling an arrangement.

This is him showing you what he means.

This is you finally admitting what you want.

“Then show me,” you breathe.

He does.

Harry doesn’t hesitate.

He surges forward, claiming your lips again, this time slower, deeper—like he’s savoring you, like he’s tasting something he knows he’ll never get enough of. His hands tighten on your body, strong fingers splaying against your ribs, dragging up, up, up, until his thumbs are teasing along the sides of your breasts, just enough to make you arch into him.

A low groan rumbles from his chest, vibrating against your skin as he kisses you harder, as his tongue sweeps against yours in a kiss so deep it steals the breath right out of your lungs.

And then he’s moving, lifting you effortlessly from the couch like you weigh nothing, like you belong in his arms. His grip is strong—possessive—one hand on your thigh, the other curled around your back as he carries you across the room.

His lips never leave yours.

His kisses are slow now, teasing, dragging, pulling soft whimpers from your throat that he swallows like they belong to him.

He walks you straight to the bed, laying you down like you’re something precious, something breakable.

But you’re not breakable.

And when he starts to pull away, you don’t let him.

You grip his shirt, fisting the fabric, yanking him back down until he’s hovering over you, his body caging yours in. His breath is heavy, uneven, his eyes blown wide and desperate.

“You want to take your time?” you murmur, fingers toying with the buttons of his shirt, sliding them through the fabric one by one, teasing.

His jaw clenches.

“I’ve been waiting,” he says, voice low, rough. “For months.”

Your lips curl.

“So why are you still dressed?”

Something snaps.

Harry growls, yanking his shirt off in one swift motion before his hands are back on you, slipping under your dress, pushing the fabric up, exposing skin he’s been dying to touch.

“You think you’re in charge?” he mutters, mouth against your throat, kissing, nipping, dragging his tongue over the spot that makes you shiver.

A smirk plays at your lips.

“I know I am.”

His fingers tighten on your hips. “Not tonight.”

You don’t get the chance to respond before he’s got you flat on your back, hands gripping your wrists, pinning them above your head as he stares down at you, chest heaving.

And fuck, he’s beautiful like this.

Eyes dark, lips swollen, hair falling into his face, body hard and tense against yours.

“You drive me fucking crazy,” he murmurs, voice thick with need, his fingers tracing over the pulse point in your wrist.

“Good,” you whisper back.

His lips crash against yours again, hungrier this time, rougher.

He’s not just kissing you—he’s devouring you.

And you let him.

You moan into his mouth, rolling your hips up, grinding against the hardness pressing between your legs, and he hisses, his grip tightening.

“You’re fucking dangerous,” he groans, dropping his forehead against yours, his breath hot and ragged. “D’you have any idea what you do to me?”

You smile, slow and teasing, tilting your head, lips brushing against his jaw.

“Show me.”

He does.

His hands are everywhere—gripping, caressing, exploring.

He strips you slow, torturous, dragging the straps of your dress down your shoulders, pressing soft, lingering kisses to every inch of exposed skin.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes, his lips brushing over your collarbone, his hands palming your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers, making you gasp.

“Harry,” you whimper, arching into his touch, nails dragging down his back.

He groans, sucking a mark onto your skin, his tongue flicking over it, soothing, before he starts moving lower.

His mouth trails over your ribs, your stomach, his fingers sliding under the waistband of your panties, tugging them down slow, too slow.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, lips brushing over the inside of your thigh.

You squirm beneath him, breath hitching. “You.”

His teeth graze your skin. “Be specific.”

You bite your lip, staring down at him, the way he’s kneeling between your legs, eyes dark and hungry, waiting.

You reach down, threading your fingers into his hair, tugging lightly. “I want your mouth.”

A smirk tugs at his lips.

“Good girl.”

And then his mouth is on you.

You gasp, head falling back against the pillows, fingers tightening in his hair as he licks, sucks, devours you like he’s starved.

It’s overwhelming.

It’s too much and not enough all at once.

His tongue moves slow, deliberate, teasing, and when you let out a breathy moan, he groans against you, gripping your thighs, holding you in place as he eats you like he’s trying to ruin you.

Like he’s claiming you.

Your thighs tremble around his head, pleasure building too fast, too strong, and he knows, because he presses his tongue against your clit, flicking, sucking, driving you insane.

“Harry—fuck—”

“Come for me,” he rasps against your skin, voice rough and commanding, his fingers digging into your thighs. “Come on, baby. Let me feel it.”

And you do.

You unravel beneath him, your body arching, pleasure washing over you in waves as you cry out his name, your fingers tight in his hair.

He works you through it, his mouth never leaving you, softening the strokes of his tongue until you’re panting, trembling beneath him.

Then he’s moving, crawling back up your body, kissing you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue as he pushes his hips against yours.

He’s hard, straining against his pants, and you reach down, palming him through the fabric, making him groan.

“Your turn,” you murmur, eyes dark, wicked.

His breath hitches.

You flip him over, straddling his hips, pinning his wrists to the bed, watching as his pupils dilate, his breath stuttering.

“You like that?” you tease, rolling your hips against him.

His jaw clenches. “You have no idea.”

You smirk. “Then let me show you.”

And you do.

You roll your hips against him, slow and deliberate, feeling the thick press of him still trapped beneath layers of fabric. His breath shudders, his fingers twitch where you’ve got them pinned, but you don’t let up. You grind down again, watching his jaw clench, the way his body tenses beneath you, all muscle and restraint.

“You like being underneath me?” you tease, dragging your nails lightly down his chest, tracing the hard lines of muscle, feeling the way his abs tense at your touch.

His eyes darken. “Don’t push me, love.”

You lean down, just enough for your lips to ghost over his, barely brushing, teasing, taunting. “Or what?”

His breath hitches. Then he growls.

A low, dangerous sound that sends heat pooling between your thighs.

He bucks his hips, trying to shift the power, but you press down harder, hands splaying over his chest, keeping him pinned.

“Fucking hell,” he grits out, head tipping back against the pillows. “You’re a tease.”

You smirk, rolling your hips again, slower this time. “And you love it.”

His hands flex against the sheets, his muscles straining beneath you like he’s dying to grab you, flip you, take back control. But he doesn’t. He lets you have it—for now.

“That’s it,” you murmur, leaning down, trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses over his throat, nipping lightly at his pulse point. “Be good for me.”

He groans, his fingers twitching, desperate to touch.

But you don’t let him.

You grab his wrists again, pressing them firmly into the mattress, locking him in place as you start moving properly, rocking against him, dragging the thick outline of his cock right against your soaked panties.

His breath shudders.

“Jesus fuck,” he rasps, eyes fluttering shut for a second, chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths.

You roll your hips harder, the friction sending pleasure shooting through you, and when he lets out a strangled moan, you smile.

“Poor baby,” you coo, running your tongue along the shell of his ear. “Does it feel good?”

His jaw clenches so hard you think it might break.

“Y’think you’re in charge, hmm?” His voice is thick, rough, dangerous.

Your lips curl as you grind down again, harder this time. “I know I am.”

Something snaps.

In a blink, Harry moves.

One second, you’re in control—the next, you’re not.

With a low, feral growl, he rips his wrists free, grabbing your waist and flipping you onto your back so fast your breath catches. Before you can even react, he’s on you, pressing you into the mattress, his body heavy, his hands rough.

“You think you can tease me like that?” he murmurs, eyes dark and dangerous as he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head.

You inhale sharply, shivering at the sudden shift, at the way he’s towering over you, at the raw hunger in his eyes.

“Maybe I wanted you to break,” you whisper, testing, teasing, pushing.

His grip tightens.

“Fucking hell, you’re a brat.”

You smirk. “And you love it.”

His lips crash against yours.

It’s rough, desperate, all tongue and teeth, like he’s punishing you, like he’s claiming you. You moan into his mouth, arching up, pressing your body to his, feeling the hard lines of him against your softness.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding down to your thighs, spreading you open beneath him as he grinds against you, letting you feel how much he wants this.

“Fuck,” he groans against your lips, rolling his hips harder, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you. “You feel that, baby? Feel what you do to me?”

You whimper, nodding, your head spinning, body thrumming with heat.

“Use your words,” he murmurs, kissing down your neck, sucking hard at your pulse point, leaving marks. Claiming you.

“Yes,” you breathe, hands clutching at his back, nails digging in. “I feel it.”

“Yeah?” He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, dangerous. “You ready to stop playing, then?”

Your breath hitches.

You smirk. “Make me.”

His eyes flash.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, voice low, threatening. “You’re gonna regret that.”

His hand suddenly fists in your hair, tilting your head up just enough for his lips to hover over yours, breaths mingling, tension thick and electric.

“As much as I love watching you think you’re in charge,” he murmurs, his voice thick, deep, commanding, “I need to fuck you. Now.”

A shiver racks through you, but before you can respond, he moves.

In one swift motion, he flips you onto your stomach, pressing you down into the mattress, his hands everywhere—gripping your hips, running up your sides, ghosting over your ribs like he’s savoring every inch of you.

“My turn,” he breathes, dragging your wrists above your head, holding you still as his mouth finds your shoulder, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your heated skin.

You try to shift beneath him, to gain some control back, but his grip tightens, fingers wrapping around your wrists, pinning you down completely.

“Be good for me,” he murmurs against your skin, lips trailing down your back, teeth grazing over already-sensitive spots.

You whimper, squirming, desperate for more, but he takes his time, teasing, torturing, his touch featherlight as he drags his fingers down the curve of your spine, over the swell of your ass.

“You’re too fucking pretty like this,” he mutters, mostly to himself, squeezing your hips, dragging you back against him so you can feel exactly how hard he is. “Fuck, I’ve been waiting for this.”

Your breath stutters, body burning, every nerve alight with anticipation.

“Harry,” you whimper, rolling your hips back, silently begging. “Please.”

He groans, low and dark, his restraint snapping.

“Yeah?” he taunts, lips ghosting over your ear as he presses his chest to your back. “You ready for me, baby?”

You nod frantically, arching against him, needing, aching—

But he still makes you wait.

Dragging his hand between your thighs, he strokes you with maddening slowness, gathering your wetness on his fingers, groaning at how ready you are.

“Fuck,” he grits out. “Dripping for me already?”

You whimper, nodding. “Harry, please—”

Finally, finally, he aligns himself with you, pressing the thick head of his cock against your entrance, teasing, waiting—

“Look at me.”

His voice is commanding, leaving no room for argument.

You turn your head just enough to meet his gaze, your breath catching at the intensity in his eyes—dark, hungry, wild.

He watches you, waiting, holding you there in the moment, making sure you feel it before he gives you what you want.

And then—

He thrusts in.

A strangled moan rips from your throat as he fills you completely, stretching you open, deep and overwhelming.

A guttural groan rumbles from his chest as he buries himself inside you, his grip bruising on your hips, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

“Fuck. Fuck,” he grits out, his voice rough, ragged, vibrating against your skin. His head falls forward, his forehead resting against the nape of your neck, breath hot and uneven. “You’re so—shit, you’re so tight.”

You arch beneath him, back bowing, body tightening around him in response, overwhelmed by the stretch, the fullness of him inside you. It’s almost too much, the way he splits you apart, the way he holds you still, like he’s savoring the feeling, savoring you.

Your hands fist in the sheets, knuckles white as you try to ground yourself, try to keep from losing yourself completely.

He must sense it, the way your body trembles, because his grip softens, fingers splaying over your stomach as he kisses your shoulder, slow and tender.

“Breathe, baby,” he murmurs, voice strained but gentle. He noses along your skin, pressing his lips to the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

His free hand finds yours, threading his fingers through yours against the mattress, grounding you, anchoring you to him.

