the-unidentified-author

[the-unidentified-author]

To Love Is to Antagonize | LT. Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd | Top Gun: Maverick

Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW], teasing, slow build, slow burn?, sly glances, shy Bob, not so shy Bob, rough, loving, talks you through it, reader wears a bikini, no descriptions of the readers body, horny bob, frustrated bob, shirtless bob, unprotected p in v, you have to keep quiet, hand over mouth, bob knows what hes doing, bobs hand on readers body, truth or dare, mention of boobs, breeding kink? consensual!

Summary: A camping trip with the squad is the perfect opportunity for you to get to know Bob a little better. But, of course things can't ever be easy. Nat decides that the best way for you to finally get to jump, Bobs bones is if you antagonize him until the shy, polite part of him gives way to the feral, dirty minded freak he really is.

A/n: I had to split this into individual parts as editing a huge chunk of text actually almost fried my brain. Only the first chapters are posted here because this fic is LONG. There is a link HERE, and at the bottom of this post to the completed fic on AO3. Enjoy!

This fic is inspired by the plan ; robert 'bob' floyd by @geminiwritten, I couldn't stop thinking about it, I think it changed my brain chemistry. Give it a read! If you haven't already!!!

Word Count: 29,075

Not my gif, if its yours and you would like me to remove it just ask <3

I think this is one of the longest, fully completed fics that I have ever written. I don’t even care if there are mistakes and if it’s shit. I had so much fun writing it and I am fucking proud that I finished it!!!

Chapter 1:

The late afternoon sun slanted through the half-open blinds, painting the cluttered room with warm, golden light. You were sitting cross-legged on the scuffed hardwood floor, your backpack propped open beside you like a hungry mouth, methodically sorting through the piles of camping gear strewn around you.

Phoenix, your roommate and perennial mischief-maker, lounged on the mussed bed, idly tossing a balled-up sock in the air and catching it with a flourish. Their dark eyes danced with suppressed laughter, and you could practically see the gears turning in their head.

"Hey," Phoenix said suddenly, a grin spreading across her face like a slow sunrise. "You notice how Bob's been acting around you lately?"

You looked up from your packing, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. "What do you mean?"

Phoenix snorted, rolling her eyes with exaggerated patience. "Come on, don't play dumb. He's been all flustered and tongue-tied, tripping over himself whenever you're nearby. It's adorable, really."

You rolled your eyes, trying to suppress a smile as you turned back to your gear. "He does not."

"Does too!" Phoenix retorted, sitting up with a smirk. "I bet he's got a massive crush on you. He's just too shy to make a move."

You scoffed, reaching for a rolled-up sleeping bag and tucking it into your backpack with a little more force than necessary. "You're imagining things. Bob's just… Bob. He's like that with everyone."

"Nope. I know what I see," Phoenix insisted, leaning forward with a conspiratorial wink. "Mark my words, something's gonna happen on this trip. All those long, moonlit walks in the woods? The romantic campfire stories? It's the perfect setup."

You crossed your arms, giving Phoenix a skeptical look. “Hardly romantic—the whole squad's going to be there. Plus, Bob’s just shy. He’s like that with everyone.”

Phoenix grinned, leaning back on her elbows, unshaken. “Exactly. That’s what makes it even more adorable. Shy guys are always the most intense when they finally get the guts to make a move. And trust me, I’ve seen the way he looks at you. It’s not just friendly.”

You rolled your eyes, stuffing a few more socks into your pack. “He’s probably just nervous. It’s a big trip, big group—don’t overthink it.”

Phoenix snorted softly, eyes narrowing playfully. “Nope. I think he's got it bad—secretly scripting long walks, staring at your profile while pretending to be lost in thought. Trust me, I’ve seen those little glances—you’re not that oblivious, right?”

You let out an exasperated breath, shaking your head. “Please. It’s all in your head. Bob’s a nice guy, but I think you’re reading way too much into it.”

Phoenix sat up, her expression turning playful but insistent. “You’re missing the signs. Those subtle hints? The way he fidgets around you, trying to hide how much he’s staring? That’s crush 101. And I’m telling you, something’s gonna happen—probably accidental, probably sweet. But definitely happening.”

You sighed, feeling a mixture of amusement and awkwardness. “You’re impossible.”

Phoenix grinned wider, crossing her arms exaggeratedly. “Hey, I’m just saying—if I were him, I’d be too nervous to say anything directly.”

You blinked, caught between amusement and a little flutter of nerves. “You’ve got enough confidence for both of us.”

Phoenix leaned in slightly, a sly smile curling her lips. “Maybe. Or perhaps I just know how these things work. The subtle signals, the waiting game. Trust me, this trip’s going to turn into something pretty interesting.”

You sighed, shaking your head. “Even if you’re right, it doesn’t matter. Bob’s far too shy to admit anything, even if he’s got a crush. He’s polite and nervous—he wouldn’t make a move, not even if I practically waved it in his face.”

Phoenix’s eyes sparkled with mischief, a grin tugging at her lips. “That’s precisely where you come in. You just need to drive him absolutely insane—that’s how you’ll get his attention.”

You looked at her, skeptical. “What? How?”

Phoenix sat forward, excitement laced her words. “Listen—I’m talking about just enough teasing, a little flirtation. Show him a little more of that smile, a little suggestive glance now and then. And the best way? Giving him glimpses of your cleavage—nothing crazy, just enough to make his head spin. Make him realise what he’s been missing.”

You felt your cheeks flush but tried to stay nonchalant. “You want me to flirt with him?”

Phoenix winked, eyes glinting with scheming amusement. “Exactly. You’re gorgeous—what’s the worst that could happen? Just enough teasing that he starts second-guessing everything, wondering if you’re interested. When he finally gets it—trust me, the guy’s a man, manners can only hold him back for so long.” She grinned wider. “You’re the one who’s got the power in this game. Just give him enough glimpses, enough softly spoken hints, and watch him unravel. He won’t be able to resist eventually.”

You raised an eyebrow, struggling not to smile. “You want me to blue-ball, poor Bob?”

Phoenix snorted, batting you lightly with the balled-up sock. “Please, it’s not about torturing him. This might be the only way to get him to actually admit he likes you.” She paused, eyes sparkling. “Shy boys never just come out and say it. You have to make it so obvious they can’t help themselves. But honestly, isn’t that half the fun?”

You snorted, cheeks warming. “So I just flirt him into a confession?”

She grinned, clearly enjoying herself. “Exactly! Shy boys are always so much fun—every glance, every accidental brush, it drives them wild. It’s adorable. Besides, you like a chase too, don’t you?”

You shrugged, not trusting yourself to meet her gaze, though you felt that flutter of anticipation. “Maybe. Just a little.”

Phoenix nudged your leg with her foot, her grin impossibly wide. “Trust me. If you want him to make a move, this is the way. It’ll be fun for both of you.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling now. “You’re dangerous, Phoenix.”

She winked. “You haven’t seen anything yet. Just start with a few smiles and a little less hoodie—he won’t know what hit him.”

Chapter 2:

The gravel crunched beneath your boots as the squad clustered in the busy car park, vehicles parked haphazardly, gear spilling out. The late afternoon sun cast a warm glow, shadows stretching long as everyone prepared to head into the woods.

Jake sparred with Bradley, both bouncing on their toes, fists raised. Jake’s grin was wide, teasing as he threw quick jabs, while Bradley’s smirk matched his playful aggression, both clearly enjoying themselves.

Reuben was doubled over, roaring with laughter, while Mickey stared at the map, eyebrows raising as he took in the scene. “Wait, wait—what? So, we’re hiking before setting up camp? I thought we just show up, pitch tents, and chill,” Mickey said, shaking his head with a weird mix of surprise and annoyance.

Reuben chuckled, smacking Mickey on the back. “Dude, you seriously thought they were just gonna drive us here and call it a day? Nah, buddy. You gotta earn your s'mores.”

Mickey looked genuinely puzzled, crossing his arms. “Nah, I just thought—y’know, a chill weekend. I didn’t expect a full hike before we even set up.” He shrugged, a wide grin curling his lips. “But, hey, I’ll survive. Just didn’t plan on breaking a sweat today, that’s all.”

Phoenix leaned casually against a van, arms crossed, enjoying the scene with her usual mischievous smile. She shot you a quick glance, clearly amused. “Well, Mickey, think of it as pre-camping cardio. Nothing like a good hike to kick off the weekend, right?”

Meanwhile, standing near the back, Bob was perfectly still. His backpack was already on, buckled tight, everything arranged with military precision—every strap and pocket exactly in place. His gear was spotless, each item meticulously packed, as if he had just stepped out of uniform instead of the chaos of the car park.

He watched quietly, calm and composed, like he’d seen it all before—the sparring, the teasing, the group’s playful fuss. His gaze flicked over Jake and Bradley still going at it, Mickey’s reaction, everyone joking around, but his posture remained steady, as if ready for whatever unfolded next.

You caught his eye for a split second, and he offered you a shy smile before awkwardly shifting his focus back to your teammates. His demeanour was as sharp and precise as his gear—completely at ease, almost military in how ready he seemed to face whatever came.

The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a warm amber glow over the busy car park. Vehicles scattered in every direction, gear spilling out like a jumble of chaos. The smell of fresh pine and earth drifted in the air as everyone started to gather their packs.

Natasha, or Nat as everyone called her, pushed off from the van with a confident grin. "Alright, folks, let's get moving before the sun dips too low. No dilly-dallying—get those boots clicking."

She glanced around at the excited crowd, her eyes twinkling. “You all good on your gear? No forgotten snacks or emergency marshmallows?” she added with a mischievous wink.

Jake clapped Bob on the back, a friendly, almost teasing gesture that made Bob straighten his glasses and adjust his already pristine gear with practiced precision. He let himself be led by the group, his posture steady and military-precise, ready for whatever was coming next.

The others grabbed their packs, slinging bags over shoulders and exchanging quick, energetic glances. With a collective nod, they turned toward the trail leading into the woods, footsteps crunching on gravel as they began their trek.

Natasha’s eyes shifted from the group to you. She sidled up quietly, lowering her voice so just you could hear. “Hey, have you packed everything we agreed on for Operation Flirt with bob until he breaks and jumps your bones?”

Your eyes flicked to her, and she grinned mischievously. Without missing a beat, she leaned in close, whispering with a conspiratorial wink, “You know… the whole mission to make Bob think he’s missing out on the best thing that’s ever happened to him’”

She gave you a playful nudge. “Think you’re ready for it?”

"As I will ever be." you replied with a shake of your head and a soft smile.

The trail narrowed as you followed the group into the shade of the pines, leaves crunching beneath your boots. When you’d packed with Nat, she’d settled on your hiking outfit with gleeful precision: tight black cycling shorts that clung to your thighs and left nothing for the imagination, paired with a slick, supportive sports bra—probably the most engineering you’d ever worn under your clothes. You’d thrown a zip-up hoodie on top, tugged just low enough to almost hide the curve of your breasts, though not quite.

Nat had eyed you critically before you left, giving a brisk nod of approval. “Perfect. Athletic, strategic, and just distracting enough. Plenty for him to think about while pretending he’s focused on the route.”

Now, as the hike stretched on, bits of sunlight filtered down through the branches, occasionally catching on the bare length of your legs or the hint of your silhouette beneath the hoodie. Each time the trail bent, or you adjusted your straps, you felt eyes on you—Bob’s eyes, in particular. He tried valiantly to keep his gaze front and centre, but every few minutes, he’d look your way, glasses glinting, cheeks suspiciously warm, quickly shifting his focus back to his boots.

You feigned obliviousness, letting your conversation drift loosely around Nat, Mickey, and the others ahead. A casual laugh, a stretch overhead to fix your backpack strap, revealing just a sliver more skin. Bob, walking beside you, never said a word about it. But the hush in his throat, the way he fumbled with his water bottle, the uncharacteristic distraction in his step—all gave him away.

His composure stayed in place by sheer force of will, but every so often he'd fidget with his gear, or awkwardly clear his throat, and you couldn’t help but smile to yourself.

The trees finally opened onto the edge of a small lake, sunlight flickering silver and gold across the rippling surface. The campsite itself was tucked beneath a tall stand of pines, the ground carpeted with needles and moss so soft it muted every step. Birdsong drifted down from somewhere high in the branches, and the water lapped gently against the stones lining the shore. To one side, a weathered fire pit marked the heart of the clearing, already circled by flat-topped logs and half-buried stones for makeshift seating. Across the water, a distant ridge glazed in late-afternoon light promised privacy and peace—your group the only intruders on a scene so still it almost felt untouched.

Mickey shrugged off his pack with a huff, bending from the waist and letting it fall with an exaggerated grunt. “Honestly, that was at least twice the walk it looked on the map,” he groaned, but his complaints trailed off as he turned to the water, unable to hide a wide, genuine smile. “This is gorgeous, though. Totally, worth it.”

The others scattered, Jake and Bradley immediately making a beeline for the fire pit, clapping each other on the back as they poked at the charred logs and debated how best to arrange things. Reuben was already eyeing the shoreline, calculating the best spot to drop his gear and maybe sneak in a stone-skimming contest before dark. Bob, immaculate as ever, had set down his pack and was surveying the perimeter—probably cataloguing landmarks and escape routes, you thought, amused.

As you stretched your arms and let your muscles relax, Natasha sidled up, her face bright with playful intent. She nudged your side, voice low and brimming with delight. “So,” she whispered, not even glancing at the lake, “did you see the way Bob couldn’t take his eyes off you the whole hike up here? He’s lucky he didn’t walk straight into a tree.”

You shot Natasha a sly look, unable to keep the smile off your face. “How long do you think it’ll take before he finally snaps and says something?”

Natasha grinned, eyes sparkling as she surveyed the group’s bustling chaos. “That depends. If you’re planning to keep up the subtle torture, I’d give it another day. But if you really want to push him over the edge…” She arched a brow in your direction. “You did bring that absolutely scandalous bikini, didn’t you?”

Heat crept into your cheeks—part nerves, part excitement. “Maybe. Though I might need a bodyguard if I actually walk out in it. It’s barely more than a couple of strings.”

Natasha barked a quiet laugh. “Perfect. Honestly, after the day we’ve had, a dip in the lake is non-negotiable tomorrow morning. I want to see if Bradley and Jake can actually swim, or if they just flex near the shore.”

You nudged her side, lowering your voice. “You’re just hoping Bob short-circuits.”

“I’m hoping everyone short-circuits,” she shot back, grinning. “We’ll swim, you will act normal, and I will watch Bob for a reaction. Tomorrow?” She glanced up at the fading sun. “I’m thinking coffee by the lake at sunrise. Possibly an early swim—just the two of us. That’ll set the mood for the whole day.”

You spun an innocent look her way. “You mean, Operation break bob, phase two?”

Natasha’s grin grew wicked. “Exactly. Tonight campfire, stories, and just enough flirting that Bob can’t sleep. Tomorrow, bikini entrance and a whole new level of distraction. Ready for it?”

You looked out at the water, sunlight gleaming off the small ripples, feeling anticipation buzz along your skin. “Absolutely. Let’s make this a trip to remember.”

Chapter 3:

The path down by the lake rippled with the gold of the lowering sun. You tugged your hoodie back on, leaving your pack behind for the short walk, and Bob fell into step beside you. Before you’d even left the rough mossy boundary of the campsite, he paused and crouched beside his pack—already arranged in a neat, regulation-perfect stack. With practiced ease, he unzipped a small pocket and pulled out a slim foldable saw, testing the hinge before stashing it in his back pocket.

You blinked, caught somewhere between admiration and amusement. Of course, Bob came prepared for everything, but it still surprised you—the rest of you just grabbed sticks and hoped for the best, but Bob had clearly thought this through.

He glanced at the tree line with a quiet sort of certainty. “Best place for dry wood’s usually up by the rocks,” he said, as the two of you stepped out into the deepening green. “It stays out of the wind and the ground drains faster. Less likely to be rotted.”

You shot him a sidelong smile, letting the admiration show just a little. “No wonder Nat keeps you as her back seater,” you teased, falling into step beside him as you followed the trail toward the rocks. “You’re like a human survival manual—she’ll never let you out of her sight with skills like that.”

A faint flush crept up Bob’s neck. He ducked his head, but not before you caught the ghost of a proud, shy smile flickering across his face. “Well, she likes things to run smooth,” he mumbled, adjusting his grip on the saw. “It’s easier to be prepared. I like making sure nothing gets missed.”

You nudged him lightly, grinning. “And here I thought you just wanted an excuse to show off all your special gear. Very impressive.”

He laughed softly, the sound low and genuine, glasses slipping a fraction down his nose. “Trust me—if I was showing off, I’d have brought the portable espresso machine.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Next trip, then?”

This time, he glanced over, braver somehow. “Deal.”

The rocks tumbled in mossy clusters, and Bob scanned the ground until he found a branch that looked promising. He appraised a fallen pine, then knelt, rolling up his sleeves with a practiced flick. The muscles in his forearms flexed beneath golden skin as he braced the saw and set to work.

You let your gaze linger, indulging for just a moment—the slice of his jaw in profile, the almost methodical way he worked, each motion deliberate. There was a quiet concentration to him, the steady back-and-forth of the saw and the way the light caught on his dampening hairline. If Phoenix could see you now, she’d be snickering in the underbrush.

Bob paused, breath shallow, and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “This wood is stubborn,” he said, not quite meeting your eyes, chest rising and falling with the effort.

You offered him a teasing smile, stepping closer but not quite taking over. “I’m impressed. Honestly, I thought you were all brains and field manuals—but you’re not so bad with your hands, either.”

He glanced at you then, startled, and for a beat you let your gaze drop—lingering, suggestive—before you grinned and bent to begin gathering the cut branches. Bob coughed, looking suddenly desperate to concentrate solely on the saw, but you didn’t miss the flush creeping up his neck again.

Your mind wandered wickedly: there was something undeniably hot about Bob like this, strips of sunlight freckling his arms, intent on the task, something less shy and more commanding taking over as he worked. If this was what a camping trip could offer, you’d gladly volunteer for wood-gathering duty every time.

You let your fingers graze his as you reached for a branch, close enough that he’d feel it—a quiet spark under the guise of teamwork. He flinched slightly, then immediately pulled his hand back, cheeks flushed.

“S-sorry, that was—my fault,” he stammered, though you both knew it wasn’t. He looked at the ground as if willing it to swallow him.

You fought the urge to smile, a quiet satisfaction blooming in your chest. Phoenix would have a field day if she could see him now.

He collected himself and cleared his throat, not quite meeting your eyes. “I think we’ve got enough,” he managed, stacking the freshly cut branches at his feet. “We should, um… gather it up and head back.”

You nodded, biting back a smirk. If your goal was to gently rattle him, you were definitely on the right track. Without another word, you stooped to gather the wood—close enough that your shoulders touched for just a heartbeat longer than necessary. As you straightened, you caught the brief hesitation in his peripheral gaze, his eyes lingering at the edge of your hoodie for a moment too long. You pretended not to notice, busying yourself with the smooth rhythm of stacking branches.

Then you started back toward camp, feeling the heat of his stolen glances still trailing after you all the way through the dappled light.

A Link to the COMPLETE FIC ON AO3

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[the-unidentified-author]

Crawl Inside This Body - Find Me Where I Am Most Ruined, Love Me There. | Robert 'Bob' Reynolds| Thunderbolts*

Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW], mentions of drug abuse, description of scars, descriptions of sex, explicit language, multiple orgasms, he is vocal in bed, filthy, talks you through it, consensual!

Fem!Reader

Summary: You catch bob in an intimate moment and decide to join him. This is FILTH.

Word Count: 6,686

A/N: I'm not happy with this one and I think I still need to edit it some more. I don't know why maybe its the flow. I have writers block right now and this was my attempt at getting rid of it and I don’t think its worked. READ THE WARNINGS FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!

Not my gif, if its yours and you would like me to remove it just ask <3

The party is a whirlwind of colour and sound, laughter echoing off the walls as glasses clink and bodies sway to the pulsing beat. It's a celebration of the Thunderbolts' latest successful mission, a rare moment of calm in their otherwise chaotic lives. Yelena's delighted laughter rings out above the din, her head thrown back in abandon, while Alexei's eyes narrow at a puddle of spilled vodka, his annoyance palpable. At the edge of your vision, Ghost flickers in and out of sight, her spectral form swaying to the music, a playful smile on her face as she enjoys the revelry.

You can't help but feel a little out of place amidst the revelry, your thoughts a jumble of conflicting emotions. On one hand, you're grateful for the reprieve from the constant danger and uncertainty of your work. But on the other, the noise and the crowds are a stark contrast to your usual quiet, solitary existence, and they're starting to make you feel just a little uncomfortable.

But it's Bob who draws your gaze, time and time again. Hunched in his oversized hoodie, the frayed edges of his baggy pants brushing the sticky floor, he lingers in the shadows, seemingly just as out of place as you feel. His fingers fidget with his drink, his eyes downcast, forever on the outside looking in.

As you watch him, you can't help but wonder what he's thinking, what secrets he might be hiding beneath his quiet, unassuming exterior.

You find your gaze drifting to him more times than you’d care to admit. Maybe it’s the way he avoids the spotlight, or the awkward way he fidgets with his drink. Occasionally, he catches you watching. And though he looks away quickly, his cheeks tinged with something you can’t quite name, there’s a glint in his eye.

What if she knew what I was really thinking? Bob muses silently, his gaze flickering back to you before darting away again. How the sight of her makes my heart race, my thoughts stray to places they shouldn't. The things I want to do…

He shifts uncomfortably, tugging at the hem of his hoodie as if to hide the flush creeping up his neck. Get it together, man.

Bob's fingers tighten around his drink, his grip almost white-knuckled as he tries to rein in his errant thoughts. She'd probably laugh if she knew. Or worse, pity me. He ducks his head, letting his hair fall across his face like a curtain, shielding him from the world. Just act normally, he tells himself, taking a deep, shaky breath. Don't let her see how much you care. How much you want…

He trails off, his thoughts too tangled, even in the privacy of his mind. Instead, he focuses on the drink in his hand, the ice bobbing in the glass, how cold it is in his hand, anything to keep from looking up and meeting your eyes again.

The chaos of the Thunderbolts ebbs and flows, but Bob stays on the periphery—always on the edge, half-hidden in half-light. He's like a shadow, forever present but never fully part of the party.

You glance around the room, taking in the swirl of colour and sound, the laughter and chatter of the people attending the party. As your eyes sweep the space, you realise that the corner where Bob had been standing is now empty.

With a furrow of your brow, you search the room, your gaze sweeping over the faces of the other guests. It's then that you catch a glimpse of him, slipping away from the noise and disappearing down a dimly lit corridor. His movements are quiet and subtle, the actions of someone who's practiced going unnoticed.

You hesitate for a moment, watching the play of light along the wall, the shadows dancing and flickering in the low light. The laughter and chatter of the party seem to fade into the background as your curiosity builds, tipping you forward like a magnet drawn to its pole. Your feet carry you along the edge of the laughter and noise, following Bob's retreating figure down the hallway. He moves with nervous purpose, his shoulders folded in as if trying to make himself smaller, hands deep in his pockets. His entire being seems intent on reaching the quiet sanctuary of his room, a place where he can shed the facade he wears like a second skin.

Unseen and silent, you let the rest of the party melt away. All your attention narrows in on Bob, now just a few steps ahead, unaware that you're there. The secret urge to follow—part daring, part longing—guides you further.

When he slips into his room, the door left slightly ajar, you pause just outside, watching. The muffled sounds of the party—laughter, music, the hum of voices—fade behind you, leaving only the quiet tension that hums through your body. The air smells faintly of his cologne—nothing overpowering, just a light, inviting scent that you can usually only catch if he’s walked past you. Now, it’s lingering in the quiet space of his room, warm and tempting.

Your gaze fixes on the crack in the door as your heart pounds louder than the distant bass. You know you should go back—this isn’t your place, his space—but curiosity, thick and insistent, keeps you rooted.

Inside, Bob's thoughts swirl, his mind alight with fantasies he's never dared voice. What would she think if she knew how much I want her? How my skin aches for her touch? He imagines your fingers trailing over his body, igniting sparks of pleasure with every caress.

Your eyes widen, practically glued, as Bob sets his drink down carefully beside the bed and climbs onto the mattress. His movements are deliberate, almost hesitant, as he reaches for the hem of his hoodie, lifting it just enough to reveal a glimpse of toned, muscular lower stomach. The fabric bunches under his fingers, and you catch the soft, nearly imperceptible moan that escapes his lips as his hand slips beneath the waistband of his trousers.

As you watch, you can't help but notice the way his tousled brown hair falls across his forehead, the soft curve of his lips parted slightly in anticipation.

I wonder if she ever thinks about me like this, Bob muses, his breathing growing ragged as his fingers brush against sensitive skin. If she dreams of me the way I dream of her.

You watch, breath hitching, as he begins to touch himself, fingers ghosting over skin with a slow, careful deliberation. His head tips back slightly, and though his hips remain pressed to the mattress, you can see the subtle movements of his arm, the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

God, I wish it was her hand on me, Bob thinks, his imagination running wild with the thought of you there beside him, your body pressed close, your lips on his skin. I want her so badly it hurts.

A rush of heat floods your chest, and you can't tear your eyes away. It’s raw, honest, and so intensely private that for a moment, you know you’re crossing a line. Still, you’re drawn to it—fascinated by the shy guy finally revealing what’s hidden underneath that quiet exterior. Your mind spirals with wild thoughts—what it would feel like if he knew you were watching, if you could be part of this clandestine moment.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, torn between the urge to stay hidden and the temptation to step closer. But for now, you hold your breath, caught in the dark—fascinated, eager, craving more of this secret unwrapping in the shadows of his room.

Just as you’re about to tear yourself away, to leave Bob to his private moment, a whisper of sound escapes his lips and stops you in your tracks. It’s your name, muttered like a prayer, a benediction in the silence of the room as he touches himself.

Your heart stutters, a sudden flush rising to your cheeks. A confusing swirl of emotions rises within you—shock, flattery, a hint of guilt for invading this most intimate of moments. But beneath it all, a thrill of desire, a yearning to be the one eliciting those soft sounds, to be the focus of his hidden passion.

For a moment, you sway on your feet, caught between the urge to flee and the temptation to step into the room, to make your presence known, to turn his whispered fantasy into reality. But fear and uncertainty hold you back, your breath caught in your throat. As you watch, your arousal builds, a deep, throbbing ache that mirrors the tension in Bob's body. Your breathing quickens, your skin feels hot and too tight, and you can't help but press your thighs together, seeking some kind of relief. But it's not enough, not nearly enough, and the thought of leaving now feels impossible, unbearable.

Your eyes trace the lines of his body, the rise, and fall of his chest, the way his muscles tense and release with each careful stroke. You imagine the heat of his skin, the weight of him against you, the soft sounds of pleasure he’d make if you were the one touching him, bringing him to the edge. The thought sends a shiver down your spine, a pulse of want that makes your thighs clench and your heart race. But still, you hold back, caught in this breathless, stolen moment, your presence a secret between you and the shadows.

Your arousal builds as you watch, a deep, throbbing ache that mirrors the tension in Bob’s body. Your breathing quickens with each passing moment, your skin feels hot and too tight, and you can’t help but press your thighs together, seeking some kind of relief. But it’s not enough, not nearly enough, and the thought of leaving now feels impossible, unbearable. You know you should go, that this is a violation of his privacy, his trust. Yet, the temptation to stay, to watch him finish, to be a silent witness to his pleasure, is too strong to resist. As you shift your weight, trying to ease the ache between your thighs, your shoe scrapes against the floor, the sound shockingly loud in the quiet of the hallway.

Inside the room, Bob’s eyes fly open, his hand stilling as he realises he’s not alone. For a long, tense moment, you freeze, your heart pounding in your ears. But then Bob sits up, his eyes finding yours through the crack in the door. There’s a moment of hesitation, a flash of uncertainty crossing his face.

The hallway is silent save for your trembling breath; eyes fixed on the dim glow emanating from the slightly open door. Your heart pounds in your chest as you carefully push the door open, the wood soft and releasing a faint squeak that seems deafening in the quiet. Inside, the soft glow from a bedside lamp casts warm, flickering shadows across the room, illuminating Bob’s silhouette sitting upright on the edge of the bed, his hand stilling with shock as he sees you.

You enter slowly, your footsteps hesitant yet driven by an undeniable pull. You meet Bob's eyes, your voice low and steady, "I saw you leave the party, and I wanted to follow," your cheeks flush, but not with embarrassment. The words hang in the air, thick with your admission of purposeful trespass.

Bob's eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering across his face. "You… you followed me?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why?"

Without hesitation, you step further into the room, closing the space between you and the bed. But then, an unexpected wave of confidence surges up from within, steadying your voice. "Because I wanted to be with you," you say simply, honestly.

You settle onto the edge, your gaze never leaving Bob’s. His eyes flick over you, a mixture of shyness and curiosity flickering across his face, muscles tense and unsure. Taking a deep, steadying breath, you lean forward a little, your lips close to his ear as you whisper softly, "Can I kiss you?"

Bob hesitates, his lips parting slightly, as if weighing his options. His initial shyness is palpable—he looks tentative, unsure whether to embrace this surprise intimacy or hold himself back. Yet, as your hand reaches out to gently cup his cheek, he seems to slowly surrender, closing his eyes briefly before responding.

With his silence as permission, you lean in carefully, your lips meeting his in a soft, tentative kiss. He’s hesitant at first, his lips barely moving against yours. As you feel his initial hesitation, your mind wanders to the last time someone kissed him, the last time someone touched him with the intent of inflicting pleasure and not pain. You can't help but wonder how long it's been since he's experienced tenderness, affection, desire.

But then, slowly, he begins to respond, his mouth opening beneath yours, his tongue slipping out to tangle with yours.

As the kiss deepens, Bob's hands become hungry, grabbing at your clothes with a surprising intensity. It's as if a switch has been flipped, his shyness giving way to a desperate need for contact, for closeness. His fingers skim over your skin, leaving trails of heat in their wake, and you can feel the urgency in his touch, the longing he's kept hidden for so long.

Carefully, as though he's asking for permission, he pulls you into his lap. You straddle him, your legs wrapping around his waist, your bodies pressed together so tightly it is almost as though he were trying to make you part of him. Through the thin fabric of your clothes, you can feel the heat of his skin, the hardness of his muscles, the growing bulge in his pants that sends a thrill through you.

His hands slide up your back, under your shirt, his fingertips grazing your spine, and you shiver at the contact, your own hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. As you touch him, you can feel the desperation in his movements, the way his fingers tremble slightly against your skin, as if he's been starving for this kind of contact for far too long.

Bob's touch is reverent, almost worshipful, as he explores every inch of your body he can reach, his hands roaming over your back, your sides, your arms, as if trying to map every curve and plane. He touches you like a man who's been lost in the desert, and you're the first drink of water he's had in years, like he's trying to memorise every detail, to soak up every bit of sensation.

And you're all too happy to give it to him, your own hands roaming over his body in turn, feeling the play of muscles under skin, the heat of him, the way he shivers at your touch. You lose yourself in the sensation, in the sheer joy of being this close to him, of finally being able to touch him the way you've wanted to for so long.

The desire to get closer to him becomes more intense, your hands wandering over his body with increasing urgency. You tug at the hem of his hoodie, suddenly desperate to remove any barriers between your skin and his, to see all of him, to map every inch of his body with your hands and lips and eyes.

But as you start to pull the fabric up, Bob suddenly goes still, his hands coming up to stop you, a shy, reluctant look on his face. You remember the stories you've heard, about the time he was caught in a hail of bullets, the projectiles harmlessly bouncing off his skin but tearing his shirt away, exposing him to the world. You want to see that, to see him, all of him, and you tell him as much, your voice low and earnest.

But Bob hesitates, and you can see the uncertainty in his eyes, the way he looks away from you, his cheeks flushed. "I… I used to use drugs," he admits, his voice low and rough with emotion. "My skin… it's not… there are scars. I don't… I don't want you to see me like that."

"Bob, I want you, scars and all," you murmur, your hands stroking his cheeks, his hair, trying to soothe him. "They don't change how I feel about you, how much I need you." He looks up at you, his eyes wide and vulnerable, and you can see the glimmer of hope there, the desperate yearning to believe you. Slowly, hesitantly, he nods, and his hands fall away from his hoodie, giving you silent permission to continue.

Slowly, carefully, you lift his hoodie, your eyes tracing over the scars that mark his skin. There's a small, round cigarette burn on his shoulder, the skin shiny and puckered. Track marks, faint and silvery, trace along the insides of his elbows, a roadmap of his past struggles with addiction. And there are other scars too, thin lines that crisscross his arms and chest, some fresher than others, the legacy of moments when the pain inside became too much to bear.

Your heart breaks for him, for the pain he's endured, the suffering he's inflicted on himself. But you know that your touch can be different, that you can show him gentleness, kindness, love. Your fingertips trace over each scar, your touch feather-light, as if you can erase all the times, he's been touched with cruelty by touching him with tenderness.

As you continue to touch him, you can see him starting to relax, his body opening. His eyes flutter closed, his head falling back as he surrenders himself to your touch, to the sensations you're coaxing from his body. Gently, you lift his wrist to your lips, pressing a soft kiss to the scars there. At the touch of your lips, a strangled sort of gasp leaves Bob's lips, his body shuddering with the intensity of the sensation, the overwhelming feeling of being seen, being accepted, being loved.

You take your time, exploring every inch of his skin, kissing each scar, your lips soft and reverent. You want to show him that you see him, all of him, and that you're not afraid or disgusted by his scars, but that you accept them, accept him, as he is. Your touch is a promise, a vow that you'll be gentle with him, that you'll treat him with the care and love he deserves, even if he's never experienced it before.

Emboldened by your tender kiss on his scars, Bob surges forward, capturing your lips in a hard, intense kiss. His hands grab at your hips, fingers digging into your skin with passionate urgency. With a swift, careful motion, he twists, strong arms holding you close as he manoeuvres you both so that you're lying beneath him on the bed.

Bob's kiss is fierce, almost bruising in its intensity, his lips claiming yours with a desperation born of long-denied desire. His tongue tangles with yours, stroking, teasing, tasting, as if he's trying to devour you whole. You can feel the heat of his body against yours, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, and you revel in the sensation, your own arms coming up to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer.

His hands roam over your body, tracing the curves of your hips, your waist, your ribs, before coming to rest on the buttons of your shirt. At first, he fumbles with them, his fingers trembling slightly, breath quick against your cheek as he tries to work the small fastenings loose. The slow click of buttons draws out the tension, your chest rising with each soft brush of his knuckles. But longing overtakes patience—suddenly, he hooks his fingers into the fabric, eyes hot and wild, and with a swift, desperate motion, tears the shirt open. The sharp sound of popping buttons ricochets through the room, a jolt of reckless need, and the parted fabric falls away from your shoulders, baring you fully to him. Cool air washes over your newly exposed skin.

As the last button slips free, Bob pulls back slightly, his eyes dark with desire as he takes in the sight of you, laid out beneath him like an offering. You can see the hunger in his gaze, the raw, aching need, and it sends a thrill through you, knowing that you're the one he wants, the one he needs. And then he's dipping his head, his lips tracing a searing path down your throat, over your collarbone, until he reaches the curve of your breast.

Bob's hands slide down your body, greedy with the need to explore every inch of you. His fingertips skim over your ribs, tracing the curve of your waist before slipping lower, to the waistband of your pants. With deft fingers, he undoes the button and zip, tugging the fabric down your hips, exposing you completely to his hungry gaze.

He looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire, seeking permission. You nod, your breath catching in your throat, and he smiles, a slow, wicked thing that sends a shiver down your spine. Then he's dipping his head, his lips brushing against your inner thigh, making you squirm with anticipation.

He works you over with his tongue, each lick a deliberate, sensual caress that sets your nerves alight. He traces every inch of you, his tongue swirling around your most sensitive spots before dipping inside you, tasting you deeply. The sensation is almost too much to bear, and you find yourself writhing beneath him, your fingers tangling in his hair as you try to hold on.

As Bob works his tongue, you can't help but moan softly, telling him how good it feels. "Yes, Bob, just like that," you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair. "You're so good at this, it feels incredible."

Bob responds with a deep, appreciative moan, the vibrations sending delicious shivers through your body. He seems to be spurred on by your words, his tongue moving with renewed enthusiasm as he licks and sucks at your most sensitive spots. "Fuck, Bob," you pant, your hips bucking up to meet his mouth. "I'm so close, don't stop, please don't stop."

Bob obeys, his tongue never faltering as he drives you closer and closer to the edge. You can feel your orgasm building, coiling tighter and tighter inside you, and you can't help but let out a stream of filthy encouragement.

"That's it, Bob, make me come," you moan, your voice breathy and desperate. "I want to come all over your face, I want you to taste me."

Your words seem to push Bob over the edge, and he doubles his efforts, his tongue moving in firm, hard strokes against your clit. Finally, after what feels like an eternity of exquisite torment, Bob gives you what you need, his tongue pressing hard against your clit as he sucks you deep into his mouth. The sensation sends you flying over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you in waves of pure, blissful pleasure. Bob rides out your release with you, his tongue never stopping, until you're left spent and gasping on the bed, your body feeling boneless and sated. The pleasure is almost unbearable, and you find yourself crying out, your hips bucking wildly as your orgasm crashes over you.

Bob rides out your release with you, his tongue never stopping, until you're left spent and gasping on the bed.

As you come down from the high of your orgasm, you realise your fingers are still tangled tightly in Bob's hair, pulling him close. You start to loosen your grip, but then you notice the way he's leaning into your touch, the soft hum of pleasure that vibrates against your skin. It seems he enjoys the sensation of having his hair pulled, the sharp prickle of pain mingling with the pleasure of tasting you. You tighten your grip again experimentally and are rewarded with a deep moan that sends a fresh shiver of desire through you. Bob looks up at you, his eyes dark and dilated with lust, and you can't help but pull him up into a deep, filthy kiss, tasting yourself on his lips and tongue, murmuring "You're so fucking good, Bob," against his lips.

As you pull back from the kiss, you can't help but let your hands roam over Bob's body, tracing the lines of his muscles, the heat of his skin. Your hands come to rest on the waistband of his trousers, fingers toying with the button there.

Bob's eyes widen slightly, a hint of shock and shyness flickering across his face. It's clear he's not used to being on this side of things, to being the one touched and explored. But even as he hesitates, you can see the longing in his eyes, the way he leans into your touch almost unconsciously.

Slowly, gently, you guide him down onto the bed, helping him lie back against the pillows. You climb to kneel beside him, your hands moving back to the waistband of his trousers. You can feel him tremble slightly under your touch, but he makes no move to stop you, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded as he watches you.

Carefully, you undo the button and zip of his trousers, tugging the fabric down over his hips. Bob lifts slightly, helping you shimmy the material down his legs and off, leaving him in just his boxers. You can see the bulge there, the evidence of his arousal, and it sends a thrill through you, knowing you have this effect on him.

You glance up at Bob, meeting his eyes as you hook your fingers in the waistband of his boxers. He nods slightly, giving you permission, and you slowly tug the fabric down, freeing him. His cock springs up, hard and leaking, and you can't help but lick your lips at the sight. You reposition yourself, kneeling between Bob's spread legs. His eyes track your every movement, drinking in the sight of you there, poised above him. You can see the anticipation thrumming through him, the way his muscles tense and his breath quickens.

Slowly, teasingly, you lean down, letting your hair fall forward to brush against his sensitive skin. Bob shivers at the contact, his hands fisting in the sheets beside him. You let your breath ghost over his cock, watching the way it twitches in response, before finally giving in and taking him into your mouth.

Bob's head falls back against the pillows, a deep, guttural moan escaping his lips as your mouth envelops him. You start slow, letting your tongue swirl around the head of his cock, savouring the taste of him, before slowly taking him deeper. Your hands come up to brace against his hips, holding him steady as you work him over with your mouth. You can feel Bob's thighs trembling on either side of you, can hear the harsh pant of his breath above you.

As you work him over with your mouth, Bob pants above you, his fingers tightening in your hair. "I won't come quickly," he gasps, his voice rough. "I've learned to edge myself, to hold back. It's the only way I feel like I have any sense of control."

You can hear the vulnerability in his voice, the hint of shame that lingers there. But there's also a sense of trust, of openness, as if he's sharing a secret part of himself with you. It makes your heart clench, even as your body thrums with desire.

But before you can double your efforts, before you can try to push him over the edge, Bob's hands are tugging at your hair, pulling you off his cock. You look up at him, confused, but the look in his eyes stops any questions in your throat.

"I need to feel you," he says, his voice low and rough, almost desperate. "I need to be inside you. Please."

The shy, hesitant Bob is gone, replaced by a man driven by need, by desire. And you can't help but respond to it, your body arching towards him instinctively. You nod, your throat tight with anticipation, and Bob moves quickly, flipping you over onto your back and settling between your thighs.

He pushes inside you in one smooth thrust, filling you up, stretching you almost to the point of pain. But it's a good pain, a delicious ache that makes you moan and writhe beneath him. Bob sets a punishing pace, his hips slamming into yours, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. It's hard, and fast, and almost brutal, but it's precisely what you both need at that moment.