He stays there for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him before he moves.

And then—

Then he ruins you.

The first thrust is slow, deliberate, pushing deep, making your breath hitch, making your fingers tighten around his.

Then another. And another. Each movement calculated, precise, dragging against every nerve ending inside you, pulling you closer to the edge with every roll of his hips.

His rhythm starts slow, deep—like he’s savoring the feeling of being buried inside you. Like he wants to take his time, to make you feel him, make you remember this.

But it doesn’t last.

The control snaps, his patience evaporating like steam off your overheated skin.

He growls, the sound primal, desperate, as his hands shift—one gripping your hip, the other pressing against the small of your back, keeping you in place as he pounds into you.

The bed shakes beneath you, every thrust sending ripples through your body, pleasure licking up your spine like fire.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans against your mouth, his forehead pressing to yours, lips brushing but never quite kissing, too lost in the moment, too consumed by the way your body wraps around him.

You can barely breathe, barely think, all logic drowned out by the feeling of him inside you, stretching you, filling you, wrecking you.

You meet every thrust, grinding back against him, chasing your high, needing, aching—

He notices, because of course he does.

“Yeah?” he pants, voice rough, strained. “You want it, baby? Want me to fuck you like this?”

You nod frantically, gasping, moaning his name, nails digging into his forearm, marking him, branding him.

He growls at the sting, his hand tightening on your hip, holding you still as he drives into you, faster, harder, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the dimly lit room.

And then—

Then he shifts, pulling out just enough before slamming back in at a new angle, hitting deeper, stroking against that one spot that makes you see stars.

You cry out, arching, body tightening around him, pleasure slamming into you like a tidal wave.

His hand moves from your hip to your thigh, gripping, hitching it up, opening you wider, letting him sink in even deeper, making you feel every inch of him.

“That’s it,” he pants, lips brushing against your temple, damp with sweat. “That’s it, baby. Let go for me.”

His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight, desperate circles.

It’s too much. The pressure, the stretch, the overwhelming intensity of it all.

Your body locks up, toes curling, back arching as your orgasm hits, crashing over you in violent, shattering waves.

You tremble beneath him, gasping his name, clenching around him so tight that he lets out a broken moan, his movements stuttering, losing rhythm.

“Fuck, fuck—”

And then he’s gone, head tilting back, mouth falling open as he lets go, spilling into you with a guttural groan, his entire body tensing before he collapses on top of you.

The only sound in the room is your combined panting, heavy and uneven, the sheets tangled beneath you, bodies still pressed together, skin damp with sweat.

His lips ghost over your shoulder, pressing one last, lingering kiss there before he whispers, voice hoarse and spent—

“Mine.”

The word settles between you like a slow-burning flame, flickering, catching, spreading.

His breath is still uneven, chest rising and falling against yours, his weight a comforting anchor rather than something pressing you down. His arms stay locked around you, like he doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t plan to.

And for the first time, you don’t want him to.

You don’t move. You can’t move.

His fingers start tracing slow, lazy patterns along your spine, light and absentminded, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

His touch isn’t just post-bliss reflex. It’s deliberate.

It’s different.

And you feel it.

You feel it in the way his body stays molded against yours, in the way his lips linger at your temple instead of pulling away, in the way he wants to stay close—like he’s afraid that if he lets go, you’ll disappear.

This was supposed to be an arrangement. A job. A transaction.

But the way he’s looking at you now?

It’s anything but.

You shift slightly beneath him, just enough to see his face, to meet those green eyes that are softer than they should be, searching yours, waiting.

And he knows.

Of course, he knows.

Harry’s always been able to read you better than you’d like.

His fingers drift up to your cheek, thumb brushing against the curve of your jaw, his touch gentle—so unfairly gentle for someone who just ruined you minutes ago.

You should get up.

You should remind him of the rules, of the terms, of the fact that this was never supposed to mean anything.

But the words won’t come.

Because the truth is—

You don’t want to leave.

You don’t want to pull away.

And that realization knocks the breath out of you faster than anything else ever could.

Harry’s eyes flicker down to your lips, back up to your eyes, something vulnerable creeping into his expression before he speaks.

"Tell me you feel it too."

His voice is low, careful, but there’s an edge of uncertainty underneath. Like he’s terrified of your answer.

Like he needs it.

You open your mouth, hesitate—because this is the moment. The moment where everything changes. The moment where you either run, or you jump.

And you jump.

You don’t answer him with words. You don’t have to.

Instead, you reach up, threading your fingers into his hair, pulling him down.

And you kiss him.

Not because you’re supposed to. Not because it’s part of the act.

But because you want to.

Because you don’t want this to be about the money anymore.

Because it isn’t.

Not anymore.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

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[sturniqlo]

COMFORT- SHY!MATT x SHY!READER

summary- matt loves how comfortable darling is around him, it turns him on at certain times (matt being a whole different person in bed.. yum)

cw: SMUT; dom(ish)!matt, p in v, making out, nipple play, oral!f receiving, creampie, FLUFF

an: thank you to this anon (also, this is my first ever shy!matt x darling smut fic, p.s i know the pajama bottoms are actually shorts but pretend they're underwear)

masterlist | shy!matt x shy!reader | join my taglist

------------------------------------------------

it was that point in their relationship where darling was getting very comfortable around matt-and vice versa-, not that she wasn't ever comfortable around him, just comfortable in a different light. she started doing things around him that she would only do when she was alone. one of those things is walk around in her underwear or bra.

"i'm gonna shower really quick." she said with her clothes and towel in hand. "okay, i'll be here." matt smiles as he sits against her headboard her fluffy blanket over his lap. matt being matt, puckers his lips signaling he wants a kiss. darling doesn't think anything of it, in all honestly she loves when he does that, it's become normal for them.

she even catches herself doing it sometimes. "mwah!" she intentionally says as she plants a kiss onto his lips, she can still taste the faint sherbet ice cream they shared. "don't take long, i'll miss you." he teases, squeezing her hip gently. "i'll try not to." she pecks his lips this time before making her way to the bathroom out in the hall.

as matt waited for her, scrolling through her streaming services on her tv, he got up and went down to the kitchen to get a snack. darling's parents were currently out on a camping trip since it was their anniversary weekend. with their permission, matt was able to come and stay over. they trusted matt and darling as they were once young and in love.

he opened the fridge grabbing two cold water bottles as he noticed her water bottle was almost empty. placing both of them on the island counter, matt opened the pantry and scanned the shelves. he saw the half eaten tray of her dad's strawberry danish and held back from grabbing a piece. her dad was serious about his danishes.

opting for some chips and a bit of chocolate chip cookies, he made his way back upstairs into her bedroom. as matt passed the bathroom, he heard the running water and her slight humming to the song she played on low volume.

matt returned back to the room and dug into the snacks he had brought up. still continuing to scroll through the streaming services, he didn't choose anything because he wanted to wait for darling and see what she would want to watch.

he looked around her room noticing small details that she had added. a new sonny angel hipper was added to the back of her flatscreen tv, the calendar matt had gifted her with pictures of them was hung up on her closet door, and a new pair of shoes was added to her shoe rack. he noticed every little detail.

it was about fifteen minutes later when darling walked through the door, her hair up in her designated hair towel. when matt realized what she was wearing, his breath hitched. she wore a white teddy bear tank paired with matching teddy bear boxer like underwear.

she had just started doing this around matt, walking around in her underwear. he cleared his throat as he caught himself watching her as she went into her closet to put her dirty clothes into her hamper. "find something to watch?" she said in a soft tone as she sat in her vanity across the room, watching him through the mirror as she combed her hair. "huh- oh- uh, no. i was uh- i was waiting for you. see what you wanted to watch."

she didn't realize his now worked up state. "you can put modern family back on." darling did her skincare, and lathered herself in her sweet scented lotion that drove matt crazy. he went to hulu to put the show, but he kept glancing back at darling who stood up to lather her legs.

the ends of her underwear rode up slightly and exposed the bottom of her ass cheeks. "shit." he muttered under his breath, shifting in the bed putting the blanket back over his lap. darling came closer to the bed and smiled at matt. "i feel so clean." she giggled, sitting on top of the blanket. "baby, are you not hot?" her dad had cranked up the heater before he left and it was really warm in the house.

"no- no, not really." he nervously chuckled, her scent engulfed his sense of smell. he looked down to play with his fingers, but caught eye of her plump thighs. "well i am. it's like ninety degrees in here." she fanned her tank top. matt stared at her and noticed that she wasn't wearing a bra either.

they were a couple of episodes in and darling ended up laying on her belly towards the end of the bed, which was the worst decision in matt's eyes. the curve of her ass was taunting him. the way it jiggled when she laughed or made a slight movement to get comfy, and the way her underwear rode up more.

darling didn't do it intentionally, in all honesty the thought of matt being worked up didn't cross her mind. she soon sat up and scooted to matt. "i'm bored." she told him, kneeling next to him running a hand through his hair. "what do you wanna do?" he said, his eyes raking up to her eyes and down to her lips.

"are you sure you're okay? you look pretty flustered." she furrows her eyebrows. "baby-" she gasped. "are you.. hard?" he groaned. "darling.. you're- you just look so good." she blushed at his words. "why didn't you tell me? i could've helped you all this time." she moved the blanket off of him and straddled his lap. matt was never one to just ask for sex- he was too shy to do so, he would give her little touches here and there or just stare at her.

"you know why." his hands came to rest on the silver of her skin where her tank top rode up. her hips slowly rolled against his. "baby." his threw his head slightly back. darling took the opportunity to kiss against his neck. matt got hold of her chin and connected their lips in a hungry kiss. "such a tease, hm? wearing your tiny panties around me." his finger dipped into the waistband of her underwear and let it slap against her skin. "mmph!" she whined against his lips.

"can i?" he pulled away from her, their lips red and swollen, his hands slipped under her tank top, looking up at her with pleading eyes. "please- yes." she nodded- she was now as equally as needy as him. matt wasted no time in taking her shirt off. her full, round tits on display for him. "so pretty, darling. so fucking pretty." he growled, taking her right tit into his mouth. his wet, pink tongue swirled around her nipple as he stared up at her, her eyes closed in pleasure.

"matt, oh- shit." her back arched, furthering herself more into matt. "love your tits, babe." he popped off of her nipple, moving onto the left one as his hand came up to knead the one he had in his mouth before.

after some time, he began to trail kisses around her chest up to her collarbone, up her neck eventually making it back to her lips. "lay on the bed f'me. c'mon." he patted the side of her thigh. darling came off of his thigh and laid next to him. matt hovered over her, pressing a few kisses to her neck. his kisses trailed down her body until he reached the hem of her underwear. "matt- please." she looked down at him.

"patience, darling." matt continued to press teasing kisses along her underwear. a wet patch began to form on her panties. "wet already?" he smirked, his finger prodding at the patch. "mhm- so wet for you." she rolled her hips wanting more. after pressing a kiss to her wetness, he hooked his fingers into the fabric and pulled them down. "lift up f'me." she lifted her hips so he'd be able to pull them down her legs.

he tossed the underwater somewhere on the bed, putting her legs over his shoulders. "look at that. pussys so pretty." matt was face to face with her glistening folds that we're aching to be touched. darling shivered when his breath fanned against her wetness.

pressing kisses along her inner thighs, so very close to her core, matt licked and nipped until she was a squirming wanted to be licked where she needed it most. "please, stop- stop teasing." she whined, gripped his hair to try and guide him to her pussy. "am i being mean, hm?" his tongue made very small contact, but quickly pulled away.

matt thought he had teased enough and dipped his tongue into her hole, licking a stripe up to her clit. "oh- yes!" she smiled at the feeling of his warm tongue on her. "so good, darling. taste so good." he lapped up her arousal. sucking on her lips, her back arched at the sensation- the suction around her lips and the vibrations of his muffled moans.

"just like that- fuck!" her hands fisted at the bed sheets as she didn't want to hurt matt's scalp. darlings moans and pants filled the room, her constant whines when matt would pull away for a split second. matt's hands trailed up her body as she continued to eat her out. his fingertips found her tits and he rolled her nipples in between his thumb and forefinger.

he soon pulled away due to the ache in his pants becoming too much. "baby, please let me- let me fuck you." he mumbled as he kissed up her body. he sucked a few marks onto her neck. darlings hands creeped into his hair. "mhm, yes. i want you in me." she whispered into his ear, his hips rolled against her. "yeah?" he bit down on her neck. "so bad, please." she held the sides of his face and stared at him. matt broke into a smug smile, leaning down to press their lips together.

as their lips and tongue clashed together, matt pulled down both his pants and underwear throwing them somewhere. he stroked his hard cock a couple of times, pulling away from the kiss. darling looked down to where his cock was and saw the red leaking tip, her pussy clenched around nothing. "ready f'me?" he said, slapping his dick against her clit. "yes, i'm ready." she nodded, biting her bottom lip.

matt lined his tip up with her wet hole and slowly pushed into her. darling moaned feeling the familiar stretch of matt's cock. "so tight." matt's jaw slacked at her warm walls squeezing him. once he bottomed out, he waited a few moments until she was ready for him to move.

"you can- you can move." she nodded, grabbing onto his shoulders. matt pushed out before thrusting back in making them both moan at the same time. "yes, just like that. faster, baby." darling whined. he accepted her wishes and picked up the speed.

the wet noises, along with their moans, now filled the air in her room. the occasional bang of the headboard against the wall was covered by the lewd noises. "feel you squeezing my cock, darling." he kissed just below her ear. "it's so good, matt. don't stop." her moans continued.

minutes later, matt pulled out causing her to whimper at the loss of contact. "matt- what- what are you doing." her glossy eyes looked up at him. "shh, it's okay, pretty." he pressed a kiss to her lips. "want you to flip over f'me. hands and knees, yeah?" matt knew that her being on all fours made it feel better and deeper for her. she nodded, her damp hair from her shower and the slight sweat made the baby hairs stick along her hairline.

matt got on his knees to give her space to flip over. once she was situated, matt got behind her and caressed the soft and plump skin of her ass. his hand grabbed his dick and ran it up and down her puffy, wet folds. "oh- matt." she arched her back as he circled his tip against her hole. matt didn't ram himself in, but he certainly didn't hold back. her high pitched moans and whimpers began again. only this time they were louder due to the new position and angle.

"f-fuck, you're so deep." she mumbled against the bed sheets. her once hands and knees position turned into her being face down ass up. "yeah? feel me so deep inside of your tummy, babe." his hands came to the side of her ass, holding her as he went in and out of her. "so fucking deep." she repeated.

darling felt the familiar pressure building up in her lower belly, so she began backing her ass into him. matt groaned when he realized what she was doing. "you close, hm?" he groaned, his right hand on her ass and the other on the back of her neck. "yes- yes, so close. don't stop." she cried, wanting her release.

"cum for me. cum all over my dick." matt began to do long, deep strokes. "shit- just like that." the movement in his thrusts brought her more to the edge. her fingers curled into the pillow as she mewled. "i'm- fuck, i'm cumming!" her legs trembled as she released. "that's it, baby. all over my dick, mhm." he thrusted a couple of more times before he felt the familiar sensation.

"babe- i'm close." he gently brought her up to where her back was pressed up against his chest. "cum in me. want all of it, plea- please." she cried, her hand coming behind his head as he nipped at her neck. "oh- shit." his cock twitched inside of her as he came. matt kept messily thrusting against her as he rode his high.

once she started to whine, he stopped as he knew that she had become sensitive. "it's okay, i've got you." he pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder. slowly and carefully he laid her back down, still staying inside of her. "is it okay if i pull out? need to clean you up." she nodded. slowly, he pulled out watching as his cum leaked out of her. matt held back a groan at the sight.

"i'll be back, gonna get some tissue."

when matt finished cleaning her up, they showered together. "baby, c'mere. wanna braid your hair." matt patted his lap. "really? think you got it?" she teased. "i definitely improved since last time." darling sat in between his legs as he worked with her hair. "so it's right over left- no, no. right over left." he muttered to himself.

although he had to restart a couple of times, he finally finished it. matt took a picture and showed her. "alright, what do you think of my masterpiece?" he handed her his phone and wrapped his arms around her waist bringing her into his chest. "it's definitely something, i'll tell you that." she giggled. some parts were pretty loose and in some her hair was sticking out. "hey, i thought i did pretty good." he pouted, his chin resting on her shoulder.

"just gotta keep on practicing." she turned around and booped his nose.

[toomanystoriessolittletime]

lunch break

Summary: Joel forgot his lunch at home. When you get to his work to bring it to him, he has you for lunch instead.

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem. reader

Wordcount: 1.1k

Raiting: E

Warnings: established relationship, no outbreak, breeding kink like woah, smut (unprotected sex, public sex, car sex) dirty talk, a little bit of exhibitionism, fluff too I guess

A/N: look, I don't know, this just happened, okay?

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Full Masterlist // Joel Miller Masterlist

This wasn’t supposed how you thought bringing lunch to Joel would end.

It was supposed to be a quick in and out to the job site, bringing him the lunch he had forgotten before getting back home in time for Sarah to get back from school and take her to the dentist. You had taken the whole day off especially for that because you knew how scared she was to go to the dentist and Joel couldn’t take the day off. 

The project Joel was currently working on was almost a 45 minute drive somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Apparently some billionaire had bought the whole land and was now building a luxury hotel, Miller constructions first big contract they had won. 

It were long and exhausting hours but Joel did it all with a smile. 

Sure, one on one time with him had gotten less and less but you were in it for the long haul with him. So long that you had moved into his place earlier in the year. So long that you had talked about having a baby together. 

Something that very much took the backroad since this project started a couple months ago. Or so you thought as you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, Joel towering over you in the dusty bed of his truck as he pumped his thick cock into you with deep and long strokes, making it hard to keep quiet. 

You weren’t even sure how this happened. 

One moment you walked towards the three containers that had been set up for all the workers, walking towards Joel who was sitting with his back towards you, the next moment he had you under him in his truck bed, panties pushed to the side under the summer dress you had been wearing, making enough room for his cock to fill you, him not having even pulled off his jeans, only pushing it down far enough to free his cock.  

„Not gonna let me hear you, huh?“ He teased, voice low as he leaned in, his lips kissing up your neck, steadily thrusting his cock into you. 

„Don’t want your people to hear,“ you whimpered, one hand in his hair, to keep his mouth right where it was as he sucked softly on that one spot on your neck he knew drove you insane. You crossed your legs behind his back, moaning at the changed angle he was filling you. 

„So fucking sexy,“ he grunted, kissing down towards your collarbone, his fingers pulling at the front of your dress just so he could free one of your nipples, his lips closing around it immediately after, sucking harshly. 

Your mouth dropped open in a silent cry, head thrown back as you looked up into the blue sky above the tree his car was parked beneath. 

Joel was dirty and sweaty, the shirt he had left the house with this morning replaced by a white wife beater that was clinging to his sweaty body. Sweat was dripping down his neck and fuck you don’t think you have ever been more turned on. 

He nibbled on your nipple and you pulled at his hair. 

„Can’t wait till these are full of milk,“ he mumbled against your skin as he kissed himself up your body, nose brushing over your skin as his hips slapped against yours, shaking the whole truck. 

„Full of milk for the baby I’m gonna fuck into you,“ he said, eyes on you before he kissed you deeply, tongue diving into your mouth while he fucked you even deeper. 

You could hear some men laughing in the not so far distance, and you gasped as you remembered just where you were. Were you let Joel have his way with you. You clenched around his cock and he moaned against your lips. 

„Need you to cum for me, baby,“ his forehead came to rest against yours as he fucked into you. 

„Need you to cum so I can fuck my cum so deep inside of you, it’ll take. Gonna make you a mama,“ he murmured, and you gasped. 

„Fuck, Joel,“ you moaned. 

„You want that? Want me to keep you full of my cum?“ He groaned and you nodded.

„I want that. Want you inside me all the time,“ you whined and he groaned a low fuck against your ear as he buried his face against your neck. You wrapped your arms behind his back, one of your hands buried in his sweaty hair.

"Gonna look so good with my baby inside of you. Not gonna be able to keep my hands off of you once you start to show,“ he whispered against your ear and you shuddered. 

„Cum for me baby,“ he sucked on your earlobe. 

„Cum for me so I can pump you full of my cum. Full of my baby,“ he groaned and you clamped down on him, cumming hard. 

„Oh fuck,“ he groaned when he felt you come, following you almost immediately, moaning against your ear as he came, spilling inside of of you, pumping you full with his cum. 

Both out of breath you just stayed like this, for how long you didn’t know. Could be seconds, minutes or hours, you weren’t sure as you held him in your arms, feeling his warm breath against your neck as he laid on top of you. 

He knew how much you loved having him on top of you. 

You brushed your fingers through his hair, a content smile sneaking to your face. 

„Where did that come from?“ You asked after a while and he sat himself up a little so he could look at you. 

„I know you’re ovulating,“ he said and you raised one eyebrow, intrigued at him knowing that.  

„And I’m just really fucking horny for you,“ he said like it was the most normal thing, making you giggle. He chuckled, smiling widely at you before he kissed you softly. 

„Love you,“ you mumbled against his lips. 

„Love you more,“ he mumbled back. 

You were already driving back down the dirt road when Joel made his way back to the construction site, trying to glare at the very obvious smirks and winks he received from his colleagues. 

But who the fuck was he kidding?

He’d go through all the teasing in the world to have a lunch break like that every day. 

It was hours later that he realised, he never actually ate anything.

[geminiwritten]

dirty laundry (two) ; jake 'hangman' seresin

fandom: top gun

pairing: jake x reader

summary: after a couple months of living together, you're still completely oblivious to how you affect jake and he's starting to spiral because now he's... feeling things

see PART ONE for the first half of this fic + author's notes, warnings, etc...

word count: 22046 (section two, 11909)

Jake doesn’t see you when you get home from lunch with Natasha—he’s already at Lana’s place. Or maybe it’s Lila? He’s not sure. He just knows it started with an L.

After washing two loads of your laundry—moving one from the dryer to your bed and the other into the dryer—he got a text from Lola saying she got off work early. So, naturally, he was on his way there within minutes.

Four rounds later—and one very close call where he almost said your name instead of Lily’s—he showered in her cramped little bathroom, got dressed, and drove home. Feeling a thousand times better than when he left. Thoroughly satisfied. And only a tiny bit guilty about what he’d done to himself earlier… while staring at your lingerie like a fucking perv.

That is, until he walks through the door and sees you—pantless again—bent over the kitchen counter in nothing but an oversized shirt, Chinese takeout menu in hand.

But not just any shirt. No. His shirt.

His.

“Oh, hey.” You straighten immediately, tugging the hem of the shirt down over your ass. “Sorry, didn’t think you’d be home yet. Want Chinese? I’ll go put some pants on.”

Before he can even blink, you’re gone—down the hall and into your bedroom.

You return a moment later in a loose pair of sleep shorts, smiling down at your phone like some idiot in love.

And something about that makes Jake want to roll his eyes.

“How was lunch?” he asks, picking up the takeout menu like he doesn’t already know exactly what he’s getting.