As he moves inside you, Bob's hands roam over your body, tracing the lines of your curves, the planes of your muscles. He touches you like a man starved for contact, like he's trying to memorise every inch of your skin. And you respond in kind, your hands clutching at his back, his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, leaving marks, branding him as yours. Bob's hands grip your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your skin as he holds you in place. You can feel the strength coiled inside him, the power he's holding back even as he loses himself in the sensation of being inside you.

"I don't want to hurt you," he grits out, his voice strained as he slows with the effort of holding back. "But fuck, I want you so much. I need you."

His words send a shiver down your spine, a thrill of desire that only intensifies the pleasure building inside you. You can feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter, your body straining towards release.

"Harder," you gasp, your hands fisting in the sheets beside you. "I won't break, Bob. I need you, all of you."

Your words seem to snap the last of his control, and he surges forward, his hips slamming into yours with a force that steals your breath away. But it's undoubtedly what you need, the perfect amount of pleasure, to send you hurtling over the edge into oblivion. But Bob doesn't let you come, not yet. He pulls back, his cock slipping out of you, leaving you empty and aching. You whimper, your hips bucking up, seeking more, but Bob just smiles, a dark, wicked thing that sends a thrill through you.

He flips you over onto your stomach, his hands gripping your hips and pulling them up, positioning you on your hands and knees. You feel exposed, vulnerable, but so fucking turned on you can hardly breathe.

Bob runs his hands over your body, tracing the curve of your spine, the swell of your ass. He squeezes, his fingers digging into your flesh, and you moan, pushing back into his touch. Then, unexpectedly, his hand comes down on your ass, a sharp, stinging slap that makes you gasp and jerk forward.

He soothes the sting with a gentle rub, his fingers trailing over the heated skin, before pulling back and spanking you again. You lose yourself in the sensation, in the sharp sting of pain followed by the soothing caress, your body trembling, your skin flushed and hot. Just when you think you can't take any more, Bob pushes inside you again, his cock sliding deeper, filling you up. He sets a slow, grinding pace, his hips rolling against yours, hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust.

You moan, your head dropping between your shoulders, your hands fisting in the sheets. Bob's hands roam over your body, pinching and squeezing, his touch just this side of too rough, too much.

But you need it, and you can feel yourself climbing higher and higher, your body coiling tighter and tighter. You're close, so fucking close, your breath coming in sharp pants, your skin flushed and damp with sweat.

Bob leans over you, his chest pressing against your back, his breath hot against your ear. "Come for me," he whispers, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. "Come all over my cock."

His words send you flying over the edge, your body clenching around him, your orgasm crashing over you in waves of pure, blissful pleasure. But he isn't done yet, no, that super serum coursing through his veins might just be the death of you.

His thrusts make you moan, gripping the bedsheets even tighter, your body responding to his touch even as it still trembles from your orgasm. You can feel his cock inside you, still hard, still pulsing, and you know he's far from finished.

As he continues to move inside you, you can't help but marvel at the transformation that's come over him. Quiet Bob, who has had little to no control in all his life, is now drunk on it, his only objective pulling as many orgasms from your body as he can.

It's a heady thought, knowing that you're the one who's done this to him, the one who's brought out this dominant, controlling side. And you can't help but love it, love the way his only focus is you.

"You thought you were done?" he growls in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "You thought I was done with you? No, I’m gonna make you feel so good, baby."

Bob's hand slides up from your waist, his fingers finding your throat and wrapping around it, not tight enough to cut off your air, but tight enough to remind you who's in control. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk straight," he promises, his voice low and rough. "Until you can't remember your own name. Until the only thing you can think about is my cock inside you."

His thrusts get harder, faster, his cock slamming into you with enough force to make you gasp. You're still sensitive from your last orgasm, your body feeling like it's been electrified, and every movement sends sparks shooting through your veins.

But you don't want him to stop, you don't want this feeling to end. Even as your body feels like it's being pushed to its limits, you can feel another orgasm building, coiling tight in your belly.

"Fuck, Bob," you moan, your voice breathy and desperate. "I'm gonna come again." The words come as a strangled gasp.

Your words spur him on, his thrusts getting even harder, even faster. You can feel his cock throbbing inside you, feel the way he swells even larger.

"Come for me," he growls in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Come all over my cock. Let me feel you."

And with his words, you're lost. Your orgasm crashes over you, even more intense than the last, and you scream his name, your body clenching around him, your nails digging into the flesh of his forearm as he holds you against his chest. As your orgasm fades, Bob's thrusts slow, becoming gentler, almost lazy. He lowers you down to the bed, his cock still inside you, still hard and pulsing. His thrusts are slow and sloppy now, dragging against your sensitive walls, adding to the overstimulation.

After a moment, he pulls out, leaving you feeling empty and aching. He turns you onto your back, his body hovering over yours, his cock resting against your swollen clit. He leans down, his lips brushing against yours in a gentle kiss.

"Are you ready to go again?" he asks, his voice low and rough.

His words send a shiver down your spine, your body responding to his touch even as it still trembles from your orgasm. You can feel his cock against your clit, hard and throbbing, and you know he's ready for more.

"Yes," you breathe, your voice barely a whisper, your brain reduced to nothing more than primal urges that want nothing more than to feel his release erupt within you. Bob smiles, and you get just a tiny hint of the shy bob from before, and he leans down to kiss you again, it was careful, delicate.

As he pushes inside you, you can feel the overstimulation washing over you, your body still sensitive from your previous orgasms. Every nerve feels like it's on fire, every touch sending sparks shooting through your veins. It's almost too much, almost painful, but at the same time, you don't want it to stop.

You can feel Bob's cock inside you, thick and hard and pulsing, and you know he's not done with you yet. He starts to move, his thrusts slow and deep, but with a devilish sort of control. His hips roll against yours, his cock dragging against your sensitive walls, and you can't help but moan into his mouth, your hips bucking up to meet his thrusts.

He swallows the sound, his tongue stroking against yours, his lips sealed over yours in a searing kiss. You can feel the heat of his body against yours, the weight of him pressing you down into the mattress, and it's enough to make your head spin.

"More," you moan, breaking the kiss to gasp for air. "More, Bob. I need more." Bob smiles, and he obliges, his thrusts getting faster, harder, his cock slamming into you with enough force to make you gasp.

"Just one more, baby," he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. "One more from you and I'll join you. Do you want that, baby? Do you want me to come inside you?"

"Yes," you breathe, your voice barely a whisper. "Yes, Bob. I want you to come inside me. I want to feel you fill me up."

Bob groans at your words, his hips jerking against yours, his cock twitching inside you. "Fuck, baby," he gasps, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "You're gonna make me come. You're gonna make me come so hard."

His words send you flying over the edge, your body clenching around him, your orgasm crashing over you in waves of pure, blissful pleasure. And with a guttural groan, Bob follows you over, his cock pulsing inside you, his hips jerking against yours as he spills himself deep inside you.

You can feel the heat of his release, the way it fills you up and drips down out of you, and it's enough to send aftershocks rippling through your body. Bob's hips continue to jerk, his cock twitching and pulsing as he rides out his orgasm, his breath hot and heavy against your skin.

He collapses on top of you, his body slick with sweat, his chest heaving with the effort of catching his breath. You can feel the pounding of his heart against your own, the way his body trembles and shakes, and you know he's just as affected by what just happened as you are.

Slowly, gently, Bob pulls out of you, his cock slipping from your body, you're almost embarrassed by it by how completely your body had reacted to him, but not quite. You whimper at the loss, your body feeling empty and aching without him, but he quickly wraps you in his arms, holding you close as he rolls to the side.

Bob's arms tighten around you, pulling you closer, as if he can't bear to have any space between you. "You have no idea what you do to me," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your hair. "The way you make me feel, the way you respond to my touch. It's like nothing I've ever experienced before."

You smile, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. "I could say the same about you," you reply, your voice soft and sleepy.

Bob presses one last kiss to your forehead before settling back against the pillows, his arms still wrapped tight around you. "I think you might be the death of me." he echoes, his voice a low rumble in his chest.

A Link to My Complete Inventory

[the-unidentified-author]

I Want to Fill My Mouth With Your Name. I Want to Eat You Whole. | Robert 'Bob' Reynolds| Thunderbolts*

Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW], shy guy, smut, nerd, talks you through it, maybe not as nerdy as you thought, his eyes glow when he cums, he likes to talk you through it, consensual!

Summary: Youre working late at night and Bob joins you not wanting to be alone in the tower. One thing leads to another and now you have him in your mouth as he moans your name.

Word Count: 5,877

A/n: Long one again sorryyyyy.

Not my gif, if its yours and you would like me to remove it just ask <3

It had been a long day, the kind of day that left your head aching and your eyes bleary from staring at computer screens. Working later was something that you hated, but occasionally, it was a requirement. You were a scientist, one of the best, and you had been employed and set to work in the Avengers tower. Your work mostly consisted of studying the various skills of those that resided in the tower, along with cataloguing and keeping track of the super serums.

You’d been holed up in your lab for hours, the fluorescent lights harsh and unforgiving, the hum of machines a constant drone in your ears. You were tired, bone-tired, but you couldn’t stop. If you did, then you would just have to come back to it in the morning and well you were in the flow now.

And then, like a breath of fresh air, Bob had appeared in the doorway, lingering uncertainly, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “You’ve been down here a while,” he’d said, voice soft, hesitant. “I thought… maybe you could use some company?”

You’d tried to wave him off, to tell him you were fine, but he’d taken a tentative step into the room, eyes darting around like he wasn’t quite sure where to look. “I could help,” he’d offered, nodding towards a stack of haphazard files. “With the organising, I mean. If—if you want.”

You’d protested, but truth be told, you were grateful for the help—and for the company. The tower could be lonely, especially at night, and you knew Bob didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts any more than you did.

The work had gone quicker with Bob’s help, his presence a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. You’d fallen into an easy rhythm, a comfortable silence punctuated by the occasional soft comment or gentle tease.

“You know, I had no idea you were so good at filing,” you’d said at one point, shooting him a playful grin, trying to draw him out of his shell.

He’d ducked his head, a faint blush staining his cheeks. “Well, I—I have a good memory,” he’d murmured, eyes fixed on the files in his hands. “And I like to help. Where I can.”

Your heart had warmed at that, at the quiet admission, the vulnerability in his hunched shoulders, his downcast eyes. You’d wanted to reach out, to brush that errant lock of hair from his forehead, to tilt his chin up and tell him just how much you appreciated him, how much his presence meant. But instead you turned back to your work, trying not to think about him.

A few hours later and the two of you had made a sizeable dent in cataloguing and organising the myriad of files you had been sent. It was late now, the tower was hushed, the city’s glow beyond the windows dimmed to a gentle amber, as if even the bustling metropolis knew to give you this pocket of peace. You could almost forget the world existed outside these walls—almost. The only sound was the rustle of papers and the soft click of keys, a quiet symphony punctuating the stillness as you and Bob worked late into the evening.

You were pouring over mission reports and data readouts long after everyone else had retired for the night, the faint hum of the sleeping building a comforting backdrop. The room was warm, the air heavy with the scent of old books and new technology, the glow of computer screens casting eerie shadows on the walls.

Bob sat across from you, brow furrowed in concentration, golden brown hair tousled from running his fingers through it repeatedly. The soft light cast half his face in shadow, but you could still trace the bow of his lips, the line of his jaw, the curve of his neck disappearing beneath his collar. The play of muscle and tendon in his forearms, the hoodie he always wore pulled up them to just below the elbow.

He was close enough that you caught the faint, clean scent of him—not just soap and warm skin, but something indefinable, something superhuman. It was a heady, intoxicating scent, like sunshine and salt and power, and it made your head swim, made you want to lean closer, to breathe him in.

The surrounding room faded away, your focus narrowing on him—the way his lashes fluttered as he read, the way his fingers drummed on the table, the way his throat worked when he swallowed. You were caught, captivated.

You shouldn’t be staring. But you couldn’t help it, couldn’t tear your eyes away even as your mind raced, wondering at this sudden, intense pull you felt.

Why him? Why now? You’d known Bob for weeks. But something was different now, something had shifted, like a key turning in a lock, a door swinging open to reveal a room you’d never known was there.

Maybe it was the intimacy of the moment, the hush of the empty tower, the lateness of the hour. Perhaps it was the way he’d smiled at you earlier, warm and open and just for you. Or perhaps you were just too tired, you thought to yourself.

You’d always found him attractive, of course—what red-blooded person wouldn’t? But this was different. This was a yearning, an ache, a need that went beyond the physical, that tugged at something deep in your chest, something you hadn’t even known was there.

You wanted to know him, you realised with a start. Wanted to understand what went on behind those big, sad, blue eyes, wanted to trace the lines of his mind as surely as you wanted to trace the lines of his body. Wanted to see him, really see him, in a way no one else did.

And maybe, just maybe, you wanted him to see you too.

Reaching for a tablet, your hand accidentally brushed his where it lay on the table. He flinched—actually flinched, a soft gasp escaping. You paused, curious, watching him visibly compose himself, cheeks tinged a fascinating shade of pink.

“Sorry,” you offered, not sorry at all, mind already whirring with questions—and possibilities. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, it’s—it’s fine. I just—” He searched for words, fumbling, before looking away, abashed. “Sometimes I’m a little jumpy.”

“Jumpy,” you echoed, not quite a question, filing that reaction away. Your eyes traced his profile, the tension in his shoulders, the way his breathing had quickened just slightly. “Is it…me?”

He tried to laugh it off, but the sound was strained, the nervous energy lingering between you like a live wire. “It’s not you, I mean—it’s sort of me. It’s just… well, sometimes things feel a little… more, for me. With my powers.”

You angled your body toward him, curiosity blooming between you. “More?” you repeated softly, letting the word linger, inviting him to say more.

His fingers fidgeted with the edge of a folder, not meeting your gaze. “Yeah. It’s—my senses. All of them. Good, bad… it can get intense.”

You let the silence settle for a moment, thinking about what it would be like to feel everything turned all the way up—touch and sound and light, every sensation pressed close. “Is it always like that?” you asked, softer. “Even now?”

He shot you a glance, half sheepish, half defiant. “It’s worse when I’m…tired. Or if I feel—” He broke off, swallowing, his gaze drifting to his lap. “If I’m… nervous, I guess. Or… when something gets my attention.”

You felt your pulse speed up, imagining that you were the ‘something’ that caught his attention. “That sounds overwhelming,” you murmured. “Don’t you ever want a break from it?”

Bob gave a breath of laughter, shaky but genuine. “All the time. But sometimes it’s…not so bad. If it’s the right kind of feeling.”

You watched him for a long moment, the lines of his jaw, the vulnerable curve of his mouth. He was still tense, but there was something open in his eyes now, something that made warmth spill through you. Something stirred within you, something brave.

“What kind of feeling is it now?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper, afraid to break whatever fragile, electric moment you’d found together.

He met your gaze at last. There was a question there, but also hope, and beneath that, unmistakable want.

The room’s tension thickened, the city humming distantly outside, a quiet bubble forming around your corner of the world. That faint feeling of bravery started to burn, fill your chest. You knew what you wanted, and you decided to tip the boat out. You shifted closer, hesitating for just a moment before your next words came out, softer than before, careful: “Bob… what if… what if, I could make you feel good? Would you want that?”

His eyes found yours, uncertain but achingly hopeful. The tension was thick, and regret started to rain down on you. But then he nodded, just a small jerk of his chin. “I—I think I would.”

You held his gaze, your heart thumping hard in your chest, something warm and giddy rising in you at the trust in his eyes, the tentative want. Your fingers twitched at your side, but you didn’t reach out, not yet. You wanted to savour this moment, the sweet, heavy anticipation of it.

“Can you… can you tell me more?” you asked, barely above a whisper. “What does it feel like, with your powers? When it’s good?”

He swallowed, throat working. “It’s… it’s a lot, sometimes. Like—like everything is turned up, too bright, too loud. But when it’s good, it’s… it’s like I can feel everything. Everywhere.”

“Everywhere,” you echoed softly, something fluttering in your stomach at the thought. “And do you… do you want that? To feel… everything?”

He nodded again, a small shiver running through him. “Yes,” he breathed, voice rough.

Your gaze wandered over him—tracing the line of his throat, the breadth of his shoulders, the curve of his bicep straining against his sleeve. You imagined the warmth of his skin, the hitch of his breath, the way he might tremble under your hands.

“Where… where would you want me to start?” you asked, your voice shaking just slightly.

He wet his lips, chest heaving. “I—I don’t know. I just… I trust you.”

“Trust me,” you echoed, something warm blooming in your chest. “I—I like that. I like that a lot.”

You moved slowly around the table, and he turned to you, eyes watching as you moved closer. You reached out then—not to touch, not yet, but to let your fingers hover just above his skin, close enough to feel the heat of him. You traced the air over his hand, his wrist, his forearm, watching in fascination as he shivered.

“Is… is this okay?” you murmured, glancing up at him through your lashes.

He nodded frantically, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Please,” he whispered, and the word seemed to hang in the air between you, heavy with meaning. “Please.”

But still, you waited, drawing out the moment, letting the tension and anticipation build and build between you until it was a physical thing, a weight in the room, a thrumming in your veins.

“Bob,” you breathed at last, and his name on your lips was a question, a promise, a prayer.

“Please,” he said again, voice raw with want. “I need—I need you to touch me. I need—”

You started slow, stepping between his legs spread open on his chair, letting your fingers trail up his forearm, tracing the lines of his veins just beneath the skin. His arm was dusted with fine, dark hair, the muscle beneath solid and defined. You marvelled at the size of his hands—large, strong, capable—as they trembled ever so slightly at your touch.

He shivered under your touch, eyes fluttering shut, breath quickening. You could see the corded muscles of his forearms flexing, feel the heat radiating from his skin, the vitality pulsing just beneath the surface.

“Bob,” you murmured, voice low, soothing. “Just relax. Let yourself feel it.”

He nodded, throat working, and you could feel the tension in him slowly unwinding, his body leaning into your touch.

Your fingers danced up to his shoulder, tracing the curve of muscle there, before trailing up the side of his neck. He shivered again, a soft sound escaping his parted lips, and you smiled, something warm and powerful blooming in your chest.

“Is this good?” you asked, your lips just inches from his ear. “Do you like this?”

“Y-yes,” he breathed, voice shaky. “God, yes. More.”

You obliged, your fingers slipping into his hair, moving through the soft strands. He practically melted against you, a low moan vibrating in his throat.

“Bob,” you whispered, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Can I… can I kiss you?”

He nodded frantically, turning his face towards you, and you closed the distance between you slowly, so slowly, giving him every chance to pull away.

But he didn’t. He met you halfway, his lips soft and warm against yours, hesitant at first, then growing bolder, more desperate.

You kissed him slow and deep, pouring every ounce of want and care and tenderness you had into the press of your lips, the slide of your tongue against his. He responded in kind, hands coming up to grip your shoulders, your hair, anywhere he could reach, like he was afraid you might disappear.

When you finally broke apart, you were both panting, foreheads pressed together, noses brushing. You could feel the heat of him everywhere, like a brand on your skin.

“Bob,” you murmured, voice rough with want. “Can I… can I touch you? Really touch you?”

He nodded, eyes wide and dark and full of trust and a little lust, and you took a shaky breath, your hands sliding down to the hem of his shirt.

You paused there, giving him one last chance to say no, to change his mind, but he just looked at you, waiting, wanting.

So you slid your hands under his hoodie, palms flat against the warm skin of his stomach, his chest, feeling the muscles jump under your touch. He was all smooth skin and chiseled strength, his body trembling just slightly, like he was holding back, waiting for you to make the next move.

His abs were rock-hard under your hands, each muscle defined and distinct. You could feel the raw power coiled in him, barely contained, a thrill of exhilaration shooting through you at the thought of all that strength beneath your hands.

You took your time, exploring every inch of him, fingertips tracing the lines of his ribs, the dip of his navel, the curve of his hipbones. He shivered and shuddered under your touch, breath coming in soft pants, eyes squeezed shut like he was trying to memorise every sensation.

It struck you then, the contrast between the powerful superhero who could lift cars and crush steel in his bare hands, and the trembling man beneath your fingertips, vulnerable and open, willingly surrendering himself to your touch.

Each brush of your fingers drew soft gasps and whimpers from his throat, his body reacting with raw sensitivity to every caress. He was like clay beneath your hands, muscles shifting and flexing, following your touch like he couldn’t bear to lose the contact.

His hands remained fisted at his sides, his immense strength leashed, allowing you to set the pace, to explore and map out the topography of his body at your leisure.

“Bob,” you whispered, your hands sliding around to his back, fingertips digging into the muscles there. “Do you want… do you want more?”

He nodded, frantic, desperate, hips rocking up into your touch. “Yes,” he breathed, voice raw with want. “God, yes. Please.”

And that was all you needed to hear.

You took a shaky breath, your hand sliding slowly down his stomach, your fingers teasing just beneath the waistband of his jeans. He was panting now, his breath hot against your neck as he leaned in close, his forehead coming to rest on your shoulder.

“Is this okay?” you whispered, your voice rough with want, with nerves.

He nodded frantically, his hands moving to your waist, gripping tight like he was afraid you might disappear. “Yes,” he breathed, the word hot against your skin. “God, yes. Please.”

You worked the button of his jeans open with trembling fingers, the sound of his zip echoing in the quiet room. You could feel the heat of him through the thin cotton of his boxer-briefs, the hard ridge of his erection straining against the fabric.

You palmed him through the material, revealing in the way he bucked into your touch, the way his breath caught in his throat. He was pulsing beneath your touch, his hips rocking shamelessly, his hands tightening on your waist.

“Please,” he panted, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “Please, I need—”

You slipped your hand beneath the waistband of his underwear then, your fingers brushing against the hot, hard length of him. He was silky-smooth and scorching to the touch, pulsing under your fingertips, a pearl of wetness beading at the tip.

You teased him with feather-light touches, tracing the veins, the ridge of his head, the soft skin of his balls. He moaned low in his throat, hips jerking, hands clenching on your waist.

“Tell me what you need, Bob,” you whispered, your voice low, seductive. “I want to hear you say it.”

He shuddered, a full-body tremor that seemed to wrack him from head to toe. “I need you,” he breathed, voice raw with want, with need. “I need to feel you, all of you.”

You smiled against his hair, your fingers still teasing, stroking, exploring. “You want me to… what, Bob?” you teased, your teeth grazing the curve of his ear. “You want me to touch you? Taste you?”

He nodded frantically, his breath coming in harsh pants, his hands clenching and unclenching on your waist. “Yes,” he gasped, hips bucking shamelessly into your touch. “God, yes. Please.”

You closed your fist around him then, stroking slowly from base to tip, your thumb swiping over the sensitive head. He moaned a broken guttural sound, hips rocking into your touch, his breath hot and harsh against your neck.

“Like this?” you murmured, your voice low, rough. “Is this what you need?”

“Yes,” he gasped, nodding frantically. “Yes, please, more.”

You stroked him slowly, torturously, varying your grip, your speed, keeping him on edge. He was trembling against you, his breath coming in ragged pants, his hips rocking shamelessly into your touch.

“Please,” he panted, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “Please, I need—”

You leaned in then, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “What do you need, Bob?” you whispered, your voice low, seductive. “Tell me what you need.”

He shuddered, a full-body shiver that seemed to wrack him from head to toe. “I need you,” he breathed, voice raw with want, with need. “I need to feel you, all of you.”

You smiled against his skin, your teeth grazing the lobe of his ear. “You want me to… what, Bob?” you teased, your hand still stroking him slowly, torturously. “You want me to taste you?”

You let your hand slide away from him then, trailing your fingers up his thigh as you sank slowly to your knees in front of him. His eyes widened, breath catching in his throat as he watched you settle there, your hands coming to rest on his hips.

“Is this okay?” you asked, your voice low, rough with want. “Do you want me like this, Bob?”

He nodded frantically, his hands fisting in your hair, his hips bucking forward, seeking your touch. “Yes,” he breathed, voice raw, pleading.

You smiled up at him, your hands sliding slowly up his thighs, your thumbs brushing the crease of his hips. He shivered under your touch, breath coming quick and harsh.

“You want me to touch you?” you teased, your voice low, seductive. “You want me to taste you?”

He nodded frantically, his hips rocking forward, his hands tightening in your hair. “Yes,” he gasped, voice rough with want. “Please, yes.”

You leaned in then, your breath ghosting over the hot, hard length of him, and you could feel him trembling, feel the way his muscles tensed and jumped beneath your hands.

“Please,” he panted, his voice raw, needy.

And with that, you leaned in, your lips brushing the tip of him, your tongue darting out to taste the bead of wetness there. He moaned brokenly, hips bucking, hands fisting tight in your hair.

You took him into your mouth then, slowly, teasingly, your tongue swirling around the head of his cock. He was hot and hard and throbbing against your tongue, and you could feel the way he trembled, the way his breath caught in his throat.

“God,” he panted, his head thrown back, his hands tight in your hair. “Fuck, that feels so good.”

You took him deeper then, your mouth sliding down his length, your tongue stroking the underside of his cock. He moaned low in his throat, his hips rocking forward, his hands urging you on.

You could feel him pulsing against your tongue, feel the way his muscles tensed and jumped beneath your hands. You could taste the salt of his skin, the musk of his arousal, and it was heady, intoxicating.

“Please,” he panted, his voice rough with need. “Please, I’m so close. I need—”

You moaned around him, the sound vibrating against his skin, and you could feel him shudder, feel the way his cock throbbed against your tongue.

You worked him with your mouth, your tongue, your hands, driving him higher, pushing him closer to the edge. He was trembling against you, his breath coming in harsh pants, his hands fisting tight in your hair.

“Please,” he panted, his voice raw, needy. “Please, I’m going to—”

And with that, he came, his cock pulsing against your tongue, his hips bucking wildly in the chair. You swallowed him down, moaning at the taste of him, the feel of him throbbing against your tongue.

He shuddered, a full-body tremor that wracked him from head to toe, and you could feel the tension draining out of him, feel the way his muscles went loose and liquid beneath your hands.

You pulled back slowly, your tongue darting out to lick the last drops from the tip of his cock. He moaned softly, his hands falling from your hair to your shoulders. Then as his breath steadied, his hands cupped your face, his thumbs stroking your jaw.

“God,” he breathed, voice rough, sated. “That was—”

You smiled up at him, your hands sliding up his thighs to rest on his hips. “Good?” you teased, your voice low, playful.

He was still panting, his chest heaving, as you rose to your feet. Before he could say anything, though, he reached down, tucking himself back into his boxers, with shaking hands. You watched him, your heart racing in your chest, anticipation coiling tight in your belly. Then his hands found your waist again, tugging you closer until you stood between his spread thighs, your bodies flush against each other.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice soft, sincere. “For trusting me. For letting me… letting me take care of you.”

He shivered, his arms coming around you, holding you tight against him. “Thank you,” he whispered back, his voice rough, emotional. “For… for everything.”

You held him like that for a long moment, just savouring the feel of him in your arms, the steady thump of his heart against yours. Eventually, though, he pulled back, his hands coming up to frame your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones.

He looked at you, his eyes dark, intense. “I want… I want to take care of you too,” he murmured, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders, toying with the collar of your lab coat. “Can I… can I touch you? Can I make you feel good?”

You shivered, your breath catching in your throat, and you nodded, leaning into his touch. “Yes,” you breathed, your voice rough with want. “Yes. Please.”

He smiled then, slow and wicked, and his hands slid down your body, pushing your lab coat off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a crumpled heap. You shivered, feeling exposed, vulnerable, but so, so wanted, his fingers going to the buttons of your shirt. You shivered, your skin prickling with goosebumps, your breath coming quick and harsh.

He undid the buttons slowly, carefully, his knuckles brushing against your skin with every one. You could feel the heat of him through your shirt, the faint tremor in his fingers, and it sent a thrill through you, a shiver of anticipation.

When he was done, he pushed your shirt off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor on top of your lab coat. You shivered, feeling exposed, vulnerable, but so, so wanted.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, his eyes roaming over you hungrily, taking in every inch of your body. “So beautiful.”

You moaned softly, arching into his touch, your hands fisting in his hair. He teased you with feather-light touches, his fingers skating over your skin, tracing the curves and planes of your body.

“Bob,” you panted, your voice rough with need.

He cut you off with a kiss, his lips hot and demanding against yours, his tongue delving into your mouth to taste you, claim you. You moaned, kissing him back just as fiercely, your hands roaming his body, desperate for the feel of his skin against yours.

Bob stood, then He walked you back towards the lab table just a few steps behind you, his hands sliding down to cup your ass, lifting you easily. You wrapped your legs around his waist, grinding against him shamelessly, your fingers digging into his shoulders. He pulled his hoodie over his head, his head tilting slightly as you looked at him. Bare chest and rippling muscles, he liked the way you looked at him.

“Please,” you panted against his lips as he kissed you again.

He moaned, his hips bucking against yours, his cock hot and hard against your core. “I’ve got you,” he promised, his voice rough, needy. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll make you feel so good.”

He set you down on the edge of the lab table, his hands sliding up your thighs, pushing your skirt up around your waist. You shivered, the cool metal of the table against your bare skin, the heat of his touch branding you.

“Lean back,” he murmured, his voice low, commanding, and you obeyed, your elbows resting on the table behind you.

He smiled then, slow and wicked, and his fingers hooked in the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down your legs, discarding them on the floor. You shivered, feeling exposed, vulnerable, but so, so wanted.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his eyes dark and hungry as he took in the sight of you, spread out before him like a feast.

He leaned in then, his breath hot against your core, and you felt his tongue dart out, tasting you, teasing you. You moaned, your hips bucking shamelessly, your fingers tangling in his hair.

It was hard to believe that just minutes ago, he had been shy and uncertain, his cheeks flushed as he confessed his desires to you. Now, there was no trace of that hesitation, that nervousness. In its place was a hunger, a need that bordered on animalistic.

“Is this what you need?” he murmured, his voice low, seductive. “Do you want me to taste you now? To make you feel good?”

You nodded frantically, your hips rocking against his mouth, your breath coming in harsh pants. “Yes, Bob, I want that.” you gasped, your voice rough with want.

He smiled against your skin, then leaned in, his tongue delving into your heat, tasting you deeply. You moaned, your hips bucking against his mouth, your fingers tightening in his hair.

He feasted on you like a man starved, his tongue stroking, probing, exploring every inch of your sensitive flesh. He moaned against your skin, the sound vibrating through you, sending shivers down your spine.

You could feel the heat building in your core, the tension coiling tighter and tighter with every swipe of his tongue, every brush of his lips. You were panting, moaning, your hips rocking shamelessly against his mouth, seeking more, more.

“Bob,” you panted, your voice rough with need. “Please. I need… I need to come. Please, make me come.”

He moaned against your skin, his tongue moving faster, harder, his fingers digging into your thighs. You could feel the scrape of his teeth against your sensitive flesh, the suction of his mouth as he drew your clit between his lips.

The contrast between his earlier shyness and this hungry, desperate man was intoxicating, overwhelming. You could feel the last of your control slipping away, feel the tension cresting, crashing over you.

You came with a cry, your hips bucking wildly against his mouth, your fingers tightening in his hair. He moaned against your skin, his tongue stroking you through your orgasm, prolonging the waves of pleasure that washed over you.

As you came down from the high, your breath slowing, your body going limp against the table, you marvelled at the transformation in him. This man, this hungry, desperate man, was the same shy, uncertain boy you had comforted just minutes ago.

He stood then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes dark and hungry as he looked down at you, sprawled out on the table like an offering.

“Do you want this?” he asked, his voice low, rough with want. “Do you want me, all of me?”

You nodded frantically, your breath still coming in soft pants. “Yes,” you breathed, your voice raw with need. “I want all of you, Bob.”

He smiled then, slow and wicked, and he reached down, to the waistband of his jeans, pushing them down his hips along with his boxer-briefs.

You moaned softly at the sight of him, hard and leaking, the evidence of his want, his need for you. He was beautiful, every inch of him, and you wanted him, all of him, with a desperation that bordered on madness.

He stepped between your spread thighs, his hands coming to rest on your hips, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there. “I’ll be gentle,” he promised, his voice low, earnest. “I won’t hurt you.”

You nodded, trusting him, loving him, needing him. He lined himself up with your entrance, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your heat.

He pushed in slowly, carefully, his eyes locked on yours, watching every flicker of emotion that crossed your face. You were tight, so tight, and he was big, stretching you, filling you.

“God,” he breathed, his voice raw with pleasure, with awe. “You feel… you feel incredible.”

You moaned, arching into his touch, your hands fisting on the table behind you. He bottomed out inside you, his hips flush against yours, and he stilled, giving you time to adjust, to breathe.

Fuck, she’s tight, he thought, his breath catching in his throat, his heart pounding in his chest. So tight, and so warm, and so… fuck, she feels like heaven.

He could feel the way your walls gripped him, like a fist, like a vice, and it took everything he had not to move, not to thrust, not to lose himself in the incredible feel of you.

Gentle, he reminded himself, his hands trembling on your hips, his thumbs stroking soothing circles on your skin. I need to be gentle. I can’t hurt her. I won’t hurt her.

“Move,” you panted, your voice rough, a command. “Please, Bob. I need you to move.”

He obliged, pulling out slowly, then thrusting back in, his hips snapping against yours. You moaned, your legs coming up to wrap around his waist, urging him deeper, harder.

His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck and shoulders bunching with the effort of holding himself back. “Ah, fuck,” he grunted, his voice rough, strained.

She feels so fucking good, he thought, his teeth grinding together as he fought for control. So tight, so hot, like she was made for me.

His arms trembled with the effort of holding himself up, his muscles taut and straining. He was fighting himself, fighting the urge to let go, to lose himself in the incredible feel of you.

Can’t… can’t lose control, he thought, even as his hips continued to move,

He started slow, careful, like he was afraid of hurting you, of losing control. But it felt so good, so right, the slide of him inside you, the friction of his skin against yours.

“Harder,” you panted, your hands sliding down his back, your nails digging into his skin. “Please, Bob. I need… I need more.”

He moaned, his hips bucking against yours, his pace increasing, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper. He was losing control, his movements becoming less careful, more desperate.

Fuck, fuck, I’m losing it, he thought frantically, even as his hips continued to snap against yours. I’m going to hurt her, I know I am, but fuck, she feels so good, so tight, so perfect.

He could feel the last of his control slipping away, feel the need, the hunger, the desperation clawing at his insides, demanding more, more, more.

“I’m so close,” you panted, your voice raw with need, with pleasure. “Bob, I’m so close.”

She wants this, he thought, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, his fingers digging into your skin. She wants me, all of me, even like this, even out of control.

He shifted his angle, his cock rubbing against that perfect spot inside you, and you saw stars. You came with a cry, your walls clamping down on him, your nails digging into his back.

Fuck, she’s coming, he thought, his hips bucking wildly, his cock pulsing inside you as he followed you over the edge, spilling himself deep into your heat. His eyes glowing gold. She’s coming, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

He collapsed on top of you, his breath harsh against your neck, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm. You held him close, your arms and legs wrapped around him, your lips pressing soft kisses to his hair, his temple, his cheek.

“Wow,” you breathed, your voice rough, sated. “That was… that was incredible.”

He chuckled, his lips curving into a smile against your skin. “You’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice low, earnest. “Absolutely incredible.”

And in that moment, sated and safe in each other’s arms, you knew that you would never let him go, this shy boy, this hungry man, this unbelievable, wonderful person who had captured your heart so completely. You wondered if it would be okay for you to ask him for round two.

A Link to My Complete Inventory

[the-unidentified-author]

I Am Not Used to Being Noticed, I Don’t Know What to Do | Lt. Robert 'Bob' Floyd | Top Gun: Maverick

Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW], shy guy, smut, nerd, talks you through it, in a truck, maybe not as nerdy as you thought, consensual!

POV: Reader / You, no personal descriptions

Summary: You catch Bob once again stealing glances at you in the bar. You decide that if anything is going to happen between the two of you then you're the one thats going to have to take the lead.

Word Count: 9,690

A/n: I once again have nothing to say for myself. This is really long and builds slow before the bang.

Not my gif, if its yours and you would like me to remove it just ask <3

Bob peered into his glass, swirling the ice as if it held classified secrets and he was trying to get it to spill them. The raucous laughter of his fellow pilots ricocheted off the walls. If call signs were based on evenings out at the bar, Bobs would undoubtedly be "Flight Risk." He nursed his drink at the edge of the boisterous crowd, secretly wishing for ejector seats to whisk him away from the claustrophobic confines of the dimly lit bar.

The jukebox in the corner wheezed out a nostalgic '80s power ballad, its tinny speakers straining to compete with the din of clinking glasses and lively banter. Bob hunched over on his wobbly stool, his index finger tracing idle patterns in the condensation rings on the bar, hoping nobody would notice he'd already checked his watch three times in the past ten minutes.

Rooster and Hangman were locked in a heated pool battle, chalk dust hanging in the air as Phoenix lined up her shot with cool precision. Fanboy offered loud, running commentary, half heckling, half cheerleading, his laughter echoing each time the cue ball skittered across the felt. Every lucky shot or wild miss earned a chorus of groans and cheers, their camaraderie turning the corner near the pool table into its own rowdy outpost.

Bob's gaze hovered over the row of aviation memorabilia above the bar, mentally naming each vintage model and pretending not to hear the raucous cheers from his squad. The door swung open, ushering in a drift of warm night air and the steady click of boot heels.

You spotted Phoenix first, her familiar grin slicing through the haze of jukebox light and neon beer signs. The pool cue in her hand was just as menacing as you remembered from your last game-night defeat. Phoenix’s eyes lit up. “There she is!” she called over her shoulder, waving you forward and igniting a new burst of banter from Fanboy, who wasted no time making a theatrical bow.

Hangman gave you a mischievous two-finger salute, while Rooster managed an easygoing smile before returning to his shot. You eased your way through the crowd, the tang of spilled beer and the thump of pool balls in the air, feeling the energy shift as the squad welcomed you into their noisy orbit. Phoenix slid over to make room by the table, her arm looping around your shoulders in a quick hug. “You here to finally win back your dignity?” she teased, her eyes sparkling with friendly challenge.

You shot Phoenix an exaggerated glare. "Only if you agree not to hustle me this time," you replied, grinning as you peeled off your jacket.

Fanboy clapped his hands together and declared, “Tonight’s about redemption and legends, folks!” before dramatically chalking a cue and handing it to you.

As you moved to join the game, your gaze drifted across the bar and landed on Bob. He was hunched over his drink at the far end, watching the scene with wary amusement like someone studying a tornado from a safe distance. The dim lighting cast shadows across his face, highlighting his strong jawline and the way his glasses reflected the neon glow of the beer signs.

Phoenix nudged you playfully, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "See Bob over there? He's always stealing glances at you whenever you show up." Her eyes twinkled with mischief as she leaned in closer, her breath warm, against your ear. "I think he might have a little crush on you."

Bob glanced up, caught your eye for a split second, and blushed, quickly finding sudden interest in his coaster. You smiled, feeling the tug of curiosity, before Phoenix called you back to the game, her voice slicing clean through the din. The pool table felt like a stage, and your friends old and new were the loud, rowdy audience.

The game kicked off with boisterous energy Fanboy cracking jokes as you lined up your first shot, Rooster egging you on with mock-serious coaching tips, and Hangman wagering a round of drinks on who'd win. Every clack of the balls seemed to ratchet up the banter, the crowd at the bar swelling and contracting as pilots drifted in or out from the airbase.

Between shots, Phoenix leaned close, quietly recounting stories of recent flights, near-misses, and infamous bets among the squad. You found yourself slipping easily into the group's rhythm, shaking off the dust of your day as laughter bounced from one face to the next.

After a particularly improbable shot by Fanboy arguably more luck than skill the cue ball leapt off the table, bounced once on the sticky floor, and rolled to a stop right at Bob's feet. He started, blinking down in surprise as the crowd erupted in laughter.

Phoenix grinned and waved him over. "C'mon, Bob, show her how it's done." The invitation carried a hint of challenge, her tone equal parts mischief and encouragement.

Bob hesitated just long enough for Fanboy to start an exaggerated drumroll on the side of the pool table. With a faint, embarrassed smile, Bob set down his drink and crossed the bar, every eye on him now some expectant, some skeptical, all entertained.

Fanboy fished the cue ball from where it had stopped at Bob's feet and handed it to him with a flourish, like he was knighting a champion. Hangman leaned in, towards you, whispering, "Secret weapon, watch out," which only ramped up the grins.

The chatter around the bar dimmed as Bob chalked his cue. He looked up, caught your eye, and something unspoken flickered there nerves, maybe, or a dare. As he held your gaze, Bob couldn't help but notice how the neon lights cast a warm glow on your features, accentuating the sparkle in your eyes and the curve of your smile. He felt a flutter in his chest, drawn to the magnetic energy that seemed to radiate from you.

With surprising confidence, he bent to line up his shot. Bob took aim, exhaled, and let the shot fly, sending the balls scattering in a clean, practiced break that shocked even the most skeptical in the group for just a moment, anyway. The squad erupted in a mix of whoops and incredulous shouts.

Phoenix elbowed you, grinning. "Told you he was trouble." As the group's attention returned to the game, Bob stole another glance at you, admiring the way your laughter lit up the room and how easily you seemed to fit in with the squad.