“Good,” you reply, eyes still glued to your screen. “Had fun.”

He nods even though you’re not looking and drops the menu back on the bench. “I’ll get the—”

“Beef and broccoli,” you interrupt, glancing up with a smirk. “And kung pao chicken. Side of steamed rice, vegetarian spring rolls. Extra soy sauce packets, two fortune cookies, and a Diet Coke.”

Jake’s heart leaps in his chest, skipping into an uneven rhythm as he just stares at you—brow furrowed, lips slightly parted. A mix of awe and confusion flickers across his face because… how do you know that? How do you know him that well?

Sure, it’s just a takeout order. But still. You knew. Without hesitation.

And there you are, standing in his shirt—his fucking shirt—looking like the most gorgeous woman on the planet, and God, he’s about to lose his damn mind.

He clears his throat, letting out what he hopes passes as an easy chuckle. “You’re good.”

You pretend to dramatically flip your hair off your shoulder. “I know. Now go pick a movie. I’ll order.”

He hesitates for a beat, watching as you grab the menu and start dialling the restaurant’s number into your phone. Then he shakes his head and moves into the living room, dropping into his usual spot on the couch.

An hour later, after scrolling through every single streaming app the squad collectively pays for, Jake finally settles on an old action movie you both know he’s seen a hundred times. But you also both know it’s his unspoken comfort film, and—thankfully—you don’t say anything. You just keep eating your Chinese food, eyes flicking between the TV and your relentlessly buzzing phone.

“That Justin?” Jake asks through a mouthful of beef.

You nod. “Yeah. Sorry. I can turn the vibration off if it’s annoying.”

Jake shakes his head. “It’s fine.” He swallows, watching as several more messages pop up in quick succession. “Wow. Guy’s not just a double-texter—he’s a quadruple-texter.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t say that like it’s a bad thing. Some women like communication. In fact, I’d argue that most do.”

“Yeah?” he chuckles. “You gonna like it when he’s banging on your door at two a.m. like a creepy stalker?”

You frown. “How does texting a few times in a row immediately equal stalking?”

“Because he’s clearly obsessed with you,” Jake says with a shrug. “And after one date? Kinda a red flag. I’d expect that level of energy after six months—maybe—not one night.”

You narrow your eyes. “Maybe I’m just that good.”

Jake laughs, low and quiet, eyes dropping to his bowl of beef and broccoli. “No pussy is that good.”

You snort—loudly. The sound is abrupt and completely unladylike, but Jake can’t help the way his eyes flick up to the giddy smile on your lips, the light blush creeping into your cheeks.

“Guess you’ll never know,” you say, eyes sparkling with amusement.

What he wouldn’t give to know...

“Guess I won’t,” he mutters, shovelling another forkful of food into his mouth.

After a beat, you glance back over at him. “How was your day, anyway?”

He freezes mid-chew, eyes widening as heat crawls up the back of his neck.

“It—uh—it was good. Yeah. Fine. Why?”

You shrug. “Just wondering. Thanks for doing my laundry, by the way.”

He nods, clearing his throat. “Anytime.”

“Except I think this is your shirt,” you add, glancing down at yourself.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “It is. Sorry. Must’ve mixed some stuff up.”

“All good,” you say, light and casual—seemingly oblivious to the guilt scrawled across his face. “It’s comfy.”

He gives you a tight smile, eyes snapping back down to spear another floret of broccoli.

“Except I think you need to give it a hot wash,” you add.

His eyes flick back up, cheeks already burning. “Why?”

You pinch the hem of the shirt and rub the fabric between your fingers. “There’s a hard stain near the bottom, but I can’t tell what it is.”

Jake’s breath catches, lungs going tight.

You glance back up at him. “Did you spill maple syrup on it or something?”

“Y-Yeah,” he stammers, heart pounding. “Yep. Maple syrup. This morning. Sorry.”

You frown, clearly dubious. “It’s fine. Not my shirt, remember? Besides, a hot wash will get that right out.”

He nods, shifting the bowl in his lap and praying to whatever god might listen to please, please reroute his blood flow. “Noted. Hot wash.”

You nod slowly, giving him a suspicious look before finally turning back to your dinner.

Once you’ve both finished dinner, Jake takes the dishes into the kitchen and washes up, glancing at the movie over his shoulder as it plays. When it ends, you grab the remote and declare that it’s your turn to pick the next film.

By the time he returns to the couch, you’re curled up right in the middle of it, leaving just a sliver of space on either side.

Which is fine. Totally and completely fine.

He grabs a blanket from the basket in the corner and drops down beside you, draping it over both your legs.

“Thanks,” you say with a soft smile. “Didn’t know you knew how to be sweet.”

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t respond. He’s not sure what he could say to that. Because, yeah. Jake didn’t know he could be sweet either.

Eventually, you settle on some spy-romance-thriller and toss the remote onto the coffee table before nestling in. You adjust the blanket and fluff the pillows until you’re perfectly comfortable. Jake watches, a little fascinated, and doesn’t even realise he’s staring until you shoot him a look.

“What?”

He blinks. “Nothing, sorry. Daydreaming.”

“Was your date that good you’re still thinking about her?” you ask with a soft laugh.

He frowns. “Date?”

“Sorry,” you amend. “Your hookup. Because I know, I know—Jake Seresin doesn’t date.”

“Exactly,” he says, giving you a little wink.

You pause, lifting a brow. “So... was it good?”

“What?”

You roll your eyes. “Your hookup. Jesus, where is your head at tonight?”

Still stuck on your dirty laundry, apparently.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah. It was fine. Did the job.”

You scoff. “Did the job?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. That’s all I wanted. Bit of fun.”

You nod slowly, eyes narrowing like you’re trying to read his mind.

“You know,” he adds, “not every woman is out there hunting for Mr. Right. Some are more than happy with a Mr. Right Now. It’s easy. Fun. And you don’t have to worry about texting them the next day.”

Your brows shoot up. “Is that a dig at me?”

He chuckles quietly, glancing toward the forgotten movie. “Maybe.”

“Wow,” you say slowly, dry and sarcastic. “Well, Mr. Right Now, maybe you should watch what you say. Because one day, you’re going to fall in love. And it’s not going to be pretty. You’ll fall so hard and fast, you’ll forget your own name—and that’ll be karma for all the one-night stands and broken hearts you’ve left behind.”

He turns his head toward you, his expression flat even as the corner of his mouth twitches. “That so?”

You nod, firm. “Yep.”

“When that day comes, I’ll let you know,” he says, laughing quietly. “And I’ll apologise for being a dick. Maybe even take back what I said about your creepy stalker boyfriend. But don’t come crying to me when you find him breathing on your window in the middle of the night.”

Your eyes go wide, lips parting in disbelief, but the amusement still shines through. “Dude!”

He laughs again as you sit up, fully turning toward him.

“What?”

You gape at him, scandalised. Then you reach out and smack him on the shoulder—hard.

“Ow!” he barks, half laughing, half offended. “The hell was that for?”

“For being a dick!”

You go to hit him again, but Jake catches your wrist mid-air. “Uh-uh,” he grins. “Not happening twice.”

“Oh yeah?” you challenge, immediately swinging your other hand at him.

He catches that one too—easily—and in the same breath, he moves. Forward and up.

Shoving you onto your back like it’s nothing. Effortless.

Then he’s above you, pinning both your wrists above your head. The blanket is tangled somewhere beneath you, one of your knees brushing the outside of his thigh—and he’s close. Too close.

Every part of him is closer than you’ve ever been. His face hovers over yours, his chest inches from your breasts, his hips nearly aligned with yours. If he moved—just a fraction—he could press his half-hard dick right into the apex of your thighs.

Your chest rises and falls in shallow bursts. Eyes frantic. Searching his face like you might find some kind of answer for whatever just snapped and turned the air to static.

His grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm. Certain. Unshakable. His gaze flicks between your mouth and your eyes like he can’t decide which is more dangerous.

“Still wanna hit me?” he murmurs, voice low, something dark and teasing threading through it.

You swallow. “Maybe.”

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile. “You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.”

“So are you,” you breathe.

There’s a beat where neither of you moves. Just heat and tension and the sound of your combined breathing, louder than it should be.

Then—

“Truce,” you say, voice hoarse as you shift your wrists beneath his hands.

Jake hesitates. He wants to stay. Wants to press in, drag that single moment out until it breaks. But he knows. He knows he’s close to the edge, and if he goes any further, he might never come back from it.

So he lets go and sits back slowly, pulse hammering in his throat. “Truce,” he echoes.

You both move until you're upright again. Comfortable, but not really. Not anymore. There’s more distance between you now, but it doesn’t help.

Jake doesn’t reach for the blanket that you’ve stolen. He’s not cold anymore. In fact, he’s thinking about opening a window. Or the balcony door.

Maybe he should just do that—open the door and walk straight off the balcony.

Because now, his cock is throbbing—hard and heavy between his legs, hidden only by the way his knee is bent with one foot on the couch. It's aching. Begging.

For friction. For relief. For you.

The ninety-minute movie feels a hell of a lot longer than that in the stifling lounge room. Jake's raging hard-on barely lets up, and even when it does, you shift or sigh or stretch your neck in a way that makes it start aching again.

By the time the credits roll, Jake is dying to get to bed. He needs to go somewhere—anywhere—that you’re not. Away from your scent, your smile, your soft little laughs. God. He needs space.

“Alright,” you sigh, pushing up off the couch. “I’m going to bed.”

He nods. “Good idea.”

But he doesn’t move. He can’t. Not until you’re gone and he can hide his ridiculous boner.

“Oh,” you call back, halfway down the hall. “I’ll drive myself to base tomorrow.”

He frowns. “Why?”

You always carpool. Same apartment, same squad, same shift. It just makes sense.

“Justin’s coming over tomorrow night, and I don’t want to be late,” you reply. “And, no offence, but I can’t really rely on you to not be kept back.”

He gives you a flat look. “Rude. But whatever.”

You flash him a bright, cheesy smile before quickly ducking into your room. If it weren’t for the blush still clinging to your cheeks, he might think you’d already forgotten about what happened earlier.

But no. Your face is still very red.

And that leaves Jake feeling just a little bit smug as he takes himself—and his tragically horny dick—off to bed.

He barely sleeps all night. He tosses and turns, punching his pillow like that might stop his brain from looping thoughts of you. But every time he shuts his eyes—there you are. Smiling. Laughing. Dancing in the kitchen. Climbing out of your jet with a grin bright enough to eclipse the sun.

You’re stuck in his head. Lodged deep. Making his heart race and his blood flow in one, completely unhelpful, direction.

He wakes up rock hard at 1:27. Then 2:13. Then 3:45. And finally, at 4:36, he gives up entirely. He throws the blankets off, pulls on his gym clothes, and heads to base in the dark.

If he’s going to suffer, he might as well look good doing it.

Thirty minutes of bench, an hour of cardio, and fifteen furious pull-ups later, he still can’t stop picturing the way your tongue caught between your teeth when you giggled at him last night. Or the way your body squirmed beneath him—hips wriggling, wrists twisting—but you were so easy to hold down.

So easy to keep.

God. The things he could do with you pinned beneath him.

By the time Jake finally makes it to the hangar, his whole body is sore, his brain is fried, and he's teetering on the edge of a full-blown mental breakdown.

“Dude,” Javy says as he steps up beside him. “You look awful. Like you haven’t slept in three days. Are you sick?”

Jake shakes his head. “‘M fine. Jus’ tired.”

“Oh wow,” Natasha says, a grin creeping across her lips as she steps in front of them. “He’s regressed to single syllables.”

Javy chuckles. “And he’s slurring. Should we take him to the hospital?”

Jake clears his throat. “I am fine. Alright? Just leave it alone.”

Neither of their knowing smirks falter.

“Well,” Natasha says, eyeing him, her head tilting just slightly. “Judging by that reaction, I’d say you either drank an entire bottle of tequila to yourself last night or... you got rejected by a woman.”

Jake visibly flinches. His green eyes snap to her face, jaw tightening.

Natasha’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh my god. It’s the second one.”

“I didn’t—” he starts, but Javy cuts in with a dramatic gasp.

“Oh my God. This is historic,” he announces. “A woman said no to Jake Seresin and he hasn’t recovered.”

Jake turns toward him, arms crossing tightly over his chest. “Nobody got rejected, okay?!”

Natasha scoffs. “So you just happened to get no sleep, show up looking like a kicked puppy, and flinch like that when I mention rejection?”

Javy leans in, eyes comically wide. “And you liked her, didn’t you? That’s the twist. She actually meant something.”

Jake scowls, jaw working. He doesn’t meet either of their eyes.

Natasha whistles under her breath. “Well, shit.”

Javy beams. “This is a world first, ladies and gentlemen. Someone alert the Pentagon. Get a medal minted.”

“I hate both of you,” Jake mutters.

Natasha grins. “You’ll feel better after a flight. Or at least distracted.”

Javy shrugs. “Unless this mystery woman is on base too. Then you’re screwed. Emotionally and professionally.”

Jake doesn’t respond. He doesn’t move. He just stares down the tarmac like he’s hoping it’ll swallow him whole.

Because yeah. The mystery woman—the one who’s messing with his head and making his pulse do weird shit—she’s on base. In fact, she’s walking across the flight line right now.

It isn’t long before Maverick arrives, rounding up the squad and announcing—with a shit-eating grin—that it’s ‘obstacle course day’. Which earns a hearty chorus of groans. But not from Jake, because this? He can do this. It’s work. It’s exercise. It’s a well-needed distraction.

Maverick starts by instructing the squad to jog the quarter-mile stretch from the hangar to the training field as a light warm-up—boots crunching on gravel, the sun barely up over the bay. Jake keeps his eyes forward, jaw tight. He can hear you somewhere behind him, chatting—somewhat breathlessly—with Natasha, but he doesn't dare look. He can’t. Not if he wants to stay focused.

Once you all reach the field, Maverick starts barking about how the conditioning course will be run. Then he tells everyone to lose their flight suits and warm up properly.

“Valkyrie!” he shouts after a few jumping jacks. “Quit talking. Focus up.”

You clamp your mouth shut and give Natasha a subtle sidelong glance. Jake’s not stupid—he knows that means you’ll finish telling her whatever you were saying later. Probably something about Justin.

After a thirty-minute warm-up, everyone gets ready to start. The shit-talking begins, and the sun slowly rises, bathing the training field in warm orange light.

Jake is ready—so ready. His gaze is narrowed, his limbs loose, and he’s excited to do something other than jerk off and think about you, goddamnit. He’s excited to do something he’s good at. To show off a little. Because this obstacle course? He eats this shit for breakfast.

Or at least, he used to.

Rope climb, monkey bars, vertical walls, balance beams—he’s usually halfway through his second lap by the time everyone else finishes one. But today?

Today, he misses the jump onto the cargo net.

He slips on the damn rope wall.

He lands wrong coming off the balance beam and has to catch himself with a sharp hiss through his teeth.

“Jesus, Hangman,” Mav calls out from the sidelines, brows raised. “You drunk?”

Jake doesn’t answer. He just resets and pushes off again, heart hammering harder than it should be. His palms are slick and his jaw aches from how tightly he’s clenching it. He feels like one big bruise, and he knows he’s going to feel this shit for the next two weeks.

Reuben jogs past and claps him on the shoulder, grinning. “Careful, man. You keep biffing it like this and they’re going to revoke your golden boy status.”

Jake forces a laugh through his teeth, but it’s tight. Shaky.

He’s fine. He just didn’t sleep. He just... pushed too hard at the gym. He just—

His eyes flick sideways.

You’re across the course, waiting your turn, chest heaving, sweat dripping down your neck. You’re smiling at something Bradley said, adjusting your gloves as you watch the others ahead of you.

You’re not even looking at him.

With a light shake of his head, Jake turns his gaze ahead and—

Misses the next rung on the monkey bars.

“God dammit,” he mutters under his breath, dropping to the ground.

Javy stops nearby, eyebrows raised. “Dude. What is going on with you today?”

Jake doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even have words for the pressure building behind his ribs—like a grenade with the pin pulled halfway out. Everything’s too loud. Too hot. Too much. You’re everywhere. In his head. Under his skin. Burned into his eyes.

He’s not flustered. He doesn’t get flustered.

He’s just... distracted. Yeah. That’s all.

He grits his teeth and tries again. Then gets halfway before slipping—again. His hand slams into the rung too late, and he stumbles forward, barely catching himself before eating shit in front of everyone.

“Focus up, Hangman!” Mav barks. “You’re better than this!”

Jake bites the inside of his cheek until it stings. His lungs burn. His arms feel like they’re made of lead.

Across the course, Natasha slows, watching him quietly. Her brow creases just slightly.

Her sharp eyes follow his line of sight and easily catch the way his gaze flicks toward you—quick, but not quick enough.

Her head tilts.

“Interesting,” she mutters to herself.

She picks up her pace and moves through the course with practiced ease, quickly joining Jake where he’s crumpled beneath the monkey bars.

“Pull it together, cowboy,” she says. “Don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of your mystery girl.”

Jake’s stomach drops.

What the fuck?

His wide eyes meet hers, brown and sparkling with mischief.

“What did you just say?” he asks, voice hoarse.

She grins wickedly. “Nothing, Bagman. Now get up before Mav sees you slacking off again.”

His heart beats faster than it should. Too fast. Too heavy.

How does she know? She can’t know.

There’s nothing to know.

You’re just his roommate. A friend. A pain in the ass. That’s all.

He just needs to sort his head out.

He just needs to stop thinking about your body under his. Your laugh in his ears. Your wrists in his hands.

With a quiet growl, Jake pushes himself up and resets. Then he lurches forward, fingers grasping for the bar—but he misses. By half an inch.

The day couldn’t be over fast enough. Everyone is breathless and sweaty by the time Maverick dismisses the squad, but no one is as battered and bruised as Jake. He feels like he’s been thrown out of a moving truck—and run over for good measure. Everything hurts.

“Hey,” you say quietly, almost carefully, as you approach him. “You alright?”

You’ve got your bag over your shoulder and your sunglasses perched on your head. Ready to leave base. To go home and wait for Justin to come over.

“Yeah,” he sighs, “just tired today. That’s all.”

You nod slowly, the corner of your lips twitching. “You—uh, you took quite the beating out there.”

He can’t help but smile at you and the way you’re trying so hard not to laugh at his shitty day. “I know. Thought I’d let someone else get best time for once.”

You arch a brow. “Really? You decided to let the whole squad make better time than you?”

He chuckles softly, letting his head fall back. “The whole squad beat me? Well, shit, baby, I guess I gotta step up my game next time.”

He freezes, and you do too, both of you just staring at each other as that little pet name hangs between you like a held breath.

He clears his throat. “Uh... I mean, y’know, gotta bring my A-game next time.”

You nod slowly, letting out a soft, uncertain laugh. “Yeah. You better. Or Mav might kick you off the squad.”

Silence hangs, thick and heavy. Jake wants to say something—make a joke or a snarky remark—but his voice is caught somewhere deep in his chest.

“Seresin,” Javy interrupts, clapping a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “You almost done, or...?”

He steps up beside the two of you, eyes darting back and forth as his brow knits. He's not stupid. He can clearly sense that there's something painfully awkward hanging in the air.

You raise your brows and take an unsteady step back. “I was just going to say, let me know if you’re home for dinner. I’m making nachos, but I always make way too—”

“Won’t be,” Jake cuts in. “Mav asked me to stay back. Again. Paperwork.”

“Oh,” you frown, just slightly. “Must’ve missed that. All good. See you later.” Then you turn to Javy and flash him wide smile. “Bye, Coyote.”

He gives you a lazy salute. “See ya, Val.”

You turn on your heel and walk away, leaving Jake standing there slack-jawed and utterly defeated.

Javy clears his throat, the grin on his lips turning wicked. “So...?”

Jake’s eyes snap to him. “What?”

Javy raises his brows. “Mav didn’t ask you to stay back.”

“I know,” Jake says, turning back to try and remember what he was filling out a maintenance log for. “She’s got a guy coming over, and I didn’t want to make her feel bad, but I figured she’d be happier if I wasn’t there.”

Javy nods slowly, looking entirely unconvinced. “Right. Okay. So, you were being a good roommate?”

“Exactly.”

There’s a split second of silence where Javy steps even closer, invading Jake’s space as he leans against the wall and tips his head forward. “Want to talk about it?”

Jake doesn’t even look up. “Talk about what?”

Javy shrugs. “Don’t know. Got anything you want to talk about?”

“No,” Jake snaps.

“Alright,” Javy says, pushing off the wall. “You just keep jerking off to your roommate until you die of dehydration. See what I care.”

Jake’s eyes go wide. He chokes on nothing—just air. When he finally turns around, Javy is already gone, striding across the hangar the same way you did. But he’s got a noticeable pep in his step, clearly fucking thrilled with himself for figuring this one out.

After a brief, mostly internal meltdown in the locker room, Jake packs up his gear and heads off base. He sits in his car for twenty minutes, scrolling through texts from a few women he’d messaged earlier, and thankfully, one of them tells him to get his gorgeous ass over to her place right now—no questions asked. So he does exactly that.

The drive is only ten minutes, but it rattles his nerves. Not because he’s worried about this woman—no, that would be ridiculous. He’s worried about you. Or more precisely, what Natasha and Javy think they know about you.

Which is nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Because there’s nothing there.

You’re just his roommate. His ridiculously good-looking, maddeningly sexy, impossibly charming roommate. Two months of living together and sure, some weird feelings have popped up. Strange, shallow stuff. Surface-level. All about your ass, your tits, and whatever else Jake usually notices.

But that’s it. That’s all there is.

He hasn’t noticed the soft melody beneath your laugh. Or the way your lips twitch when you bite back a snarky comment. Or how your tongue drags slowly over your bottom lip when you’re deep in thought.

He hasn’t noticed any of it.

And this guy—Justin? Jake couldn’t care less about who you’re with. That’s your business, not his. He’s just glad you’re getting some.

Just like he is. Right now. With a woman who’s perfectly attractive, even if she doesn’t look, smell, or sound like you. But hey, that’s a good thing, right?

“Baby, c’mere,” Sienna—Jake thinks—croons, reaching across the couch. “Why you sittin’ so far away, hm?”

He shifts closer to the red-headed woman, trying hard not to breathe in the candy-cane scent of whatever glittery body lotion she uses. He remembers that it was overwhelming last time, but this time it’s just making him feel downright sick.

“You really come over here just to watch a movie?” she asks, eyes flicking between Jake’s face and the TV.

His green eyes are glued to the screen. Not because it’s interesting—it’s really not—but because it’s the same spy-romance-thriller you picked last night, and he wants to know if it was actually any good. Since he missed most of it trying to focus on hiding his raging boner.

“Come on,” Sabrina—maybe—sighs, trailing a manicured nail down the line of his jaw. “I got all pretty for you.”

Jake’s eyes flick toward her, lips twitching into a tight smile. She’s not ugly—far from it—but maybe she’s just not his type. Or maybe he doesn’t have a type anymore. Because despite the fact that they both know exactly what he came here for, he can’t seem to want it.