You risked a glance at Bob, catching the briefest flash of his eyes behind those classic aviator frames before he quickly looked down, making a show of dusting the chalk off his cue. A faint patch of colour crept up his neck.

You couldn't help but smile, too, just a little as Bob kept stealing cautious glances your way, each one lasting a fraction longer than the last. It was all subtle: a shared look, a quick glance away, the mutual awkwardness woven into the hum of your friends' banter. Phoenix must've noticed, but she let it be, focusing instead on lining up her next shot.

From the edge of the table, Bob replayed the last few seconds in his mind had he made eye contact too long? Was he reading too much into the quick smile you sent his way? He shifted his grip on the cue, feeling more visible than usual, but also unexpectedly anchored by the presence of the surrounding squad.

He told himself to look away, but curiosity tugged at him, the same restless energy that spurred him to study cloud formations or memorise call signs. You were just another mystery to quietly figure out except this one smiled when she caught him looking.

Bob traced a thumb over the smooth wood of the cue, calming himself with the familiar texture. In a crowd of loud pilots and swirling banter, he was used to lingering on the edge not used to having someone notice he was there.

The rest of the game played out with a swirl of banter and scattered jeers, but Bob quiet and steady sank the last ball with a crisp, unshowy shot. The squad cheered, clapping him on the back as Hangman and Rooster announced they'd take the next game head-to-head.

With the crowd reshuffling and a new layer of competition brewing, Bob hovered near the edge of the commotion, tugging at the cuff of his sleeve. He glanced at you, a mixture of hope and caution flickering behind his glasses, but when you met his eye, he looked away, pretending to be deeply interested in lining up stray chalks.

You caught his drift a silent invitation, subtle as a tailwind. Picking up your drink, you wandered to an empty booth near the window, seating yourself with a clear view of the bar. A few heartbeats later, Bob found his way over, settling opposite you with a shy, uncertain smile, as if worried he'd made the wrong call.

Neither of you spoke at first. The space between you felt quietly charged, the distant shouts from the pool table now just background noise. Bob busied himself aligning the sugar packets and tracing the wood grain on the table, glancing up only long enough to catch your eye before dropping his gaze again.

You finally broke the silence, your smile genuine. "I have to say, you completely surprised me over there. I wasn't expecting you to sink all those shots like it was nothing."

Bob's fingers tapped quietly against his glass, his eyes fixed on the condensation sliding down its side. "It doesn't always go that way," he said, barely above the clamour around you. "Usually, I'm just hoping I won't miss."

You shook your head, leaning in a little. "You made it look easy." Your voice carried both admiration and a hint of disbelief. "Seriously, I've never seen anyone so chill you barely said a word and then just… cleared the table."

That coaxed a small, self-conscious grin out of him. "Guess I do better when no one's really paying attention." He glanced up at you, almost sheepishly. "But sometimes it helps when someone is."

You caught his eye, and for the first time, it lingered without either of you looking away. In that brief moment, the bustling noise of the bar faded into the background, the clinking of glasses and the laughter of your friends becoming a distant hum. The warm, amber lighting cast a soft glow on Bob's face, accentuating the mix of hope and caution in his eyes as the connection between you grew stronger, overshadowing the lively bar scene around you.

Bob's fingers fidgeted with the edge of his napkin as if gathering courage. "I'm uh… not really used to being the one people notice," he admitted, voice low, almost apologetic. "I think I usually blend into the background. Safer that way." He gave a slight, awkward laugh and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Honestly, the numbers on the altimeter make more sense to me than small talk. Or… well, anything like this." He chanced another glance at you, his shyness obvious, even as a hopeful smile crept onto his face. "But I don't really mind being noticed. Not tonight, anyway."

You were suddenly, acutely aware of the closeness in the small booth, the way his knee was barely a breath from yours beneath the table. As you let your fingers idle near the edge of his napkin, inviting but not quite touching, Bob's gaze lingered on your hand, his own stilled, as if worried any sudden movement might break the spell.

A gentle smile played across your lips as you leaned in, just enough for your words to belong to him alone. "Well, you've got my attention now." The quiet confidence in your tone had Bob glancing up, meeting your eyes a long, searching look full of shy hope and unanswered questions.

Bob's cheeks went a shade pinker, and for a moment, he seemed at a loss for words. Then, nervously, he started to fill the space with a shy ramble. "You know, being a back-seater, I'm sort of used to paying attention, but not really being the main—uh, I mean, I usually fly under the radar. Literally. Most of the time I'm reading checklists or keeping track of fuel. Honestly, the stick-and-throttle stuff is all—well, thats what Phoenix does, but…" He trailed off, catching your bemused expression.

As you gazed at Bob, taking in his shy rambling and the faint blush colouring his cheeks, you realised that if this evening was going to progress beyond quiet conversation, you would need to be the one to take the lead. His endearing mix of nervousness and desire tugged at your heart, and you knew that a gentle nudge in the right direction might make for an exciting night.

With a soft, reassuring smile, you reached over and set your hand lightly atop his, quieting his words, your heart thrummed in your throat as you pushed yourself to speak. "What do you say we go somewhere a little quieter?" you asked, your voice soft.

Bob blinked, his mind flickering through possibilities, clearly overthinking. "Oh—um, I could drive you home if you're tired? I don't mind—I mean, it's not a problem at all," he stammered, glancing hopefully at you, completely missing your meaning at first.

You couldn't help but laugh, letting your knuckles graze his. "That's sweet, Bob, but I wasn't thinking about calling it a night just yet."

Bob blinked again, your words finally catching up to him. Realization dawned slowly, washing over his face in a tide of color—his blush returning with a vengeance. He ducked his head, fiddling with the napkin between his fingers, twisting it tighter and tighter, his brain scrambling to catch up with his heart.

He risked a quick glance around the bar, as if half-expecting someone to call him out, then flicked his gaze back to you, searching your eyes for confirmation that he'd read things right this time.

His voice, when it came, was hushed and just a little shaky. "Oh. You mean… not home, just… someplace else. With you."

You nodded shyly, a small smile playing on your lips, encouraging him to continue.

A tiny, uncertain smile hovered at the edge of his lips as hope mingled with nerves. "Yeah. Uh. I'd—I'd really like that."

Bob cleared his throat, still twisting the napkin. “So, uh… where do you want to go?” His voice was soft, barely competing with the distant clatter from the pool table.

A faint blush crept across your cheeks as you realised the implication of your words, but you held his gaze, a silent confirmation that you wanted to spend more time together, just the two of you

You grinned at his earnestness. “Somewhere we don’t have to shout over Fanboy, maybe?”

Bob chuckled, glancing over his shoulder as if confirming that Fanboy was, in fact, narrating someone’s missed shot with theatrical gusto. “Yeah. That sounds nice. Just… us?”

You nodded, and he let out a quiet breath—steadying himself. "Okay," he said, smiling sheepishly. "Lead the way."

"Meet me out back?" you murmured, your voice low and inviting. Bob nodded, still a bit shell-shocked, and you slipped away first cutting through the laughter and clatter with ease. You felt his gaze on your back as you skirted around the crowded jukebox and ducked out the back door into the warm, quiet night.

The heavy metal door closed behind you with a soft thud, muffling the sounds of the bar. The air outside was thick with the scent of summer, warm asphalt, distant cut grass, and the faint, sweet hint of beer from the bar.

Inside, Bob stood, his chair scraping softly against the worn wooden floor. He reached for his jacket, slung over the back of the chair, and began to put it on, his movements a little hurried and nervous.

As he slid his arms into the sleeves, he glanced around the bar one last time, taking in the lively chaos he was leaving behind. The pool balls clicked and clacked, Fanboy's laughter boomed over the music, and the neon lights flickered and glowed.

With his jacket now on, Bob took a deep breath and headed for the door.

A minute later, Bob emerged, hands still fidgeting nervously at his jacket zip.

The alley behind the bar was narrow, flanked by the hum of distant summer cicadas and a low spill of neon from the doorway. The brick walls on either side were weathered, tagged with faded graffiti and ivy creeping up the sides. It wasn't glamorous, but it was private, but still risky enough to feel like you were both getting away with something, but safe. The single bulb above the door cast long shadows.

You leaned against the brick, letting the tension stretch between you. He stood close, his shoulder brushing yours, both of you caught between nerves and want. The sounds from the bar faded a heartbeat, a breath, the small town's quiet hum just beyond the alley wall.

Suddenly, Bob moved first. His hand found yours, his fingers intertwining with yours, warm and a little trembling. He looked at you a silent question, his eyes searching yours for permission and then closed the gap, his other hand coming up to gently cup your face.

His mouth was softer than you'd imagined, urgent, almost desperate, the kiss tinged with a hint of beer and mint. The risk, the dark, made it sweeter, more electric. You kissed him back, both of you tipping into the kind of wanting that made you forget how to be careful, how to hold back.

In that moment, Bob’s world shrank to the feel of your mouth against his, your warmth tangled with the sharp edge of adrenaline. His heart rattled in his chest—part fear, part longing—stunned that you wanted him back with the same reckless energy that had taken over his hands.

Every instinct in him screamed to keep it quiet, to stay invisible, but your lips on his made hiding impossible. He was wide open breathless, a little dizzy, yet fiercely alive. The alley felt dangerous and safe all at once, a place where he could finally let go. He’d never been the one to take the first step, but now, with you pressed close, it all made sense. You saw him. You wanted him. And for once, he didn’t want to disappear into the background. All the nerves and second guessing faded under the rush of wanting, and he gave himself over to it, lost in the thrill of being chosen.

As he kissed you, Bob couldn't help but think about all the times he'd watched you from afar, wishing he had the courage to approach you. The countless moments he'd replayed in his mind, imagining what it would be like to hold you, to feel your lips against his. And now, here you were, in his arms, your kisses urgent and passionate, as if you'd been waiting for this moment just as much as he had.

With every touch, every shared breath, Bob felt a piece of himself falling into place. He realised that he'd been holding back, not just from you, but from himself. He'd been afraid to want something so badly, to put himself out there and risk rejection. But with your arms around him and your lips on his, Bob knew that he was ready to take that chance. He was ready to be seen, to be wanted, and to let himself want in return.

A sudden flare of light spilled into the alley as the door swung open beside you. Phoenix poked her head out, the silhouette of a beer bottle in her hand. You and Bob jumped at the unexpected interruption, your hearts racing as you quickly broke apart. Phoenix caught sight of the two of you, tangled close, and grinned, her eyes sparkling with happiness.

"Well, well," she said, raising an eyebrow, a wide smile spreading across her face. "Should I bring a drink, or is someone else on the menu tonight?" Her playful tone carried a hint of excitement, as if she'd been waiting for this moment to happen.

You and Bob exchanged a glance, his flush deepening as he looked everywhere but at Phoenix. You couldn't help but catch the flicker of her knowing smile, her expression radiating approval at the scene before her.

She held up her hands in mock surrender, stepping back into the doorway, keeping her distance. "Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt. Carry on, you two." Her eyes sparkled with conspiratorially, flashing you a grin, as she backed through the door, letting it swing shut behind her—leaving you and Bob alone again, hearts pounding, lips tingling, and suddenly unable to stop smiling.

The moment Phoenix retreated, Bob let out a breathy laugh, his face still flushed. Recovering a bit of composure, he cleared his throat and glanced down at you shyly. “Uh, maybe… we should go somewhere a little quieter? This alley’s kind of—well, everyone comes out here eventually.” His awkwardness was endearing, his boldness fading back to familiar nerves.

You nodded, biting back a smile. “Lead the way, then.”

He shot you a grateful, uncertain look and gestured with a tilt of his head. “I parked around the side. If you want, we could… just talk, maybe?” There was a crumpled hopefulness in his tone. You followed him around the corner, half expecting an old hatchback or some quietly reliable sedan—something sensible that matched his low profile.

But as you turned the corner, your eyes widened in surprise. There, parked among the other cars, was a gleaming, oversized F-150—midnight blue, with polished chrome and every fancy add-on imaginable. It looked like it could tow a small house. You couldn’t help but stare, your mouth agape at the unexpected sight.

You turned to Bob, a shocked laugh escaping your lips. “Seriously? This is yours?”

Bob ducked his head, a hint of pride mingling with his usual shyness. "Yeah, it is. I know it might seem a bit much, but I've always had a thing for big trucks. Plus, it comes in handy when we need to transport gear or equipment for the squad."

You shook your head, still grinning at the revelation. "I never would have guessed. It's just so… not you. But in a good way!" You playfully elbowed him, enjoying the surprised look on his face. "You know, I saw this truck on the way in and totally assumed it was Hangman's. It just seems like his style."

Bob laughed, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "Yeah, I get that a lot. People are always surprised when they find out it's mine. I guess I don't exactly give off the 'big truck' vibe."

You shook your head, still grinning at the revelation. "I never would have guessed. It's just so… not you. But in a good way!" You gently nudged his arm with your elbow, enjoying the surprised look on his face. “I bet this thing turns heads when you're out on the road."

Bob ducked his head as he unlocked the truck, scratching behind one ear. “Well, I grew up in the South, and down there, everyone drives trucks like this. I guess it just stuck with me. Plus, it’s good for road trips. And, uh, the heated seats.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk on your lips. "Heated seats, huh? Sounds like you enjoy a little extra comfort during those long drives."

Bob's blush deepened, and he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Well, yeah, I mean—it's a nice feature, right?"

As you approached the passenger side of the truck, Bob stepped ahead and opened the door for you, a simple, considerate gesture. You climbed into the passenger seat, taking in the sturdy interior and the smooth, cool leather beneath your fingers. As he circled back to the driver's side, you found yourself appreciating the easy, unassuming way he carried himself, making you curious to learn more about the other side of this seemingly shy man.

You settled into the passenger seat, the plush interior swallowing you in quiet comfort. It smelled like freshly cleaned upholstery and a hint of Bob's cologne something understated, a whisper rather than a shout. The subtle, woodsy scent with a touch of citrus seemed to envelop you, making your pulse quicken and your body ache for closeness. As the door shut with a solid, satisfying thud, you took in the gleam of the dashboard, the smooth, cool leather beneath your fingers. The combination of the truck's luxurious interior and Bob's intoxicating scent had your heart pounding, the desire to be near him washing over you like a wave of heat.

From your vantage point, you watched Bob as he walked around the front of the truck, his nervous energy almost visible in the way he fidgeted with his keys. Once he reached the driver's side, he climbed in behind the wheel and reached to pull off his jacket, awkward in the snug space between console and seat. As he did so, the soft stretch of fabric over his shoulders gave way to a brief, surprisingly defined flex of muscle in his arms.

You'd always seen Bob as a walking contradiction: the quiet, unassuming guy who could recite specs and checklists with ease, but never seemed to seek the spotlight like some other, more boisterous pilots. You knew, of course, that everyone in the military was required to stay in shape, but you'd always assumed Bob was more "lean and wiry" than anything else built for endurance rather than raw strength, and content to blend in rather than stand out. But as you watched him carefully manoeuvre his way out of his jacket, first one arm and then the other, you couldn't help but notice the telltale signs of real, deliberate power the kind that came from hard work and discipline, rather than a desire to impress. A warm feeling spread through you, drawn to his quiet strength and wanting to explore what was hidden beneath his uniform.

The interior filled with the faint slide of zippers and the shuffle of layers. As he pressed the jacket onto the back seat, you let yourself study him for a moment. The way his bicep tensed just enough to cause the fabric of his sleeve to shift, the way his forearms looked corded and reliable on the steering wheel, veins visible under skin brushed gold by the bar’s neon still glowing through the windscreen. Even the set of his jaw—tense, but earnest. You could almost imagine the discipline it took, the repetitions counted in solitude, unnoticed by anyone.

A thrill ran through you as you realised he might notice your lingering gaze, perhaps blushing even harder if he saw the appreciation in your eyes. You stole a furtive glance at his profile: glasses a little askew, the blush from earlier still faintly colouring his cheeks, a smile hovering as if he couldn't quite decide whether to be embarrassed by your company. Fingers fidgeting on the dash, he finally risked a sidelong look.

"You, uh, comfortable?" The question was tentative, soft, slightly uncertain, yet edged with hope.

You caught your reflection in the window, grinning. "Very," you answered, letting your tone drop just the faintest invitation.

Bob ducked his head, pushing his glasses up with a knuckle as he glanced at you—hesitant, as if the question carried twice the weight it should. "So," he asked softly, voice almost lost in the luxurious hush of the truck's cabin, "where do you want to go?"

You let the silence hang for a moment, taking in the way the dashboard's lights traced across his face his brown hair tousled from nervously running his hand through it, the bright, searching blue of his eyes barely visible behind thick lashes, the set of his jaw strong but not severe. The contrast between the careful discipline in his posture and the hesitant hope in his expression had your heart tripping over itself.

"How about somewhere, quiet?" you suggested, voice pitched low, the word lingering in the hush.

He nodded, swallowing visibly. "Yeah," he replied, the word tight at first, then relaxing as his eyes met yours, "somewhere quiet. That sounds… good."

You glanced down as you buckled your seatbelt, mostly to give your hands something to do, partly to keep from staring. The seats felt impossibly spacious, the oversized console maintaining a tantalising gap between you. For a beat, you simply took him in: the outline of his frame, the strong, capable hands curling around the wheel, the faint pink still ghosting his cheekbones under the electric glow of the dash.

Thoughts spun through your mind—how easy it would be to lean over, erase that space, or tease a confession out of him beneath the soft hush of the cab. In this quiet, closed-in world, your attraction felt sharper, more deliberate. You caught yourself wondering what it might feel like to trace the lines of his forearm with your fingers.

Bob started the engine, the truck humming to life, and slowly eased out of the gravel lot. You could hear the distant music and laughter from the bar fading as you pulled away, swallowed by the hush of night and the rolling dark that stretched across the countryside. He drove with cautious attentiveness—hands steady at ten and two, eyes flicking from road to rearview with that familiar vigilance honed by a lifetime of running checklists.

Neither of you rushed to fill the silence. Instead, you absorbed the soft glow from the dash painting his profile blue eyes glancing your way, the strong lines of his jaw flexing when he swallowed.

“Should I just… drive?” Bob ventured, voice barely louder than the turn signal’s tick.

You watched the ribbon of empty road ahead, then leaned in, a little conspiratorial. “Take the next left. There’s a road out past the fields nobody goes that way at night. Figured we could use a little privacy.”

He blinked, surprise lighting his eyes, but a breathless smile ghosted his lips. “Yeah, I—sure. Whatever you want.” The tires rolled over loose stones, headlights pushing back the dark as you guided him down the older, narrower lane. Crops lined either side stark and shadowed and a low mist hovered above the ditches, collecting in the dips and hollows of the fields.

For a while, Bob kept his gaze mostly on the road, but the silence seemed to grow too loud for his nerves. He cleared his throat, fingers drumming at the steering wheel. “You, uh… you weren’t kidding about the privacy out here,” he said with a laugh.

You grinned, resisting the urge to reach across and squeeze his arm. “Is it too much? I figure it’s nice to have somewhere just for us.”

He shot you a side glance through the blue-black dark, brow raised in playful disbelief. “No, it’s good. I don’t usually get… picked for these kind of field trips, you know?”

You let your gaze linger on him just a bit longer than strictly necessary, making sure your voice came out smoothly. "Well, thats other people's loss and my gain."

That made him laugh—nervous, but flattered. “So, you like taking quiet types out on midnight drives?” His tone was teasing but shy, words weighted with a question underneath.

You shrugged, letting your knees angle just a little closer to him. “Only if they’re handsome, and only if I have a good feeling about where the night might lead.”

Bob didn’t quite manage to hide the wobble in his smile. He wet his lips, glancing from the road to you and quickly back again. “And, do you? Have a good feeling?”

You waited a beat, watching as his knuckles tightened on the wheel for a split second. “I do,” you whispered, letting your fingers trail along the edge of your seat toward him before drawing back. “But you’re awfully focused on driving for a guy with a co-pilot.”

He laughed, relieved sound, and reached for your hand as the truck glided down the dark road, your fingers tangling on the console.

“So… do you always plot secret escapes from crowded bars, or is this a special mission?” he asked, risking a sidelong glance, fingers fidgeting at the seam of the steering wheel.

You laughed, letting the sound slip easily into the warmth of the cab. "No, I haven't done something like this in a long time."

He grinned, shy, glancing along your profile in the dark. "I was sure I was invisible back there."

You shook your head, letting your gaze linger over him while the headlights brushed gold shadows across his jaw. "Not even close, Bob. I've been noticing you for a while, actually. You make quiet look really good."

He drew in a quiet breath, surprise and hope flickering in his blue eyes. "You, uh… always watch this closely?"

"Only when someone gives me a reason," you said, your voice lower, daring.

The words lingered, heat rising between you, thickening the hush in the truck. Bob let out a long, careful breath, his fingers flexing on the wheel. Each subtle glance, each brush of your knees, charged the cab with electric anticipation.

Outside, the fields gave way to a scraggly line of trees, moonlight etched in tangled branches. You leaned forward, pointing—"There, on the right. That clearing."

Bob eased the truck off the main dirt road, tires crunching onto a forgotten strip where wild grass reached the doors. The engine idled, headlights spilling across the edge of a ragged fence just far enough from the world to feel secret, close enough that your heartbeat echoed in your chest.

For a beat, neither of you moved. The hush inside the cab was thick, thrumming with anticipation instead of nerves. Bob glanced at you, all uncertain hope and tentative desire, his face cast half in soft blue dash light, half in velvet shadow.

Without a word, you shifted in your seat, savouring how the plush leather and the truck's oversized space let you stretch out. One by one, you kicked off your shoes, letting them fall to the floor with a gentle thump. Then you drew your legs up, crossing them at the ankles as you twisted to face him fully. You leaned forward slightly, hands folded in your lap, watching the way he watched you, that shy awe growing in his eyes.

You gave him a small, conspiratorial smile—one that dared him to do something about all that tension. “You know,” you murmured, voice thick with a private sort of joy, “it’s not that hard to see you when you finally let someone get close.”

He seemed to catch his breath, a startled almost laugh escaping him before your gaze locked, and the moment rolled into something else. You stretched your legs out, toes skimming across the console, then unfolded yourself moving with slow, deliberate intent. The generous space of the truck gave you room to manoeuvre, so you slid across the buttery leather, tucking your legs beneath you until you were facing him completely.

Seized by a sudden surge of boldness, you decided to take things a step further. With a suggestive smile tugging at your lips, you lifted yourself up and climbed across the console, your movements deliberately slow and provocative. Bob's eyes darkened with desire as he watched you, his hands instinctively reaching out to grip your hips as you settled onto his lap.

Straddling him, your legs spread on either side of his hips, you felt the hard proof of his arousal pressing against you through the thin fabric of your clothes. The sensation made your heart race and your breath come faster.

Leaning in close, your breasts brushing against his chest, you revealed in the electric tension that crackled between you. In the dim glow of the dashboard lights, Bob's expression was a heady mix of lust, nervousness, and pure, unadulterated want a mirror of the hunger coursing through your veins.

Then Bob’s hand rose tracing the line of your jaw, brushing his thumb along your cheek and then he kissed you, it turning hungry and wild. With you straddling his lap, your bodies pressed intimately together, the cab’s space vanished.

His other hand found the hem of your skirt, lingering as though savouring the anticipation, then skimmed up your thigh, his fingers teasing the sensitive skin along the way. You rocked your hips against him, feeling the hard proof of his arousal through the thin fabric of your clothes, and he groaned into your mouth.

You chuckled breathlessly, letting some tension break, and your laughter faded naturally back into kisses gentler at first, then rougher, dirtier, as if you were both pressing your own pent up desires into each other, letting lust override caution at last. Your tongues tangled, exploring and claiming, as you ground yourself against him, the friction sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

Suddenly, he broke away, his breath shaking, his face flushed with colour. His gaze dropped to his lap, then flicked up to meet yours, shy and earnest. “I, uh,” he began, voice barely more than a hush, “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

You let the question hover between you, a teasing lilt in your voice. “Kiss a woman?”

He huffed a breath, cheeks going even pinker, but there was a ghost of a laugh beneath his nerves. “No, I mean—” He bit his lip, eyes darting to the expansive darkness outside the windscreen, then back to you. “I’ve never… kissed someone like this. In a truck. Out in the middle of nowhere. It’s… different.”

For a heartbeat, you simply smiled at him, warmth blooming in your chest. “Well,” you whispered back, hand skimming along his jaw, “first time for everything.”

You watched the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, then leaned in just slightly closer, your voice low and teasing. "Maybe we should head into the back seat," you murmured, a gentle smile playing at your lips. "Give ourselves a little more room."

Bob’s eyes widened just a fraction, the blush deepening in his cheeks. He looked like he almost didn’t realise what you meant at first a flicker of surprise, a tentative breath. His breath hitched when you traced your fingertips lightly along his jawline, the faint heat of your touch lingering.

He hesitated for only a second, blinked, then nodded ever so slightly, almost shy but undeniably eager an innocence pooling with something a little more daring beneath the surface. “Yeah,” he whispered, voice cracking just a little, “that…that sounds good.”

He still seemed caught between being shy and secretly exhilarated, as if the whole world had tilted just enough for him to feel both uncertain, alive and more awake than he’d ever been. The quiet hum of the truck seemed to pulse in tandem with his rapid heartbeat, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips, searching but longing.

The cab, suddenly too small for all the possibility buzzing between you, seemed to urge you both on. In a fluid motion, you slid off Bob's lap, your body brushing against his as you reached for the door handle on his side. The humid night air spilled inside as you slipped out, landing barefoot on the cool grass below.

Bob hesitated for only a moment before following you out, his movements a bit hurried and nervous. As he stepped out of the truck, he turned to face you, a shy smile playing on his lips. With a gallant gesture, he reached for the rear door, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he grasped the handle. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

You climbed in then Bob clambered in after, slow but determined. The sight of you—bare legs curled beneath you, hair haloed in shadow, smile soft and inviting—left him nearly breathless. When he settled beside you, every careful inch, the world, pulled itself tighter around the two of you.

Carefully you climbed onto him again, adjusting your position on his lap, your legs straddling his hips, letting him cradle you as you eased him further from shyness and uncertainty into the warmth and fierce newness between you. Bob broke away for a heartbeat, breathless, eyes shining wide in the dim light. “Still can’t believe this is happening,” he whispered, voice as warm as the night around you.

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his cheek, then his jaw, letting your hands wander in reassuring lines. “Believe it,” you whispered, fingertips dancing at his collarbone. “No checklists. No one watching.”

He hesitated for a moment, then subtly shifted, his hand finally reaching out to rest gently on your waist. His fingers lingered, trembling just a little, but there was a newfound determination in his touch something that betrayed his outward shy demeanour. The way his hand moved softly, almost reverently, along your side told you more than words ever could.

His other hand carefully traced along your back, fingertips brushing the fabric of your shirt, then slipping under it just enough to feel the warmth of your skin. The tenderness of his touch was honest, unhurried, yet brimming with a quiet confidence that no amount of shyness could hide. He had wanted this for so long wanted to cherish and explore without hesitation now that the moment had finally arrived.

You leaned into his touch, your breath catching softly as his hands moved with purpose, more bold than he seemed on the surface. His lips pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to your temple, and then he turned his head, pressing a sweet, tentative kiss to your cheek before finally seeking your lips again all the shy nervousness replaced by a deliberate, loving hunger.

It was as if all those moments of quiet observation, of nervous glances and tentative touches, had built into this the loving, fearless way he wanted to hold you close, to claim this moment for himself.

Caught in his embrace, you felt the last traces of hesitation slip away between kisses, the hush in the cab thick with anticipation. Bob’s breath was warm at your ear, his hands steady now as he cradled your side. For a heartbeat, he paused—face close to yours, blue eyes shining in the shadows.

Then, his voice came low and earnest, edged with a confidence that surprised you both. “Lie back,” he whispered, his thumb sweeping a soft line along your waist. The simple request hung in the air, gentle, but leaving no doubt.

You met his gaze and saw the steady desire there, the invitation threaded through with something fiercely devoted. With a small nod, you shifted your position, Bob's strong hands guiding you, supporting your back as you eased down along the length of the seat, the leather cool beneath your bare skin.

Bob followed, moving with care but no uncertainty now, his presence filling the space above you. His hand supported your back, ensuring you were comfortable, and the soft brush of his fingertips along your side made you shiver in the best way.

He leaned in, his mouth finding yours again, and this time his restraint gave way slow, deliberate, and entirely intent on showing you just how much he’d been holding back. For a breathless moment, Bob hovered above you, his gaze roaming your face as if memorising every detail, the way your lips parted just for him, the hope written across your eyes.

His usual urge to hide, to downplay himself, had vanished, drowned out by the certainty thrumming in his chest. He wanted to make you feel as cherished and wanted as he’d always dreamed of being.

His hands smoothed down your sides, learning the lines of you with growing assurance, his fingertips grazing your skin and leaving trails of heat in their wake. As the hush between you thickened, Bob dipped lower, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down your neck and over your collarbone, savouring the warm, shivery way you arched beneath him.

He let himself be guided by every sigh, every soft press of your hand, each cue fuelling a new, hidden confidence. A quiet question flickered in his eyes as he drifted lower, his shoulders fitting between your knees as you shifted to welcome him.

Bob’s blush lingered on his cheeks, but there was nothing shy in the way he paused, breath fanning over your skin, eyes flicking up to meet your gaze—a silent, reverent request for permission.

His gaze held yours for a moment longer, then he lowered his head, his lips brushing lightly against your hip, a slow, deliberate caress. You felt a shiver ripple through you—anticipation and a tangle of nerves, but also an undeniable hunger. Bob’s hands, once tentative, now moved with gentle purpose, adjusting as he sought the right angle, his breath warm against your skin.

And then he surprised you: his lips met your body, soft but confident, tracing a feather-light path along your thigh, his tongue flicking over sensitive skin with a quiet mastery that made your breath catch. His movements were sure and knowing, as if he’d spent years practicing this calm, deliberate, and deeply intent on making you feel cherished in each careful motion.

He paused only to look up, eyes dark with a focus that sent a thrill rushing through you. Everything he did radiated a kind of loving precision no shy fumbling, just genuine intent, a desire to please and connect on a level that melted away all your doubts. His hands found your hips, steadying you, as his mouth continued its slow, assertive exploration.

Carefully he pushed your skirt up your legs, bunching it at your waist. You gasped softly, caught between the sensations a mixture of tenderness and the charged confidence he’d unexpectedly shown. For the first time, Bob wasn’t just shy—you realised he was letting go, giving all of himself, savouring this intimate moment with a quiet, compelling skill that made your pulse race even faster.

With every grazing touch, Bob's lingering shyness transformed into an intense, focused passion. His hands skimmed up your legs, thumbs brushing the soft skin of your inner thighs, as he settled more comfortably between them. Carefully he peeled your underwear away from your hips, slowly pulling them down your legs until he carefully tucked them into his pocket.

You could feel the warmth of his breath against your most sensitive areas, and then, boldly, his tongue flicked out to taste you. A jolt of pleasure shot through you at the first touch, your gasp echoing in the hush of the truck. Bob's mouth was hot and clever, his tongue swirling and dancing in patterns that made your hips twitch and your hands fist in his hair. He responded to every sound you made, every tremor, adjusting his pace and pressure with an intuition that left you dizzy.

His fingers joined his mouth, gently at first—circling, teasing at your entrance before slowly, carefully pressing inside. The combined sensations were electric, the slide of his fingers and the relentless caress of his tongue winding you tighter and tighter. Your breath came in short pants, your hips rocking to meet his movements as the tension coiled low in your belly.

"Bob, fuck that feels good.” you breathed, your voice rough with desire. The sound of his name on your lips seemed to ignite something within him, spurring him on with renewed fervour. He hummed in response, the vibration resonating through you like a plucked string.

Your climax built with every stroke, every teasing circle, until it finally crashed over you in waves, your body shuddering, your gasps loud in the quiet night. Hearing you say his name in the throes of passion only fuelled his determination to bring you to the peak of pleasure.

Bob gentled his touch, bringing you down slowly as you trembled in the aftermath. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were dark and shining, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He looked, for the first time, like a man who knew exactly how much power he held and he had wielded it with all the skill and care you never suspected he possessed.

In the quiet aftermath, you couldn't hold back your grin, your voice still flushed with pleasure. "Fuck, Bob, where the hell did that come from?" you asked, laughter and amazement tangling together in your tone.

Bob straightened, adjusting his glasses with a hint of his old shyness. But his smile was new—confident, with just a hint of mischief. "I, um," he started, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m just good at paying attention, I guess. To you." He met your eyes, his gaze steady and warm. "I wanted it to be good for you. I wanted… to be good to you." His voice was low, sincere, each word carrying a weight that made your breath catch all over again.

You reached for him, tangling your fingers with his, your smile softer now. "You were," you assured him, leaning in to brush a kiss against his lips. "You are."

Bob's blush returned in full force, but he didn't look away. Instead, he leaned into your touch, his smile growing as he basked in the warmth of your praise. In a rush of boldness, you leaned in again, capturing his lips in a kiss that left no doubt about your intentions. Bob's surprise quickly melted into eagerness, his hands coming up to frame your face as he returned the kiss.

When you finally broke away, it was only to let your hands roam lower, fingers finding the hem of his shirt. "I want to see you," you murmured, tugging at the fabric. "All of you."

Bob hesitated only a moment before lifting his arms, letting you strip the shirt away. And there, in the moonlight filtering through the windows, you finally saw him—really saw him.

His body was a study in lean, defined muscle, each line and curve etched with careful precision. His shoulders were broad, tapering down to a trim, muscular waist. His chest was sculpted, his abs a tight, toned six-pack that left your mouth dry.

This was no shy, unassuming man this was a man who honed his body with discipline and care. You couldn't help but stare, your eyes wide with appreciation and a little shock.

Your gaze traced the defined lines of his biceps, the corded muscles of his forearms, and the powerful thighs that seemed to ripple beneath the fabric of his trousers. The sight of his body sent a shiver of desire racing down your spine, your skin prickling with the need to touch him.

"Fuck, Bob," you breathed, your hands coming up to trace the lines of his chest, his shoulders, his arms. "Who knew you had all of this hiding away under there."

He ducked his head, a blush staining his cheeks even as he smiled. "I, uh, I try to stay in shape," he mumbled, clearly pleased by your reaction.

You laughed softly, leaning in to press a kiss to his collarbone. "That's an understatement," you teased, your hands starting to explore him.

Your touch seemed to light a fire in Bob, his skin trembling beneath your fingertips. He leaned into your caresses, his breath quickening, and when you dared to glance up at his face, you found his eyes blue eyes were dark with desire.

Emboldened, you let your hands wander lower, fingers trailing along the waistband of his jeans.

Bob's breath hitched, his hips twitching as if seeking your touch. "I… I want…" he stammered, his voice rough with nerves and longing.

"What do you want, Bob?" you murmured, your fingers teasing at the button of his jeans. "Tell me."

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "I want you," he whispered, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I want to feel you, all of you, I want…" His words trailed off into a soft moan as you popped the button on his trousers, your fingers slipping just beneath the denim. "Yes," he breathed, hips arching into your touch. "Please, yes."

Together, you worked his jeans down his hips, revealing the rest of his body to your hungry gaze. He was just as beautiful below as above, his thighs strong and muscular, his erection straining against the fabric of his boxers.

You dipped your hand below the fabric took him in hand, stroking him gently, and he cried out, his fingers fisting in your hair. "Fuck, that feels… ah, god," he gasped, his hips bucking into your touch.

His reaction spurred you on, your strokes growing bolder, more insistent. Bob's head fell back, his eyes squeezing shut as he lost himself to the sensations. "Please," he panted, his hands fumbling for your clothes. "I need to touch you, I need…"

You helped him strip away your clothes, both of you trembling with urgency. When you were both, finally, naked, you tumbled together onto the seat, all tangled limbs and desperate touches.

Bob's hands were everywhere, tracing your curves, your planes, your dips, and hollows. He worshipped your body with his touch, his lips following the path of his fingers.

"I need you," Bob breathed against your skin, his hips nestling between your thighs. "God, I need you so much."

"Please," you gasped, your hands fumbling for the condom you'd tucked into your purse earlier.

He took the condom with trembling hands, fumbling a little as he rolled it on. The anticipation hung heavy in the air as you watched him, your eyes drinking in the sight of his lean, muscled body poised above you.

And then he was there, pressing inside you, filling you with a slow, delicious stretch that made you both moan in unison. He moved with a careful, almost reverent rhythm, his hips rolling in slow, deep thrusts that had you both gasping and trembling.

"God, you feel incredible," he murmured, his voice rough almost strained.

He moved with a careful, almost reverent rhythm, his hips rolling in slow, deep thrusts that had you both gasping and trembling. Each movement seemed to stoke the fire between you, the slide of his body against yours creating delicious friction that sent shivers racing along your spine.

"Faster," you begged, your hips rising to meet his thrusts, your fingers digging into his back. "Harder, please, Bob, I need…"

He gave you what you needed, his thrusts growing harder, faster, his hips snapping against yours with delicious force. The truck rocked with the force.

You could feel the tension coiling low in your belly, your climax building with every stroke, every gasp. "Close," Bob panted, his fingers digging into your hips, his eyes dark with desire. "So close, fuck, I'm gonna…"

"Come for me," you urged, your own release hovering just out of reach. "I want to feel you, Bob, I want…"

Your words seemed to push him over the edge, his body shuddering against yours as he came with a loud, drawn-out moan. The sound of his pleasure, the feel of him pulsing inside you, it was enough to trigger your own climax, your body clamping down on his as you tumbled over the edge into bliss.

You cried out his name as you came, your voices echoing together in the tight confines of the truck.

With a content sigh, Bob pushed his body down against yours, his weight pressing you into the seat beneath. He tucked his face into the curve of your neck, his breath hot and heavy against your skin.

"That was…" he started, his voice rough with emotion. "You were… God, that was incredible."

You smiled back, your own heart full to bursting. "You were incredible," you countered, tracing your finger along the curve of his back.

He pushed himself up, the bulge of his biceps illuminated by the dull interior lighting.

Bob's smile softened, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face. "You're unbelievable," he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. "I… I've never felt like this before." his gaze drifted from your eyes to your lips and back again. "I don't want this night to end," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "I want more… more of you, more of this feeling."

"We can go back to the bar, or… or we could go back to your place," you offered, your hand coming up to cover his. "Whatever you want."

Bob's eyes widened, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he smiled—a slow, sweet curve of his lips that made your breath catch. "My place," he said, his voice ringing with certainty. "I want to take you back to my place," he murmured a hint of mischief creeping into his voice. "I want to see you in my space… maybe even in my bed, if you'll have me."

Your heart melted at his words, at the sweet, hopeful look in his eyes. "I'd like that," you whispered back, moving your arms to circle around his neck. "I'd like that a lot."

Bob's grin was blinding, his eyes sparkling with joy. He kissed you again, this time with a fierce, possessive edge that made your toes curl.

"Let's go," he breathed, his hands already reaching for your clothes. "Let's go, before I lose my nerve."

A Link to My Complete Inventory

[the-unidentified-author]

You Are a Strange Little Creature, I Think I'll Keep You | Qimir | Star Wars

Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW], very rough, enemies to lovers, fight then fuck, hes rough, unrelenting, teasing, fighting talk, hes hot, consensual!

POV: Reader / You, no personal descriptions

Summary: Qimir has hunted the galaxy for you trying to find what the force has been pulling him towards. Now he has you, he is not letting you go.

Word Count: 4,167

Not my gif, if its yours and you would like me to remove it just ask <3

"You're a strange little creature," whispered Qimir, his voice laced with something you couldn't place, a hint of intrigue, perhaps, or a dark amusement that sent a chill skittering down your spine. His eyes, glinting in the shadow-dappled light, seemed to bore into you, peeling back layers until you felt utterly exposed under his scrutiny. There was a weight to his words, a heaviness that settled in your gut, making the air around you feel dense and charged.

You thrashed against the iron grip cinched around your throat, fingers prying at his wrist as you strained to touch the ground. His hold remained unyielding, your toes brushing the soil just enough to torture you with the hope of purchase. Every muscle coiled and twisted, your body writhing like a live wire as you clawed at his arm, seeking any weakness. But he held you fast, your flailing legs casting frantic shadows across the forest floor. As your awareness wavered, the pungent aroma of damp earth and decay enveloped you, both grounding and ethereal in your compromised state. The edges of your vision flickered with creeping shadows, those ominous black dots encroaching like a relentless tide, threatening to swallow you whole.

Branches arched overhead, clawing at what little light managed to slip past the mossy canopy. Damp earth pressed cold against your heels as you dangled, feet scuffing uselessly at rotting leaves. The woods pulsed with the hush of distant insects startled into silence by violence, air so thick and wet it tasted of decay and secrets. Your vision splintered, but you rasped out a sliver of speech past the pressure on your windpipe, your voice a rough, shaky thing. "A Jedi… isn't afraid," you choked, defiance burning through the haze as your nails dug deeper into his skin.

Your body grew heavy, as if gravity itself had doubled its weight. The world around you blurred into streaks of shadow and memory, colours bleeding into one another. Your limbs felt like lead, and despite your desperate efforts to stay alert, consciousness slipped away in slow, suffocating waves.