And what’s worse? He can’t get hard. At all.

“Sorry,” he mutters, clearing his throat. “Just—uh, just trying to get work out of my head. You know?”

She nods slowly. “Okay, baby. Well... what if I get us a bottle of wine? Take the edge off.”

Before he can respond, she’s already off the couch and sauntering toward the kitchen. Jake doesn’t care. Honestly, he’s just relieved to get a breath of air that doesn’t reek of unicorn-scented body lotion.

He’s been here nearly two hours. They started making out the second he walked in the door, but it didn’t him take long to realise that absolutely nothing was stirring in his pants. So he’d asked for a minute to decompress, maybe watch something first. Hit reset.

But truthfully? He doesn’t want to get to it. Which is absurd, considering the weekend he just had—fighting off boners left, right, and centre.

“Red or white, baby?” Serena—possibly—calls from the kitchen.

Jake opens his mouth to reply, but his phone buzzes first. Lighting up with your goofy caller ID photo—a close-up of you in your flight helmet, blurry and ridiculous, pulling a face way too close to his camera lens.

His lips twitch as he swipes the green button.

“Hey?”

“Jake,” you say, breathless.

His stomach drops. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Jakey!” Selena—or whatever—calls again. “Red or—?”

“I don’t care!” Jake snaps. “Either’s fine.” Then he lowers his voice, speaking softly into the phone. “Sorry. I’m here. What’s up?”

“A-Are you still on base or...?”

“No, I’m—um, I’m at a friend’s place,” he says quickly. “But that doesn’t matter. You sound stressed. What’s going on?”

“Oh.” You hesitate, voice suddenly too high, clearly realising what you’ve interrupted. “No, it’s fine. I didn’t know you were... with someone.”

“It’s fine. Don’t apologise,” he says, already standing. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s nothing, honestly—”

“Tell me.”

“Seriously, dude,” you sigh. “I’m fine. It’s just—the power went out, but I’m pretty sure it’s only our apartment. So I guess that means it’s... I don’t know. A fuse? The circuit thing? I figured you’d know. But really—it’s fine. I’ll call building maintenance.”

“No, no,” Jake says, grabbing his jacket from the back of the couch. “I’ll come home, I can—”

“Jake,” you cut him off. “Don’t. Please don’t. Have your fun, I’ll figure it out.”

He pauses, brow furrowed, suddenly remembering why he came to Sierra’s place. “Wait. Where’s Justin?”

“Oh, he’s not coming over. Got caught up at work or something.”

“Right,” he mutters, peering toward the kitchen. “Just—just stay put. I’ll be home soon.”

“No. Please,” you say, and there’s something strained in your voice. Something off. “Don’t bail on your hookup just for me. I’ll call Phoenix or Rooster, see if either of them knows what to do. Okay?”

His heart is pounding now, hard and fast, making it impossible to think. But he knows better than to argue. He knows better than to ditch a hookup for you. Because he knows what that would mean.

“Okay,” he sighs. “But call me if you need me to come home. I won’t be late.”

“I will. I promise,” you say, voice softer now. “Now go get some. Lord knows you need the ego boost after today.”

He chuckles, closing his eyes and picturing the smile on your face. The one that makes him feel like he’s seventeen again. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, Bagman.”

Then you hang up, leaving Jake alone with the dial tone and a weird, hollow ache blooming in his chest.

“Everything okay?” Sasha asks, brows drawn.

Jake frowns, staring down at the phone in his hands. His stomach churns, chest tightens. He can’t breathe. His tongue feels heavy, and his voice is lodged somewhere in his throat.

“Jakey?” she presses. “You don’t look good.”

“Gotta go,” he mutters, voice hoarse.

“You what?”

“I—I have to go. My roommate, she—”

“Your cousin?” Sydney interrupts.

“No,” Jake’s frown deepens. “My roommate.”

Simone frowns. “Yes, your roommate who’s also your cousin. The one you—”

“She’s not my fucking cousin!” he snaps, louder than he means.

Sandy startles, eyes narrowing. “You said she was—”

“She’s my roommate,” he says, voice firm. “Just my roommate. Actually, no—she’s my friend, and part of my squad.”

Samantha raises an eyebrow. “Your squad?”

“Yes. Squad.” Jake runs a shaky hand through his hair. “Because I’m a naval aviator. Which you’d know if either of us bothered remembering anything about each other.”

She rolls her eyes. “I know you’re in the Navy. So what if I forget what you do?” Then she props a hand on her hip. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

“I just—” He takes a deep breath. “I—I need to go home, okay?”

“What? Why? Because of your roommate?”

“Yes. Because of her.” He slides his arms into his jacket. “The power went out and she needs help.”

“The power went out?” Samara echoes, incredulous. “And you have to go home, or what? She’ll die?”

Jake frowns. “No, she won’t—I mean, it’s not life or death, but—”

“Seriously,” Summer cuts in, “what the fuck is your problem tonight?”

“My problem?” Jake narrows his eyes. “My problem is that I can’t just ignore my roommate when she needs me.”

Sadie arches a perfectly plucked brow. “She doesn’t need you, Jake. She’s a grown woman.”

“Well, maybe I need her!” Jake blurts.

The words scorch his tongue, slam into his chest, and steal the air from his lungs. His breath catches—shaky, shallow. Every nerve ending feels raw, exposed—like frayed wires sparking and crackling, desperate for ground. If anyone else touches him now, he might short-circuit. Blow apart.

He needs you. Only you. You’re the only safe harbor, the only grounding wire strong enough to steady this storm raging inside him. The only one who can reach in, hold on, and fix what’s broken.

“Fuck,” he mutters, barely audible. “Shit. I—uh, I gotta go.”

He grabs his keys off the coffee table and shrugs his jacket on properly. He barely looks at the woman staring at him in utter disbelief—just nods and turns toward the door. “Thanks, uh… Sabrina? Samara?”

Then he’s gone. Out the door, down the stairs, across the street, and into his car.

The second he slams the driver’s side door closed, the silence wraps around him like a vice. It’s too quiet, too sharp. His pulse is too loud. And the second the engine turns over, he’s spiralling.

I need her?

He says it again—in his head—and it lands like a punch to the ribs. A silent admission, a whisper amongst whirling thoughts.

Fuck. He grips the wheel tighter.

I need her.

He’s known you for years. Years. Since before flight school. Since that first day at the Academy when you smiled at him like you already knew he was trouble. He remembered that smile for weeks. Thought about it during PT. Laughed about it in the mess hall when his bunkmates gave him shit for getting flustered.

But you barely looked at him again. Not until North Island.

And even then, he didn’t realise what was happening. Not when you moved in. Not when you started stealing his socks or fake-kissing his cheek to get rid of the girls who wouldn’t leave the next morning. Not when you started saving him—over and over again—with a raised eyebrow and a sharp little smile, acting like his wife, or cousin, or federal agent.

He should’ve known.

He did know. Somewhere deep down, his body knew before his head did. That’s why no one else ever stuck. Why no other woman ever made it past two nights. He kept telling himself it was just about sex. That the feelings he had were just surface level—just instinct. Biology. Whatever.

But the truth is, no one ever stood a chance. Not when your laugh still echoes in his head days after he hears it. Not when the soft sound of your footsteps across the apartment floor is more familiar to him than his own breathing. Not when you’re the first person he wants to see when something good happens. Or something bad.

Jesus.

He runs a hand through his hair, breath catching. His throat’s tight. His chest aches.

All this time. All this pretending. And he still didn’t see it.

He’s not in control. He never was.

He’s in love with you.

And suddenly it’s not even a question of what if.

He wishes it were.

But it’s just fact. Solid and terrifying. A truth that makes his heart race and his hands shake.

He presses harder on the gas. He just needs to get home.

To you.

He drives like he has nothing to lose—even though right now, he knows he has everything to lose. He’s headlong and reckless, speeding, weaving through traffic, taking corners too fast. Pulling moves that could easily earn him a suspension or, worse, a formal reprimand from the Navy.

But he doesn’t care. Because fourteen minutes later, he’s outside your building, practically falling out of his car and hurrying through the lobby like a lunatic.

He jabs at the elevator buttons, bouncing on the balls of his feet as the carriage crawls upward. When it finally opens on your floor, he squeezes out and bolts down the hallway, fumbling with his keys like his hands forgot how to work.

His head is spinning. His fingers are numb. He can barely breathe, let alone think straight—and less than a foot from the door, the keys slip from his grasp.

“Shit,” he mutters, crouching down to pick them up.

Then—

Laughter. Your laughter.

Light and soft, threaded with that hidden melody that’s burrowed into the deepest parts of his memory.

He freezes, eyes flicking to the sliver of light glowing beneath the door. Power. The power’s back on.

Another muffled laugh, and his stomach drops so hard and fast he’s surprised it doesn’t fall out of his ass.

Maybe it’s just Phoenix? Or Rooster? You did say you were going to call—

“Justin,” you giggle, from somewhere inside, “stop it, I’m trying not to spill it.”

All the blood drains from Jake’s face. He just stands there, pale and slack-jawed, staring at the door like it just punched him in the chest.

His fingers twitch, trying to remember how to move. His whole body feels heavy. Numb. Weighted down by the brutal whiplash of emotional discovery and the gut-punch of reality.

He’s not even sure he has the nerve to walk in.

But after a long moment—too long—he takes a breath, deep and unsteady, and slides the key into the lock.

He pushes the door open and steps inside, kicking his boots off as his eyes land on you in the living room. You’re holding a glass of wine in one hand, and the other is resting—way too high—on Justin’s leg.

Jake isn’t sure what he expected Justin to be like, but whatever it was, this isn’t it. The guy is tall—maybe taller than Jake—with dark hair, dark eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard. Pale, but not scrawny. Broad shoulders. Thick legs. He looks like a lumberjack—minus the flannel. Practically Jake’s polar opposite. He doesn’t look like he belongs in San Diego, and he definitely doesn’t look like he belongs beside you.

“Jake?” you ask, tilting your head slightly.

“Hi,” he mutters, eyes still locked on Justin.

“I didn’t think you’d be home for a while.”

He shrugs. “Came to fix the power. But I can see that’s no longer an issue.” His eyes narrow. “Thought Justin wasn’t coming over.”

Justin shifts uncomfortably, easing his hand away from your leg.

“Oh,” you say, standing up. “Right. Sorry. Jake, this is Justin. Justin—Jake.”

“Hangman,” Jake says flatly.

You frown. “That’s his callsign.”

“That’s right,” Justin says, offering a polite chuckle. “You’re a fighter pilot too.”

“Naval aviator,” Jake replies, enunciating each word.

You shoot him a look—eyes wide, brow furrowed. Like, what the fuck?

“Right, yeah,” Justin says quickly. “That’s what I meant.”

You take a long sip of your wine before clearing your throat. “Justin was stuck at work, but after I called, like, the whole squad, he was my last hope. He came right over and found the circuit breaker on his way up.”

“Great,” Jake mutters, tone dry. “He’s a double-texter and he knows where the circuit breakers are.”

Your eyes go wide. “Jake. What the fuck?”

“What?” he asks, shrugging like he’s not being a complete dick. “Not saying I’m not grateful. Just takes some balls, showing up after being—what? Plan Z?”

“Jake!”

“Okay,” Justin says quietly, pushing up from the couch. “I’m just gonna go.”

You turn to him. “No, no. Don’t. He’s just being—”

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Jake says, already swinging it open.

You whip back toward him. “Jake. Stop.”

“It’s fine,” Justin mutters. “I’m going. You two can… sort this out.”

Jake watches your jaw clench, your eyes slashing toward him in a lethal glare. But he can’t bring himself to stop.

“Justin, I’m so sorry,” you sigh.

Jake’s eye twitches when your hand wraps around Justin’s arm, rubbing up and down like you’re trying to soothe him. The sight alone sparks something hot and bitter behind his sternum.

He steps aside as you both move toward the door, still holding it open like he’s doing everyone a favour.

“It’s alright,” Justin says softly, crooking a finger beneath your chin. “Call me, yeah?”

“I will,” you murmur. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, gorgeous.”

You sigh, stepping back—and that’s all the cue Jake needs. He lets the door slam shut in Justin’s face, a solid final barrier between the two of you.

Relief floods through him—but it’s short-lived. Because before he can even blink, you turn on him, gaze fixed and deadly.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you spit, eyes narrowed and brows tightly drawn. “Justin was being perfectly polite. He came over here and did us a favour. Then you walk in all rude and territorial—you might as well have just pissed on me!”

Jake chokes on his own breath, coughing softly as he lifts a hand to his chest. “I—”

“Like, seriously!” you go on, throwing your hands up. “You’ve been acting weird the past few days for God knows what reason, and you’re letting it affect you at work. Then you ditch a hookup—which is not very Hangman of you—just to come home and act like a dick?” You pause, wide eyes trained on him. “Do you know how hard it was to convince Justin that there’s nothing going on between you and me? And now what’s he going to think?”

Jake can feel his heart beating in his throat. Loud, heavy, fast. His stomach—if it’s even still in his body—feels like it’s been turned inside out. He can barely breathe, barely think.

“B-Between us?” he stammers out—the only fragment of your rant that seemed to stick.

You roll your eyes, propping your hands on your hips. “Yes, Jake. I live with a young, attractive, single man... of course Justin is going to think there’s something more going on. It’s the same with you and your hookups. But I’m not going to lie to him and tell him you’re my fucking cousin. Because I like him.”

Those last three words feel like a punch to Jake’s gut, winding him.

“You like him?” he asks, voice quiet—strained.

“Yes,” you say, firm—despite blinking a little too fast, which Jake knows is your tell. “And you’re not allowed to have a problem with that. I mean...” You let out a sigh, shoulders sagging as you step closer to him. “What is going on with you? You—You look sick. Are you okay?”

For a second, he doesn’t answer. He can’t.

Because no, he’s not okay. He hasn’t been okay since that night he walked through the door and heard you with someone else. His stomach is in knots, his chest feels too tight, and his skin is buzzing like his nerves are misfiring. He’s pale, yeah, because all the blood is either in his head or his heart and both of them are screaming.

He’s exhausted. Not from the day, but from pretending. From biting his tongue and keeping his distance and playing the roommate, the friend, the flirt with no feelings who knows better than to touch what he can’t have.

His pulse thunders in his ears. His throat aches with everything he hasn’t said. His hands are curled into fists at his sides because if he doesn’t hold something back, he’s going to break.

He looks at you—really looks—and it just… hits him. Hard. Like gravity, or fate, or something heavy and persistent that just won’t let go.

“I—I think I love you,” he mutters, voice low—wrecked.

You startle, eyes growing even wider as you stumble back a step. “What?”

He clears his throat, wishing his heart would stop beating so damn fast. “I’m in love with you.”

Your throat bobs as you swallow hard, eyes glossing over. You take a hesitant step back, like you need the distance just to stop yourself from falling into him.

He wishes you’d let yourself.

“Jake...” you whisper, “y-you’re not in love with me. You can’t be.”

Another punch to the gut. This time harder, lower.

“Why?”

“Because,” you say, eyes flicking toward the floor as you shake your head. “You’re you. Jake. Hangman. You—You’re in love with what you can’t have. The idea of me, maybe. But you’re not in love with me.”

Jake feels like his ribs are splitting—cracking wide open to expose his trembling, bleeding heart. Nothing protecting it as you reach in and rip it apart.

“Why—Why would you say that?” he asks, voice soft, breathing ragged.

“Because I know you!” you say, probably a little louder than intended. “And the woman you fall in love with—really fall in love with—is going to be so special. She’s going to be sexy and funny, and shine so brightly that you forget about all the others, but...” You take a shaky breath. “I’m not that girl, Jake.”

He wants to scream. He wants to run. He wants to reach out to you and tell you—show you—that there’s no one else on this earth that could possibly be that girl.

It’s you. It’s always been you. It always will be you.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, a single tear falling down your cheek. “I just—I think we both need some space, don’t you?”

Jake can’t respond. Can’t say anything. His voice is stuck beneath the lump in his throat, and if he tries to dislodge it, he might just fall apart.

“I—I know it’s probably been a little confusing because we’ve gotten so close,” you continue, swiping at the tears on your cheeks. “And that’s my fault, I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve made sure we kept boundaries and stayed out of each other’s way, but I—I don’t know. I like being close with you, Jake. Being your friend.”

Friend. Ugh.

“And I know you love me,” you add, stepping forward again. “Because I love you too. The same way I love the whole squad.”

At this point, Jake’s not even sure if you’re trying to make things better or worse.

“Let’s just—” You hesitate, your hand twitching like you might reach for him, but you stop yourself. “Let’s forget this happened, okay? Start fresh. Set some boundaries, take a little space. And eventually you’ll see that whatever you think you’re feeling is just... fondness. Platonic.”

Jake isn’t sure what to say—he’s not even sure he can say anything. You’re staring at him with wide, glassy eyes, and it takes everything in him not to break. He sees the tremble in your hands, the slight quiver of your bottom lip. And so he does what he knows he has to do.

He agrees.

“Okay.”

You step forward again, a shaky smile flickering on your lips as your fingers curl gently around his wrist. “Thank you. And—And I’m sorry. I know this is confusing, I just... I don’t want to lose you. You’re one of my closest friends.”

Jake presses his lips into a thin line, holding his breath like that might hold everything else in place.

For a moment, neither of you move. Then slowly, your hand falls away.

Jake searches your face, green eyes scanning like they’re trying to catch a flicker of something—anything—that might tell him you don’t mean it. That you’re lying. That you feel it too.

But all he finds is sadness, and tears, and a wall where there used to be warmth.

He ducks his head, steps aside, and walks quickly toward his room. The door slams shut behind him, and he slumps against it, head thudding back against the wood.

“Fuck,” he mutters, throat tight, eyes burning.

You might be confused. You might even be scared. But Jake’s not.

He’s knows he’s in love with you.

- You -

Two. Weeks.

It’s been fourteen fucking days since Jake Seresin told you he’s in love with you.

How are you even supposed to function after a confession like that? How are you expected to keep breathing, keep moving, keep waking up every day just to see his face? At home and at work. Because the universe is some cruel sadist.

Or maybe you’re just a masochist.

After all, you were the one who agreed to move in together.

But he didn’t mean it, right?

He was just caught up in the moment, confused by proximity or friendship—or simply feeling something for the first time in his life. Jake Seresin doesn’t do emotion, so of course he’s going to be confused when he starts caring about someone other than himself. He’s never had a close female friend—not like this. He’s just… not thinking straight.

But you? You can’t stop thinking. About him. His face. His stupid smile. The way he says your name, and the shape his lips make when he does.

About how gorgeous he is—not in the over-the-top way, with his hair done just right, clean-shaven, mess dress pressed to perfection—but in the quiet way. When he’s in sweats and nothing else, his skin warm, hair a mess, lying on the couch like some off-duty Greek Adonis. He doesn’t even know he’s beautiful in those moments. And those are the moments you can’t stop thinking about.

You can’t get his eyes out of your head. His smile that crooks a little higher on one side, just for you. The way he smells like cedarwood and jet fuel. The way his warmth finds the deepest parts of you whenever he gets just a little too close.

You’ve always known he’s good-looking, since the very first day you met him. That’s not news. What is news is the way your stomach flips whenever someone even mentions his name. How your skin heats up when you remember the look on his face right before he said it—I’m in love with you. The rawness in his voice. The way it felt so real.

And maybe the worst part is, you don’t know if you regret what you said… or if you’re just terrified that you meant it. That you pushed him away not because you didn’t feel it, but because you did—so much it scared you.

Because two weeks ago, you were doing just fine repressing every unusually warm feeling you had about Jake. Everything that wasn’t totally platonic. But now, it feels like there’s a crack in the floodgates—and you’re one rainstorm away from drowning in everything you’ve tried so hard not to feel.

“Japanese or Mexican?” Justin asks, phone held up to his nose as he scrolls through the food delivery app.

How is it down to Japanese or Mexican? They’re not even close. No one in the history of the world has ever been torn between sushi and tacos. It just doesn't make sense.

“I don’t mind,” you mutter. “Not really hungry.”

He sighs, dark eyes flicking toward you. “You sure you’re okay? You’ve been distant all week. I’m surprised I finally got you to come around.”

You’ve only seen Justin once since the incident—just long enough to apologise and swear, honestly, that there’s nothing going on between you and Jake. After that, your replies slowed, you stopped checking your phone for his name, and a small, quiet part of you hoped he’d just... give up.

“Yeah, sorry. Work is just—”

“Work?” he cuts in, raising a brow.

You nod. “Work.”

“Right,” he mutters, glancing back down at his phone. “Let’s do Japanese.”

God. You’re not even hungry—and raw fish and seaweed sounds borderline offensive right now.

An hour later, your untouched dinner is still on the coffee table while Justin chuckles at some formulaic comedy—the canned laughter pressing into your skull like static. You’re sitting close, but it feels wrong. Like the space between you and him is closing in, pressing down on your chest. His thigh brushes yours and you force yourself not to flinch, pasting on a polite smile even though your skin is already crawling.

It’s not that he’s doing anything overtly wrong—he’s being perfectly nice, charming in that clean-cut, eager-to-please way. But every laugh feels too loud, every compliment a little too rehearsed. You nod, you smile, you even let him tuck a strand of hair behind your ear—and instantly wish he hadn’t. It doesn’t make you warm. It doesn’t make you flutter. It just makes you want to lean away.

Because the truth is, he’s not Jake.

And now you finally know what that’s supposed to feel like—real connection, real tension, real... something.

“How is he?” Justin asks suddenly.

You blink. “Who?”

“Jake,” he says, frowning. “You just said he’d hate this movie.”

You did?

“I did?”

He nods. “Yeah. I asked if you wanted to change it and you said, ‘Jake would’ve turned it off ten minutes ago’.”

Shit.

“Right,” you mumble, shaking your head. “Sorry. He’s okay. I think. I don’t really know. We haven’t talked in… a while.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “He’s been distant. We’ve been giving each other space.”

Justin smiles, a little too easily. “That’s good. You need boundaries, right? Living together and working together—it’s a lot.”

You hum, noncommittal, eyes glued to your untouched plate of sushi.

You used to know exactly where Jake’s boundaries were. Now all you can see are the ones you put up—and how much it’s starting to hurt having them there.

After Justin clears the takeout containers and pours you a glass of wine, he nestles even closer on the couch. The lame movie is drawing to a close—you can tell—but he makes no move to grab the remote. Instead, he leans in, sliding an arm around your shoulders and pulling your body to his.

Your stomach twists, and that familiar ache wells at the back of your throat—but right now, you’re not sure if it’s tears or nausea. Or both.

You swallow hard and take a shallow, shaky breath before turning toward him. You’re not stupid—you know what he wants. So you force yourself to try.

Your breath catches as his lips brush yours—tentative at first, then deeper, more insistent. You slide your hands up his chest, to his shoulders, fingers digging in as you try to relax your rigid posture. To lean in to him.