***

Your eyes peeled open to darkness mottled with golden flickers. The ceiling above was not the sterile white of a medbay or the tangled canopy of the forest, but cold stone, rough and ancient, vaulting overhead. You lay cocooned in heavy blankets atop a real bed, linen sheets, a proper frame, incongruously sumptuous against the uneven floor of the cave. Faint blue light from a battered holopanel danced over the walls, mingling with the honeyed glow of an old-fashioned lantern. Machinery thrummed quietly somewhere deeper in the cavern, a hum unmistakable, a shield generator, perhaps, or a battered droid on standby. The wound at your shoulder throbbed, the sensation dulled by clean, snug bandages that bore the faint herbal scent of bacta patches. The air tasted of minerals and distant rain, foreign and feral yet almost soothing, as you tried to piece together how you’d come to wake here, folded in warmth but utterly unsure of your safety. Completely confused as to why you weren't dead.

Qimir, now stripped of the black sleeveless armour he'd worn when he tried to kill you, shuffled into the cave’s chamber, oddly domestic in loose, unevenly patched linen. His hair was disheveled, and damp, and he kept his back to you as he moved with measured purpose, boots whispering against the uneven stone. Slowly, carefully, you surveyed the alcove surrounding the bed, its walls studded with jagged blue crystal veins and half-unpacked storage crates. Discarded coils of rope, an oil-stained toolkit, and what looked suspiciously like a battered astromech dome littered the corners. You searched desperately for anything that could be wielded as a weapon, your gaze landing on a hydrospanner, a cup, a chipped plate, before your eyes snagged on something more familiar.

"Your saber is on the table beside you," he muttered, voice flat, as if offering a harmless trinket rather than a weapon. He knelt on the stone floor, indifferent, and dropped a handful of root vegetables onto a battered prep board beside a pot above a fire.

He leaned over and stirred the pot with a carved wooden spoon, the savoury scent of simmering broth curling through the flickering glow, hands steady and unconcerned by your presence.

You snatched your saber, flicking the emitter on; its blade hissed to life, an unstable blue glow trembling in your grip. Still half tangled in blankets, knees pressed into creaking mattress coils, you braced yourself, holding it two-handed, ready and waiting for the first sign he might turn on you again.

"Why don’t the Jedis know who you are?" you rasped, each word scraped raw as you forced it out, your throat sore.

Qimir turned to look at you, utterly unfazed, his gaze cool and appraising, not even acknowledging the saber clutched in your grip. Shadows played across his features, giving his expression a sculpted sharpness, but his posture suggested a kind of profound boredom, as if the threat you thought you posed was merely another passing inconvenience.

"They do," Qimir answered, his tone flat, unreadable, but his gaze gleamed with something unspoken.

"No," you coughed, shaking your head, fury flaring past panic, "if they did, they sent us willingly to a slaughter."

"The Jedis know who I am," Qimir murmured, tilting his head slightly like a predator sizing up prey, "they just don’t want you to know who I am."

You blinked hard through tearing eyes, your heart ached for those you had lost, voice fractured but stubborn. "What purpose would that serve?" His lips curled in a thin, mirthless smile.

"The Jedis need you to have unwavering faith that their way is the only way, the light, or the dark," he said, voice low and threading through the shadows twined between you. "To tell you of me would mean to admit there are other ways the Force can be used."

You shook your head, "I don’t care how else the Force can be used."

"You should," he shot back, unsettling patience in his words as he studied your face, as though waiting for understanding to dawn. Your anger splintered through your fear, breath catching painfully.

"Why the hell did you even bring me here?" you choked. "You killed my friends, and now you’re lecturing me about the Force?"

Qimir’s gaze darkened, a hint of something predatory flickering in his eyes as he studied you.

He stood and took a step closer, his presence seeming to fill the space between you, the air crackling with an energy that made your skin prickle. "You intrigue me," he said softly, voice like velvet sliding over razors. "You burn brightly. I find I want to…shape that. Mold it." His eyes trailed deliberately over your hunched form, the blankets pooling around your tense frame.

Heat bloomed in your face, anger, and something uncomfortably like hunger tangling under your skin. "I’m not some plaything for your amusement," you snarled, but the words lacked bite, your voice roughened from more than just injury, you turned off the saber and let your hands fall to the bedsheets defeated.

For a moment, the air between you seemed to hum, thick and bright with something restless, the Force pulsing like a hidden current just out of sight. You could feel it: not the steady calm of the Jedi way, but some wilder gravity knitting the space between you and him, a pull that made your breath catch. Qimir’s gaze dropped to your hands, then back to your face, a slight smile ghosting across his lips, as if he, too, sensed the tension pulling you closer despite every instinct to flee. The Force pressed like a heated palm at your back, coaxing you to breach the divide, to surrender to the question threaded between danger and desire. Your pulse hammered against your ribs, dizzy and unmoored, as if your body were not entirely your own.

"Would you like some soup?" he asked suddenly, shattering the taut silence with surprising gentleness, a genuine smile flickering across his mouth as he turned back to the pot, the outline of his shoulders softening under the lantern glow. The invitation hung between you, fragile and absurd in its domesticity, as if the moment before hadn’t been laced with something sharp-edged and electric.

He ladled the soup with deliberate care, slow and precise, the faint clink of metal on stone oddly intimate in the hush of the cave. Without asking, he crossed the space and set the battered bowl on the table beside you, close enough that you could smell the aromatic steam spiralling upward. Qimir didn’t retreat. He lingered, eyes locked on yours, the heat of his body brushing the edge of your blankets. “You still look ready to run,” he murmured, voice pitched low and sultry, almost teasing. “Or ready to pounce. I’m not sure which I prefer.”

He set a spoon by your hand but didn’t move away. Instead, Qimir sat on the edge of the bed, close, but not quite touching, his weight causing the mattress to dip beneath him and tilting your bodies subtly toward each other.

He killed your friends, your brain screamed at you, desperate and raw, trying to fight this strange sensation creeping over your body, this electric ache kindling beneath your skin, equal parts terror and reckless longing. Every instinct screamed to recoil, to strike out, yet the space between you felt dangerously thin, charged with something you didn’t have the words to name.

Suddenly, you lunged forward, your lightsaber arcing through the air, aimed directly at him. Qimir was remarkably swift, he sidestepped with a fluid, almost predatory grace, practically gliding out of the way as your blade sliced through the space where he had just been. His body moved with a calculated ease, arms reaching out in a quick, practiced motion to grab for his weapon.

With a savage flick of his wrist, Qimir summoned his weapon from across the cave, metal skittering through the air before slapping into his palm. The red blade snapped to life, hissing as he met your next strike in a shower of crackling sparks. You bared your teeth, jaw clenched so hard it ached, pouring every ounce of fury and confusion into each swing. The cave rang with the clash of energy on energy, the searing heat of the blades seeping through the air between you. Qimir parried, deflecting your attacks with terrifying composure, a smirk playing at his lips as if he relished each strike. It was as if the force between you had turned feral, wild intensity humming with every movement, pushing you both closer and setting you alight from the inside out.

Your next slash didn’t catch him, but it did graze the fabric of his loose tunic, the edge of your saber searing through linen as he pivoted away with feline agility. For a split second, a bright trail of char traced his side, the tunic fluttering down in tatters. Qimir stilled, the fight pausing on a knife edge, and with deliberate leisure, he pulled the ruined fabric from his frame. The muscles of his chest flexed in the lantern light, lean, sculpted, dusted with a mischievous trail of hair that arrowed down between his pectorals. For all his elegance, there was something raw and dangerous in the way he shed the garment, eyes flicking up to catch your reaction, mouth curving into a sly, infuriatingly confident smile.

He let out a low, mocking laugh, not out of breath in the slightest. "If you wanted me to take my clothes off that badly," he drawled, voice turning languid and wicked, "you should have just asked."

You clenched your jaw, trying to ignore the screaming burn radiating from your shoulder and down your arm, trying to smother the fire in your gut that drew you towards him. Every nerve seemed to pulse with a heat that had nothing to do with the fight, something wild and hungry that coiled low in your belly, threatening to consume you. Your breath came short and sharp, each exhale a low, ragged sound that betrayed the battle raging beneath your skin. The room felt too small, too close, the space between you charged with a force that pulled you in even as your mind screamed to pull away. His gaze bored into yours, dark and knowing, as if he could see the war waging within you, and relished every moment of your struggle.

You swung again, your blade clashing against his in a spray of sparks that rained down on the stone floor, again and again and again. Each strike was fuelled by the roiling anger in your gut, the desperate need to lash out, to make him feel the pain that seared through your every nerve. But with every parry, Qimir's smirk only seemed to deepen, his eyes alight with a dark amusement that sent a sickening thrill through your core. He was toying with you, relishing the fight, the danger, the electric charge that crackled between you with every meeting of blades. And god's help you, some twisted part of you thrilled at it too, drawn to the heat of his body, the wild, savage energy that hummed in the air, the promise of violence and something darker, headier, lacing each strike.

You misstepped and he gained the upper hand, using your momentum to fling you against the wall, your lightsaber angled across your throat, the only thing stopping his from taking off your head. With your back pressed to the wall, you almost growled with the exertion of trying to push him off, the muscles in his arms bulging as he leaned in closer. Then, shockingly, he kissed you. A wave of conflicting emotions radiated through you, and for a few dizzying seconds, you found yourself kissing him back before clarity returned with a vengeance. You bit down hard on his lip, tasting blood. He stepped away from you, a smile playing on his lips as he raised his hand to wipe away the crimson stain.

“My my, you like to play rough," Qimir purred, his tongue darting out to dab at the blood on his lip. "I must admit, I like a bit of fire in my partners. It makes things so much more…engaging." He took a step closer again.

You lifted your saber, fury spiking anew, and swung at him with reckless abandon. Qimir danced back effortlessly, the red blade of his weapon humming through the air as he parried your strikes with aggravating, almost lazy precision. He barely seemed to break a sweat, his eyes locked on you, sharp and utterly focused, drinking in every twitch of your muscles, every shift in your stance. His mouth curled into a half-smile, a taunting glimmer lighting in his gaze as he countered each attack like this was all just a game between lovers instead of mortal enemies.

"Give into it as I have. There's something pulling us together," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, smoky and intimate, "I could feel it half a universe away." You swung again, angrier than before, but he didn’t bother to block, he just held his arms open, chest bared, leaving himself vulnerable. Your saber arced within a breath of his skin, the electric blue glow trembling at the edge of his heart. For a heartbeat, you hovered on that razor's edge, the Force coiled tight and shimmering, something in it gripping your wrist, refusing to let you strike home. Your hand shook. There was a tightness in your chest as if the air had thickened, heat simmering where rage and something unspoken collided. He stood still, his eyes never leaving yours, as if he already knew you couldn’t do it. "There it is," he whispered.

Slowly, you lowered your saber, the blade flickering out as it clattered to the floor, forgotten. Hesitantly, you stepped forward, heart pounding in your ears, the space between you narrowing to inches. Qimir closed the gap, one hand tangling in your hair as he pulled you into a rough kiss. This time, you didn't pull away, instead, you leaned into the contact, your lips parting under his as something wild and reckless ignited in your veins. The world narrowed to the slide of his tongue against yours, the heat of his skin, the Force crackling around you like a live wire. There was no thought of right or wrong, no questioning the pull that had been building since the moment you met, just the consuming need to be closer, to give in to the fire he had stoked to life inside you.

The pair of you moved toward the bed in a feverish blur, your hands hungrily mapping the planes of his chest, the hard, lean muscle shifting beneath your palms, warm and impossibly alive. The scent of sweat and spice rose from his skin as your fingers traced the line of hair that arrowed down from his sternum, following the sharp dip of his collarbones and the ridges flanking his ribs. Every movement made his muscles flex, a living echo of the lethal grace he'd shown in the fight. You relished the heat radiating from him, the way your touch seemed to draw a low, pleased sound from deep in his throat. His skin was peppered with old scars, each one a sharp reminder of the danger wrapped in every inch of him.

He guided you down to the mattress you had woken up on, his lips trailing fire down the column of your throat. "I should kill you," you whispered, the last of your fight ebbing away even as the words left your lips.

"Yes, you should," he mumbled into the curve of your neck, his hands sliding up the inside of your shirt, searing a path over your stomach, your ribs, your chest. The warmth of his touch seemed to melt away the last of your resistance, leaving you boneless and trembling beneath him. Each brush of his fingers sent sparks dancing across your skin, nerve endings alight with sensation. You felt dizzy, drunk on the feel of him, the reckless, impossible need that seemed to consume you both.

"This is wrong," you tried to keep the fight ignited, even as your voice wavered.

Qimir's lips curved into a wicked, knowing smile as he leaned in close, his breath ghosting over your ear. "It won't feel so wrong, when I'm done with you." His words sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and anticipation that made your heart race. "I know you feel it," he murmured, his fingers tangling in your hair as he tilted your head back to meet his eyes. "The pull. The connection." His gaze was dark, intense, as if he could see straight through to your very soul. "You can fight it all you want, but in the end, you'll surrender. You'll see."

Your breath caught at his words, at the certainty in his voice that seemed to reverberate deep inside you. "And what then?" you managed to ask, your voice rough with emotion. "What happens when I do?"

"It will feel even better than it already does," he whispered, hands fiddling with the connections that held your tunic together. His fingers were deft, nimble, making short work of the fastenings as he bared your skin to the cool air. Every brush of his knuckles against the sensitive flesh beneath sent shivers cascading through you, heat blooming in their wake. His eyes darkened as he took in the sight of you, laid bare before him, something hungry and possessive flickering across his features. "So beautiful," he murmured, voice rough with want as his hands skimmed over your newly exposed skin, tracing patterns that made your breath catch. "So perfect." His touch was reverent,

Grasping one breast in one hand, he lowered his lips to the other, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak until you gasped. He teased gently at first, feathering soft, torturous caresses that made your back arch, desperate for more. Then he sucked harder, pulling the tender flesh into his mouth with a pressure that sent shocks of pleasure straight to your core. His hand mirrored his mouth's movements, kneading and caressing until you were trembling beneath him, undone by the dual sensations.

Then his hands moved to the fastenings on your trousers, pulling them away and standing up and stepping back to yank them free of your legs. The fabric slid down your thighs, baring the last of your secrets to his hungry gaze. You felt exposed, vulnerable, laid out like an offering before him, but the look in his eyes held no room for shame. Only desire, dark and fierce, burning away every doubt until there was nothing left but the need consuming you both.

Then he grabbed at your legs, twisting you so that you were on your stomach.

"Stand," he commanded, his voice rough with urgency, and you did, supporting your upper body by bracing outstretched hands locked at the elbow against the bed.

He used his knee to guide your thighs apart, the rough fabric of his trousers scraping against your sensitive skin, until you were standing bare and open before him. You felt his fingers slip between your legs, his touch hot as he explored how badly your body had betrayed you. He teased you with light, torturous strokes, circling the sensitive nub at your centre until your hips bucked wildly against his hand, desperate for more.

"You're so wet for me," he growled, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. "So ready." He slipped one finger inside you, then another, stretching you, preparing you, as your walls clenched around him, greedy for more. You moaned, shameless in your need, your hips rocking back to meet his touch, silently begging him for everything, for the release you knew only he could give.

Then his finger retreated, and you heard the rustle of his trousers, then the feeling of him sliding over you, hot and thick. You cried out, your body trembling at the sudden invasion, the intensity of the sensation. He felt huge inside you, filling you to the brink, the stretch both painful and perfect, a delicious ache that only stoked the flames higher. Every nerve ending seemed to ignite at once, your skin prickling with goosebumps as you struggled to adjust to the overwhelming fullness. Pleasure and pain blurred together, a heady mix that made your head swim, your legs shake. You felt pinned, impaled, utterly at his mercy.

You cried out, your body trembling at the sudden invasion, the intensity of the sensation. He stilled for a moment, allowing you to adjust, before he began to move, his hips rolling against yours in a rhythm that was at once brutal and beautiful. Every stroke sent sparks cascading through your body, winding the tension tighter and tighter until you were sobbing with the need for release. He filled you completely, his hard length dragging against every sensitive nerve ending, igniting a fire that threatened to consume you both. Each thrust was a claim, a brand, searing his possession into your very soul.

He set a pace that was unrelenting, almost punishing in its intensity, as if he could fuck the fight right out of you, turn your defiance into pure, undiluted need. He leaned over you, his chest pressed to your back, one hand tangling in your hair as he pulled your head back to claim your mouth in a searing kiss. The taste of him flooded your senses, dark and heady, as he took you with a single-minded intensity that left you reeling. The world narrowed to the slide of his body against yours, the slap of flesh on flesh, the desperate sounds that spilled from your lips with every relentless thrust.

You came hard, your body clenching around him like a vice, stars exploding behind your eyes as the pleasure crashed over you. You expected him to slow, to be close to his release, but his tempo didn't waver, and a sob left your lips as the sensation of pleasure became overwhelming.

"We're not done yet," he whispered, his hand grabbing the back of your neck, the angle pulling your face up. Out of the corner of your eye, you glimpsed a mirror that gave you a full view of him fucking into you, the sight so raw and carnal it sent another shockwave of lust through your core. He looked like a god of debauchery, skin gleaming with sweat, muscles flexing with every ruthless thrust.

The look in his eyes was pure sin, dark and possessive, filled with wicked promise. "You're going to come for me again," he growled, his other hand snaking around your hip to rub tight circles over your sensitised nub. "And again. Until you can't remember your own name. Until the only word left on your lips is mine."

A Link to My Complete Inventory

[the-unidentified-author]

I Can Hear My Heart Beat Like a Sword on a Shield | Harwin Strong | House of the Dragon

Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW], frustrated, rough, needy, words, smut, minors DNI, very rough, he knows how to please a woman, taunting, climax, hes a big man, I want to bite him, consensual!

Summary: You're the daughter of Viserys I Targaryen. You convince your father to allow you to train with a sword. The Knight who is responsible for your lessons seems entirely resistant to your charms. You take this as a challenge and see just how much it takes to break down the resolve of a man who is more accustomed to breaking bones.

POV: Reader / You, no personal descriptions

Word Count: 9,466

A/N: This has taken me weeks and I'm still not happy with the pacing but I've spent too much time on it to just delete it.

Not my gif, if its yours and you would like me to remove it just ask <3

You paced slowly in a wide circle around the hidden courtyard, boots scuffing over ancient flagstones, faded by time and the memory of countless footsteps. You had tried to pick the quietest place in the castle, well away from prying eyes. Turning, you studied the area, it was old and neglected, but you had found the courtyard as a child and had fallen in love with it. Ivy crawled up the cracked walls, their leaves glossy and tenacious, clinging to every fissure carved by seasons past. Moss softened the edges of the ancient stones, and a cool breeze carried the scent of damp earth and old stone, tinged with hints of wildflowers blooming in forgotten corners. There was an old statue of a dragon near the archway into the courtyard, small and stunted, covered in moss, but you loved it. Having named it and talked to it as a child while you waited for your dragon to hatch and grow into a size you would be able to ride. Here and there, shafts of sunlight slipped through a latticework of overgrown branches arching overhead, dappling the courtyard floor in shifting patterns of gold and green.

At last, your father had agreed to let you learn how to swing a sword, though his reluctance was palpable. It had taken weeks of arguments, your voice calm but insistent, reminding him that if you were old enough to take to the sky on dragon-back, you were old enough to defend yourself on the ground. Still, you suspected his approval was reluctant, offered only because he could not imagine you ever truly in danger on the ground. But, he couldn’t fault your argument, ancient rules specified in Westeros that women were forbidden to wield a sword, but your ancestors few shoulder to should with the women of their family and claimed the land as their own. So, here you were, heart drumming with impatience, waiting for the swordsman who would teach you to wield sharped steel.

You stopped mid-step as a broad shadow fell across the courtyard entrance. Harwin Strong appeared, towering in worn leather armour, his presence impossible to ignore. His dark eyes swept over you with an assessing calm, a far cry from the steely look he reserved for battlefields, and the distant clang of the training yard faded to the hush of your anticipation.

"What are you doing here, Harwin?" you said, folding your arms and narrowing your eyes in what you hoped was a regal stare. "I am waiting for my tutor. I have no need for a knight."

A faint, knowing smile played at the corners of his mouth. "I am to be your tutor, Princess," Harwin replied, his voice deep and steady as the stones underfoot.

You stared, momentarily caught off guard. "I am to fight you?" The words left your lips half in disbelief, half in awe. You glanced at his substantial frame, rumours of his strength echoing in your mind. "If nothing else, my father has a sense of humour," you muttered, eyeing the broad sword at his hip. "To pair me with Harwin 'Break-bones' Strong."

A chuckle rumbled in Harwin’s chest, brief but genuine. “It’s not a fight, Princess. It’s a lesson, if you’ll let it be.” He stepped further into the courtyard, the leather of his boots rasping over the stones, every inch the imposing figure you’d heard about in stories whispered by squires. Yet, his movements, broad-shouldered but controlled, held no threat. He drew his sword from his belt, the metal gleaming as shadows slipped along the blade’s edge.

“Show me how you’d hold it,” he said, and held the sword out to you, hilt first. The weight of his attention was as heavy as the weapon itself. You hesitated only a heartbeat before closing the distance and wrapping your fingers around the cool, leather-bound grip. It was heavier than you’d imagined. The balance wobbled as you lifted it, your arms tense beneath the strain. Harwin’s hands stayed at his sides; he didn’t move to correct you, not yet. Instead, he tilted his head, one eyebrow arching as he studied your posture. “You may ride dragons,” he said, “but swords don’t soar. They demand your patience, and your strength. Show me what you know already.” Your pulse thudded in your ears. You squared your feet, straightened your back, determined not to let Harwin see you falter as you raised the blade, ready for his judgment.

The sword shook ever so slightly in your grasp, betraying nerves you tried hard to conceal. You recalled fragments of lessons snatched from stray glimpses at the training yard: the way a squire held his wrists, the stance knights favoured sparring with Sir Christian. Mimicking them, you raised the blade into what you hoped was a passable guard, shoulders taut and jaw set.

Harwin watched in silence, his expression unreadable but not unkind. He circled, steps measured. “You grip it too tightly,” he observed, voice low. “Let the sword become part of your arm, find its balance, Don't fight against its weight."

You swallowed and loosened your fingers slightly. The hilt settled more naturally into your palm, heavy but manageable. Harwin reached out, slow and deliberate, tapping your elbow to encourage a subtle adjustment. You tried to ignore the lightening that flicked up to your shoulder at his touch, disregarding it as nerves, you were being taught by one of the most dangerous swordsmen in Westeros.

“Better. But if I struck here…” His hand hovered by your exposed shoulder, “…you’d be open to attack, defenceless.” Heat prickled at your cheeks, but you refused to look away as he corrected your posture. “Swordplay isn't just about brute force. Breathe, Princess. You should wield the sword in the same way you would swing a fist. In a fight, you are not sword and man, but one thing fused together.”

His voice carried the assurance of someone who had taught many, but never with the gentle care he offered now. You met his gaze, holding the blade steady, stubborn pride flickering in your chest.

“Show me how to do it right,” you said.

His mouth quirked just so, almost a smile. “With pleasure.”

Harwin’s hand lingered at your elbow, strong and reassuring, before gliding down to adjust your grip. His touch was careful but unavoidably intimate, his fingers calloused but gentle as they coaxed your hand into a proper hold. He stepped in behind you, close enough that you caught the faint warmth of his breath and the scent of leather and soap.

“Like this,” he murmured, his voice lowering just for your ears, his guiding hand covering yours around the hilt. The proximity made your pulse flutter in strange, unfamiliar ways. You could almost feel him smiling when you exhaled slowly, trying to breathe out some tension coiling within you.

He didn’t move away, he was just teaching you, you tried to convince yourself. Nothing more.

“Trust the sword, Princess,” Harwin said, letting his words, and the way his arm briefly brushed your side, hang between you. You risked a glance up, only to find his dark eyes fixed on you, the corners crinkling with a challenge and something softer.

Harwin cleared his throat, stepping back just enough to restore a respectful distance, his expression settling into measured focus.

“Now,” he said, the word clipped but not unkind, “show me a basic strike, slowly, as you recall it.” Yet even as his tone shifted into that of a tutor, a charged silence lingered in the small space between you, as if neither of you had quite left that moment of closeness behind.

He watched you with keen attention. “Bring gloves to your next lesson, I don’t believe callouses and cuts should adorn the hands of a princess.” he held out his hand, revealing the calloused toughened skin as if to punctuate his statement.

***

Weeks passed, and with each one, your movements grew surer. The ache in your shoulders faded, replaced by a quiet thrill when your muscles carried the sword more easily than the day before. The thick leather gloves shielded your hands from blisters, but the weight of the blade and the steady rhythm of practice left their memory in your muscles. Each lesson taught you how to move more fluidly: the right pivot of your hips, the spring in your step, the subtle flex of wrists encased in soft, sweat-dampened leather.

You found yourself looking forward to your time in the courtyard, not just for the challenge, but for Harwin’s company. He was unlike the other knights, who treated your ambition as a curiosity, as something to be tamed or ignored. Or even occasionally, they attempt to pursue you. Harwin’s attention was steady, his encouragement just enough to coax your confidence forward without ever patronising. When you landed a well-timed parry or remembered a complex manoeuvre, his eyes would glint, not with surprise, but with satisfaction, as though he’d expected nothing less from you.

He seemed to take a quiet pride in your stubbornness, even as you pressed him with questions or tried, with deliberate mischief, to get a rise out of that solid, stoic calm. If you made a mistake, he corrected you gently; if you succeeded, his low praise felt like sunlight after rain. You began to enjoy the way you could tease the edges of his composure, sometimes finding laughter in the places where sternness was expected.

You looked forward to each morning, where you could be wholly yourself: fierce, determined, clever, and unafraid. With Harwin, that part of you was not just allowed, but welcomed. He was unlike any man you had ever met. He was not intimidated by your station or saw it as nothing more than a way to improve his own. Not only that, but he knew you out ranked him, and he seemed to have no problem standing in his station not stretching out to seize yours. This was something that started to make your heart flutter a little every time your title fell from his lips.

***

Again you were back in the courtyard away from prying eyes. You adjusted your stance, deliberately exaggerating the tilt of your sword. “Like this?” you asked, raising an eyebrow with a mischievous edge, words dancing somewhere between jest and challenge. “Or will you have to show me again?”

Harwin’s lips twitched, almost betraying a smile before he forced his expression back into that careful neutrality. “If you keep holding it that way, Princess, I’ll be forced to correct you every time. Though I’m starting to suspect you don’t mind.”

You couldn’t quite stifle the quiet laugh that escaped. “Perhaps you’re a better teacher than I expected,” you said lightly.

His gaze lingered on you a heartbeat longer than necessary, professional demeanour intact, but a warmth in his eyes as he nodded for you to continue. “Then let’s see how well you’ve learned,” he murmured, but the air still shimmered with hints of the moment you’d just shared.

He drew his sword, the motion effortless, almost lazy, as though the blade weighed nothing whatsoever in his grip. For one heartbeat, you studied his stance. Then, with a grin tugging at the corner of your mouth, you raised your own.

“Ready, Princess?” His voice hinted at mischief, speaking your title almost like a taunt.

You squared your shoulders, determined. “Don’t go easy on me, Sir Harwin. Or is that what you always do for your pupils?”

He only smirked. “Not for ones who make a sport of challenging me.”

You lunged, blade glancing toward his side. In one smooth movement, he parried, the jolt running up your arm even through the thick leather of your glove almost making you drop the sword. He turned your blade aside and flicked his wrist, sending you stumbling, though not enough to fall. You narrowed your eyes, lips curving into an answering smirk.

“Too slow,” he chided, circling you with deliberate calm. “Again.”

This time you feinted left, then slashed right, he knocked your blade away as if absentminded, the flat of his sword swatting your attempt aside. You caught the glint of challenge in his eyes and, emboldened, pressed forward with a series of swift strikes. Each met by his patient defence, until you grew almost reckless with frustration.

“Is that truly your best, Princess?” he taunted, stepping in close, the words brushing your ear as he turned your sword with a deft, practiced twist. "Have you learned nothing in the last weeks?"

“Are you always this insufferable?” you shot back, breathless and laughing despite yourself.

His answering grin was devastating, all teeth and warmth. In a final, dizzying exchange, you overextended just as he had planned. In a heartbeat, he caught your wrist, disarmed you in a flourish, and spun you around, your back pressed to his chest, both your hands caught in his much larger one, your sword clattering to the flagstones.

He held you there for a single, electric moment. “Careful,” he murmured, voice low and only for your ears. “Your guard slips when you’re distracted.”

You could feel his laughter in the way his chest moved behind you, in the steadiness of his grip, firm, but gentle, and entirely inescapable. For half a heartbeat, neither of you moved, the air between you shimmering with all the things you did not say.

Your cheeks still tingled from the press of his body and the thrill in his voice, but you straightened, gathering your dignity like a cloak around your shoulders. Every inch of you was transformed, chin lifted, shoulders squared, gaze sharpened to a dagger's point. You fixed Harwin with a look as cold and unyielding as palace stone, the sort of gaze that had once quieted boisterous lords twice your age, that left softer courtiers faltering mid-sentence.

“I could command you to let me win, Sir Harwin,” you said, voice slicing through the hush with effortless authority.

“But where would be the challenge in that?” He countered.

You stepped forward, closing the gap almost brazenly, reclaiming your sword from the flagstones without breaking his gaze.

“Or…" he started. "Perhaps you prefer to keep your advantage because you fear what might happen when I’m your equal.”

"I could have you thrown in the dungeon for speaking to me like that." You quipped.

For a moment, he just stared, the mask of the stoic knight slipping. Something hungry and admiring flickered in his eyes. He offered no apology, didn’t even try to mask his smile. Instead, his voice dropped, reverent and admiring all at once: “If that’s meant to frighten me, Princess, you’ll have to try harder. But I must be honest with you, I’ve never before enjoyed being put in my place quite so much.”

The cool command in your eyes sharpened as his words, brazen and openly, delighted at your authority. Something in his unrepentant grin kindled irritation beneath your skin, hot and electric. Unexpectedly, you lunged, blade flashing toward his midsection with far more force than before.

Steel met steel—the sharp ring echoing between the old stones as Harwin caught your blow. For a heartbeat, your faces were only inches apart, his arm locked against yours, every muscle in his body coiled and thrumming with restraint.

“Careful,” he warned softly, laughter threading through his words, the warmth of it brushing your cheek. “Or are you planning to call a dragon the moment you start losing ground?"

You pressed, relentless, trying to break past his guard, but he matched you, step for step, breath for breath. Halting each strike with deliberate precision. Sweat beaded at your temple; beneath your tunic, your heart hammered, not from exertion but from the dizzying closeness, the danger woven into every touch of his blade to yours.

Frustrated, you tried a bold feint, twisting hard and pivoting around his back, but Harwin was too quick. He followed your movement, crowding in, chests nearly brushing, his sword trapping yours in a tight lock.

“Is that anger I see?” he murmured, his breath stirring the hair near your ear. “Or something else, Princess?” His lips curved into a half-smile that was both challenge and invitation, the line between opponent and something more flickering dangerously beneath the surface.

You met his gaze, chest heaving with effort and defiance. “It's murderous rage” you whispered, the words slipping out rough and unguarded, sword forgotten for a heartbeat as the world shrank to just his eyes and the arch of his mouth.

“Oh,” he breathed, voice gone ragged, “Is it really?”

A slow smile curled your lips as you caught his gaze, letting the words hang between you. “Yes” you replied, voice honeyed with challenge. “Then perhaps it’s lucky for you, we’re on solid ground, Sir Harwin. I think you’d find your confidence a little harder to hold if you had to face me in the sky.”

His eyes widened a fraction, his grin edged with admiration and a hint of defiance. “Is that a challenge, Princess, or a promise?”

You tilted your chin, feigning regal dismissal. “Only an observation. Not everyone is so brave when dragons are involved.”

He leaned in just enough that his words danced over your skin. “I suppose it’s a good thing my lessons are limited to the sword, then. For now.”

***

That night, you lay sprawled amidst a tangled mess of linen, the old stone ceiling above painted silver by moonlight leaking through your open window. Your muscles thrummed with the ache of hours spent in the courtyard, shoulders stretched, wrists still tingling with the remembered jolt of steel clashing against steel. But amid the soreness, there was something sharper: the memory of Harwin’s hands, warm and steady over yours, the press of his chest, the grin that had lingered even after you’d tried to humble him.

You rolled onto your side, heartbeat stuttering at the thought of his voice, teasing you, daring you, matching you challenge for challenge. Had he really meant it? That sly promise, that admission he never minded being put in his place by you?

A smile ghosted over your lips. You pressed your cheek to your pillow, the scent of sun-baked linen and distant wildflowers almost enough to drown out the heat curling in your belly. Almost.

Tomorrow would bring another lesson. Another chance to test the boundaries between you, to see how far you could push before he pushed back, and maybe, just perhaps, to see where the careful dance of steel and with might lead. But then the little voice that lived in the back of your mind raised its voice. Your father would have chosen the night to train you carefully. He would have ensured it to be a man who upheld your honour, regardless of what you said or did.

You ground your teeth, wondering if teasing you would be the only boundary that Harwin would cross, or if you could coax him a little further over the line so carefully marked in the sand.

You closed your eyes, still feeling the phantom weight of a sword in your palm, the phantom warmth of his breath at your ear. Sleep came slow and sweet, anticipation for morning threading through every dream.

***

By sunrise, your anticipation felt sharper than any blade. You met Harwin’s gaze in the empty courtyard, already mustering your best innocent expression as you hefted your sword, just a little off-balance, just enough to invite correction. Invite his hands to your body. The mossy stones still glistened with dawn dew, the hush broken only by the soft rasp of your boots as you circled each other.

Harwin’s brow quirked, suspicion warring with amusement as he noted the defiant tilt of your shoulders. “You seem eager this morning, Princess,” he remarked, voice mild.

“Perhaps I’m just eager to see how many times I can catch you off guard, Sir Harwin,” you replied, flashing a wicked smile.

“Well, I believe the running total thus far is zero, Princess.” he smirked, your title again falling from your lips as a taunt.

You darted in with a feint that left your guard deliberately exposed. Harwin’s hand shot out to steady you, his arm strong and encompassing around your waist as he corrected your stance. For a heartbeat, you leaned into the contact, eyes alight with mischief.

'That’s once,’ you thought low, barely louder than the breeze.

It took him half a second longer to let go this time. “If this is your new tactic, Princess, to make me believe you're worse at fighting than the day before. ” His hand lingered a fraction too long, his thumb brushing the curve of your hip before retreating. "It will not work."

Undeterred, you lunged again, weaving careless errors into your motions just enough to summon his hands to your arms, your shoulders, the small of your back. Each time, the touch was both correction and invitation, the air around you humming thick with unspoken delight.

You lost track of the lesson’s intent, counting only the points of contact, the glint of challenge in his eyes, and the slow, knowing smile that grew with every pass and every ‘accident’ that drew you into his orbit.

By the time your breaths came ragged you knew that: in this dance, winning mattered less than seeing just how close you could get—how many times he’d catch you, and how many more you’d let him.

By the tenth “mistake,” Harwin had grown a little suspicious but said nothing, his hands almost hovering now, as if expecting you to tumble into him with the next step. The next time your foot slipped deliberately, you caught his gaze deliberately and lingered in his hold a lingering moment longer, your fingers brushing over his as if accidentally.

“Careful, Princess,” he murmured. “One of these days I might not be so quick to let go.” the last words seemed to tumble from his lips without his permission, slipping past his carefully controlled demeanour.

“Maybe I don’t want you to,” you shot back, your voice steady and low, heat simmering in the spaces between your words.

He stilled, surprise flickering through his eyes before giving way to something softer, something that matched the coaxing warmth beneath your ribcage. But you didn’t break eye contact; instead, you twisted your sword loose from his grasp, letting it clatter harmlessly to the cobbles where it had spent most of the morning, having been cast from your hand by him time and time again.

For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the hush of the courtyard and the shallow rise and fall of your breathing. The morning air shimmered between you, fraught with tension; your sword rested in the cobbles at your feet. Harwin looked down at you, the lines of duty and desire etched plainly across his face. Tradition demanded space, decorum, a knight should never presume, especially not with a princess. Yet, his hands hovered uncertain on your arms, at the same time apologising for their proximity and greedy for more.

“You know I shouldn’t,” he said, voice low and careful, as though names and titles still stood between you. But his words betrayed him, trembling on the cusp of want. You stepped closer, chin high with royal defiance, but your voice softened to a thrum meant for him alone.

“I grow weary of should and shouldn’t, Sir Harwin. What do you want?”

For a moment he did not speak, the answer not fit for courts or courtiers. But they were not here, it was just you and him in a quiet, forgotten courtyard. In his pause, everything unspoken grew bolder, the brush of his finger at your wrist, the throb of your pulse beneath his thumb. “I want…” He faltered, then caught your gaze, armour falling away. “I want you.” The admission hung between you, heavier than any sword, sparking electricity that flicked between you.

You tipped your head, a smile flickering over your lips. “Then take what you want, Sir Harwin.”

He swallowed, eyes searching your face as if memorising it. "Princess…" His voice was rough, apology tangled in its cadence. "You are a princess of the realm, meant for thrones and crowns. I am only Harwin Strong—son to a lesser lord, sworn to serve, to kneel, never to reach above my station. There are lines that men like me do not cross.” The words were earnest, heavy, as though he hated them and couldn't be free of them.

Duty carved a chasm between you, deeper than old stones or ancient vows, but for once, you saw it for what it was: fear and desire warring in the shadows of his dark gaze. You stepped closer still, the tension between you both softened only by the way your fingers lingered at the fastenings of his sleeve. “Then come as only Harwin, not a Knight of Westeros.”

Harwin drew in a deep, steadying breath, the weight of oath and history haunting every line of his face. Without a word, he stepped back, drawing his sword not in challenge, but in surrender. He went to one knee before you, broad shoulders bowed, both hands resting atop the upright pommel. The gesture was stark, ceremonial, a knight’s fealty laid bare. His head bowed, dark hair falling over his brow, he looked every inch the lesser son of a lesser house, his name only known by the ferocity he fought battles, made humbler still beneath your gaze. “Princess,” he murmured, voice hoarse with feeling, “In all that I am, I am yours to command.”

You paused only long enough to let silence draw out between you. Then, quietly, you spoke: "Come to my room tonight." Harwin's head snapped up, eyes searching your face, the battle between duty and desire sparking up again behind his eyes. He looked as if he might protest. But you didn’t give him the chance to answer. With regal composure, you bent to retrieve your sword from the stones, the motion deliberate, giving him a moment to look at you without you looking back. Without another word or backward glance, you strode from the courtyard, the echo of your footsteps and the ache of anticipation left in your wake. The invitation hung in the air, shattering the last remnants of distance between what was expected and what you truly wanted.

***

That night, your chambers felt too large, every shadow grander and more insistent in the candlelight. You paced, restless, trailing your fingers along the intricate carvings of your bedposts, the velvet hangings, the row of flame-lit mirrors catching the anxious flicker in your eyes. Your skin still hummed with the echo of the day's sparring, each correction, each glance, while outside your window, King's Landing slumbered beneath a swath of low clouds. You dismissed your guard with a single, steel-voiced command, locking the heavy door after his footsteps faded. Still, Harwin did not come. The great clock in the corridor ticked away the hush of midnight, second thoughts gathering with every passing moment, was this doubt, or decorum, or the weight of a knight’s conscience anchoring him elsewhere? Your impatience sharpened. With a sweep of silk, you wrapped yourself in your pale robe.

Through winding corridors shrouded in the hush of midnight, you slipped barefoot, your bare feet cold and silent against ancient stones. The hush of old oaths and forbidden longing clung to every step. You paused outside Harwin’s door, your pulse thrumming in your throat, cool stone at your back, candlelight from a nearby sconce gilding the grain of the heavy oak. There, before you could raise a hand to knock, the world held its breath a line not yet crossed, wanting, waiting, the threshold between longing and the unknown.

You hesitated, breath shallow, before letting your knuckles rap softly against the wood. For a moment, there was only silence, a hush so heavy it felt as though it could suffocate you. No answer. You pressed gently on the handle. To your surprise, the door yielded, swinging inward on silent hinges. Inside, the chamber was dim, candles burning low in the sconces, hemmed with quiet shadow. And there, at the end of his ornate bed, stood Harwin. Still clad in armour, leather and dark metal catching the flickering glow, he looked every inch the knight, save for the uncertainty coiled in his stance. His hands hung tense at his sides; he was not surprised to see you, but the room pulsed with restrained energy. For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke, each waiting, perhaps, for the other to break the silence first, for duty or desire to win out.

The silence stretched, thick and electric, until it nearly hurt to hold it. Harwin’s eyes locked on yours, dark and unreadable but roiling beneath the surface, every inch of him braced against the force of your arrival. He didn’t move. It was only his hands, curling and flexing at his sides, leather creaking faintly in the quiet, that betrayed him. You crossed the room, slow and deliberate, letting the door close behind you with a click that seemed to echo through the stone.

“Princess,” he murmured, the word faltering between warning and prayer. “It isn’t right. You know it.” Yet, he didn’t step back, didn’t look away. His jaw worked, as if he might swallow the urge to close the distance entirely. You lingered in the glow from the candlelight, heart drumming in your chest, letting the tension between you spin out, taut, fierce, and strangely sweet.

“If it isn’t right, why haven’t you sent me away?” you asked, voice pitched soft and low, daring him to answer. He swallowed, gaze darting to your mouth and back.

“Because I cannot command you,” he said at last, voice gone hoarse, “not when you’re standing there.” He finally looked away, but only to fix his eyes on the window, as if seeking strength from the city beyond. “You risk everything just to be here,” he continued, struggling and every word sounding heavier than the last. “And I—if I take one step toward you, I won’t know how to stop.”

You stepped forward, closing the gap until only a hand’s breadth remained between you and him, until his breath, warm and uncertain, mingled with yours. The gauzy shift of candlelight caught in the dark planes of his armour and the quiet, pained longing in his eyes.

“I command you tell me to stop, if that is what you wish for me to do.” You whisper, your fingers brushing the rough buckles and battered edges of his armour, tracing the hollows where metal met leather, letting your touch linger just a moment longer. His jaw clenched, the muscle flexing beneath sun-browned skin; you could see him wrestling with words that never came. He swallowed, Adam’s apple shifting in his throat, but his lips didn’t part to offer a protest. The distance between you fizzled to nothing, tension winding tighter with every slow heartbeat. His breath shivered out, ragged, as if he might break—or give in—at any moment.

You drew back the smallest fraction, just enough to make him chase your nearness if he chose. Your lips curved, the edge of a secret hiding in your smile.

“Is this how a knight guards his honour?” you teased, voice a breath against his cheek. “Standing sentinel over temptation instead of sending it away?”

His eyes flickered, caught between chastened and desperate, and his hands clenching tighter at his sides, as though fighting with everything he had not to reach out and touch you. For a heartbeat, no one breathed.

“You look as though you’re about to leap into a duel,” you murmured, feathering your touch from his collarbone down along the leather strap across his chest, deliberate, shameless in your want.

He let out a laugh that was barely more than a growl, his restraint slipping. “I’d sooner face a dozen blades than you, Princess.”

You moved your hand and took his fist, deliberately, eyes never leaving his face. With a quiet confidence, you guided his hand, flattening his palm and pressing it firmly to your waist, just where you wanted him. His jaw clenched tighter, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he went rigid beneath your touch, torn between wanting to pull back and being utterly powerless to do so. It was your decision, your pace, his strength held fast by your invitation rather than his intent. The air pulsed with the certainty that, for all his size and training, in this moment every boundary belonged to you. You held him there, daring him to say no, meeting his wide, hungry gaze with a slow, smile. His resolve might have been legendary, but right now, it bent without protest beneath the weight of your will.

With a low, desperate sound, Harwin broke, his resolve shattering as he caught your mouth with his own. The kiss was hard and fast, edged with the weeks of want and denial, his lips claiming yours with a rough, needy hunger that matched the pounding of your heart. He tasted of leather and steel, his jaw scratchy with stubble as he deepened the kiss without finesse or apology, every stroke of his tongue against yours a ragged, artless plea. His hands, strong and demanding, fisted in your silk robe, dragging you closer until there wasn’t a breath of space left between you, the planes of his armour biting through the thin fabric of your dress. You kissed him back just as fiercely, your fingers twisting in his hair, as if you could drag him any closer, under your skin, into the hammering pulse beneath your ribs.

Suddenly, his grip shifted, he swept you off your feet and tossed you effortlessly onto the bed, your body bouncing lightly atop the rumpled covers. You landed sprawled, dress askew, hair tumbling over your shoulder, eyes wide as you looked up at him. Harwin remained standing, chest heaving, silhouetted in the flickering candlelight. His gaze pinned you where you lay, something raw and possessive glittering in his dark eyes. Keeping his focus on you, he began to strip away his armour with deliberate slowness: buckles unfastened, leather and steel falling piece by piece to the floor. The candlelight gilded every line of him, shadow tracing the breadth of his shoulders as he unfastened his breastplate and let it drop. You watched, spellbound, while his hands moved to the next piece, every movement deliberate, methodical, as if undressing before you was an act of worship, of offering, a promise unfolding.

At last, he pulled his shirt over his head, leaving only his trousers in place. For a moment, Harwin stood utterly still, the flickering candlelight catching on the hard lines of his chest and shoulders, each muscle gilded in gold, his skin mapped by old scars and sun. He looked almost carved from stone, breathing hard, the rise and fall of his chest quick and uncertain as he watched you watch him.

"Must I command you, Sir Harwin?" you asked, your voice a thrum in the quiet as you shifted, deliberately pushing your legs apart. The silk of your robe rustled softly, riding up your thighs until it barely grazed the curve of your hip.

The air in the room seemed to tighten, the candle flames flickering as if caught in a draft, dancing shadows over the planes of Harwin's chest. Your eyes held his, a silent, simmering challenge, the weight of the moment drawing out between you like a spell, taut, tenuous, thrumming with every quickened heartbeat.

His breath shuddered out, gaze darkening as it swept over you, the hunger in it so intense you could almost feel it as teeth on your skin. Every line of him seemed to vibrate with restraint.

Harwin’s gaze flashed from want to resolution in an instant. With a purposeful step, he moved to the end of the bed, his eyes never leaving yours. Then, as if his own desire finally broke the last thread of his reserve, he dropped to his knees.

His hands found you first, fingertips blazing trails up the silk of your robe, skimming your legs with a hunger that matched your own. When his palms reached the juncture of your thighs, he paused, hands pressing gently inward, thumbs brushing the curve of your hip, asking, not demanding, desire thrumming beneath the surface.

Raising his eyes to yours, he hooked his elbows under your knees and, in one smooth motion, dragged you to the edge of the bed.

With a low, ragged breath, Harwin bent his head and pressed his mouth to the inside of your thigh, his lips gentle, grazing the sensitive skin. You felt his breath first, warm and quick, and then his tongue, tracing a slow, deliberate path upward.

He paused just for an instant, his hands tightening on your hips as if asking permission. Before he settled between your legs, his broad shoulders spreading you wider, his breath hot against the core of you.

At the first touch of his tongue, you couldn’t contain the low moan that escaped your lips. Harwin’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into your thighs as he held you open, his mouth working with a single-minded intensity that left you breathless.

He took his time, his tongue stroking, teasing, drawing out the pleasure until you were trembling beneath him. Each dip and swirl seemed to echo through your body, a symphony of sensation that built until you were arching off the bed, your hands fisted in his hair as you sought more.

The rumours were true, he made love with the same ferocity that he waged war.

When he finally focused his attention on the bundle of nerves at your centre, you nearly came undone. He circled it with the tip of his tongue, flicking and sucking with a rhythm that had your hips bucking shamelessly against his mouth. Each stroke was a masterpiece of sensation, his tongue flat and broad one moment, pointed and precise the next.

He alternated between gentle laps and fierce, fluttering suction, never letting you acclimate or catch your breath. The stubble on his jaw rasped against your inner thighs, a rough counterpoint to the slick heat of his mouth. You could feel the vibration of his growls and hums of pleasure against your most sensitive skin, each one sending shockwaves coursing through your body.

It was too much and not enough, each stroke winding you tighter until you were teetering on the edge of release. Your fingers tugged at his hair, urging him closer, deeper, your body strung taut with need. Every muscle was tensed, reaching for the climax that hovered just out of reach, your breath coming in ragged pants as you revelled in the exquisite torture of his tongue.

Without warning, Harwin slid a finger inside you, then another, filling you in a way that made your breath catch and your back arch. His fingers curled, stroking that sensitive spot inside you in perfect counterpoint to the relentless rhythm of his tongue.

The added sensation was all it took to send you flying over the edge. Your climax hit like a wave, crashing over you with an intensity that left you gasping, your body clenching around his fingers as you came undone. Harwin held you through it, his tongue and fingers never ceasing, dragging out your pleasure until you were left trembling and boneless beneath him.

When the last tremors of your climax subsided, Harwin withdrew his fingers gently and sat back on his heels, his breath coming in ragged pants. He looked almost dazed, as though shocked by his own actions, by the fact that he'd allowed himself to lose control and touch you in such an intimate way.

His eyes met yours for an instant, dark and wide, before he dropped his gaze to his hands, still glistening with your arousal. A muscle ticked in his jaw, his throat working as he seemed to grapple with the weight of what had just transpired between you.

There was a vulnerability in his posture, a kind of wonder and disbelief, as though he couldn't quite reconcile the knight he'd always been, with the man who'd just knelt before a princess and worshipped her with such desperate hunger.

You leaned forward, catching his face in your hands, and kissed him. It was a kiss that spoke of gratitude and desire in equal measure, your lips moving softly, reverently against his. You could taste yourself on his mouth.

Harwin responded with a low groan, his lips parting to allow you to deepen the kiss. His hands came up to frame your face, fingers threading into your hair as he anchored you in place. The kiss grew heated, your tongues tangling in a sensual dance that left you both breathless.

There was something almost unbearably tender about the way he kissed you, as though he was pouring all the words he couldn't say into this one gesture. You felt it in the way his hands trembled against your skin, in the reverent brush of his lips, the soft, shuddering exhale as he pulled away.

"Princess, I can't," Harwin whispered, his voice ragged with emotion. His eyes were dark with a mixture of desire and desperation, his hands trembling as they cupped your face.

"Please," you replied, shocking yourself with how much the word sounded like you were begging. Your voice was barely more than a whisper, but it seemed to echo in the space between you, heavy with longing.

Harwin's breath caught, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones as if he could soothe away the need in your voice.

You took his hand, your fingers intertwining with his, and gently pushed yourself back on the bed. With a soft, guiding pressure, you drew him with you, your eyes locked on his as you wordlessly invited him to follow.

Harwin's breath caught, his gaze darkening with a mix of desire and disbelief as he realised what you were asking. For a moment, he hesitated, his body trembling with the effort of once again holding himself back.

But then, as if the last of his resolve had finally crumbled, he moved over you, his large frame settling between your thighs as you guided him into place. The muscles in his arms flexed as he held himself above you, his eyes never leaving yours.

There was something almost reverent about the way he looked at you, as though he couldn't quite believe that this was happening. His hands skimmed down your sides, tracing the curves of your body with a gentleness that made your breath catch.

As he settled against you, you could feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of your robe, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress. Your heart raced, your body trembling with anticipation, as you arched up into his touch, silently urging him to close the last bit of distance between you.

With a tenderness that belied the tension thrumming through him, Harwin's hands found the tie of your robe, his fingers working the knot with deliberate care. The silk fell away slowly, the edges parting like a curtain to reveal the soft curves beneath.

For a moment, he simply looked at you, his gaze reverent as it traced the lines of your body. His hands followed suit, fingertips grazing your skin with a gentleness that made your breath hitch. He touched you as though you were something precious, something to be cherished and worshipped.

You lay beneath him, bared to his gaze, your skin flushed with warmth and want. Harwin's touch was everywhere, skimming your ribs, tracing the curve of your hip, brushing the swell of your breast. Each touch was featherlight, teasing, a promise of more to come.

He bent his head, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, your neck, the hollow of your throat. Each kiss was a question, a whispered plea for permission. And you answered with your body, arching into his touch, your hands tangling in his hair as you urged him on.

As the heat between you built, Harwin's touches grew bolder, his hands mapping the curves of your body with increasing confidence. His lips trailed lower, tracing the swell of your breast before his mouth closed over one sensitive peak.

You gasped, your back arching off the bed as he sucked gently, his tongue swirling around your nipple. He lavished attention on first one breast, then the other, until you were writhing beneath him, your fingers clutching at his hair.

Slowly, teasingly, his hand skimmed down your stomach, his fingertips grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You parted your legs willingly, eagerly, your body aching for his touch.

When his fingers found your centre, you were already wet again and wanting, your body responding to his touch like a flame to tinder. He circled your entrance with a gentle, teasing pressure, then brought his fingers to his mouth, carefully placing them in this mouth and drawing them out, his eyes fixed on yours. Then he returned them to between your thighs.

You moaned, your hips bucking upwards, seeking more of his touch. He obliged, his fingers slipping inside you, filling you with a delicious friction that had you seeing stars.

His thumb found the sensitive bud at your centre, circling it with a gentle, teasing pressure that matched the rhythm of his fingers inside you. The dual sensations were nearly overwhelming, your body trembling on the edge of release.

As he brought you closer and closer to the brink, his lips found yours once more, swallowing your moans and gasps. His tongue tangled with yours, mimicking the movement of his fingers, the rhythm of his thrusts.

Each stroke of his fingers was a masterpiece of sensation, winding you tighter and tighter until you were teetering on the edge of release. Your body was alight with pleasure, every nerve ending singing with the intensity of it.

You could feel the tension building, coiling deep within you, each touch and stroke stoking the flames higher. Your hips moved of their own accord, bucking and writhing, seeking more of the delicious friction.

Harwin responded with a low groan, his fingers moving faster, harder, his thumb circling your clit with increasing pressure. The sensations were almost too much to bear, your body trembling and shaking as you reached for the peak.

And then, with a final curl of his fingers, you were tumbling over the edge. The climax hit you like a tidal wave, crashing over you with a force that left you gasping and shaking, your body clenching around his fingers as you came undone.

As the wave of pleasure subsided, Harwin placed a gentle kiss on your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment before he pulled away. "Please," you whispered again, your voice soft and breathless in the quiet of the room.

He tilted his head to look down your body at your hand, one finger slipping just below the waistline of his trousers. His breath hitched at the sight, his body tensing as he realised what you were asking.

Your fingers toyed with the fabric, tracing the hard planes of his stomach, the coarse trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath his waistband. You could feel the heat of his skin, the tension coiled in his muscles as he held himself perfectly still above you.

Slowly, teasingly, you slipped your hand beneath the fabric, your fingers brushing against the hard length of him. He was hot and heavy against your palm, his body responding to your touch with a shudder.

You circled him with your fingers, exploring the texture and shape of him with a gentle, teasing pressure. He pulsed in your hand, his breath coming in ragged pants as he fought for control.

With a soft, encouraging squeeze, you guided him closer, your eyes locked on his as you wordlessly invited him to take what he needed. He hesitated for a moment, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.

But then, with a low, shuddering groan, he gave in. His fingers fumbled with the buttons of his trousers, his hands shaking with anticipation as he worked to free himself from the confining fabric.

As the last button came undone, he pushed the trousers down over his hips, his hard length springing free. He was fully exposed to you now, his body laid bare before your gaze.

You took him in your hand, your fingers wrapping around his girth with a gentle, teasing pressure. He was hot and heavy in your palm, his skin like velvet over steel, pulsing with the beat of his heart.

Your touch was electric, sending shivers of pleasure coursing through his body. He bucked into your hand, his hips moving of their own accord as he sought more of the delicious friction.

His eyes were locked on yours, dark and intense, filled with a desperate hunger that matched your own. You could see the need in his gaze, the desire that had been building between you for so long, finally given free rein.

With a soft, encouraging squeeze, you guided him closer, your eyes locked on his as you wordlessly invited him to take what he wanted. He hesitated for a moment, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.

But then, with a low, shuddering groan, he gave in, his hips bucking forward as he pushed into your hand. His eyes fluttered closed, his head falling back as he lost himself in the sensation of your touch.

You watched him, mesmerised by the play of emotions across his face, the pleasure, the relief, the desperate hunger. It was intoxicating, the power you held over him in that moment, the trust he placed in you as he let himself go.

With a final, decisive movement, Harwin kicked his trousers off, leaving him fully naked before you. There was no more hesitation, no more holding back. The consequences of his actions no longer mattered in the face of his overwhelming desire for you.

He moved towards you with a newfound purpose, his eyes dark with intent. You could see the determination in his gaze, the raw, primal need that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long.

He repositioned himself on the bed, his large frame looming over you as he settled between your thighs. You could feel the heat of his skin against yours, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress.

His hands skimmed up your sides, tracing the curves of your body with a possessive touch. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "I need you, more than I've ever needed anything in my life, Princess.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, a thrill of anticipation coursing through your veins. You arched up into his touch, your body responding to his words with a fierce, aching need.

He took your mouth in a rough kiss, his tongue tangling with yours as he poured all of his desire, all of his longing, into the embrace. You could feel the urgency in his touch, the desperation that had finally been unleashed.

As he broke the kiss, his eyes locked on yours, asking a silent question. In response, you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him to take you.

With a low groan, he surrendered to his desire, his hips bucking forward as he buried himself deep inside you. You gasped at the sensation, the feeling of being filled, completed by him, both overwhelming and intoxicating.

As he began to move, his thrusts were slow and deep, each one seeming to strike a chord within you. You could feel the tension building again, coiling tighter and tighter with each movement of his hips.

His hands roamed your body, tracing the curves of your hips, the swell of your breasts. He touched you as if he were trying to memorise every inch of your skin, as if he couldn't get enough of the feel of you.

You met his thrusts with your own, your hips rising to meet his, your bodies moving in perfect sync. The only sounds in the room were the mingled symphony of your moans and the creak of the bed beneath you.

As the tension built, his thrusts became faster, harder, each one seeming to push you closer and closer to the edge. You could feel the urgency in his movements, the desperation as he sought his own release.

But Harwin had the stamina of a seasoned warrior, and he was determined to bring you to the peak of pleasure again and again, his own form to torture for your past teasing. And torture you, he did.

His hips snapped against yours, his body moving with a relentless, driving rhythm. Each thrust was deeper, harder, more intense than the last, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body.

You could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter, your body wound as taut as a bowstring. Your moans turned to cries, your fingers digging into his skin as you urged him on.

Still, he didn't stop, his body moving with a tireless, unrelenting energy. He drove into you again and again, each thrust pushing you closer to the brink.

You could feel the pleasure building, the tension rising and tighter until it finally snapped, sending you tumbling over the edge into pure, blissful release.

Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you, each one more intense than the last. Your body clenched around him, your climax drawn out by his relentless thrusts until you were left trembling and boneless beneath him.

But even as you felt him coming closer to the edge, his own release tantalisingly within reach, he displayed an incredible show of willpower. With a low groan, he pulled out, sitting back on his knees between your legs.

His chest heaved with the effort, his skin glistening with sweat. He fisted his length in his hand, his fingers wrapping around the base as he began to stroke himself.

You watched him, enamoured by the sight. His hand moved with the same relentless, driving rhythm that had brought you to the peak of pleasure so many times.

His eyes were locked on yours, dark and intense, filled with a desperate hunger that matched your own. You could see the effort it took for him to hold back, to maintain that razor-thin edge of control.

As he continued to stroke himself, his breath came in ragged pants, his muscles tensing as he fought for control. You could see the tension building, coiling tighter and tighter until it finally snapped, his release spilling over his fist and onto your stomach.

In the aftermath, he sat back on his heels, his chest heaving with the effort. His eyes were still locked on yours, a silent communication passing between you.

"Next time," you whispered breathlessly, your finger trailing up the mess he had left on your stomach. "This stays inside."

He collapsed onto the bed next to you, pulling you close. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, his eyes sparkling with amusement and affection.

He met your gaze, his eyes still twinkling with that same mix of amusement and affection. His lips curved into a full-blown smile, both tender and teasing at the same time. He kissed your neck.

"Is that a command, Princess?" he asked, his voice low and playful. "Because I think I could be persuaded to obey." He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "Next time, I'll make sure it stays inside. Every last drop."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, a thrill of anticipation coursing through your veins. You knew that he meant every word, and the promise of what was to come was almost enough to make you lose your breath all over again.

"I should make you a bath," he whispered into your hair, his voice warm and tender.

You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, a blush staining your skin at his words. But you met his gaze unflinchingly, a playful smile on your own lips.

"I think I'd like that," you replied, your voice soft and teasing.

He chuckled, the sound low and rich in the quiet of the room. He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before untangling himself from your embrace.

As he slipped from the bed, you couldn't help but admire the play of muscles across his back, the strength, and power evident in every line of his body. He moved with

A Link to My Complete Inventory

[the-unidentified-author]

The Price Of Freedom | Deputy Hank | The Silo

Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW], rough, needy, words, smut, minors DNI, p in v, creampie, a little rough, consensual!, hes a big man, unsanctioned relationship, bribery, slighly corrupt cop.

Summary: You are arrested for your involvement in a bar fight. Deputy Hank and you are engaged in an Unsanctioned relationship and your freedom comes at a price, one you are more than happy to pay.

Word Count: 6,184

Gif by @lilimakesgifs, this one is my fave and quite literally has me chomping at the bars of my enclosure.

You clutched at the steel bench on either side of your thighs, the cold bite of the metal seeping through your jeans, grounding you in the moment. The rhythmic tap of your feet hit the concrete floor, the sharp sound ricocheting off the bare concrete walls and back at you, a solitary beat in an otherwise silent room. The cell itself was barely bigger than a broom closet, with cinderblock walls painted a flat grey that somehow made the small space feel even more claustrophobic. There wasn’t much use in a bigger cell, no one came in here unless they’d done something stupid, and tonight, you were the only one on the list.

A dull ache sat behind your eyes, the bitter residue of the night’s whiskey still clinging to your tongue. This time, the bar fight had been your fault, there wasn’t any dodging that fact, not after you’d thrown the first punch. You swung your legs restlessly, boots squeaking in protest, and squinted up at the battered clock mounted above the door. Its hands crawled towards five in the morning, the only witness to the four hours you’d spent alone, stewing in the thick air.

Your gaze flicked to the heavy, chipped blue door, searching for any sign of movement. Hank never left you waiting this long. The absence of his footsteps in the corridor outside had weight, you could almost feel him making a point by not being there, giving you time to sit with the bruises and the regret, to let them bloom quietly in the cold fluorescence. You exhaled slowly, shoulders tense, and considered, not for the first time, how empty the place felt without even a scrap of conversation or the scent of strong coffee wafting through the metal doors.

The two of you had been tangled in this secret, unsanctioned relationship for some time, brushing up against disaster every time your eyes lingered too long in a crowded hallway or your hands touched in the dark. What started as harmless flirting, months of sly smiles and the exchange of whispered jokes, had finally boiled over after a block party, when inhibitions, and maybe common sense, went sliding out the door with the emptied beer bottles. That night, flame caught fuse, and everything after had been stolen: soft words traded in hushed corners, late night rendezvous beneath flickering corridor lights, the sweet ache of goodbye before the morning shift change.

Down here in the deep levels, most people minded their own. No one gossiped about who was warming whose cot, and nobody cared what the ‘up-toppers’ decreed about other people’s business, at least, not enough to make a fuss. Relationships had always woven quietly through these tunnels like the smell of machine oil, unremarkable and unjudged.

But this thing with Hank couldn’t blend in. Not when he wore the badge, not when his tan uniform marked him as one of the few who belonged, at least officially, to the order above. He was a deputy, somebody whose whole job was to haul troublemakers off, lay down the law, not step to the other side of it with you. If anyone discovered the truth, the fallout would stretch far beyond the pair of you, there would likely be consequences for the entire down deep. He, at the very least, would lose his position, something that would break him.

Hank understood that risk. You suspected it was carved into every second he made you wait; this delay was its kind of penance. He was keeping you there, letting the fact of your recklessness settle in, maybe hoping you’d quit taking chances if you had enough time to taste just how bitter the consequences could turn.

You were the one stalling on making your relationship official, about letting the world know what you already suspected everyone else saw. Deep down, you believed that love, loyalty, and choice shouldn’t be dictated by the up-toppers. They had their rules, their decrees, their rigid control over who could love whom. Why should they have a say over what you did all the way down here?  You and Hank mutually agreed, some parts of life needed to stay free, unshackled from the iron grip of authority, especially something as human as affection. But, then you knew that it ate away at him. Not just because he was breaking the law, but you could see the way he looked at you, the way he reached out to touch you in public and then realise and pull away.

Thudding footsteps and the creak of the heavy door jolted you out of your runaway thoughts. You glanced up to see Hank stepping in, his bag slung over one shoulder and the morning paper clutched in his free hand. He didn’t glance your way, didn’t offer the barest nod of acknowledgment, just set his bag down beside his metal desk and dropped the paper with a dull slap on its surface. Only then did he turn toward you, folding his arms across his chest and half leaning, half sitting on the edge of the desk.

"A bar fight, really?" Hank’s voice cut through the room, low and edged with accusation.

You bristled, jaw tight. "He started it, running his mouth about how we're lazy and don’t want to fix the generator." The words came out sharper than you intended, your anger flaring up from last night, mingling with something hotter and heavier, for him, for leaving you stewing in here while bruises bloomed quietly on your arms.

You knew your argument was dumb, but you would rather not reveal the real reason you had swung first, that you just needed the release of a fight of clenched fist hitting flesh.

Hank’s eyes narrowed, just barely, but it was enough. The silence stretched between you, thick as oil. For a second, you wondered if he’d lecture you, or worse, say nothing whatsoever. Your pulse drummed in your throat, and you gripped the bench tighter, your knuckles turning white.

"You had to throw the first punch," he said finally, voice dipping softer, but no less sharp. "Didn’t even think for a second what might happen? How stupid that was? Who’d have to come collect you?"

You bit back at the urge to look away, refusing to let him see just how much that stung. "Someone had to say something. Figure everyone’s tired of being called dirt, not something you would understand with your shiny badge." That was too far, you knew it the moment the words left your lips, wishing you could breathe them back in again and swallow them down.

He looked away then, the muscle in his jaw twitching, the kind of hurt and frustration you both carried stretching out between you in the cramped cell, bigger than the surrounding walls.

He let out a slow, measured breath, nostrils flaring ever so slightly. The desk creaked beneath his weight as he leaned forward, his stare drilling into you, searching for something, remorse, maybe, or just a sign that you understood the mess you’d made.

“This isn’t just about the fight,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost dangerous in its restraint. “Every time you pull a stunt like this, you aren’t the only one who pays for it. You think I don’t notice every eye on me when I walk you out after nights like these? You think I don’t feel it?”

His words sliced through the last fragile strips of patience between you. The cell’s close air felt suddenly suffocating, anxiety laced with anger twisting in your gut. For a heartbeat, neither of you looked away. Something old and unresolved pressed between you.

You couldn’t stop yourself, your voice coming out ragged, barely steady: “Maybe you should stop showing up, then. Perhaps you should let me rot in here next time.”

Hank’s mouth pulled into a tight line. Another pause, another breath. “Don’t say that,” he muttered, fingers whitening on his arms. “You know I can't.”

The truth of it flickered in his eyes, a complicated mix of love, frustration, and fear for everything that being with you risked. But beneath that, just for a second, you saw it: relief that you were still there, stubbornly unrepentant.

Silence settled again, thicker than before, until at last Hank broke it, softer now. “Just… don’t make me come get you again, alright?”

“Does this mean that you’re getting me out?” you asked, trying, and failing, to keep the hopeful note from your voice as you sprang up, muscles tingling from too long spent on the cold bench.

Hank’s jaw clenched, his gaze darting from you to the iron door, then back. “Yes, it means you’re getting out,” he muttered, the gruffness undercut by the relief hiding in his eyes. He stood, the leather of his belt creaking as he fumbled for the ring of keys, each one glinting under the jaundiced light. You watched his hands steady, familiar, always sure, even when the rest of him didn’t feel it, search for the right key, draw it out, and step towards the bars.

The click of the lock felt impossibly loud, like the whole cell held its breath along with you. You wrapped your fingers around the bars, fighting the urge to fling the door open and launch yourself into his space, to claim what you’d been denied all night.

He looked down at you, towering and solid, a full six-foot four with the kind of broad shoulders that filled the doorway when he stepped through and made every uniform shirt he had seem, just a bit too tight across his chest. Dark brown curls fell messily to his shoulders, a few unruly strands escaping from behind his ear and catching the flicker of the cell’s harsh light. His brown eyes found yours, warm and shadowed, the lines at the corners deepening with all the things he wouldn’t say out loud. “It’s gonna cost you,” he said, voice dropping to that low register that meant trouble and not the bad kind. He towered over you as he pulled the door open, leaning down just enough so only you could hear.

You leaned forward, letting the bars brush your knuckles, letting your smile finally bloom. “How much?” you asked, tipping your chin up in mock defiance, feigning innocence. “Because I’m pretty sure I left my wallet back at the bar.”

He shook his head, smiling that begrudging, crooked smile you loved, the tension easing between you. “Lucky for you,” he murmured, eyes glinting with mischief, “I don’t charge by the hour. Or take payment in cash. But you’re definitely working off this one.”

You tilted your head, feigning deep thought. “You think you can handle me on overtime, Deputy?”

He laughed, a low sound, playful, and you swore the cold faded from the cell, just a little.

"I think I can," Hank replied, his voice roughened with a challenge and a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. He leaned in just a little closer, his broad shoulders almost blocking out the light from station behind him, those dark curls tumbling forward to frame the sharp focus of his eyes, eyes that flickered with mischief and something undeniably hungry as he took you in.

You grinned, letting your fingers trail along the edge of the open cell door, daring him to close the distance further. “Is that so? Because last time, I recall you called in sick the next morning.”

His eyes narrowed, a spark of challenge replacing the leftover anxiety in his expression. “That’s funny because I don’t remember you complaining. Not once.”

You huffed out a laugh, unable to help yourself. “Selective memory, Deputy? Or just wishful thinking?”

He arched a brow, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a brief, incendiary second. “Trust me, I remember the important parts. Like the way you couldn’t keep quiet.”

Your heart thudded against your ribs, the space between you charged with taunts and the ache of wanting. “Maybe I just like being a little loud. Especially since we're breaking the rules.”

He edged closer, his knuckles grazing yours, and his breath tickled your ear as he lowered his voice, all playful threat and promise. “Keep talking like that, and I’ll see just how much noise you can make, next time, where the walls are a little thicker.”

“Your place or mine?” you whispered back, angling your voice with practiced nonchalance, though your pulse hammered a frantic beat beneath your skin. You tried to keep your body loose, hands still fighting the urge to reach for his and feel his warm hands wrap around yours.

Hank’s lips twitched with a smile that was all sin and promise. He leaned in again, his breath warm against your cheek, his big hand taking yours, and you knew you had lost.  The lamplight cast gold across the scruff lining his jaw, his dark curls catching just enough shadow to sharpen the edge of his grin.

He dipped lower, so close now you could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, his voice rough velvet. “Yours."

Hank’s mouth crashed down on yours, the kiss hard and needy, pent-up want, igniting like a match to gasoline. His lips were hot and demanding, the scrape of his stubble rough against your skin as he angled his head, deepening the kiss with a swipe of his tongue against the seam of your mouth. He tasted like coffee and mint, and something dark and male that sent a shiver arcing down your spine.

His big hand came up, fingers driving into your hair, cradling the back of your skull as he pulled you closer, the bars a cold press against your ribs. The kiss turned filthy, weeks of furtive looks and denied touches igniting into something hungry and reckless, the two of you devouring each other like you’d never get the chance again.

You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only feel the heat of his mouth, the press of his fingers, the low, possessive growl in the back of his throat as he claimed you, marking you as his in the way he never could in daylight. You kissed him back just as fiercely, nipping at his lower lip, sucking on his tongue, sealing your fate as surely as the lock clicking shut on your cell.

You pulled away, looking up at him breathless and wanting, your pulse thrumming beneath your skin. The thought of pushing him back onto his desk and climbing on top of him was difficult to resist. "If memory serves, then you don't officially start today until ten. That's almost five hours," you whispered, your voice rough with promise.

Hank's eyes darkened, the heat between you simmering as his gaze dropped to your swollen lips. He crossed his arms and leant a shoulder on against the bars, the muscles in his forearms tensing with the effort to hold himself back. "Five hours?" he echoed, his voice a low rumble that you could feel in your bones. "I could make you forget your own name in five hours."

You could picture it now, the two of you tangled together, his big hands on your skin, the heavy press of his weight above you. You could almost hear the creak of his desk beneath you, the sound of his ragged breathing in your ear, the low, filthy promises he'd make as he moved against you. It was enough to make your knees weak, your heart pounding in your chest like a drum. You weren't sure if you would be able to make it back to your apartment, how many days had it been since your shifts had aligned? Five or six?

"Promises, promises," you managed, somehow finding the presence of mind to tease him, even as your body screamed for more. "You've got five hours to put your money where your mouth is, Deputy."

Hank's grin was slow and wicked, a sharp flash of teeth and intent that sent a bolt of heat straight through you. He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, his voice a dark promise that curled in your belly like smoke. "Oh, I'll put my mouth anywhere you want it," he whispered, his lips brushing the curve of your jaw, the sensitive skin below your ear. "You just say the word."

He moved from the bars, the lingering heat of his body still palpable in the narrow space between you. Leaning in, he pressed a kiss to your lips, quick, careful, but so full of affection it left you aching for more. When he pulled back, his fingers brushed softly through your hair, lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

You caught your breath and nodded toward the battered clock above the door, its hands crawling agonisingly slow. "I'll leave now, and then you follow ten minutes behind?" you murmured, your words barely louder than the thrum of your heart as you searched his eyes for any hesitation.

Hank gave a curt, understanding nod, jaw set but gaze softened around the edges. He stepped aside, his broad frame blocking the cell’s harsh light for just a second, then moved to the far end of the small office, giving you space.

You crossed to where your coat lay, half-crumpled on the back of a rickety chair, where an officer had carelessly tossed it hours before. You shrugged it on, feeling the familiar weight settle around your shoulders, a poor shield against the chill hanging in the air, but a comfort all the same. With a last look at Hank, you steeled yourself, and left through the door.

The walk back to your apartment felt agonisingly long, the ten-minute journey stretched out as if you were slogging through treacle. Each shuffled step was thick with anticipation, your hands clenched in your pockets to keep from reaching for someone who couldn't walk beside you, not here, not out in the open. The ache of wanting Hank at your side, his fingers twined with yours, only sharpened the loneliness threading through the silent corridors.

Finally, you reached your door, the battered blue paint still visible, although chipped and peeling around the edges, scuffed from years of use and passing boots. You’d chosen the colour for hope, for sky, for anything but the endless grey of the silo. The sight of it managed to draw you out of your restless waiting, grounding you in the ordinary comforts of home. You brushed your fingertips over the cool, rough surface, making a mental note to snag another can of paint and give it the care it deserved, promising yourself that tomorrow, you’d make it bright and new again.

You pulled the key from your pocket and twisted it in the lock, the tumblers giving way with a familiar, satisfying click. Pushing your way into the apartment, you kicked the door shut behind you, the echo ringing in your small, cluttered space. You crossed the short distance to the sofa in a few quick strides, collapsing onto the worn cushions with a muted groan. Flicking off your boots, rushing, you tossed them carelessly aside and glanced at the clock. Eight minutes left until Hank was supposed to arrive.

You stood, restless energy propelling you toward your bedroom, shedding your clothes piece by piece as you went. The soft cotton of your shirt caught for a second on your shoulder before you yanked it free, flinging it toward the growing mountain by the hamper. You toed off your socks and relished the way your bare feet sank into the thick, plush carpet, luxuriously warm compared to the bone-chill of the cell’s concrete floor.

Forgotten fatigue pressed heavy behind your eyes; after pulling a double the day before and adding your impromptu stint in lock-up, it had been more than twenty-four hours since you’d last breathed the familiar air of your apartment. You stripped off your trousers, the fabric rasping against your skin, and unclipped your bra with a practiced snap, tossing both into the general direction of the laundry basket, not caring whether they made it.

The fresh scent of soap welcomed you as soon as you pushed open the bathroom door. You turned the tap as far as it would go, letting the water thunder against the porcelain and fog the mirror until your reflection vanished, leaving only a blurred, shifting figure. You stepped in, the heat rushing over your skin, sluicing away the grime of too many hours spent sweating under fluorescent lights and the metallic tang lingering from the holding cell.

Soap and shampoo, real luxuries down in the deep, filled the air with a whisper of lavender and mint. You closed your eyes and tipped your face into the spray, letting the water hammer at your thoughts, sand away the rough edges of regret, anger, and longing. Little by little, the ache in your muscles loosened, replaced by something weightless, almost trembling with relief.

It would be only a few minutes before Hank arrived. You imagined him walking the corridors with his badge tucked away, broad shoulders hunched as if even the shadows could be watching. You almost laughed at yourself, rushing to scrub away the last traces of jail and beer, as if he might care about soap or sweat when you’d open up the door with a sly smile on your lips in nothing but a towel.

You let the hot water run as long as you dared, then stepped out, wrapping yourself in a towel, skin still tingling. You caught your own gaze in the mirror, the heated element behind it doing its job to clear the condensation from the surface. Damp hair, lips bitten, nerves dancing in your stomach. You weren’t sure if it was anticipation or just that old restless wildness, the same part of you that had started the fight, the same part that always drew him back.

A knock rattled the door, three sharp, controlled raps, nothing more than necessary. He never hovered or fiddled with the handle; Hank was nothing if not exact, even when everything about this arrangement reeked of risk.

You cinched the towel tighter and padded softly across the carpet, feeling the mess of nerves zinging under your skin with every step. For a half-second, you lingered in front of the door, pressing your palm flat to the cool wood, as if you might feel his heartbeat through it.

The hallway outside was utterly silent when you cracked the door, just enough to catch a glimpse of his familiar silhouette, broad shoulders, wild curls cascading around the collar of his jacket, a careful kind of anticipation darkening his eyes. The door swung wider, and for a moment, neither of you said a word.

Then Hank stepped inside, moving with practiced quiet, shutting the door firmly behind him. The world shrank to the two of you, your small apartment and the lamplight throwing your shadows long along the floorboards. He looked you over, gaze skating from your wet hair to the flush along your cheekbones, and one side of his mouth curled up. “You always this eager to see me after a night in the tank?” he murmured, voice low—intimate, gritty as gravel.

You rolled your eyes despite the smile threatening your lips. “Suppose that all depends. Did you bring coffee, Deputy?” You let his rank role off your tongue as he took you in.

Hank’s gaze slid slow and deliberate from your bare shoulders to the hem of the towel, lingering with unmistakable intent. For a moment, his jaw worked like he might actually answer your question, but all that came out was a quiet, crooked laugh.

“Did I bring coffee?” he repeated, voice just a little rough, as if talking helped anchor him. “You know, I don’t think there’s enough coffee in the world that could get me thinking straight with you standing there like that.”

He tried to sound exasperated, but there was no missing the warmth blooming in his eyes, the way he seemed to drink you in like a man dying of thirst. Every muscle in his broad frame looked both tense and ready to unravel. “Hell, you could demand anything from me right now. I’d probably say yes and thank you for the trouble.”

He took a step closer, his fingertips ghosting over your arm, careful not to startle, though every inch of his posture betrayed the urge to just tug you in and lose himself. “You look…” He trailed off, lips quirking helplessly. “You look like something I shouldn’t touch, but God, do I want to.”

You lifted one eyebrow, feigning nonchalance even as your heart hammered away at your ribs. “All this over a towel?” you teased, shifting your weight, so the fabric hitched a little higher on your thigh. “Didn’t figure you’d be so easy, Deputy.”

He gave a slow shake of his head, a short breath coming out as a laugh through his nose. “That’s the problem. You make it too damn easy.” His gaze lingered, open and unrepentant. “A person can only have so much willpower, sweetheart, and mine’s wearing thin.”

You took a step back, a challenge flickering in your eyes, letting the space stretch deliciously between you. “Maybe I’ll put on something less distracting,” you offered, pretending as if you might slip away.

His hand shot out, fingers curling lightly around your wrist, not with force but with gentle certainty, holding you in place. “And miss the best start to my shift I’ve had in months?” His voice was a low rumble, amusement curling at the edges. “Not a chance.”

You leaned in just close enough for the air between you to hum. “Then you’d better take advantage while you can."

His smile was slow, unmistakably wicked as he drew you in until there was barely a breath of distance between you

He hovered there, so close you could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, close enough to feel the shiver that trembled through you despite yourself. His hand still circled your wrist, thumb drawing slow, absent-minded arcs over your pulse.

After a heartbeat, he released your hand, letting his fingers skate lightly up your arm instead, trailing goosebumps in their wake. He didn’t rush, letting the anticipation stretch taut between you.

“You know I’ve been dreaming about this all night,” he murmured, his voice little more than gravel and want. He traced the edge of your towel with one knuckle, slow and deliberate, testing how far he could go. His eyes flicked up to yours, seeking, always seeking, permission, reassurance in the flutter of your lashes and the way you swayed infinitesimally closer.

When you didn’t move away, instead, tipped your chin up in challenge. Hank let his hand slide to where the towel was tucked into itself just near your armpit. He paused moving closer to you as if going in for a kiss, lips brushing the corner of your jaw, breath warm on your skin. “Tell me to stop, and I will,” he whispered, a promise heavy with both restraint and desire.

But you didn’t. Instead, you let your hand cover his, urging him on. Your answer was soft, a breath against his hair: “Don’t you dare.”

The knot fell loose beneath his fingers. The towel fluttered to the floor, silent as a secret, leaving you bared to him and the thin morning light. Hank’s breath stuttered, then he smiled, fierce and reverent, as if he’d never seen anything or anyone quite like you.

Hank’s gaze raked over you, a pause stretching between one heartbeat and the next. For once, all his sharp worries and iron self-control seemed to dissolve. He reached out, his palm spanning your waist like he meant to memorise every dip and line.

“Jesus,” he breathed, so quietly it was less a word and more a prayer. His thumb traced the bare edge of your hip, skin-to-skin, while his other hand lifted, knuckles grazing over your ribs, up to your collarbone. He drank you in, hunger simmering just beneath awe.