He shifts your bodies until you’re lying back, trying desperately to forget the knot twisting inside of you. His hands find your wrists, gently moving them above your head and pinning them against the couch armrest. Your heart races, but not with desire—with memory.

Suddenly, it’s not Justin’s hands you feel.

It’s Jake’s—rough, familiar, impossible to forget. Wrapped around your wrists, pinning you down with ease.

Your mind flashes back to that night. The tension, the heat, the rawness. His eyes blazing, chest heaving. The way his breath ghosted over your damp lips, sparking fire right between your legs.

You moan involuntarily, but it’s not Justin’s name on your lips.

“Jake...” you whisper, breathless.

The body above you freezes. Then pulls back.

Justin just stares, wide-eyed, brows drawn tight. “What the fuck?”

“I—” you try, but the words catch in your throat.

He sits back, scooting as far away from you as the couch allows.

“Justin—”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Just don’t, alright? I knew it.”

You frown. “Knew what?”

“I fucking knew there was something going on between the two of you.”

You shake your head. “There isn’t—”

“Don’t give me bullshit,” he says. “I’m not stupid. I didn’t even have to meet the guy to know. Just the way you spoke about him. The way you talked about him—it was non-fucking-stop. Do you know you talked more about Jake than yourself on our first date?”

Your eyes go wide, realisation thrumming hard through your veins.

Fuck.

It really has always been Jake. From the very first moment you met him—the way you refused to acknowledge him, convinced yourself he was just some pretty boy you wanted nothing to do with.

Then again at flight school. He was impossible to ignore. Always creeping into your thoughts and dreams, weaving himself deeper than you ever meant to let him.

TOPGUN. North Island. Moving in together. All of it, some cruel, subconscious prank you’ve been playing on yourself—just waiting for the moment you’d finally wake up and realise he’s not just Jake. Not just Hangman. Not to you.

To you, he’s everything.

Why else did you enjoy getting rid of his hookups so much? Why else did you even do it—if not to placate that deep, gnawing jealousy clawing at the corners of your mind?

A sharp ache blooms in your chest, and the tears come fast, unbidden—slipping down your cheeks before you can stop them. You’re not sure if it’s heartbreak or relief—or both. You’re crying for the truth you refused to see, for the walls you built, for the fear that maybe you’ve left it too late.

“Fuck,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I—I have to go.”

Before Justin can respond, you’re already on your feet, grabbing your things with trembling hands. You don’t look back as you step out the door, stumbling down the front steps and across the street.

You don’t care how it looks. You just need to get out of here.

You need to go home.

You need Jake.

The drive home is sketchy at best. You can barely see through your tears, and your chest is so tight you can’t take a proper breath. But somehow, you make it.

You park, climb out of the car, cross the street, and stumble through the lobby. You mash the elevator button like the extra pressure might make it come faster. It doesn’t.

When the doors finally open, you squeeze in—then out again, rushing down the hall with your keys already in hand. You fumble at the lock, find the right one, shove it in and force the door open, practically falling inside.

It’s dark. Quiet.

You pause to kick off your shoes, wiping at your face and blinking hard at the still, empty apartment.

Jake didn’t tell you he was going out. Then again, he hasn’t really told you anything lately—not since he told you he’s in love with you.

But you know he hasn’t been going out. You know he hasn’t seen anyone else since then. Hasn’t really spoken to anyone, either. Even Javy asked if you knew what was going on with him. You’d just shrugged and mumbled something about him avoiding you too.

Your throat tightens as you step farther in.

“Jake?” you call softly, your voice wobbly—uncertain.

There’s no response.

With a soft sigh, you shed your jacket and lay it on the kitchen bench. Then you pad quietly toward the hall. At the very end, beneath Jake’s bedroom door, is a faint sliver of light. He’s home.

You move as quietly as you can, tears still slipping down your cheeks, hands trembling at your sides. It doesn’t take long to reach his door—but you don’t knock. Instead, you let your forehead rest against the wood with a soft thud.

“Jake,” you whisper, barely audible.

If he’s watching something or has his headphones in, he wouldn’t hear you.

You clear your throat, lift your head and—thunk—let it fall again.

“Jake,” you say, a little louder.

There’s a shuffle. Then silence. A pause. Two distinct footsteps and—

The door yanks open and you go with it, falling forward.

“Jesus Christ,” Jake breathes, arms wrapping around you as you crash into his chest.

“Nope,” you murmur, sniffling. “Just me.”

He exhales—something like a half-laugh, half-sigh—as he steadies you in his arms. You don’t even try to hold yourself up—just sink into him, your cheek pressed to the firm warmth of his chest, his heartbeat thrumming hard beneath your ear.

“Are—are you okay?” he asks, voice tight with concern. “Did something happen?”

You draw a deep, shaky breath and slowly begin to take your weight back, bracing one hand on his shoulder as you pull upright.

“I—I just—” Your voice breaks as more tears roll down your cheeks.

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, his voice low as he takes your hand, his expression softening. “It’s okay. I’m here. Whatever it is—we’ll figure it out, yeah?”

He draws you further into the room, nudging the door closed behind you. Then he sits on the edge of the bed with a heavy breath and tugs gently on your hand to guide you down beside him.

But you don’t move. You can’t. Not yet.

It’s ridiculous, but... you don’t want your first time on Jake’s bed to be like this. Sobbing. Falling apart. If you’re ever in this bed, you want it to be because he put you there—and because you didn’t want to leave. Crying? Maybe… but from overstimulation, not emotional collapse.

“What happened?” he asks again, more carefully this time. “Did—did Justin—?”

“No,” you say quickly.

You step back just enough to face him, standing in front of where he sits at the foot of the bed. Then you tip your head back, trying to breathe, trying to collect yourself. You sniffle. Wipe your cheeks. Blink a few times. And finally, finally, you meet his eyes again.

“I—um, I think I broke up with him,” you say quietly. “If there was even anything to break up. Honestly, we’d barely been going out.”

Jake nods slowly, his eyes dropping to the floor. “Right. So... he didn’t take it well?”

You let out a soft, watery laugh—half-snort, thanks to your stuffed-up nose. “No idea. I left before he could say anything.”

“Oh.” Jake frowns. “Then why—”

“You know,” you interrupt, eyes drifting around his room, “I don’t think I’ve been in here more than once.”

His brow lifts. “Really?”

“Yep. When we first moved in. But it’s different now. It’s very... you.”

Jake huffs a quiet breath that might be a laugh. “Is that a good thing?”

You nod, your gaze snagging on the worn, pale cowboy hat hooked over the bedpost. “Yeah. I like it.”

Silence stretches between you. Heavy and charged. This is the longest you’ve been in the same room in two weeks— and the air between you is thick with everything left unsaid.

Finally, Jake clears his throat. “So... are you okay?”

You meet his eyes. “I think so.”

He nods once. “Good. With all the crying, I thought—”

“I love you,” you blurt.

His entire body stills. The words hang in the space between you like something fragile and flammable. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.

You swallow hard. “I—I’m in love with you. That’s what I meant.”

He just stares. Cheeks flushed, lips parted, stunned into silence. You can practically see the static behind his eyes.

You wait—heart in your throat, lungs burning. You can see it in his face. You know he loves you too. You just hope you’re not too late. That you haven’t wrecked this—haven’t ruined what it was, or what it could’ve been.

Finally, he blinks and drags in a breath. “You... you’re in love with me?”

You nod. “Yeah. With you.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, like the words won’t come. Like his brain can’t catch up.

You let out another shaky laugh, wiping fresh tears from your cheeks. “Yeah. That’s why I was crying.”

His voice is hoarse. “Because... of me?”

“It’s not a bad thing,” you say quickly. “I’m just... overwhelmed. I mean, you try realising you’re in love with your roommate—”

“I did,” he cuts in, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You narrow your eyes. “You didn’t let me finish.”

He doesn’t argue.

“You try realising you’re in love with your roommate—who also happens to be a certified man whore with a dating history that reads like an anthology series. Every damn episode worse than the last.”

Jake presses his lips together, trying—and failing—not to laugh.

“Man whore?” he echoes, raising a brow.

You give him a flat look. “Don’t even try to defend yourself. I’ve witnessed the carnage firsthand.” Then your breath hitches. “Why do you think I’m so scared?”

His smile fades. “Scared?”

“Yes,” you whisper, voice cracking as another tear slips free.

He stands up and steps forward without hesitation, wrapping you in his arms and pulling you tight against him. Your head finds its place beneath his chin, your cheek warm against his chest, the fabric of his shirt growing damp with tears.

“I swear to God, Jake Seresin,” you mumble into him, “if you break my heart, I’ll rip yours out and feed it to piranhas.”

His laugh vibrates through his chest. “Noted.” Then his voice softens, dropping to a whisper. “I’m not going to break your heart.”

Your chest tightens, overwhelmed by something fierce and fragile all at once. Love rises slowly, heavy and aching, filling every corner of you—for this man, this maddening, breathtaking man who has become everything you never expected.

You stay wrapped in him, suspended in that quiet moment of calm and certainty, until finally Jake pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. One hand finds yours, the other cups your jaw, tilting your face toward his with gentle intent.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice quiet, his eyes impossibly soft.

You nod. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“Good.” He leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead—so careful, so reverent it nearly undoes you all over again.

When he pulls back, he lingers just close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. His hand still cradles your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek like you might vanish if he stops touching you.

“We can take it slow,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough with restraint. “Whatever you want.”

But you can see it in his eyes—that barely-contained hunger. The way his gaze keeps dropping to your lips, the tension strumming between your bodies like a live wire.

“What do you want to do?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

You tilt your head, lips curving into a slow, wicked smile. He doesn’t even have time to react before you place your hands on his chest and give him a gentle push. He stumbles back a step, then another, until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed and he drops onto it with a startled huff.

“I want to save a horse,” you say.

He blinks up at you, confused. “What?”

You reach for the cowboy hat perched on his bedpost, fingers curling around the worn brim. Then, with deliberate slowness, you step between his knees and place the hat on his head, tilting it just right.

“Save a horse,” you repeat, your voice dropping as you lean in close, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Ride a cowboy.”

You barely finish the sentence before Jake grabs your hips and pulls you into his lap.

Your knees hit the mattress on either side of his thighs. The cowboy hat slips slightly askew on his head, but you grab the brim and straighten it with a grin, settling in with your hips flush against his.

“Jesus,” he breathes, eyes dragging slowly down your face, your neck, the curve of your chest like he’s cataloguing every inch for later. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You lean in close, lips brushing his. “You wish.”

And then you kiss him.

It’s not soft. It’s not slow. It’s all tongue and teeth and breathless sounds caught between gasps. You grind down without shame, feeling the thick press of him beneath you, hard and eager and very much not trying to play it cool. One of his hands slides under your shirt—fingertips rough and greedy—while the other fists in your hair, holding you there like he can’t risk you pulling away.

“Fuck,” he groans into your mouth, bucking up beneath you, chasing the friction like a man possessed. “You keep that up, and I’m gonna—”

“What?” you pant, rolling your hips again, slower this time. “Lose that legendary control of yours?”

His breath stutters. “You’re evil.”

“You love it.”

He’s gasping now, eyes dark, lips swollen from kissing, and you can feel the desperation clawing at him. Every muscle in his body is tense beneath yours, like he’s holding himself back by a thread.

You rock your hips again, deliberately filthy, and his head falls back with a curse.

“Baby,” he growls, voice wrecked, “we’re gonna open a whole goddamn rescue ranch with the amount of horses you’re about to save.”

You let out a breathless, wicked laugh and drag your mouth along his jaw, down his throat. “Then I guess we’d better start tonight.”

And if the next hour alone is anything to go by, this ranch is going to need a whole lot of fencing.

END.