“You’re—” His voice cracked. He swallowed, a smile catching, sheepish and shaken. “Worth every damn risk.”

With that, he dipped his head, pressing his lips to the hollow of your throat. The kiss was slow, a claiming, but also a thank you, a wordless apology for every hour you’d both spent alone and aching. He trailed his mouth up your neck, catching your jaw between his hands, and finally found your mouth—his kiss softer than before, loaded apology for making you wait so long.

You melted into him, hands tangling into his hair, his curls tangling between your fingers. His hold was steady and careful, as if he didn’t trust himself not to shatter the moment by moving too fast. But desire thrummed through each careful touch, each shifting inch that brought his body closer to yours.

Hank’s jacket hit the floor. He let you tug him back with you, both of you stumbling toward the bed, laughter and longing tangled in your breath.

You tumbled onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and laughter, Hank’s weight pressing you into the worn cotton sheets. His hands framed your face, thumbs stroking over your cheekbones as he kissed you again, this time slow and deep, all tongue and teeth and sighs that ghosted warm against your lips.

He pulled back after a long moment, eyes dark and hazy, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “You sure?” he asked, breathless. “You're not too tired from your double?”

You cut him off with another kiss, arching up into the solid heat of his body. “Shut up, Deputy,” you murmured against his lips. “For once in your life, stop thinking so hard.”

He laughed, low and grateful, and dipped his head to press his face into the curve of your neck. His lips found your pulse, sucking gently, then harder when you gasped, fingers tightening in his hair. He traced the line of your body with one hand, palm hot and rough, skirting the curve of your breast, the dip of your waist, until he settled at your hip, fingers digging in.

You could feel him hard against your thigh, the fabric of his trousers and zip rough against the sensitive skin. You reached down, fumbling with his belt buckle, but he caught your wrist, pulling your hand up to press a kiss to your palm instead.

“Slow,” he murmured, lips dragging over the thin skin of your wrist. “We’ve got time.”

His hands moved to the buttons of his shirt, making quick work of them and discarding the fabric over the side of the bed. The lamplight caught the marks you'd left on his skin, dark and possessive, claiming him as yours in a way you never could in daylight.

Then he moved backwards down the bed, slowly peppering kisses across your stomach, his lips dragging hot over your navel, the jut of your hipbones. He paused, breath ghosting over the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, a promise, and a question all at once.

You nodded, heart in your throat, and he smiled against your skin, then moved, hooking your thighs over his shoulders as he settled between your legs.

The first press of his mouth was soft, almost chaste, a world away from the hard desperation of earlier. He took his time, tongue stroking slow and deliberate, hands gripping your hips to hold you still.

You whimpered, fingers twisting in the sheets, but he didn't rush, just kept tasting you like he had all the time in the world. He explored every inch of you, tongue delving and swirling, until your thighs trembled, and your breath came in sharp, staccato bursts.

Only then did he focus on the place you needed him most, sucking gently, tongue moving in quick, clever circles. You arched off the bed with a cry, one hand flying to tangle in his hair, the other fisting in the sheets.

He didn't stop, didn't relent, just kept pushing you higher and higher until the world narrowed to the feel of his mouth on your skin, the sweet, relentless pressure coiling low in your belly. You came with a sound that was almost a sob, his name on your lips like a prayer, like a thank you, like a promise.

He gentled you down with soft kisses and softer touches, easing your boneless legs from his shoulders. He looked up at you, lips reddened and eyes dark, a world of affection and filthy promise in his gaze.

"Come here," you whispered, voice hoarse, and he smiled, slow and heated, and crawled up the bed to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You wrapped yourself around him, both of you sinking into the mattress, into each other, as if you could block out everything else but this, the press of his skin, the rise, and fall of his chest, the way he held you.

Then he moved to settle over you, elbows braced on either side of your head, hands tangled in your hair. You could feel him pressed against you, hot and hard, but he made no move to rush, content just to brush lazy kisses over your cheekbones, your jaw, the sensitive skin below your ear.

"Tell me what you want," he murmured, lips moving against your skin. "Anything, baby. Just say the word."

You shivered, heat blooming low in your belly at the raw need in his voice. You tilted your hips, feeling him slide against you, not inside yet but close, so close. "You," you whispered, canting your hips again in silent invitation. "I just want you."

He groaned, head dropping to your shoulder. He pushed up onto his knees, reaching down to undo his belt buckle with shaking hands. You watched, breathless, as he slid his trousers and boxers down his hips, kicking them off to join the rest of your discarded clothes on the floor.

He settled back over you, all warm skin and hard muscle, his hips fitting perfectly between your thighs. You could feel him pressed against you, hot and bare, and you tilted your hips, desperate for more.

He slid one hand down to grip your hip, holding you steady as he pushed forward, just an inch, just enough to make your breath catch. "Like this?" he asked, voice gone dark and ragged.

You nodded frantically, fingers digging into the muscles of his back. He pushed deeper, filling you up inch by inch until you were trembling and breathless beneath him.

He kissed you again, all tongue and teeth, swallowing the sounds you made as he started to move. He set a pace that was slow and deep, rolling his hips against yours, hitting that place inside you that made sparks dance behind your eyes.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, changing the angle, and he groaned against your mouth, one hand sliding down to grip your thigh. He moved faster, harder, the bed creaking beneath you as the world narrowed to the feel of his skin, the sound of his ragged breaths, the way he surrounded you, filled you up, made you feel whole.

As the waves of your climax crashed over you, Hank's name tumbled from your lips like a prayer, a benediction, a thank-you. Your body trembled beneath him.

Above you, Hank's own climax hit, his body going taut as he buried his face in your neck. He shuddered, a low groan tearing from his throat as he pulsed inside you, filling you with his warmth. For a long moment, he stayed there, frozen above you, his breath harsh against your skin.

Then, slowly, he relaxed, his body melting into yours. He collapsed onto you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, but you didn't mind. You welcomed it, welcomed him, wrapping your arms around him and holding him close.

Your breathing synced, your heartbeats aligning as the world slowly came back into focus. The feel of his skin against yours, the rise and fall of his chest, the way he fit against you, inside you, like you were made for each other.

He stayed there for a long moment, breath harsh against your skin, before he finally rolled to the side, taking you with him. You curled together, limbs tangled, hearts beating in sync as the world slowly came back into focus.

"You okay?" Hank asked softly, his voice rough with emotion. His eyes, those warm, shadowed eyes that always seemed to see right through you, were dark with concern as he studied your face.

You nodded, pressing your face into the warm skin of his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. "Better than okay," you murmured, your voice thick with exhaustion and something else, something deeper. "Better than I've been in a long time."

Hank smiled, a slow, sweet smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering on your hair. "Me too, baby. Me too."

A Link to My Complete Inventory

[the-unidentified-author]

Dark Hair, Whiskey Eyes | Joel Miller | The Last of Us

Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW], frustrated, teasing, tension, rough, older man, checking in, needy, words, smut, minors DNI, a little rough, consensual!, its a little feral.

Summary: Midnight talks with Joel Miller in your bar lead to some hidden desires of yours playing out.

Word Count: 4,819

A/N: If there are any spelling or grammar mistakes just chew them up and swallow them down. I really don’t have the energy of patience to fight with stupid ai ridden spell check giving me stupid opions that I didn’t ask for. I've done my best to find as many as I can but all the words are blurring together now and I'm Dyslexic so its hard as hell. I Hope you enjoy it despite the mistakes x

Not my gif, if its yours and you would like me to remove it just ask <3

"Come on, Joel, I want to close up and get some sleep, it's almost midnight." The words slipped out with a sigh as you tipped the bottle, golden whisky glugging into his glass. Only Joel ever ordered this brand, sharp and peaty, tucked away behind the counter for nights just like this. You watched the amber liquid catch the glow of the old brass pendant lamp that hung from the ceiling above you.

You slid the drink across the battered wood towards him, brushing away a stray napkin with your knuckle. His hand met yours halfway, calloused, warm, the pads scratched and familiar from years of hard work. His fingers lingered on the glass just long enough for your skin to prickle before he pulled it toward him, lifting it with a steadiness that always seemed out of place at this hour. You watched as he brought it to his lips, the rough edge of his thumb grazing the rim before he drank.

"Do you know that back in the olden days, bars like this would be open until the small hours?" Joel's voice was low and a little rough, carrying that late-night hush. The corners of his mouth curled in a slow, secret smile, a look he reserved for stories spun over empty glasses and soft yellow light. For a second, you glimpsed the younger mischief behind the tired eyes.

Joel never got blackout drunk, not in the way some others in town did, slumped over the bar or stumbling out into the night. He always seemed to know just when to stop, as if he could measure out his memories with each pour: just enough whisky to loosen whatever knot the day had left in him, never enough to drown. Once the drink worked its spell and the past slipped further away, his face would soften, mouth curving into an easy, boyish smile; then he'd talk—really talk—filling the hush of the bar with stories and half-remembered songs, lingering in the warm glow longer than anyone else dared. If you were really lucky, Joel would drink just enough to pick up the battered guitar propped behind the coat stand. He’d never do it sober, at least not in front of a room full of people. His callused fingers would hover over the strings for a hesitant moment before he started to play, drawing a hush over the entire bar. Conversation dwindled to nothing as his deep, gravelly voice threaded an old-world melody through the shadows, filling the worn floorboards with something ancient and almost holy. He sang low, rough around the edges, carrying echoes of all the lives he'd lived before tonight. When the last note lingered, no one dared clap, everyone too tangled in their own recollections to even notice the song had ended. Joel would just set the guitar down with a sheepish half-smile, wander back to the bar, and ask for another drink.

"Well, the old world didn’t have to fight monsters by day now, did they." Your lips twitched as you gave him a sideways smile, moving the whisky bottle to the side with a hollow clink. The air behind the bar felt dense and warm, scented with old wood and smoke. You picked up a faded rag, and began wiping slow circles on the bar’s scarred surface, feeling the grain pull beneath your palm, every nick and stain whispering a late-night story of its own, some from this time and some from the time long before. The soft glow from the overhead lamp caught faint dust particles swirling between you, making the world feel smaller, just you and Joel and the steady hush of midnight settling in.

It was just the two of you alone in here now, everyone else long gone, retired to their beds, chasing a few quiet hours of sleep between the nightmares that seemed to plague everyone's nighttime hours. The chairs sat stacked, tables wiped clean, ghosts of laughter and arguments lingering only in the haze above the lights. Joel didn’t always stay long, didn’t always come to the bar at night. Most days, you’d see him pass outside with his shoulders hunched, and his eyes set on the ground, built of old stone and stubborn silence, a man you’d assumed impossible to breach, his defences layered thick as bark. But tonight, with the shutters drawn and only the low lamp burning, he’d let you in just a little, and you found yourself cherishing these minutes before midnight more than you’d ever confess, even to yourself. Every second in this hush felt rare, a small rebellion against the loneliness pressing in from the dark beyond the glass.

Joel swirled his whisky, watching the liquid gold catch the lamplight. “You always this tough on your last customer, or am I just special?”

You grinned, leaning an elbow on the scarred bar top. “You’re the only one stubborn enough to test my closing hour patience. That counts for something, I guess.”

He tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Something good?”

You shrugged, teasing. “Depends on how generous I’m feeling. Drink up, or I’ll start charging you extra for every minute past midnight.”

Joel laughed, deep and quiet, eyes glinting. “If I’d known that, I would’ve started a tab weeks ago. Maybe eventually you’d owe me a drink.”

You feigned surprise, lifting a brow. “Is that how it works in your ‘olden days’? Bartender buys the charming customer a drink?”

A small smile spread across his lips. “Only if the bartender thinks he’s charming.”

You caught his gaze. It was steady, quietly daring and rolled your eyes, but there was warmth in it, a flicker that sparked between you as the room shrank down to shared shadows and slow breaths. For a heartbeat, neither of you looked away. His fingers tightened just slightly around his glass. Your pulse stumbled, traitorous, as you straightened the bottle that didn’t need fixing. The hush between you seemed to hum with possibilities, each of you holding your ground until you broke the silence “Flattery’ll get you an extra splash, maybe. But you’re pushing your luck tonight.”

Joel’s thumb idled along his glass, drawing lazy circles on the rim. “Luck’s the only thing I’m any good at pushing, these days.” He glanced up, eyes all mischief and midnight shadows. “But I wouldn’t turn down your best pour for a little charm school.”

You laughed softly, the sound carrying in the empty room. “Charm school’s closed after midnight. Besides, the lessons are wasted on you.”

He leaned forward, forearms braced on the bar, voice dropping. “You sure about that? Might be a quick study with the right teacher.”

The silence hung between you, thick as honey, punctuated only by the tick of the old clock and the hum of the old electric lamp overhead.

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, and poured him a little more, making a show of eyeing the clock. “One more. And only because you asked nicely.”

Joel tipped his glass in your direction, that grin breaking through again. “See? Knew I had a shot.”

You scoffed, but your lips curled despite yourself. “A shot at what, exactly? Free whisky, or making me blush tonight?”

Joel leaned in a little further, you could smell the woodsmoke and sawdust that clung to his shirt. His shadow stretched long across the bar. “I’ll take both if you’re offering.” His voice was low, teasing, threaded with something softer just beneath it.

You shook your head, reaching for the empty glasses just beside him, just for something to do. “You really think you can charm your way into another pour? I oughta cut you off for being this bold.”

He looked down, a soft smile playing at his lips as he traced the rim of his glass with one calloused thumb. This time, your eyes lingered, and you couldn’t stop yourself from wondering how those hands would feel tracing the contours of your body, rough, purposeful, certain.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured, voice lower now. He looked up, pinning you with that steady, deep brown gaze. “However, risking a ban from my favourite bar… might be the only thrill left in this town worth getting into trouble for.”

You let your fingers rest on the bar, closer to his than before, electricity crackling in the scant inch between skin. “Careful, Joel. Some trouble isn’t as easy to drink away as whisky.”

His mouth curved into something sharper; invite and dare all in one. You didn’t miss the way his eyes dipped to your chest only for a moment before he met your eyes again. “Maybe that’s exactly the kind I’ve been thirsty for.”

The air thrummed with the weight of your shared gaze, each heartbeat a measured drum against your ribs. His fingers tightened around his glass, and your breath caught, heat blooming low in your belly, a fierce confidence washing over you.

"Lock the door," you whispered, the words tumbling out before you’d fully decided to say them, hanging between you in the thick, amber hush. Joel’s brow lifted, the barest edge of surprise flickering in his eyes, as though weighing whether you truly meant it.

For a heartbeat, you wondered if he would laugh it off, but then a slow, wicked smile broke across his lips. He slid off the barstool with easy confidence, the old wood groaning beneath his weight, his boots sounding steady against the battered floorboards as he moved toward the door. The moment stretched out, each step measured, the hush pressing in, anticipation catching in your throat as the lock clicked firmly into place, sealing the world outside.

He turned to you, his broad frame nearly filling the doorway, etched in the molten spill of streetlamp light through the frost-glazed glass. The golden glow limned his shoulders and biceps, making the worn fabric of his shirt cling tight in places, outlining the muscle beneath. Light caught at the ridges of his jaw and cheekbones, chiseling out his features into something both rugged and impossibly handsome. The years of work were written on him, in the set of his hips, in the wide spread of his shoulders, the large rough hands that hung at his sides and the way he stood so solid and certain, as if nothing could move him unless he allowed it. Every inch of him invited a slow, languid look, and for once, you didn’t hold back. His brown eyes stayed locked on yours, steady and unwavering, hungry and soft all at once. He looked like every promise you’d ever wanted to keep and every rule you’d ever wanted to break: dangerous, grounded and devastatingly handsome.

You moved slowly, purposefully, your own steps now echoing against the old wooden floorboards, conscious of Joel’s eyes tracing every shift of your body. Your pulse thrummed high in your throat as you circled to the end of the bar, moving into the patch of golden lamplight where the ghost of his presence lingered, his empty glass, the bar stool. You leaned against the bar, placing your hands on it on either side of you, adopting a stance you hoped was open and inviting. Your fingers pressed into the familiar grooves and scars of the wood while your body angled toward him, unapologetically present, the thrum of your heartbeat barely contained beneath your skin. The lamplight haloed you in gold, throwing delicate shadows along your arms and making your posture seem both a challenge and a welcome. For a breathless moment, you held his gaze, letting him see the anticipation there, your shoulders relaxed, chin tilted up just enough to say, without words, that you wanted him closer just as much as you knew he wanted to come.

He held your gaze, and without a word, crossed the space between you, slow, measured steps. Each beat of his approach seemed to pull the walls in closer, until the world narrowed to the scent of whisky and woodsmoke and the shadow of his hand coming to rest, tentative, almost reverent, on the bar, right beside you. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating from his body cutting through the cold air.

For a moment, neither of you moved, tension threading the silence. You could hear your own breath and the faint hum of the lamp. You had spent so long daydreaming about this, yet you were unsure of what do to. Joel’s thumb brushed the back of your hand, rough skin sparking a jolt up your arm, and then he leaned in, close enough that you could see the flecks of amber in his eyes and the crinkle of old laughter at the corners.

“If I’m crossing a line,” he murmured, voice just above a whisper, “tell me now.”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you tipped your chin up, letting your silence answer for you, heart fluttering wild against your ribs as the hush between you pressed in even tighter.

He hesitated, just long enough for the moment to sharpen, for you to see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, then closed the last inch between you. His hand came up, knuckles brushing the line of your jaw, his touch rough but reverent, as though he was half afraid you might vanish if he moved too quickly.

Your eyes fluttered shut as his lips met yours, warm, steady, tasting faintly of whisky and resolve. The kiss was tentative at first, a question waiting for an answer, but you leaned into him, hungry for the solidity of his body and the scrape of his beard against your skin. His other hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you closer, anchoring you in that hidden, golden-lit world you’d made together. The bar pressed cool and familiar behind you, the only witness to the heat sparking between your bodies.

The kiss deepened, urgency building as the last of your restraint slipped away. Joel's lips moved against yours with a hunger that matched your own, each brush of his mouth stoking the heat coiling low in your belly. His hands, rough and warm, slid from your jaw to tangle in your hair, angling your head as he tasted you more fully.

You sighed into the kiss, leaning into the solid plane of his chest, your own hands finding purchase on his shoulders. The world narrowed to sensation, the scrape of his stubble against your skin, the slide of his tongue against yours, the possessive press of his hands as they skimmed down your back, fingers digging in just enough to claim without demanding.

The kiss turned messy, teeth catching on lips, breath mingling in urgent pants. Joel's hands grew bolder, mapping the curves of your body, tracing the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, thumbs brushing just beneath the hem of your shirt. Your breath caught as his fingers grazed bare skin, sending a jolt of want coursing through you.

He pulled back for a moment, both of you gasping, foreheads pressed together as you caught your breath. His eyes, dark with desire, searched yours, another silent question hanging in the scant space between your lips.

Your answer was to tug him closer, sealing your mouth over his in a searing kiss that left no room for doubt. You nipped at his bottom lip, soothing the sting with your tongue, and he groaned low in his throat, hands sliding down to grip your hips and haul you flush against him.

Joel's lips left yours, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the line of your jaw. You moaned as his stubble scraped against the sensitive skin of your neck, each brush sending delicious shivers down your spine. He paused at the hollow beneath your ear, breath warm and ragged, before drawing the tender skin there into his mouth.

You gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders as he sucked gently, the sensation arrowing straight to your core. His tongue soothed the sting, a soft, wet counterpoint to the roughness of his stubble. He took his time, savouring the taste of your skin, the flutter of your pulse beneath his lips.

Your head fell back, granting him better access as he worked his way down the column of your throat, lips, and tongue and teeth mapping every inch. One hand slid up from your hip, thumb stroking the underside of your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt, teasing, hinting at his need for more.

You arched into his touch, body straining, begging for more. The hush of the bar swallowed your moan as he found a particularly sensitive spot, lips curving against your skin. He held you there, suspended in sensation, the heat of his mouth, the possessive grip of his hands, the ache building between your thighs.

You couldn't take any more teasing, weeks of careful flirting back and forth had brought you to this moment, and you were determined to enjoy every second. Your hands found the hem of his shirt as you tilted your head back towards him, fingers finding the first button and immediately struggling.

He pulled away just enough to watch you, his eyes dark and hungry as you worked, his hands settling on your hips. The buttons seemed to multiply beneath your fingers, each one a frustrating barrier between your skin and his. You muttered a soft curse, hands shaking with want and anticipation, the heat of his gaze only fuelling your desperation.

Finally, the last button slipped free. As your hands slid beneath the worn fabric of his shirt, you were startled to find not the softness you'd expected, but instead hard planes of muscle, sculpted and defined. Your fingers traced the unexpected ridges of his abdomen, each dip and curve a revelation, a secret strength hidden beneath his unassuming exterior. The discovery sent a thrill through you, a renewed hunger, so much more than you'd ever imagined. He shuddered under your touch, muscles jumping beneath his skin as you explored the ridges and dips of his body, tracing the map of old scars and new promises. You were amazed that he was still so tanned even in the dead of winter. The golden lamplight picked out the warm, sun-kissed undertones of his skin, a striking contrast against the worn fabric of his shirt. It was as if the sun had lingered on him, refusing to relinquish its claim even as the world turned cold and bleak around him.

Your fingers traced the lines of his muscles, marvelling at the way the light seemed to cling to him, casting shadows in the dips and hollows and gilding the planes of his chest and shoulders. He was summer in the midst of winter, a reminder of warmth and life in a world gone still and quiet.

He shivered lightly under your touch, but you knew it had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the heat building between you. The dead of winter stood no chance against the fire in your blood, the need that arced between your skin like lightning.

His skin burned against your palms, his heartbeat a wild, insistent drum against your fingers. You looked up, holding his gaze as you slid his shirt off his shoulders, the fabric catching briefly on his biceps, he moved his hands from your hips and shrugged off the shirt. And then he was pulling you closer, his hands finding the hem of your shirt.

His hands found the hem of your shirt, fingers teasing the skin just beneath. You shivered, goosebumps prickling along your arms as he played with the fabric, his knuckles grazing your stomach. You ached to feel his touch everywhere, for him to map your body with his hands.

Slowly, so slowly, he dragged your shirt up, the worn fabric sliding over your ribs, your breasts, your arms. Your skin pebbled in the cool air, each brush of his fingers sending sparks dancing along your nerves. He pulled the shirt over your head, messing your hair, but you didn't care.

You stood before him, bared to the waist, your skin bathed in the golden glow of the lamplight. His eyes darkened, drinking you in like a man dying of thirst. He reached out, fingertips ghosting along your collarbone, trailing down the slope of one breast. Your breath caught, heart pounding against your ribs.

He removed your bra, the thin fabric slipping away to reveal the rest of your body to his hungry gaze. For a moment, he just looked at you, eyes dark and reverent, taking in every curve and shadow. You felt worshipped, desired, every inch of your skin prickling with heat beneath his stare.

Then he touched you, fingertips grazing the sensitive underside of your breast, tracing the curve with torturous slowness. You shivered, breath catching, as this thumb circled your nipple, teasing the tight bud until you arched into his touch, desperate for more.

He bent, lips following the path his fingers had blazed, kissing along the swell of your breast. His tongue darted out, flicking against your nipple, and you moaned, sparks shooting along your nerves. He sucked gently, tongue swirling, teeth grazing lightly, until you were trembling, fingers fisted in his hair.

He released you slowly, breath warm against your wet skin, before moving to your other breast, lavishing it with the same maddening attention. You whimpered, hips rocking, desperate for friction, release, more. But he held you there, poised on the edge, every touch winding you tighter, stoking the fire in your blood until you were worried the fire would consume you entirely.

Finally, he relented, kissing back up your chest, your throat, until he found your lips again. He kissed you deep, tongue sliding against yours, swallowing your moans as his hands skimmed down your back, fingers digging into your hips.

You rocked against him, feeling the hard press of his arousal through his jeans, the answering throb between your thighs. The world narrowed to just the two of you, lost in sensation, in heat, in need. You fumbled with the button of his jeans, desperate to feel him, to erase the last barriers between you.

His hands joined yours, working his belt and then his jeans open, shoving them down his hips along with his boxers. You reached for him, fingers closing around his length, hot and hard and pulsing in your palm. He groaned, hips jerking, as you stroked him, your touch matching the desperate rhythm of your kiss.

For a moment, you lost yourself in the feel of him, in the slide of his skin against yours, the beat of his pulse beneath your fingers. And then he was lifting you, hands cupping your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carried you to one of the tables.

He set you down on the edge, the wood cool against your heated skin, and reached for your jeans, fingers making quick work of the button and zip. He dragged them down your legs, taking your underwear with them, until you were bared completely, open and aching and trembling with a need only he could satiate.

"You can tell me to stop," he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours, hesitating for a moment. His breath was hot against your lips, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.

"Don't you fucking dare," you replied, your voice low and fierce, filled with all the want and need and desperation that had been building between you for weeks.

He shuddered at your words, eyes darkening with a hunger that matched your own. Then he was kissing you again, lips crushing against yours, tongue delving deep into your mouth as he sealed the last inch of space between you.

His hands slid down your thighs, pushing them apart, fingers digging into your skin as he pulled you closer, until you could feel the hot, hard press of him against your core. You moaned into his mouth, rocking against him, desperate for more, for everything.

He pulled back, just enough to meet your eyes, his breathing ragged and uneven. "I need you," he growled, voice rough with want. "I need to be inside you, need to feel you around me. Please, God, tell me you want that too."

"Yes," you gasped, arching into him, every nerve on fire. "Yes, please, Joel, I need you, I need—"

He didn't let you finish, surging forward to claim your lips once more as he thrust deep inside you, filling you in one long, rough thrust. You cried out, head falling back, nails digging into his shoulders as he stretched you, filled you, completed you.

For a moment, neither of you moved, both of you trembling, overwhelmed by the intensity of the sensation, the connection. Then he began to move, hips rocking, sliding in and out of you in a rhythm that was both ancient and new, hard and soft, fast and slow.

You met him thrust for thrust, rocking your hips, making the table you were on rattle and creak. Your bodies moving in perfect sync, skin slick with sweat, breath mingling, pulses pounding. The world narrowed to just the two of you, to the sensation of skin on skin, the sound of your moans, the feel of him deep inside you.

His breathing became ragged, and his hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your flesh. You could feel the tremors running through his body, the tension coiling in his muscles as he fought for control.

You watched him, watched the way his chest heaved, the way his eyes darkened, pupils blown wide with desire. You watched the way his throat worked, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, jaw clenched tight.

You could see the strain in his arms, the cords standing out as he held himself over you, muscles bunching and flexing with each thrust. His hips slapped against yours, the sound sharp and obscene in the quiet of the bar.

You felt him everywhere, deep inside you, stretching you, filling you; against your skin, his chest rubbing against yours, his thighs keeping yours apart; in the surrounding air, hot and heavy, thick with the scent of sex and sweat.

He leaned down, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot against your face. You could feel the tension in him, the need, the desperation. He was close, so close, his hips stuttering, losing their rhythm.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, holding him tight. You wanted to feel him let go, wanted to watch him shatter, wanted to know you'd been the one to break his defences. The one he had finally allowed himself to be vulnerable around.

"Come on," you whispered, lips brushing his ear. "Let go. I want to feel you."

He shuddered, a full-body tremor that shook you both. His hips snapped forward, once, twice, and then he was coming, spurting hot and deep inside you, his body shuddering, trembling, his breath ragged in your ear.

You held him through it, hands stroking his back, legs tight around his waist, as he shook and shuddered and moaned your name. And when he was done, when he collapsed against you, boneless and spent, you held him still, stroking his hair, his back, as his breathing slowly evened out.

In the warm glow of the aftermath, you pressed a gentle kiss to his temple, your voice a soft murmur in the hushed silence. "That was something else," you whispered, a note of wonder creeping into your voice.

He stirred against you, a contented hum rumbling in his chest as he nuzzled into the curve of your neck. "Sure was," he rasped, his voice rough with emotion. "You're really something, you know that?"

A smile curved your lips at his words, at the knowledge that this experience had been as good for him as it had been for you. "Back at you," you replied softly, one hand coming up to stroke his cheek, your thumb brushing over the scratch of his stubble.

He lifted his head then, his eyes searching yours, bright with tenderness and a hint of mischief. "We should do this again sometime," he said, a playful grin tugging at his lips.

"You think so, huh?" you teased, a matching sparkle in your eye. "And when exactly did you have in mind?"

He pretended to consider for a moment, a mischievous glint in his eye. "How about… right now?" he suggested, a rakish grin spreading across his face as he shifted against you, letting you feel the evidence of his renewed arousal.

You laughed then, as you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down for another searing kiss. "Sounds perfect to me," you murmured against his lips, before losing yourself once more in the heat and the hunger and the thrill of his touch.

A Link to My Complete Inventory

[the-unidentified-author]

I Don’t Know How to Put It Into Words | Deputy Hank | The Silo

I am so in love with this character. RANT: I have like 50 fanfics all floating around the abyss because I actually hate editing. And why does every spell check have AI in it. I don’t care that I’ve used passive voice, just check my damn spelling and leave me the hell alone. Don’t even get me started on the ones that complain about description because apparently everything needs to be concise. I dilly-dally, I describe, I ramble.

Deputy Hank x Reader

Warnings/ Tags: SMUTNSFW, filth, smut, minors DNI, established relationship, a little rough, consensual!, he's a big man, he knows how to use his hands, actions speak louder than words, a bit of angst, arguing, inability to express feelings, he's very hands-on.

Summary: Hank doesn't like how close you are to Knox, but he's not all that good at putting feelings into words. He's more of a hands-on sort of person…

Word Count: 5,230

Gif by the wonderful @lilimakesgifs who has very kindly made me not one, not two, but SEVEN gifs for this character! Thank You! ☺️

“That was good of you to make the trip up there with us, even though shit completely hit the fan.” Chuckled Knox with a smile.

He stepped forwards and pulled you into a hug, it was a little unexpected, but you welcomed it, wrapping your arms around him, squeezing him back. Your journey up the silo had been stressful and chaotic, and you were just happy all of you had managed to get back down relatively unscathed. You had a few bumps and bruises, and you were sure that you would be aching in the morning. But you had managed to make it down without serious injury. Shirley had patched up Knox and debriefed the rest of you on their adventures down the silo before Hank arrived. All in all, the three of you were remarkably unharmed.

“It's okay, it just sucks we didn’t get the outcome we were hoping for.” you replied, giving Shirley, who was standing behind him, a small smile.

Stepping back, he flashed you a grin as he moved towards the exit, before disappearing through the door of Marthas shop. Shirley smiled at you and opened her arms. You welcomed the hug, stepping forwards.

“I’m so glad the both of you managed to make it back down. You had me worried there for a little.” You whispered as she pulled away.

“I’m glad you managed to get our old lady back down in one piece, too.” Replied Shirley with a nod, flashing a smile at Martha, who was tinkering away at her workbench as though she hadn’t just been out of her shop for the first time in over twenty years.

“Hey, less of the damn old.” Muttered Martha, as she pulled the machine she was working on open with a frustrated sigh. She glanced at Hank, who was standing just a few feet from you down a couple of the steps to Martha’s workshop.

Shirley smiled again as she closed the door of the shop, giving Martha a nod and a flashing her a smirk. You let out a deep sigh, the adrenaline of the last few hours wearing off as your brain finally came to terms with how dangerous your journey up and then back down the silo had been.

“Well, you two kids should get going too, unless of course you have any further questions, Deputy?” Continued Martha, not attempting to hide the slight bit of venom the last word was laced with.

She had never quite forgiven him for taking on the role as the sheriff's deputy, but you had argued a few times that it was better to have one of your own overseeing things in the down deep rather than some pencil pusher from up top. It had taken her a little while, but she had seemingly forgiven him; however, she did little to hide the distaste she felt towards his chosen career.

Hank, who usually would have a quick-witted comment to throw back at her, had his attention instead focused on one of the objects on one of the many shelves Martha had in her shop. He chewed on the inside of his lip and had a look on his face that made it seem like he was somewhere else entirely.

“Yeah, come on Hank, we should head back to the station. I’ll fill you in on everything that happened up there.” You glanced at Martha and gave her a wink. “Unofficially of course.” You joked, and Martha shook her head and focused her attention back on whatever hunk of junk was on the workbench in front of her. “Hank,” you continued, stepping down a step and placing your hand on his shoulder

Your touch managed to shake him out of whatever trance he was in, he nodded at Martha, flashing her a small smile before he followed you to the door.

*****

You yawned as you entered the Deputy Station. Hank moved past you and walked directly to one of the filing cabinets against the wall. He pulled the top draw out that was chest high to him and rifled through the files. He pulled one out and opened it, placing it down on the open drawer and flicking through it. You couldn't help but notice how strange he was acting. He had barely said a word to you on the way back to the station, when usually it was a task to get him to shut up. You figured perhaps he was angry that you had decided to side with Knox and Shirley, about the best course of action for the down deep. You weren’t used to him being this quiet, he, just as most people in the down deep, didn’t typically have a problem openly expressing his opinions on things, regardless of if that opinion conflicted with others.

“You alright, Hank?” You asked, crossing your arms and leaning on the desk facing him, watching as he read the file, flicking through it carefully.

He didn’t say anything, just continued to thumb through the file, acting as though the words on the page were more interesting than anything you had to say.

“Hank?” You prompted him to answer, and finally, he looked up at you.

You raised your shoulders slightly, prompting him again to reply to you. He shifted on his feet a little.

“I'm fine.” He said with a small smile that died almost as quickly as it formed before focusing his attention back on the paper.

“You don’t seem fin— “

“How long have you and Knox been close?” He asked, cutting you off, his tone a little accusatory.

You frowned and studied his expression; he hadn't looked over at you as he asked his question. Remaining focused on the file. You watched the muscle in his jaw flex as he clenched his teeth, and the vein in his neck bulged a little. He was angry, you could see it on his face, even though he was trying to hide it. The pair of you had argued briefly before you made your way up with Knox and Shirley, but you figured after everything that had happened, there were more important things to worry about.

“Hank, I’ve known him as long as I have known you.” He didn’t look at you, so you continued, not knowing why you felt the need to defend yourself. “And well, he has made me his shadow, you know, after what happened to Jules and well Coop.” you said, your voice trailing off a little at the end as you were reminded of the two people you cared deeply for and how they had been lost in such a short space of time. 

“He made you, his shadow?” Hank asked, finally turning towards you.

He placed his hand on his hip and looked at you, his eyes cold and hard. He was definitely angry, the happy look that seemed permanently fixed to his face was replaced with a scowl. There were only a few occasions in the time that you had known him that you had seen the happy disposition slip from him face, and most of them were in the last few weeks. There was something about the way he was looking at you though, his face etched with accusatory undertones, after you long day it was starting to grate on you.

“Yeah Hank, both the generator shadows have bitten the dust and out of everyone I am the most qualified to take their place before another one becomes available.” You placed your hands on your hips, frustrated by the way he was acting, but not irritated enough yet to call him out on it.

“So, you and he have been spending a lot of time together, then?” He asked, his tone still one that you weren't used to him using on you. It was formal and laced with suspicion, you were starting to feel like a criminal being interrogated, not his friend.

“What is this, Hank? It feels like you're interrogating me. I’ve just had the most hellish day and instead of asking me about it, all you care about is how close I am to Knox?!” You scowled at him and then moved your eyes from him, the look on his face just making you angrier.

He scoffed, picking up the file and slamming the cabinet shut. The sudden loud noise made you jump. He walked around the desk to the opposite side you were sitting, dropped the file on the table and sat down. You turned to face him, arms still folded, but he once again had his attention focused on the file.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you asked, your temper flaring. “Do you not think I can do it?”

He let out an exacerbated sigh and put his elbows on the desk and rubbed his face with his hands, before running them through his hair, combing it back out of his face. He looked up at you through his thick eyelashes. Usually, you were looking up at the man, the angle threw you off a little.

“I just want to know what's going on with you and Knox.” He said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

“What do you mean?” you asked, knowing full well what he was insinuating but wanting him to say the accusation out loud.

“Are you and him…?” his gaze faltered, and he looked off to your left. His gaze returned to you after a few seconds. “Because if you are, I'm going to have to write you up for an unsanctioned relationship.”

“Unsanctio— What the fuck are you talking about, Hank?” you asked, your temper getting the better of you again and the words coming out a little harsher than you had intended.

“You know the rules, all relationships need to be authorised up top for the good of the silo.” He said, shrugging his shoulders, meeting your eyes once again.

You stepped back and turned away from him, letting out an exacerbated sigh, you were too tired to have this conversation right now. Turning back to him, you met his gaze, trying to look at him with as much anger as you could muster.

“If you gave a damn about unsanctioned relationships, half of fucking maintenance would be written up.” You snapped, leaning forwards and placing your hands on the desk. “And for your information, no, Knox and I are not together. Shirley is the one that has eyes for him.”

You stood back up and watched as he shifted in his seat, once again looking away from you, uncomfortable under your furious gaze.

“I…” he chewed at the inside of his cheek.

“You what…? Because it seems to me that you're jealous.” You regretted the words as soon as they left your mouth, but you were too angry at him to care to apologise.

“I’m not fucking jealous!” He erupted, leaning forwards and looking down at the file, resting his head in his hands.

“What's the file?” you asked, leaning forwards and sliding it across the table away from him.

He moved his hand, slamming it down onto the paperwork and hastily pulling it away from you, but you saw enough of it to know whose file it was.

“You’re reading up on Knox, I don’t fucking believe you?!” You spat, raising your hand to your head and squeezing the bridge of your nose.

“Well, he has just been accused of killing Judge Meadows.” replied Hank, his voice raised.

“Yes, he has been accused. Falsely accused. Which is the conclusion that all five of us came to down at Marthas shop. You yourself even said there was no way he would actually go through with something like that.” You reasoned, starting to understand why he was acting the way he was.

“I’m the Deputy, it's my job to check.” He retorted, his tone a little threatening.

“Right, and you’re going to find answers in there?” You gestured to the file. “We have known the man for our whole lives. As a Police Deputy, you should know that people don’t just jump straight to murder, they start off with petty crime.”

“He has priors.”

“Yes, so does everyone down here, but each one of the crimes in that folder was committed to help someone? How the hell would killing, the Judge help us?” you argued, unable to control how angry you were getting, you turned and headed for the door.

“Where the hell are you going?” he asked, standing.

“I’m going home, Hank.” You spat. “I’ve had a shit day; my legs are killing me, and I wanted to talk to my friend about it. Not listen to said friend try to reason that Knox had anything to do with the death of the Judge. Why don’t you just fucking say what you're thinking instead of going on this fucking witch hunt because a man hugged me.”

You slammed the door, standing on the step, breathing deeply for a few seconds. A few people who were loitering about glanced over at you, but you didn’t meet their eyes. Instead, you zipped your jacket up and stuffed your hands in your pockets. You marched down the alleyway, heading for the main steps, wanting nothing more than to flop down on your bed and forget all about the events of the day.

It was only when you heard the click of your door unlocking as you turned the key did the last of your anger slip away. You pushed the door in, pulling the key from the lock and kicking it closed behind you. Your eyes found the bottle of rum on your coffee table, and you collapsed onto the sofa, picking the bottle up in your hand, unscrewing it and taking a long swig. The liquid burned a little on the way down, but immediately the familiar warm sensation began to relax you. Taking another long swig, you returned the bottle to the table and laid back into the soft cushion of the sofa. You slid down a little on the sofa, yawning, today had been tiring, and you hadn't realised quite how much until you had made it home. You couldn’t remember the last time you went that far up the silo and back down in the same day. You had never spent so much time running before.  Kicking off your boots, you sat up and pulled your coat from your body and threw it on the armchair before turning and laying on the couch staring at the ceiling.

Running up and down the silo to escape the raiders had really taken it out of you, and you started to feel a little guilty about how you had spoken to Hank. You knew he had some sort of feelings for you, Martha had been the one to suddenly come out with it a few months ago when you had offered to give her a hand in her shop. She had never been one for beating around the bush, and she had many opinions on the sort of couple you and Hank would make if he would just pull his finger out and ask you on a date. Until that afternoon, you hadn't really paid the Deputy all that much attention. The two of you had grown up together, him being a few years older though meant the two of you never really became close until you started working on the generator. He had been friends with Knox and Jules for a while and when you had made it to Mechanical as a steam duct engineer, they had welcomed you into their group of friends. Shirley had been the one to take you under her wing, Jules had taken a little while to warm up to you. But eventually, the three of you were as thick as thieves, she had taken Jules’s death the hardest, not accepting that she had died. You had known Martha since you were a child, though, she was by blood your aunt. Her relationship with her wife hadn’t worked out and as far as you could tell, she cared little for the relationships of others. Which is why it was such a surprise that afternoon when she blurted out the crush, she believed Hank had on you, and then proceeded to mention it in every conversation when the two of you were alone together. Over the last year, you and he had become closer, Shirley had teased you about it and was more than likely the reason that Martha had brought up the idea of him and you being a couple.

It was only when Martha told you about his apparent crush that you started noticing the subtle ways, he acted a little different around when he was around you. Then you begin to realise how attractive he was. He was tall, at six foot four-ish he towered over most of the men in the silo. His broad frame added to his appeal. You had admittedly spent a little too much time imagining what he looked like out of the uniform. The men in the Down Deep were known for being far muscular than the men in the mids or up top, and your mind had wondered if it was the same for the Deputy. Then there was the way he looked, the facial hair and the shoulder-length curly hair suited him. When he was a kid, he always had it short, curls sticking up in all directions, no matter how carefully his mother tried to tame it in the morning before school. He was the last man out of your little group to be able to grow facial hair. The moment he did, he seemingly refused to part with it, and it suited him. But his big brown eyes were what had really made you realise that you had some repressed feelings for the man. They were soft, even in the harsh light of the canteen or the low light of the generator room. The way his mouth never failed to form into a smile when he met your eye, even if you were across the room. The way you always saw him searching for you in the crowd, a brilliant grin appearing on his face when he realised you had already found him.

You rolled over, squishing your face into the pillow, letting out a deep, exacerbated sigh. You had to stop thinking about him, you were supposed to be angry with the man for insinuating that there was something going on between you and Knox and then straight up accusing the man of murder. Not thinking about how pretty his eyes were or how it would feel to run your hands over his bare chest, those same eyes following every movement of your fingers.

Groaning, you picked up the bottle of whiskey and took another swig, hissing lightly at the way it burned on the way down. Hoping that it would grant you a couple of hours sleep before your shift the next day. You rolled onto you side facing the back of the sofa and closed your eyes, deciding you didn’t have the energy to stand back up and make it all the way to your bed.

Just as you felt the pull of sleep beginning to take you, there was a knock at your door that yanked you back to the waking world. You turned your head to look at the door, scowling at the unknown figure standing behind it for disturbing you. Silently cursing them as you re-adjusted, trying to make yourself comfortable. Turning your head, you looked at the clock on your wall, you had barely been home for twenty minutes and someone was already disturbing you. Probably someone nosy to hear the details of the day, but you were no longer in any mood to be polite, Hank had seen to that. It was almost midnight. You huffed and closed your eyes, snuggling back into the pillow, hoping whoever it was would just go away.

The knock came again, no such luck. They didn’t appear to be going away any time soon, as another knock echoed around your apartment. You rolled off the sofa and stood up from the floor as the fourth knock came. You clenched your fist and contemplated just opening the door and swinging at whoever was standing behind it, but then you would have to face Hank down at the station, and that wasn’t something you wanted to do this evening. Plus, the bunk in the cell down there was even more uncomfortable than the sofa.

“Fucking hell, calm down, I’m coming!” You yelled at the person disrupting your evening.

You yanked the door open ready to give the person standing behind it what for but the sigh of them stunned you to silence. It was Hank, he was standing just outside your door, his hands on his hips, staring at the floor. When the door opened, her met your eye and opened his mouth to speak, but the look on your face made him falter, and instead he let out a sigh.

Clenching your jaw, you tried to soften your expression as he looked away from you, glancing up and down the street before turning his attention back to you.

“What do you want, Hank?” You asked, raising your eyebrow.

“I just… I just wanted to apologise for earlier.” He started clenching his jaw.

“Apology accepted. Have a good night.” you said, moving to close the door.

He stepped forwards and caught the door with his hand. You frowned at him, and he dropped his hand but didn’t step back.

“You’re right.” He stared, placing his hand on his hip again and meeting your eye. “I am fucking jealous.” He admitted with a small shrug of his shoulders.  His eyes dropped from yours as he looked up and down the street again. “Are you going to make me do this out here?”

You clenched your jaw and stepped out of the way, gesturing for him to follow you inside. He stooped slightly to get through the door before walking a little way into your apartment taking a moment to look around. The sound of the door closing had him turning back to look at you.

“I…” he started, but the words faltered, and he raised his hand to rub it over his lower face before turning, meeting your eye and starting again. “I don’t know how to put it into words.” He took a deep breath, and you raised your eyebrows at him. “Fuck it.” He muttered.

He stepped towards you, cupping your head in his hands, and he kissed you. At first, it was careful and delicate, as though he were preparing for you to push him away and strike him across the face. But then it became a little more intense as your hands found his hair. The kiss communicated, without the need for words, everything the two of you had been feeling for the past few months. He was the first to pull away, his hands moving to your hips to keep you close to him, not wanting the intimate moment to end.

“Damn, I owe Shirley twenty credits.” You muttered with a small laugh, your hands resting on the back of his neck.

“Why?” Hank asked, a big smile on his face.

“She said you would be the one to make the first move.” You replied, trying not to reflect the grin back at him.

“You made a bet, so you…?” He asked, his eyes searching your face.

“Feel the same way? I assumed the kiss would have communicated that.” You smiled, as his familiar goofy smile played on his lips.

Without a second thought, you leaned in again, the first kiss making you want more, need more. He didn’t hesitate to kiss back, his hands moving to graze over your shoulder and then down to your waist. His movements were careful, as though he were still worried that in the next heartbeat you would reject him. Carefully he guided your movements, stepping forwards, prompting you to move backwards. The back of your calves coming into contact with the couch, carefully he guided your movements. Until you were laying on the couch just as you had been moments before, but this time he was on top of you.

He pulled away from the kiss, curls falling into his face as he looked down at you. His dark eyes filled with something that you were sure was reflected right back at him by your own. Carefully, he pulled his jacket from his shoulders. You tried not to imagine the way that his muscles must be flexing under the tan uniform he wore before he leaned back in to kiss you.

The soft glow of the dimly lit room mixed with the sips of whisky you had consumed before his arrival made every sense feel as though it were heightened, like a slow fire beginning to spread through your veins. Carefully, he traced his fingertips down the length of your arm as his lips moved from yours to your neck. The scratch of his facial hair combined with the soft, delicate touch of his lips had you grabbing at his bicep, digging your fingernails into him. Wanting him closer, wanting more of him.

“I have wanted to touch you for so fucking long,” he whispered between careful kisses placed along your jaw before he moved down your throat.

Hi breath tickled your skin, your hands moved to his back, wanting to pull him closer. You could feel the flex of his muscles under his shirt as he moved, tracing kisses along over your throat and then back up the other side of your neck. He was teasing you; you could feel the way his lips twisted into a light smirk as your body reacted under his touch. You held back a moan as his lips found that secret spot right under your ear, but you couldn’t help the way your hips bucked up to meet his, his hand cupping your waist, thumb slipping under the fabric of your shirt.

His touch, the way he felt above you was sending you insane, feelings flooding through your body ones you had never known yourself capable of. Never before had you understood the raw need that one person could have for another. Carefully you moved your hands to the buttons of his shirt, you fumbled with them, frustrated with how many there were. But he was patient, watching as you slowly made your way down the shirt, disappointed to find a t-shirt lay beneath the first. Another barrier keeping your hands from him.

Carefully he pulled his shirt from his arms then moved to pinch the back of the t-shirt and pull it over his head. Both items had barely hit the floor before your hands were on his chest, desperate and hungry to touch him. His hands moving to the hem of your shirt, you let him help you pull it over your head. Your shirt soon joining his on the floor.

He didn’t hesitate to continue his exploration of your body with his lips, leaning down to press a kiss to the top swell of your breast, hands moving to fumble with the clasp of your bra in the middle of your chest.

Your breath hitched as his lips continued their downward path, each kiss a brand upon your skin. His hands, gentle yet firm, skimmed over your curves, mapping your body like a cartographer charting new, precious lands. As he paused, looking up at you through the tumble of his curls, those deep, soulful eyes spoke volumes, whispering unspoken promises. The desire in his gaze was unmistakable, a reflection of the fire that danced within you, stoked with every caress. At that moment, nothing else existed.

Your hands found their way to his hair as he palmed your pussy through your trousers, seeming to enjoy the way your body responded to his touch. He carefully popped open the button of your jeans. He grabbed at the fabric at your hips and pulled your trousers down, you let out a slight laugh as the fabric got suck just before it passed over your feet. You kicked at him trying to rid yourself of the fabric, but he caught your calf and carefully pulled your leg free of your jeans, closely followed by the other one. 

You watched him, intrigued by the way his muscles moved. He certainly didn’t disappoint. His shoulders were broad and his arms more suited to a man who worked with his hands than someone who sat behind a desk. His hands cupped your hips as he moved lower, guiding your legs apart, placing a kiss over your underwear. He looked up at you again, an almost crafty look in his eyes. He moved his hands, his fingertips tracing the line of your underwear, gently hooking under the fabric and working them down and off your body.

Feeling exposed, you resisted the urge to press your thighs together, not that you would have managed it considering Hank was between them. His breath ghosted over your most sensitive skin, a tease of what was to come. And then, with aching slowness, he leaned in, his tongue tracing your folds with the delicacy of an artist painting a masterpiece. Each stroke sent sparks dancing along your nerves, your body alight with sensation. Hank seemed to pour every ounce of his focus, his devotion, into the movement of his mouth. His tongue circled your clit with agonising precision, each movement drawing another gasp from your lips. The sounds you made seemed to spur him on, his movements growing bolder, more insistent. Your fingers found their way to his hair, tangling in the soft strands as you held him to you. The world narrowed to just the two of you, to the dance of his tongue and the rise of your hips to meet him.

The scent of his cologne, warm and woodsy, mingled with the smell of the whiskey on the table, creating a heady mix that seemed to envelop you both. The sound of your ragged breathing filled the room, punctuated by the occasional moan torn from your lips as he worked. The pillows beneath you moved, as you squirmed his hands at your hips keeping his mouth on you. Each sensation seemed magnified, from the brush of his hair against your thighs to the press of his fingers into your hips. As the pleasure built, your skin felt electric, each nerve ending alight with feeling. The world fell away until all that remained was the connection between the two of you. Your climax hit like a tidal wave, crashing over you and pulling you under. It was a rush of sensation, a blinding feeling, that left you breathless and trembling in its wake. And through it all, Hank remained, his touch a steady, grounding presence amidst the storm.

Carefully he slowed, letting you ride out your climax on his lips. He pulled away and looked up at you.

“Am I forgiven?” He whispered.

You nodded in response, not trusting your lip's ability to conjure words.

“Well, I’m not quite done apologising, just yet.” He smiled and placed a kiss, just below your belly button.

A Link to My Complete Inventory

[the-unidentified-author]

The Stowaway | Commander Mills | 65

Warnings/ Tags: Arguments, mention of death, dinosaurs, might be smut if I make a part two, kinda rambling, idk I just wanted to write a story and build a character

Summary: You are a stowaway on Commander Mill's passenger ship, The Zoic Exploratory Charter 3703. Your Cryopod is the only one that made it, but he can’t find your ID tag and soon discovers the truth.

Word Count: 5,948

Not my gif, if its yours and you would like me to remove it just ask <3

You awoke with a start, the sound of an alarm blaring like a siren, jarring your senses, while bright, erratic lights flashed harshly in your eyes. Panic surged through you like a tidal wave, and you scratched frantically at the cold glass in front of you, realising you were trapped in a claustrophobic box barely bigger than your body. A primal fear gripped your chest as you struggled for breath, clawing desperately at the glass that held you in this suffocating tomb, feeling the slickness of sweat on your palms. Flashing red lights cast ominous shadows around you as frantic text sprawled across the glass beneath your trembling hands, the ringing in your ears becoming a dull roar, until a robotic, tinny voice sliced through the chaos, cold and uncaring.

“Oxygen levels critical, immediate evacuation recommended.”

As the fog of sleep began to fall away, you began to remember where you were. It wasn’t a tomb or a coffin, and you weren’t here against your will. You were in a Cryo-chamber that should have been aboard a ship bound for the colonies, yet everything felt wrong. From what you could see outside the small, smudged window, a world of darkness loomed, and it looked as though you hadn’t reached your destination. A sinking feeling settled in your stomach as you feared the worst, the reality of being lost in space creeping up on you.

An alarm blared inside the chamber, so deafeningly loud it threatened to split your mind in two. Desperate, you struggled to cover your ears, bashing your elbows painfully against the sides of the cramped, padded chamber. A shadow flitted across the glass, but in your panic, you couldn’t decipher what, or who, it was. Your vision swam, spots of darkness dancing in front of your eyes as each breath felt heavier, teetering on the brink of being your last. Then, a sharp pop of electrics pierced the air and a hissing white smoke invaded, stinging your lungs with its acrid presence. You coughed, gasping futilely for air, the smoke swirling like a living nightmare. Frantically, you clawed at the glass again, your mind racing for the emergency procedure your friend had instructed, but you couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. The world spun dizzily, the pressure building until everything collapsed into an all-consuming blackness.

  You shifted restlessly in bed, tugging the blanket closer against the biting chill of the morning air. Burrowing deeper under the covers, a sudden icy shiver raced down your spine, jolting you into immediate wakefulness. You sat up abruptly, eyes wide open, taking in the surrounding disarray, a room cluttered with half-broken electronics, scattered tools, and a lone computer flickering to the left. Instinctively, you moved to rub your eyes, only to collide with something strange, a mask secured across your mouth. Confused and slightly panicked, you yanked it off, the action releasing a sharp hiss from the small device. Staring at it in your hands, the realisation dawned upon you, this was an oxygen mask. Your gaze darted around, focusing upwards and to the right, where brilliant golden sunlight streamed through a little window, illuminating the room with a surreal glow. With legs still heavy with fatigue, you swung them over the bed’s edge, attempting to stand as a sudden wave of nausea engulfed you. Clinging to the bed’s edge, you gulped down air, eyes squeezed shut to ward off the spinning room. Fragmented memories clawed their way back, haunting visions of the Cryo-chamber and the suffocating smoke. 

You glanced around, confusion thick in your mind, realising with a murmur of disbelief that you couldn't have ended up back here on your own. A sudden clang echoed through the ship's metallic hallways, causing your heart to leap. Standing up on unsteady legs, you shuffled over to the cupboard to the left, just before the door. Your hands searched through the clutter, eventually finding a large, bulky jacket, clearly made for someone with a larger build, perhaps a man. You draped it over your shoulders, feeling its unfamiliar weight, and pushed the door release button. The door opened with a mechanical hiss, and you cautiously poked your head into the corridor outside, casting furtive glances to the right and left. Hesitantly, you stepped out, discovering you were on what seemed to be the bridge of the ship. The door slid shut behind you with a soft thud, making you jump again. Turning around, your eyes caught the letters emblazoned on the door. You reached out, fingertips brushing over the words 'Commander's Quarters,' 

“Fuck,” you whispered under your breath, snapping your head left and right.

Moving quickly, you approached the solitary chair opposite what you presumed were the ship's controls, which bore the scars of a turbulent descent. Electrical pops crackled from some frayed wires to your left, while the console before you lay utterly lifeless. To your left, however, flickered the only screen that seemed to hold any semblance of life: the status panel for the Cryo chambers. It methodically scrolled through the chambers housed within the ship, each one glowing a menacing shade of red.   You didn’t know what had happened, but you knew one thing for sure. You had to get out of here before whoever had rescued you came back. If they really were the Commander of the ship, then they wouldn’t take too kindly to the only survivor being a stowaway. An illegal Cryo chamber stored in the back of the ship where there should only have been supplies.

You tapped on the computer screen, grateful that it was a model you were somewhat acquainted with, and selected the icon for the surrounding terrain. A question mark lingered beside the planet's name, but you brushed it off and swiftly scanned through the planet’s composition. The atmosphere seemed breathable, and the climate bore resemblance to the planet you had known growing up. As you scrolled, a notification appeared, prompting you to click on it. It revealed the location of one of the escape pods. Another creak echoed through the ship, and you froze, fearing for a moment that whoever had rescued you had returned. When no further sounds followed, you cautiously stood, striving to commit the map to the escape pod to memory. You had to find a way out of here.   You walked quickly, stopping only long enough in front of the door that separated the Commander's quarters from the rest of the ship for it to open. Then you moved quickly down the gangway, heading towards the back of the ship. To your left and right there should have been Cryopods, but each of the capsules were empty. It made you wonder how hard the landing must have been for the ship to decide the Cryopods would be safer making landfall by themselves.

Your focus lingered on the vacant Cryopods, oblivious to the rising water, until gentle splashes reverberated throughout the expansive chamber, urging you to glance down at your feet. The water was a murky brown, reminiscent of a muddy puddle or a pond, or so you surmised, having never seen an actual body of water. Life in an early colony had kept the sun's warmth a stranger to you, as the smog from terraforming machinery perpetually chocked the atmosphere. With a sigh, your gaze shifted to the door leading to the world beyond. The water lapped at the edge of the ramp where you stood. You had no idea how deep it was or more importantly what was in it.

Letting out a deep sigh, you turned and made your way back into the commander’s quarters. Placing your hands on your hips, you surveyed the small space, hoping to find an emergency exit through which you could climb up and out the top of the ship, praying that water hadn’t entirely encircled it. Your gaze fell upon the symbol for weapons, prompting you to step forward and grasp the handle. Nothing happened. You pulled again, this time with greater force, and the panel above the cupboard illuminated red, revealing a message. 

“Unauthorised access.” The robotic voice from before bellowed.

With a resigned sigh, you let your hand fall from the handle, anxiously nibbling your lip. The thought of hacking the software crossed your mind, yet the real problem was the lack of time, not ability. Turning away, you faced the ladder, placing your hands on the rung level with your head, eyes tracing up towards the ceiling where the hatch beckoned at the top. Casting a final, searching glance around the vessel, you found nothing of use and began to ascend the ladder with care.

The door loomed heavy in front of you, a stubborn obstacle between you and freedom. The ship was so badly damaged that the hydraulics, meant to open it with ease, failed miserably, leaving you in an awkward position. You jabbed at the button to release it, only to be met with an unsatisfying hiss and the button turning a mocking shade of red. Frustration simmered inside you, and with clenched jaw, you reached for the handle labeled ‘manual release,’ the letters worn from years of use. Standing on a precarious ladder, really just square cutouts in the wall, with barely enough space for the top of your boot, you found the task daunting. The earlier flood of water made your grip slippery and the climb treacherous. Yet, determined, you climbed, cursing the entire time and muttering prayers to gods you never believed in. After what felt like an eternity, your perseverance paid off as you pushed the handle up and over. The door heaved open with a satisfying clunk, hitting the top of the ship and allowing a sliver of light to pierce through the darkness.

The light was harsh, flooding your senses in an overwhelming deluge as you squinted into the newfound brightness. You dared not thrust more than the crown of your head through the narrow opening. Blinking rapidly, your eyes gradually adjusted, allowing you to take in the scene. To your astonishment, you discovered that the ship’s stern remained afloat, yet the bow rested firmly upon a sandbank. Relief coursed through you; escape seemed viable after all. Clinging to the jagged exterior, you calculated your descent along the fractured hull. Every step was precarious, but hope was a powerful motivator. Below, the escape pod beckoned, a beacon of salvation amid the wreckage.

After ten minutes of wandering, every direction had begun to look the same, and you realised you were completely lost. The environment surrounding you was foreign and unsettling. Towering trees stretched upwards, their dense canopy blotting out the sunlight, casting eerie shadows on the forest floor. In any other situation, the sight of so much green might have filled you with wonder, but now it only fuelled a growing sense of dread. The trees seemed to form an endless, impenetrable maze, their rough bark and sprawling roots turning the simplest path into a twisting, treacherous journey. The ground itself was uneven, punctuated by sudden dips and rises that made it almost impossible to keep your bearings. Each step felt like a gamble, the threat of a hidden root or loose stone ready to trip you up. Back home, the landscape was flat and predictable. Though you hadn't ventured far on foot before, you were used to orderly paths, straight lines meticulously cut into the earth to accommodate the workers moving to and from the farms efficiently. 

A sharp crack of a twig snapping jarred you from your spiralling thoughts, yanking you back to the chilling reality. The shadowy forest had been alive with whispers, unsettling murmurs since your feet touched its floor, but none had felt this dangerously close before. Every instinct screamed at you to melt into silence, invisibility your only ally. From the depths of looming shadows came a shiver-inducing rustle, each footstep crunching against the brittle, leaf-carpeted earth as though the darkness prowled closer. Your heart hammered, an insistent drumbeat, forcing adrenaline through your veins. Every hair on your neck stood at rigid attention, a silent sentinel. With painstaking care, you eased your footsteps, each shift deliberates, ghost-like, until you were nestled beside a tree with bark rough against your back like armour. A dense bush nearby promised meagre shelter, a refuge slim and frail. You forced your breath into shallow, measured whispers, your lungs battling the urge to gulp air desperately. You tried to breathe slowly and quietly, fighting the urge to close your eyes, some childish part of your brain reasoning that if you couldn’t see it, then whatever was out there couldn’t see you.

 As the crunch of twigs and leaves echoed through the heavy air, the sound grew closer, sharpening your senses to their limits. It was as if the unseen entity were mirroring your desperate attempt at silence, creeping cautiously as though it were aware of your presence. The forest was alive with the symphony of its movements, each crack and rustle amplified in the stillness, weighing heavily on your heart. You could almost feel the tension in the air, thick with anticipation, as you fought to compose yourself, knowing that whatever lurked ahead was moving with a calculated stealth that could rival your own. You felt as though you were being hunted. 

With a sudden, jarring motion, the very bush you had counted on for cover was yanked away, exposing you to the daylight. Your heart skipped, expecting a monster, but instead, the figure that loomed in its place was far more unsettling, a man. His silhouette was familiar yet foreign, as the Commander of the ship stood before you, a weapon clutched in hands that looked neither welcoming nor hostile, just ready. His face, framed by the ghostly underbrush, mirrored your shock—eyes wide, jaw tense, as if he had stumbled upon a spectre. Time seemed to stop in that breathless stare; two worlds collided, both marooned in mutual disbelief. The spell broke as your instincts screamed louder. You spun away from him, adrenaline flooding your veins as you bolted, each stride an urgent leap over fallen timber, heedless of direction. All that mattered was the distance, the precious separation between you and the man who had emerged from the shadows with a gun.

“Hey, hey! Wait!” His voice cut through the frenzied air, urgent yet tinged with confusion, a desperate plea that echoed in your ears. It reached out to you across the space between, ricocheting off the trees, mingling with your racing heartbeat. Each syllable tugged at something deep within, a mix of fear and bewilderment that sent a shiver down your spine. But you couldn’t stop. You dared not stop.

  "Stop!" His voice pierced the air once more, alarmingly nearer than before, carrying with it an intensity that quickened your pace into a frenzy. Each footfall behind you resonated like a drumbeat, urging your legs to move faster, as every echoing step seemed to gain on you. The world around blurred into a disarray of shadows and sounds, as the urgency gripped you like an iron vice, refusing to relent. It felt as if the forest itself conspired to slow you down, branches clawing at your path while your instincts screamed for you to forge ahead, unyielding, unstoppable.

Panic thrummed through your veins, unused to the relentless pace, especially over such treacherous ground—roots like claws, mud eager to betray each step. Suddenly, the earth disappeared before you, a hidden dip swallowing your momentum, sending you tumbling headlong into the earth’s embrace. The crash was immediate, air stolen from your lungs as shadows danced dizzyingly. From behind, a guttural sound broke through your shock, a grunt. The Commander, in his relentless pursuit, had too been surprised by the treacherous terrain, plunging down with you.  

He landed with a thud in front of you, sprawled on his back against the gnarled tree, while you remained flat, face first against the forest floor. For a fleeting moment, you braced yourself, ready for him to speak, but his gaze flickered past you, drawn to something beyond. As your own eyes followed, the air thickened with a putrid scent, reminiscent of the hot composters back home, a foul reminder of decay and abandonment. You recoiled slightly, the stench clawing at your throat. He pushed himself upright, and you mirrored his movements, hearts pounding in sync as you both stared at the grotesque sight before you, a massive dead animal lay sprawled in the dirt, its features obscured by dirt and foliage. The silence around you felt heavy, pressing in on all sides, amplifying the reality of what lay just feet away. You found yourself wondering how such a large creature could die, and how big the animal that killed it was.

A deep, primal roar shattered the air behind you, a sound so powerful it reverberated in your bones, demanding your immediate attention. Your silent question of what could have killed the monster next to you was answered. You and the commander were jerked back to the terrifying present, as if waking from a deceptive dream. It was a roar that left no room for misinterpretation—a force of nature announcing its dominance. The oppressive air vibrated with each thundering footfall that approached, the ground beneath your feet trembling as if alive, the trees shivering in fear themselves, groaning under the immense weight of an unseen entity. The fleeting anxiety of moments ago escalated into full-blown terror at the unknown horror advancing relentlessly. Rocks cascaded down the hill towards you, dislodged by the sheer force, prompting you to instinctively step back, eyes darting to the gun on the commander's back. You felt as though every breath was borrowed, and each heartbeat echoed with the urgency of survival, your body screaming for action as dread wrapped icy fingers around your heart.

A strong hand grabbed your jacket, pulling you away just as the creature came into sight at the top of the hill. Without stopping, he dragged you along, making sure you understood the need to run. Side by side, you both took off, feet pounding against the ground. You followed him, trusting his lead even though you didn’t know which way you were going, just knowing you had to get away.

 “What’s your name?” he asked, his voice echoing slightly as he began clattering through the compartments around the galley. The sparsely lit space hummed with the ship's underlying mechanical rhythm, a low background noise of whirring fans and intermittent beeps. Stainless-steel surfaces reflected the dim lighting, and the scent of antiseptic and stale air lingered. Offering a semblance of order among the chaotic assortment of supplies, the cupboards held a jumble of ration packs and maintenance tools. He turned to look at you when you didn’t answer, his eyes searching yours under the muted lights. “Your name?” he pressed again, placing a water bottle, covered in residual condensation, down on the metal counter.

The realisation hit like a sudden wave, an awareness of the deep thirst that had quietly crept up on you, now palpable in the parched texture of your tongue. Your eyes fixated on the bottle, droplets of condensation glistening tantalisingly in the dim light, its contents promising relief. Silence stretched between you both.

“Okay,” he said, as he dragged another chair with an audible scrape, positioning it firmly in front of you. His movements were deliberate, as if establishing a careful balance of power in the room. “Let’s find out who you are.” He clattered a tray down on the metal table beside you, the sound echoing sharply in the otherwise still air. The tray boasted an array of disorganised tools and devices, gleaming under the muted lights, all speaking of functionality over comfort. “What’s your passenger number?” he asked brusquely, flipping open a worn logbook. His fingers moved deftly, skimming over pages yellowed with age, yet his eyes never strayed far from watching your reaction.

You clenched your jaw as you looked at him but again didn’t say anything. He was pretty, not what you had expected; his features striking and almost delicate, framed by the soft glow of the dim lighting. His warm brown eyes held a depth that seemed to reflect an understanding beyond his years, while his long hair fell just above his shoulders in gentle waves, catching the light and giving him an almost ethereal quality. He was young too, possibly around your age, which made the situation feel all the more surreal. The facial hair he sported had once seemed neatly groomed, but now it bore the marks of neglect, suggesting he hadn’t bothered to tidy it up for a few days, adding a rugged edge to his otherwise pretty face. There was an air of vulnerability about him, yet also an undeniable strength that intrigued you despite your anxiety.

He flipped through the book with practiced ease, the pages whispering secrets from their timeworn edges before he snapped it shut, his gaze returning to you with a hint of curiosity and suspicion. “There wasn’t a number on your pod, and it was an older model,” he stated, his voice carrying the weight of someone piecing together a fragmented puzzle. The room seemed to grow still, the ambient hum of the ship fading into the background as if giving way to the weight of his revelation. “If I didn’t know any better, then I would say that you aren’t where you’re supposed to be.” His eyes narrowed slightly, deepening the shadows that danced across his features, as though he was trying to decipher your mystery, weighing options and consequences in the silence that hung between you.

You clenched your jaw once more, your gaze drifting down to your hand, with a mixture of frustration and pain simmering beneath your skin. The cut was jagged and raw, stretching defiantly along the side of your hand, a result of falling into the hole where the creature lay lifeless. The wound had started to scab over, a thin, fragile shield barely holding the skin together, yet each subtle movement sent fresh pinpricks of crimson welling up, tiny beads of blood blossoming along the wound like cruel little flowers.

“Let me look at your hand,” he said, his voice calm yet insistent as he reached towards you. You instinctively pulled away, cradling your injured hand with the other, a scowl darkening your features. The thought of anyone touching the tender, throbbing wound was unbearable, and your eyes held a mix of defiance and vulnerability. 

“My name is Mills. I was the pilot of this ship. I was transporting Cryopods and supplies to the new colonies before we crashed. You have been in Cryostasis for,” he signed. “A long time.” He held out his hand to you, and reluctantly you placed your injured hand in his palm. “The navigation system is gone. I don’t know where we are. It’s uncharted.” He continued as he carefully turned your hand and with his free hand moved a device close to it. White liquid squirted out from it onto your wound. It stung, and you moved to pull your hand away. “There is an escape vessel.” You looked up at him. “So, you can understand me.” he said with a soft smile.

“Yes.” You replied as he let go of your hand.

“You’re not supposed to be on this ship.” He said, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms.

His shirt was snug against his frame, hugging his muscular build as he shifted in his seat. You noticed the definition of his biceps, the way his shoulders seemed to broaden with each movement, and the hint of a six-pack under his shirt. He exuded an air of strength and fitness that was difficult to ignore. When you remained silent, he continued, his voice steady, “There’s a no tolerance policy for stowaways, they are to be-“

“Shot when they are discovered.” You finished, holding his gaze for a moment before glancing towards the weapon on the table behind him. “So, is that what you’re going to do Mills, shoot me?” You asked, returning your gaze to his.

"The escape vessel hangs high above the mountains; that is our only hope of returning home." He continued to scrutinise you from head to toe.

“Our?” 

“Yes, our.”

“They will check my ID as soon as the escape vessel is picked up, and I will be shot on site,” you said, your voice harsh. Your eyes darted between his, searching for any flicker of reassurance in his expression as you struggled to comprehend the dire gravity of your situation.

“Not if we tell, then you are someone else.” He said with a small smile.

“They wouldn’t believe us.”

“They wouldn’t believe you. I have no reason to lie about survivors. Then, when we stop at the nearest planet, you can disappear into the crowds.” Mills said, his voice laced with conviction.

“Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why bother to save me?”

“It’s a fair few kilometres to the escape pod, and well, you saw that creature out there. There are others too. I really don’t want to make that sort of journey alone.” He said, unfolding his arms and resting his hands on his thighs.

“How do I know you won’t shoot me when we get to the escape pod?”

“You have my word.”

“What good is the word of a stranger?” you asked, skepticism evident in your voice

He shrugged his shoulders, and you chewed the inside of your lip as you looked at him. He had saved you from the Cryochamber. You had an older model, it was true, and you knew that it couldn’t be opened from the inside and then there was the matter of how you ended up inside the ship. By your calculations, there were more than enough opportunities for him to kill you.

“What the hell kind of planet do you think this is?” you asked, plucking a seed bud from the crest of a towering, sun-drenched flower, its petals a vibrant orange that stood out amidst the lush greenery of the grass field you were traversing. The warm breeze carried the whisper of distant wildlife, adding to the surreal beauty of the alien landscape.

“No idea, but I really don’t like the local wildlife.” he replied, his gaze darting towards a rustle in the bushes, as if the very thought of the unknown creatures made him uneasy. His grip on the weapon tightened, a subconscious acknowledgment of the danger lurking beyond the vivid flora. 

Mills had not stopped scanning the area surrounding the two of you since you had left the ship, his gun held tight against his chest like a lifeline. His focus was unwavering, every step calculated as he navigated the uneven ground with a sense of ease that hinted at years of survival experience. Despite the intense heat causing sweat to glisten on his brow, he maintained a pace that was both quick and steady, betraying no sign of fatigue.

“Well, if it is truly undiscovered, then we could get a fat chunk of change for discovering it,” you continued, as the two of you ventured deeper into the dense tree line. The shadows stretched longer as you walked, the air cooler and filled with the earthy scents of moss and damp foliage. “Hell, I don’t think this place would even need terraforming.”

“I don’t think this place would be suitable for a colony,” Mills replied, his eyes scanning the wild growth around you with a critical eye. The entangled vines and towering trees spoke of a land that thrived on its terms, chaotic and untouched by civilisation. 

The foliage in the field had been sparse, allowing for clear lines of sight in all directions, but stepping into the forest was like diving into another world altogether. The trees stood numerous and chaotic, their trunks weaving into a dense tapestry without any semblance of order. Moss clung to their bark as if trying to pull them into the ground. Thick foliage blanketed the forest floor, a tangled carpet of thorns, leaves, and hidden roots that threatened to trip the unwary with every step. Above, the canopy formed a patchwork quilt of light and shadow, the sun's rays piercing through in thin, golden beams that highlighted motes of dust dancing in the air. The air hung heavy with the scent of rich, damp earth mixed with a hint of sweet decay, and the occasional calls of distant creatures echoed eerily, amplifying the sense of mystery and hinting at the unseen life lurking just out of sight.

There was a sudden, thunderous roar to the left, reverberating through the trees and sending a shiver down your spine. It was deeper, more menacing than the previous cries you'd heard—a primal sound that hinted at a creature of unimaginable size and ferocity. Mills didn’t waste a second, swiftly raising his gun, resting his cheek against it to steady his aim, his face a mask of concentration and tension. He advanced with a quick, deliberate step, every movement exuding the experience of someone well-versed in danger. With a silent yet urgent gesture, he signalled for you to continue moving. As he retreated, Mills kept the gun firmly trained on the direction of the roar, his eyes scanning for any shadow or flicker of movement. You obeyed, forcing your legs to move against the paralysing weight of fear, cautiously stepping away from the unseen threat that seemed to stalk just beyond the veil of greenery. The forest, once alive with background noise, felt eerily silent, amplifying the heart-pounding thud of your pulse.

“Distance to escape vessel, 24 kilometres,” intoned the robotic voice, its calm precision a sharp contrast to the adrenaline-charged atmosphere. The announcement came just as Mills deemed it safe to pause, his decision a tacit acknowledgment that the two of you had gained enough distance from whatever had unleashed that terrifying roar.

“Fuck,” you whispered, leaning forward and placing your hands on your thighs, trying to take in larger gulps of air. The relentless heat clung to your skin like a sticky shroud, each breath feeling heavy and laborious. “We have only walked 4 kilometres.” The realisation cut sharply, your eyes sweeping over the parched vegetation.

The climate on this planet was oppressively hot and sticky, a pervasive humidity that seemed to seep into every pore, sapping energy with each step. The vegetation reflected this as well, appearing dry and brittle, leaves curled in on themselves as if trying to conserve as much moisture as possible. Dust stirred underfoot with every movement, clinging to your boots as a constant reminder of the parched conditions. Mills glanced away from his gun long enough to assess you. Sweat trickled down his temples, yet he remained remarkably composed, his endurance and conditioning allowing him to weather the demanding journey with seemingly unshakable stoicism.

“What planet do you come from?” he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity and perhaps a hint of weariness. You stood, placing your hands on your hips, drawing a deep, calming breath as if preparing to share a piece of yourself you hadn’t revealed in a long time.

“Strars 6Y7-5G39, a colony planet.” You replied, moving to sit down on a fallen tree.

“So new, they haven’t even given it a real name,” he said, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek. His eyes seemed to scan the horizon, as if trying to imagine the vast, unnamed potential of such a place.

“Yep, we haven’t even got sunlight through the clouds yet. It's like living under a constant, dreary blanket. All it ever does is rain. The Company says it will take at least twenty years before the sun pokes through, and likely another ten after that for them to finish stripping resources and make it habitable,” you replied, pulling your shirt away from your body and flapping it slightly, hoping to send some cooler air up underneath. 

“How long?” he asked, his voice carrying a soft note of empathy

“How long what?”

“How long have you been on that planet?” he asked, his gaze shifting once more to take in the alien landscape around you. There was a cautious curiosity in his voice, as if he was trying to piece together the story of your life through the fragmented history etched in your words. 

“All my life,” you replied, your voice carrying the weight of years spent under someone else's thumb. “I was born on Sanrohines, a tropical planet that was as lush with debt as it was with greenery. My family ran into financial trouble, and my dad did what he had to do to pay it off. With the Company, the only currency they care for is time—servitude in hours and years.”

“How much time do you owe?”

“You ask a lot of fucking questions, you know that?” You replied a little frustrated.

“Well, I am about to lie to the company rescue ship that’s going to pick us up. I think knowing a little more than your name would be useful.”

You sighed and looked away from him, the weight of unspoken memories pressing upon your shoulders. He was right. But knowing that didn't make divulging your history any easier. It was a story woven with struggle and sacrifice, threads you weren't sure you were ready to unravel for him.

“My parents owed, thirty years each. Mum died after five and dad after seven. A new round of illnesses got them, the older you are, the worse it seems to be. I inherited their time, but for decedents the time is quartered. So, I owed twelve years.”

“You look old enough to have paid that off.”

“Hey, that’s rude.” You retorted.

He shrugged in response.

“Due to illness and people dying in the mines, my tenure was extended.”

“By how much?”

“Fifteen years.”

His head snapped around to you with an intensity that broke through the surrounding silence. You squinted up at him, instinctively shielding your eyes from the sun as curiosity and a hint of challenge danced in his gaze. The stark reaction suggested a shared understanding of the gravity of your circumstances.

“They can just add fifteen years just like that?”

“Who's gonna stop them, the only people that operate on colony planets are The Company and smugglers.” You shrugged.

 “That’s who got you on the ship?” he asked, his attention now more focused on you than the surrounding area. His gaze was steady and searching, like a spotlight cutting through the dense foliage around you. The slight rustle of leaves and distant calls of unseen creatures faded into the background as his question hung in the humid air between you, casting a sharper light on the path you'd taken to get here.

“Yep, I worked on the farms, where tending to those beds of leafy greens wasn’t just for sustenance but survival. Fresh veg on the black market sells for a killing. It’s funny how something so small can have such a big price tag in this universe. Then they packed me up nice and cold in a Cryo chamber before shipping me off on your vessel. If you hadn’t crashed, well, maybe I’d be somewhere sipping cocktails now, a free woman.” You clapped your hands together, and stood stretching.

“I didn’t crash.” He muttered., moving away from you.

“Sure, you didn’t; you just fancied a leisurely stroll in this creepy creature hellhole,” you joked, your voice laced with playful sarcasm. The dense foliage rustled softly underfoot as you followed the path he'd set, the dimming light casting long shadows that flickered and danced with each step.

A Link to My Complete Inventory

A/N: I might add more to this at a later date.

[the-unidentified-author]

After Pain Comes Pleasure | Din Djarin | The Mandalorian

Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW], frustrated, rough, needy, words, smut, minors DNI, a little rough, consensual!, fingering, cunnilingus

Summary: This is a deleted chapter from my long mando fic, looking back I just don’t think it suits the pace of the story. Heres the link to the fic . You have just helped patch up a wound for Din and he returns the favour but with a little bit of pain comes pleasure.

Word Count: 3,114

Not my gif, if its yours and you would like me to remove it just ask <3

A small sound drew your attention away from the cut on your thigh, and you looked up and froze, the helmet of the Mandalorian was no longer tilted against the metal wall behind him. He was sitting up, the black T-shape of his helmet trained on you.

A few long seconds drew out in the silence between you before you finally gave in to the urge to speak, to explain yourself.

“I’m…” you looked down at the laser in your hand, then to the gash on your thigh and then back to him. “Trying to cauterise my wound?” You replied, your voice small and quiet, almost as though you, yourself, were unsure of what you were really doing.

The helmet moved from your face to your legs, when you suddenly remembered that your trousers were now resting around your knees. You looked down at your leg and then back to the Mandalorian. He stood up slowly, pushing his back up against the wall. aHe let out a pained grunt but took a step towards you anyway.  His tunic was still open at the front, with half of his armour discarded to his side.

 You watched him, the laser tool still hovering inches from your cut, as his hands moved to the straps holding his armour to his body. He moved quickly the actions familiar to him, removing the other shoulder cap and then both elbow caps on each arm. He then tugged at the top of each finger of his left glove, before pulling it off entirely and dropping it to the floor. Seeming entirely unfazed where his armour ended up, only that it was removed from his body. Then he repeated the action on the other hand. Removing all his armour above the waist until the only thing left on his upper body was the tunic open down the middle. You watched him, completely captivated, watching the muscles on his stomach flex as he moved. Then, he pulled the tunic off his body, the blood that had soaked it leaving a smear across his arm. It lay to rest on the floor with the rest of his armour.

“How bad is it?” He asked, breaking you from your trance as he stepped towards you. There he stood in the dim light of the ship, toned chest and arms, delicious sun kissed skin. You wanted to reach out and touch him. He was a killer, his body sculpted by the training it took to take a life. 

“Um…” you looked down at the gash on your thigh. The question he had asked, finally registering as you realised you had been staring. Every moment you made had fresh blood dribbling out of the wound. “Not deep.”

“Then why haven’t you closed it?” He asked, having moved close enough to look down at the wound.

You fought the urge to pull your trousers back up to cover the wound, but you would only have to go through the agony of pulling them back down again. You looked down at your thigh and then back up at the glass of the helmet.

“I, um.” You pressed your lips together. “I’m struggling.” You whispered in defeat, wiggling the laser cauteriser in your hand as if it would help your case.

“Would you like me to do it for you?” He asked, a spark of something in his voice that you couldn’t place. 

You swallowed, suddenly unable to look at him. The idea of his hands on your body sending your mind to places it didn’t need to be.

“Let me,” he said, perhaps realising that you weren’t about to answer. Stepping even closer, making your breath catch in your throat as his hand cupped yours, taking the tool from it. His hands were large and warm, and even the slightest graze of his flesh sent your heart into a frenzy. For a moment, you wondered if you could blame your fluttering heart on your wound, but it was neither deep enough nor jagged enough to have such an effect on your body. No, your blood pressure was skyrocketing because of the Mandalorian.

“I don’t think I can do this with my helmet on.” He said the helmet down at you with a small shake of his head.

You could barely hear the words he was saying over the sound of your racing heart.

“It's okay,” you whispered. “I can do it myself.” 

You reached out for the tool, trying to keep your breathing steady, still trying to deny the way he has your body behaving. 

“No, I didn’t mean…” he stood up and moved to the storage unit to your left, opening it and pulling something from the compartment, a thick black strip of fabric. A frown of confusion only slipped onto your face for a moment before you realised he was intending for you to put it on as a blindfold.

“If you put this on, I can take off my helmet and I can stop you slowly bleeding to death.” He said, you could hear the small smile at the end of the sentence.

You looked from the helmet to the black rag he held up in his hand and nodded. There was no way you were going to be able to close the wound by yourself, it wasn’t deep, but it was long. If the Mandalorian struggled to keep his cool as you closed his, there would be no way you could inflict that amount of pain on yourself. 

He moved closer to you, instinctively, you tried to part your legs, but your trousers stopped you. Closing your eyes, you allowed him to tie the dark fabric around your head, and just like that, one of your senses was taken away. You felt the air swirl as he moved away from you, then you heard, the sound of metal hitting metal a soft thud.  The helmet being placed down.   “I'm going to have to take your trousers off to patch you up, is that okay?” Came a crisp, gruff, baritone voice, no longer distorted by the modulator inside a helmet. 

If it was possible for your heart to beat out of your chest, then that would be the moment such a thing would happen. You nodded your head, barely resisting the question at all, just wanting to hear more of his voice. Wanting him to be close to you. Rough fingertips found the outside of your thighs, then you felt the fabric of your trousers move downwards over your knees and to the middle of your calf, where they stopped.

“I'm going to take off your boots.” He said this time it didn’t come out as a question, but there was a pause to allow you to answer. 

Words didn’t want to leave your lips, so you resorted to a nod. You felt the laces of your boots untie and a small tug and your boot came off, then the same sensation on the other foot. You could hear your breathing, it was unsteady and almost ragged, and you hoped that he would assume it was from the pain of your wound and not because of him. The same rough hands brushed against your outer calf, and your legs were suddenly free of the confides of your trousers. You pushed your legs together impulsively, feeling suddenly exposed. But, the cut on your leg burned as your other thigh pushed against it.

“Stop, you’ll make it worse,” came the gruff voice again, this time it was from a lower angle and your mind stumbled over the conclusion he was kneeling in front of you. Hands were on your knees pushing your legs gently, slowly, back apart. You could feel the heat of him moving between your thighs. You tried to think about anything but how close he was to you. A rough but gentle hand gripped your thigh, so close, too close to the edge of your underwear. You winced, and you felt his thumb rub gentle circles in your skin in an attempt to sooth you. Then you began to feel the beat of your heart in an entirely different place.

“I’ll go as fast as I can, if you need me to stop, just say the word.” Came that voice again. That beautifully, deep, husky voice that made you want to reach out and touch him. 

 But you held strong, clutching at the end of the bunk either side of you until the metal dug into your palm almost painfully. You tried to think of anything but the pain that was about to come, you focused on him. Imagining what position he was in between your legs. Was he crouched down in a squat or on his knees, sitting back on his heels? The way the low light of the ship must illustrate the carved muscles of his shoulders.

A sudden sharp stab of pain sliced through your thoughts, and you moved to push your thighs closed at the intense burn. Your right thigh pushed against something solid. Him. And the hand on your left thigh pushed against you, easily stopping you from crushing him between your legs. Then there was another sharp pain a little further along the cut, and you realised he was only sealing the cut in specific places along the length of it. The same way that you would have used staples if you had any. Your breath quickened, the relief that this would be less painful than your fist though being robbed from you as there was another flash of pain and a burning sensation. You felt his thumb trace circles on your inner thigh once again, soothing you as another jolt of fire radiated up from your thigh. Biting your lip in an attempt to stifle a whimper, you threw your head back towards the ceiling and clenched your jaw as another zap of pain made you clench the muscles in your thigh.

“Good girl, you’re almost there.” Came a whisper from between your legs.

Your breathing became a little more rapid, you knew he meant the cut was almost closed, but you couldn’t help your mind wandering to places where the main theme was pleasure, not pain. Another bolt of fire and your hand moved to him. Without thinking, your hand grasped the back of his head. Fingers intertwined in soft curls, your mind fumbling trying to think of what colour they were. Given his tanned complexion, you put your money on brunette. He stiffened under your hand and for a moment, you thought that he would push your hand away, that you had broken an unwritten rule. But, he made no moment to shake your hand from his head. Another zap of pain, his hand moved from your thigh. And you returned your hand to the edge of the cot, afraid you might tear out his hair from the agony. 

Your skin prickled into goose bumps as the cool air was replaced with the warmth of his hand. Your knuckles were white against the edge of the bed, and you could feel sweat beading on your forehead. Another zap, and you almost cried out, wondering how long it would be until he was done. You couldn’t remember how far down your thigh the cut was, and you were unable to use your eyes to check. The blindfold kept you shrouded in darkness, your eyes unable to show your brain how far down the gash he had managed to seal. Squeezing the end of the bunk, the sensation of the sharp edge pulling some pain from your thigh away.

As if to answer your unspoken question, you felt him shift between your legs. A warm hand caressing the outside of your calf before tracing upwards and cradling the underside of your knee. You braced yourself for another jolt of pain, but the sensation wasn’t pain. Instead, you felt an oh so soft touch against the inside of your thigh. It took you a moment to register that it was a whisper of a kiss, just a few inches from your knee. You felt his other hand slowly move its way up your other calf until it too came to rest on the underside of your other knee. A kiss mirrored in the same place but on that leg. You held your breath for a moment, all memory of the torture of minutes ago fading away. Replaced by a new much more welcome torment. You were no longer begging for it to end, but for him to continue.

“If you want me to stop, just say the word” came that low voice, this time a whisper, his breath tickling your thigh a little higher than the first kiss had been. Echoing the statement he had made minutes ago, but its meaning different now.

You hoped his eyes were watching your face as you pressed your lips tightly together. A moment later, another kiss was delicately, cautiously planted on your inner thigh a little higher than the one before. You felt him move between your legs, and then he mirrored the kiss once again on the other side, then again on the other higher. They were careful, cautious, as though at any moment he was expecting you to push his head away in rejection. His hands move upwards, the roughness of them against your skin moving up the outside of your thighs, and you found yourself wondering how a man capable of such violence could be so soft with you. His hands callused, used to movements that would cause pain.

 Small delicate touches from his lips continued upwards, he took care to place them around your wound. As though he were apologising for the hurt he had inflicted there minutes earlier. He moved closer. His broad shoulders pushing your legs yet wider apart. Then you felt the warmth of his breath against your underwear, he placed another deliciously delicate kiss on the skin of your thigh just before the line on your underwear. It was another question, he was asking for permission to go further. 

“Please,” you whispered, surprised at how ragged, how pitiful the word sounded as it left your lips.

You felt another kiss against the inside of your thigh, and you could feel him smile against your skin and his hands moved further up your thighs. Then his fingers found the sides of your underwear, he looped his fingers under the fabric, but he didn’t move.

“Remember, you can tell me to stop,” he whispered, and you resisted the urge to buck your hips up into his face, yearning to feel his touch between your legs.

“Please don’t.” you begged, cringing at how pathetic the words sounded.

He evidently didn't find you pathetic, as he pulled slowly, on the sides of your underwear. Pulling them down. You lifted yourself with your arms so he could get the underwear down under the curve of your butt. He was careful not to touch the fabric to your cut. The cold air hit your now exposed flesh, and you felt goose bumps rise on your skin as he moved and pulled the underwear over and off your legs, discarding it somewhere unseen. You felt exposed and moved to close your legs again but, this time he was between them stopping you before firm hands pushed them back apart. He didn’t say anything, and that made your heart hammer in your chest as you contemplated snatching off the blindfold. Then you felt his arms wrapping around your thighs and then the smooth warm skin of his shoulders underneath your legs.

“Lie back.” He commanded. 

You did as you were told.

The soft mattress of the bunk cradling your body as he cradled your legs. Then you felt his mouth on you, hungry and determined. Your hands found his hair, and you couldn’t stop a moan escaping your lips, which seemed to motivate him even more. His lips moved quickly, tongue flicking out expertly circling your clit, sending shockwaves of pleasure radiating through you. 

“Oh my stars, Mando!” You muttered, and he stopped.

You wriggled hoping the sensation would return any moment, but instead you felt his breath against you.

“Use my name.” Came his voice deep and commanding.

You wished that you could look down between your legs and see the eyes of Din Djarin, his beautiful, perhaps, brown curls sitting on his forehead. Lips wet with your sex, as he asked you to moan his name. 

“Din,” you whispered, your voice hoarse and needy. “Please.” 

His lips returned to you, and you bucked your hips up at his mouth wanting more, needing more. One of his hands snaked around your body, cupping the curve of your ass and squeezing gently. The other hand found one of your hands tangled in his hair. For a moment, you thought that perhaps you had hurt him, pulled a little too hard in an attempt to find something to hold on to. But to your surprise, he took your hand in his, interlocking your fingers hands moving to rest on your hip as his mouth devoured you. 

You felt a heat rising in the pit of your stomach and your moans became more desperate, more needy. His hand lets yours go, and you felt it again on you circling your entrance as his mouth attacked your clit, building the foundations of your climax. 

“Please.” You begged again, wondering if you had ever uttered the word so many times in your life as his finger traced another agonising circle around where you wanted it to be. 

You felt him smile against you before he pulled away, you whined at the sudden movement before you felt his finger push into you and curl up towards your belly button. Gasping, your back arched, the new sensation threatening to take you to the edge. Then his mouth was back on you. Finger and tongue, working the same rhythm. Building you up with a determination that made you believe he enjoyed the art of making you come.

“Oh my stars.” you whispered, one hand grabbing the sheet, the other tangling deep into his hair.

He didn’t stop. 

He didn’t change pace. 

He didn’t let up. 

A bounty had never evaded him.

He had never failed.

He sure as hell wasn’t about to now.

Just like that, he took you to the edge, a wave of pleasure that ripped through you in a way you had never felt before. His finger slowed, and his lips moved over you, enjoying the reward of his hard work, before once again his lips abandoned you to the cool air of the ship.

A Link to My Complete Inventory

[the-unidentified-author]

Are We Living, Just to Die? | Marcus Acacius | Gladiator II

Chapter 3: Pretty Men Make Good Distractions From Dangerous Plots

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 - Comming soon

One or more parts in this story will include the following:

Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW], smut, minors DNI, new relationship, arguments, harsh words, longing, Graphic depictions of violence, Canon typical Violence, bad opionions on women that would have been the norm at the time, talk of Stds, Madness, Cruely, Animal Cruelty, Gladiators, fighting, blood and gore, injury description, p in v, creampie, cum play, a little rough, Cunnilingus, fingering, consensual!, hes a big man, orgasm denial, one orgasm after another 🚨SLOW BURN🚨

Summary: BRED FOR COMBAT. BUILT FOR WAR. Aurellia lives in the shadows of her brothers, the tyrant twin Emperors. When a General returns for war and shows her kindness she is not used to she begins to fall for him. Not realising that she is stepping right into a conspiracy to depose her brothers and save Rome from their violent rule. Will love and hope to prevail or will the carefully laid plans fall through, causing defeat and ruin for all involved?

Not my gif, if its yours and you would like me to remove it just ask <3

Previous Chapter

“Oh, must I attend, Melissa? I really don’t think I can bear another evening of my brothers speaking as though they had any part in the Generals' conquest of Numidia.” Whined, Aurellia plonking herself down on her bed and then throwing herself backwards so that she was lying down on it. “I really don’t think I can stomach, listening to how many people were killed. And for what, so they can have their names in the history books.”

“I’m afraid that your brothers insist on your attendance.” Melissa, said, picking up a pitcher of oil and moving from the room to the bathroom, attached to her suite in the place.

“Gods, I wish that things would go back to the way they once were. When they would play their games and leave me out of them.” She moaned, moving her arm so that her forearm was covering her eyes.

“I hope history writes of them the way that they are, not the most powerful men in the world but rather mad little boys that go feral at the sight of blood.” She mumbled.

“You know why they have decided to include you, don’t you?” Said Melissa. The old woman walked back into the room, standing in the middle of it, folding her arms and looking down at the girl.

Melissa had been gifted as a slave to her mother by her father. Her mother had offered her freedom many a time, but the woman had always refused. Saying that being owned by the family offered her protection from the people of her past that intended to harm her. When Aurellia’s mother had died, the ownership of the female slave had fallen to her. She, as her mother had done, offered the woman freedom, and then employment. But just as she had in the past, she declined, again repeating that she needed the protection of the family. Aurellia had argued countless times that the people who intended to harm her were likely long dead, and if not, then forgotten whatever sins she had committed in her youth. But Melissa simply laughed and told her that she had no intention of leaving. Now she was alone in the world with no one but her evil brothers for company.

“Yes, because I am their only threat to the throne. They need to ensure that people see that we are united.” Recited Aurellia for what felt like the thousandth time.

She sat up on the bed, swinging her legs and watching the woman fuss around with the petals on the table. There is an array of colours, all of them in different ornate bowls. Melissa picked up a handful of one and then a sprinkle of another, trying to get the perfect mixture for Aurellia’s bath.

“You need to follow them and do as they say, until the time is right for you to overthrow them.” Said Melissa at a volume that made Aurellia cringe.

Aurellia sprung from the bed, her finger pressed to her lips, in an attempt to hush Mellissa. As though the action alone would make the words retreat into her mouth, away from dangerous ears. Her light dressing gown fluttering around her, only secured to her body by a tie at the waist. She looked around the room as though guards were going to spring from the delicate curtains of the windows and arrest them.

“You must take care, and not say such dangerous words at such volume.” She said as the old woman turned to her and looked her in the eye.

“The time is coming now, Aurellia and you need to be prepared. There is a plan in play.” the woman's words had a harsher tone to them, not in the way that would be considered scornful, but rather words that were intent on warning the recipient.

“I have no desire to rule Rome, only to be free of my brothers.” Whispered Aurellia, searching the woman's features for any hint of what she was talking about. “I know not of what plan you are talking about, but I do know that it doesn’t involve me. Good luck to whoever claims the throne.”

“Regardless of whether you are or are not involved. The people who are loyal to your brothers will believe you to be behind it. The-“ she stopped, almost slipping up and spilling the name of the man behind it. “The man orchestrating it is well aware of the danger you will be in and has made sure that you will be safe during and following his war against the current Emperors of Rome.”

“Melissa, why are you telling me this now, do you mean for us to escape now?” She queried, looking around the room. “Have you packed?” She asked, grasping the woman’s arm. "Are we to be free of this place tonight?"

“No, you are not to escape tonight. You are to stay here and act as though everything is normal.”

“How am I to act as though everything is normal now you have told me that it isn’t. You should have just not told me at all. Gods, maybe you could tell me who is behind it so that I might be put a little at ease?”

“I can’t, if it goes wrong, and it is revealed you know anything about this plan you will be killed by your brothers. You know what they are capable of, that is not a fate I would let you meet. I promised your mother.” Said Melissa, pulling her hands from the grasp of Aurellia and busying herself again mixing the petals together in the bowl in front of her.

Aurellia studied the old woman’s worn features for a few minutes, but the woman didn’t give up any more information.

“Would you kill me?” asked Aurellia, looking at the woman, this time with measured compassion on her face.

Melissa turned to her, a little shock evident on her face.

“If it were to spare you from the fate your brothers would condemn you to, yes. But only if you asked.” said Melissa, her old eyes somehow seeming warm even though her words carried such weight.

“Great,” Muttered Aurellia, her eyes falling to the floor. “Now I really don’t want to go to dinner.” She whispered, sitting on the chair next to the table Melissa was working on.

“General Acacius will be there.” Said Melissa, not taking her eyes from the petals as she lifted the lid of a pot and grabbed some herbs out of it to sprinkle into the mix.

A smile made its way onto the woman’s thin lips, but she didn’t look in the direction of Aurellia.

“Why would that make a difference to me?” Asked, Aurellia looking away from the woman in the hope that she wouldn’t see the blush on her face.

“Well if I were going to dinner, sitting next to a man like him would certainly make a more fun affair.” Smiled Melissa, her tone taking on a hint of something Aurellia couldn’t place.

“I have had enough stories of war, I really don’t have the patience to listen to any more.”

“I certainly would if they were coming from the lips of a man as fine as him.” Smiled Melissa, finally seeming happy with her mixture of petals.

“I can’t say I have noticed, my time with him was short.” Said Aurellia standing up and untying and retying her dressing gown.

“I got, but a glimpse of the man gilded in gold, but that was enough for me to see why every woman in Rome wants a piece of him.” Smiled Melissa.

“Well, perhaps he might be a welcome distraction from the dangerous plot you speak of but refuse to fully inform me of.”

“Come now, my child, let's also give the General something pretty to look at so he too can make it through the dinner with your insufferable brothers.” She smiled, picking up the bowl in one hand and linking her other arm with Aurellia’s.

A Link to My Complete Inventory

[the-unidentified-author]

Use Your Words | Cregan Stark | House of the Dragon

Cregan Stark x Female Wife Reader

Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW}, smut, minors DNI, established relationship, Cunnilingus, fingering, consensual!, hes a big man, one orgasm after another, Cregan on his knees, a little bit of roughness, mention of Alcohol, frustrated reader, Biting? ...

Summary: You're the wife of Cregan Stark and he helps ease a little frustration you're feeling.

A/N: Thank you to that RAT BASTARD (in a loving caring way) on here who wrote about Cregan tying up his hair before he eats out his wife, I have been able to think of literally nothing else. This Fic is entirely inspired by your lil post. Now I can’t remember your user name but I demand you reveal yourself (jk only if you want to girly pop)!

Word Count: 3,336

Not my gif, if its yours and you would like me to remove it just ask <3

You let out a deep sigh and threw your quill down, sinking back into the worn leather of your chair, feeling every creak it made under your movements. Your eyes, tired and strained, you rubbed them gently, trying to massage away the pain caused by the long hours spent squinting at parchment. The candle next to you flickered with a final dance, its wax dribbling into a small puddle, threatening to extinguish itself as the shadows began to creep in. You were far from done with the daunting task of addressing invitations to the seemingly endless names on Cregan's list. The night had already drawn in, and you wanted nothing more than to sleep, but there was still so much to do.

The room was dim, the fire in the hearth now a mere glow, its embers laboriously clinging to life, whispered memories of flames, silently begging for another log to reignite their fervour. The faint, jubilant cheers of men resonated through the stone corridors from Cregan's bustling feast; it was a symphony of boisterous laughter and clinking tankards, hints of celebration murmured among the echoes. They had finally conquered the hunt, returning triumphantly with deer, the spoils of their tireless adventures in the wilderness.

Cregan, always the visionary, had decreed a grand feast to herald the upcoming weekend, with promises—rumbling like the laughter from below—that it would be the day he returned home with the great winter stag, that had eluded him on the last three hunts. The very thought made you clench your teeth, a mix of envy and longing to be part of such adventures, yet tethered to this desk with duties that seemed to multiply by the minute. Still, you leaned forward, picking up the quill once more, determined to drown out the sounds of the celebrations and finish your task before you retired to bed.

The sound of footsteps echoed up the corridor towards you, their pace loud and hurried, a sharp contrast to the slow crackle of the dying fire. Heavy boots against stone, each step seemed to vibrate through the walls, accompanying the ghostly flicker of firelight. You placed your hands flat on the desk, feeling the rough grain beneath your fingers, and stood up with a sense of anticipation. You steeled yourself, ready to unleash your pent-up frustrations on whatever unfortunate soul dared interrupt you.

With a loud crash, the door swung open in one swift motion, slamming against the stone wall with a resounding thud that echoed through the chamber. It threatened to rebound and strike the intruder, but a strong-arm shot out, stopping its swing by placing his hand flat against the ancient wood. A large hand, calloused from years of swinging weapons and weathering the elements, steadied the ancient wood against the wall.

The figure that filled the doorway was unmistakably your husband, Cregan Stark. His presence seemed to command the room, as if even the shadows bowed to his entrance. The dying light of the fire danced across his broad shoulders and rugged features, highlighting the strength and vigour that made him a leader among men—a hunter triumphant. His eyes, bright with the thrill of victory, found yours, sparking a familiar blend of emotions that simmered beneath your practiced composure.

"Wife!" he bellowed, a great smile spreading across his face as he laid eyes on you. "I have found you at last." He seemed a little drunk, something else that irritated you. Here you were slaving away, and he was doing nothing but partying and celebrating.

His presence was like a gust of wind forcing its way into your sanctuary, stirring the air with energy and purpose. Despite the warmth that spread through you at seeing him—a warmth that radiated from the heart, unwelcome at this time, yet familiar. You fought to keep a semblance of calm on your face, reminding yourself that he was the reason you had such a mountainous number of tasks to do.

"Cregan," you replied, rolling your eyes and slumping back down into the chair.

He strolled into the room with an effortless ease, a man at home in his surroundings, but noticeably absent from his usual assortment of garments. His cloak and sword, which typically adorned his broad back, were nowhere to be seen. Instead, he wore only his boots, trousers, and a casual shirt. The strings that normally fastened the top were loose, offering a tantalising glimpse of his strong chest beneath. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing muscular forearms crisscrossed with veins, you tried to stop yourself from staring.

In one hand, he carried a tankard of ale, droplets of condensation working their way down its sides. As he surveyed the room, his eyes landed on the dwindling fire. With natural grace, he stooped to pick up a piece of wood, and with a practiced flick of his wrist, he tossed the large log with ease onto the embers. The fire responded with a sizzle and a new burst of warmth, casting flickering shadows that played across his stupidly beautiful features. He turned to you, his face still twisted into a smile. Then he moved towards you, stepping around the desk and leaning backwards against it.

"How are you, wife?" He asked, taking a swig from his drink. "Why are you not enjoying the festivities below?"

You scowled at him, "Well, someone has to plan your feast." you argued, anger boiling up at of you. Not so much at him, but more so at the amount of work he seemingly didn’t realise he had given you.

"Ah that can wait, you should come with me." he reasoned, his hand moving to your shoulder and trailing, carefully down your arm until he held your hand in his.

"No it can’t, if you want the Lords to arrive on time, then I need to send the letters by tomorrow at the latest.” you snapped, pulling your hand from his.

His eyebrows creased into a frown as he looked down at you.

"Come on now, I will help you with them in the morning," he reasoned, placing his tankard on the desk next to him and standing.

You moved to resist his advances, turning your head as he leaned in to kiss you. You tried to create some distance between the two of you by standing and moving away from him, but a firm hand reached out, pulling you back towards him with an unyielding grip. Your back was pressed against his strong chest, the heat of his body permeating through the layers of fabric that separated your skin from his.

As Cregan's arms circled you, enveloping you in a warm embrace, you couldn't help but feel his strength and the weight of his muscular frame. He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, his stubble scratching softly against your sensitive skin. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine, and you tried to resist the way it made you feel, a mix of unwanted arousal and lingering resentment.

You wouldn't admit it, even to yourself, but feeling him against you did water down the rage you were feeling towards him. Yet, you were adamant that he wouldn't get off with stressing you out so completely so easily. Even as his arms tightened around you, his grip firm and unrelenting, you could feel the tension in his body, the subtle shifts in his stance that betrayed his need. He wanted you, there was no denying that, and you were adamant he would have to work for it.

"You're not going to get out of this, that easily," you spat out, the anger bubbling up within you, threatening to spill over like a pot boiling over on the fire. "You dumped this grand idea of a feast on me out of nowhere and then ran out the door on a hunt with your friends, leaving me to flesh out all the details and make this into something that people will actually enjoy."

The stress of the day and the long hours you had put into planning all rushed out, a torrent of words that were fuelled by frustration and resentment. You could feel the tension in your body, your hands clenched into fists at your sides.

The room seemed to grow smaller around you, the air thick with the weight of your unspoken grievances. Your eyes flashed with a mixture of hurt and defiance, challenging him to deny leaving you to do everything while he enjoyed himself.

Despite your anger, there was a part of you that couldn't help but feel a lingering sense of longing for him, for the closeness and intimacy that his presence always seemed to bring into your life. But at the same time, you were determined not to let him off the hook so easily.

"I'm sorry." he said, his big storm grey eyes seeming sincere with a hint of something else in them.

He stepped closer and this time you didn’t stop him, as he gently cupped your face in his hands. His lips met yours in a tender kiss, soft and reassuring, like a whisper of promises yet to be fulfilled. You let out a small sigh, the sound a mixture of surrender and relief, as if the weight of your burdens was momentarily lifted. He pulled away, and the moment seemed to linger, as he looked down at you.

"I accept your apology." you whispered, all the hostility you had been feeling moments ago ebbing away.

"Oh wife," he smiled, a devilish glint finding its way into his eyes. "I haven't finished apologising yet."

You frowned, a mixture of surprise and perhaps a hint of anticipation, as he stepped closer. His hands felt like warm, steadying anchors on your waist, grounding you.

And in one swift movement, he picked you up, effortlessly lifting you as if you weighed nothing whatsoever. Your heart skipped a beat as he settled you down onto the desk, the cool, smooth surface a stark contrast to the heat that was rapidly building between you.

He began to kiss at your jaw, his lips hungry and insistent as they moved down your neck. Each touch of his lips was like a bolt of lightning, sending jolts of electricity coursing through your veins.

His hands, too, were alive with a feverish intensity as they tugged at your clothing. But then, just as suddenly as it had begun, he stepped back, leaving you feeling slightly breathless and more than a little disoriented.

He smiled at you then pulled the leather tie from his wrists and brushed his hair back out of his face, pulling his shoulder-length hair back, tying it up out of his face. As he brushed his hair back out of his face, you couldn't help but marvel at the sight of him. His shoulder-length hair, now tied up and out of his face, emphasised the rugged, masculine beauty of his features. It was a stark contrast to the more polished, refined elegance of the world outside this intimate cocoon.

And yet, even as he stood there, his hair pulled back and away from his face, there was a sense of wildness that still seemed to cling to him. It was as if, even in this moment of tender intimacy, he refused to be tamed or domesticated, choosing instead to remain forever untamed and free. Cregan Stark, The Wolf of The North.

You looked at him, your eyes reflecting the confusion that you were feeling in that moment. It was a look that seemed to intrigue and amuse him, a spark of mischief shining in his eyes as he took in your expression.

His lips met yours once more, this time in a kiss that was slow and deliberate, the sensation one of pure, unadulterated pleasure. As he pulled away, you couldn't help but feel the intensity that was fast becoming unbearable between the two of you.

His hands, which had been momentarily still, now returned to your dress. With fast movements, he pulled it up over your knees, revealing the smooth, expanse of your thighs beneath. He then bundled the fabric up at your waist, and then kissed you again, one hand keeping your dress up and the other moving to your hair to guide your head as he kissed you.

But then, even as you revealed in the sensation, you felt his hand dip beneath your shirt, his fingers tracing along your inner thigh. The sensation was like a bolt of lightning, sending jolts of electricity coursing through your veins.

He was teasing you, you realised, playing a game of tantalising anticipation. Each touch of his fingers was like a promise, a hint of the pleasures that were yet to come. Then he pulled away from you, and his hand moved to your chest, to guide you back. You leant backwards, steadying yourself against the desk with your arms. Then slowly he dropped to his knees, pushing your skirts out of the way. You felt a soft kiss on the inside of your knee, and then another a little further along. Then his teeth nipped slightly at the supple skin of your inner thigh, and you moved your legs to press them together at the sensation, but his strong arms kept your legs firmly apart as he kissed closer and closer.

"Cregan, please, enough of this." you whispered, still trying to cling to the anger that had almost dissipated entirely.

"Please what?" he asked as the kisses moved closer to your pussy, his hot breath also seeming intent on teasing you.

"Stop." you whispered, still trying to argue with him. The word sounded pathetic and as if to emphasise just how pathetic your plea sounded, he licked your cunt. One sweeping movement from the entrance of your pussy right to the clit, drawing a moan from your lips.

Then he pulled away, you looked down at him, angry again, but this time that he had actually stopped.

"Cregan," you whined again, tilting your head back, not happy with how much teasing you seemed to please him. And irritated that he had actually stopped.

"Come on now wife, use your words." he whispered, placing a kiss on your inner knee but not moving to continue.

"Cregan just fucking eat me." you pleased, the words coming out quickly, tinged with anger.

He grinned, he seemed to take great pleasure in the knowledge that he had won you over, that despite your initial resistance, he had managed to break through your anger in the best way he knew how.

And then, as if to seal the deal, he delved back under your skirts.

One quick lick, and then he flattened his tongue as it started to move in a way that made it obvious he was apologetic. Each movement of his tongue seemed only to have one goal, and that was to bring you to release as fast as he could. Cregan was not the sort of man that lost. You clenched your teeth and tried to hold out, trying not to let him have this win so easily. But he was your husband, and he knew your body better than he knew his own. You balled your fists on the table trying to pull yourself back from the edge, but he sent you falling over it. You came hard, screaming his name as you tilted your head back.

He didn’t give you a moment to recollect yourself, instead he moved his tongue over your clip, as one of his fingers gently pressed inside you, curling up towards your bellybutton.

"Cregan" you gasped, rolling your hips to the motion of his finger, your hands returning to the desk the paper at your side bunching up into your fist as you tried to get purchase on something to ground you.

He didn’t respond, at least not with words. Instead, he removed his finger and replaced it with two that sent such a wave of pleasure coursing through you that for a moment, you could swear that you could see stars on the back of your eyelids. His fingers stroked up against something inside you made it feel as though every nerve ending in your body had been set on fire. Those two fingers in conjunction with his tongue fanning the flames, pushing you to the edge of another release again. You gripped the edge of the desk, your hips bucking involuntarily as you surrendered to the intense pleasure coursing through you. Even as your climax hit, the intensity of his mouth and fingers never wavered, continuing to guide you through this earth-shattering experience.

"Fuck," was the only word you could push through your lips as he still didn’t relent as he ate your pussy.

In fact, the word seemed to spur him on, as though hearing you spout profanities amused him. Perhaps it was the fact you were usually so reserved and well-spoken, that when he broke down those walls and exposed your inner animal, it turned him on more than anything else.

You were racing towards another peak again, and this time he seemed determined to push you there as fast as he could, as though he himself were becoming impatient. You knew that he got impossibly turned on when he went down on you, unable to go more than a few rounds before he had to feel himself inside you. This was the longest he had managed, and you wondered if he was torturing himself as much as he was attempting to torture you. You squeezed your eyes shut and screamed his name as he brought you to the edge for what felt like the hundredth time. You attempted to squeeze your shaking legs shut, Finally, he emerged from between your thighs, the scent of your arousal clinging to him like a trophy. He placed both his hands on the desk, leaning towards you. Immediately, you leaned forward, your hands moving instinctively to his broad, muscular chest. He kissed you deeply, his lips warm and inviting against yours. Then, he tucked his head into the crook of your neck, allowing you to hold him for a moment, your heart still racing from the intensity of your shared experience. As you both came down from your high, you took comfort in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the sound of your breathing slowly returning to normal.

Once your breathing steadied, and you felt ready to speak, you gently pulled away from him. It was then that the sharp scent of ale suddenly assaulted your nostrils, causing you to wrinkle your nose slightly in surprise.

"Gods, Cregan, I'm sorry I knocked over your drink." you said, righting the tankard, now empty.

He shrugged. "There are better things to drink back in our room," he whispered, his voice low and intimate, sending shivers down your spine.

He moved his hands to your waist, pulling you closer to him, his body a beacon of warmth and comfort. His scent, a mix of woodsmoke, leather, and the crisp scent of the outdoors, enveloped you, a familiar embrace that you couldn't resist.

"How about we return there and have a drink," he suggested with a smile, "before we continue our evening entertainment." His eyes twinkled with mischief, hinting at the pleasures that awaited you both. He leaned down, placing a tender kiss on your forehead.

"Continue?" you asked, looking up at him with a mixture of curiosity and anticipation. The firelight danced across his features, lending an almost ethereal glow to his already handsome face. "I think you have more than apologised Cregan," you responded, a hint of amusement in your voice.

"Yes, I have apologised," he murmured, his voice rich and deep, "but now I need to thank you for working so tirelessly." He pressed a soft kiss to your lips, a gesture that sent a new wave of desire coursing through your veins.

A Link to My Complete Inventory

[the-unidentified-author]

Are We Living, Just to Die? | Marcus Acacius | Gladiator II

Chapter 2: The Bite of a Blade, Stings.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3- Comming soon

One or more parts in this story will include the following:

Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW], smut, minors DNI, new relationship, arguments, harsh words, longing, Graphic depictions of violence, Canon typical Violence, bad opionions on women that would have been the norm at the time, talk of Stds, Madness, Cruely, Animal Cruelty, Gladiators, fighting, blood and gore, injury description, p in v, creampie, cum play, a little rough, Cunnilingus, fingering, consensual!, hes a big man, orgasm denial, one orgasm after another 🚨SLOW BURN🚨

Summary: BRED FOR COMBAT. BUILT FOR WAR. Aurellia lives in the shadows of her brothers, the tyrant twin Emperors. When a General returns for war and shows her kindness she is not used to she begins to fall for him. Not realising that she is stepping right into a conspiracy to depose her brothers and save Rome from their violent rule. Will love and hope to prevail or will the carefully laid plans fall through, causing defeat and ruin for all involved?

Not my gif, if its yours and you would like me to remove it just ask <3

Previous Chapter

She had been ready and dressed for little more than twenty minutes before the sound of the horn indicated the arrival of General Acacius interrupted the mid-morning silence of the palace. She hurried quickly to where her brothers were waiting, silently stepping behind them, trying to avoid catching the eye of anyone looking. A couple of the senates either side of her were mumbling something under their breaths, but they stopped talking the moment a horn announced the arrival of the General.

Her brothers were standing in front of her, and to their left and right the men of the senate stood, ready to welcome Romes' hero back from war. Her two brothers were clad in armour that seemed to be made entirely of gold. Geta was still wearing his white, gold hemmed cloak, but Caracalla had stropped about it touching his ankles and had proceeded to throw it at the head of one of the unlucky women tasked with dressing him. She assumed that they were attempting to make themselves look like fighters, but they just seemed like boys cosplaying warriors. Neither one of them having held a sword in anything that could be called a fair fight.

She stepped forwards, following her brothers to the top of the steps. Listening as the crowd that had gathered to welcome The General home go wild as he stepped from his chariot at the base of the steps.

Rose petals had been sprinkled on the white marble, from this distance it almost looked as though blood had been splattered across the steps. She watched as The General walked up towards them.

Aurellia hadn’t met him before, even though he had spent a great deal of time fighting for her brothers. She had done her best to avoid engagements with men that favoured violence, instead filling her time with those that found happiness in scrolls and literature. Of which there were not a great deal, none in fact that were in any way close enough to her in age to be thought of as attractive.

He was a sight to behold, his armour brilliant white. Gold accents adorned every part of him. They reflected the sun and made it seem as though a god was walking up the steps towards them. His sword at his hip, disgustingly beautiful for something that was designed only to kill. He didn’t have a cloak like her brother but rather a strip of fabric fastened to each shoulder, draping beatify behind him almost reaching the floor. The way he held himself was that of a true warrior. Her brothers looked like children next to him.

As he reached the top of the steps, her brothers stepped forwards and she followed them. Trying to remain out of sight, but she didn’t succeed. Catching the eye of The General for just a moment before his attention focused on Geta and Caracalla. He placed his right arm across his chest.

“Emperor Geta,” he started, his smooth baritone voice suiting him in an impossibly perfect way. He turned his head to her other brother, arm still across his chest in a sign of respect. “Emperor Caracalla.” He nodded.

“General Acacius.” Said Geta, his tone respectful, but there was a thread of boredom laced within it.

“I have taken Numidia, in your names” Said Acacius, either not noticing or not caring for the Emperor's tone. Seemingly as bored with this event as the two Emperors were, but doing a better job of hiding it. “That your dominion may eclipse that of every Emperor who came before you.” He turned to address Caracalla as he ended his sentence before turning back to Geta.

She watched the vein in his neck pop out at little as he spoke. As though the act of addressing the Emperors was more taxing that it seemed.

“Crown him with Laurels brother.” Said Caracalla, turning to his brother, a sly smile on his face.

Geta turned to his left and picked up the golden laurels that had been prepared for this very moment. He turned back to the general and stepped forwards, placing the golden crown on his beautiful head of curls.

She watched as The General tilted his head a little to allow the Emperor to reach with a little more ease, she took this moment to really take in his features.

He had a scar that started on the apple of his right cheek and struck up towards his sideburn. His beard was littered with grey, but he didn’t look old. He was a man in his prime, the grey was likely caused by the stress of many battles. A large nose that suited his face and a strong jaw. He was beautiful, almost too pretty to be a warrior.

The crowd erupted into cheers as the crown touched the Generals head. The senates to her left and right began clapping, and she joined in as her brother stepped away from him. Raising his arms as though the cheers of the people were for him and him alone.

“Come inside, we must all drink to your victory.” He said, turning and clapping The General on his back.

Acacius clenched his jaw and caught her eye as her brothers guided him forwards into the place.

“Come sister.” Said Caracalla, grabbing her wrist as he passed her. “You must join us.”

She and her two brothers, followed General Acacius into the throne room a little way inside the palace. It was only when they descended the steps did Caracalla let go of her wrist and allow her to walk behind them.

The General was taller than both of her brothers, and taller than most men she had seen before. He stood at over six feet, possibly more. He was broad shouldered too, with large arms partially hidden by the fabric of his tunic. It made her think about how horrible it must be to watch a man like that run at you, sword drawn, covered in the blood of your brethren.

Acacius slowed his walk and Caracalla moved in front of him as Geta moved to the left to swipe some goblets of wine from the table. A slave was hastily pouring them out, not realising this would be the room they would retreat to.

“In honour of your conquest,” he started, his cloak swishing behind him as he strode over carrying the goblets. “There will be games in the colosseum.”

Caracalla’s eyes lit up as he looked at his brother. Acacius face, however, did not, which seemed a little strange to her.

What man who fought for Rome wouldn't want to have games in the colosseum thrown in his honour?

A slave, to her left, handed her a goblet of wine. She took it with a smile and focused her attention back on her brothers and their guest, who was becoming more interesting with every passing moment. A slave put a goblet of wine in Geta's hand as he handed to two he had been holding to his brother and to Acacius.

“I require no games in my honour.” He said, his voice so much more commanding than that of her brothers. “Serving the senate and the people of Rome is honour enough for me.” He said with a ghost of a smile, moving to cheers his goblet against Geta's.

Geta pulled his away.

“You are too modest Acacius,” he said and Aurellia’s stomach flipped. He was irritated, and The General had insulted him in a way that he didn’t understand. “It does not suit a General as accomplished as yourself.”

The smile on Acacius face faltered a little before he smiled warmly at her brother as Geta finally clinked his goblet against the goblet of Acacius.

“The glory is yours not mine.” Said Acacius.

Aurellia chewed the inside of her lip, he was good. Talking to the princes in a way that kept your head on your shoulder was difficult, but then again, a man doesn't get where he is without knowing how to manipulate a man with relitive ease.

“I only ask for some rest-bite from war.” He said, his smile falling from his lips.

His big brown eyes seemed to get bigger, as though he were silently begging with them. She knew her brothers had a thirst for violence and power, this man would likely only know peace when he was laid to rest.

“I want only to enjoy Rome and all it has to offer.” His eyes caught Aurellia’s again, and she looked away, her breath catching in her throat.

Caracalla stepped in front of him, seeming to attempt to square up to the man, but he was a head and shoulder shorter so it looked sillier than it did intimidating. Geta turned away from the two men and drew his sword, raising it and twisting in the light, seemingly captivated by the way it sparkled for a moment as his brother talked.

“Remember the privileges we have granted you? You should not ignore such an occasion.” Said Caracalla, tilting his head to the side slightly, a devious glint in his eyes.

“There are victories still yet to come.” Interrupted Geta, turning back to face Acacius, still holding his sword high.

He turned to Acacius who didn’t flinch as other men might have at the sight of the sword. Not even when he placed the sword on his right shoulder.

“Persia,” Continued Geta, bouncing the sword off Acacius’ shoulder and using the momentum to move it over his head and touch the other shoulder. “India.” He moved the blade closer to Acacius face, but he still didn’t flinch, but his face had taken on a harder expression. “Both must be conquered.” He said the blade sliding closer to Acacius’ neck.

Aurellia winced as she saw blood come from where the blade touched the skin, but the man still didn’t flinch. A sword to his neck, one flick of the wrist away from death, and Acacius didn’t so much as blink.

“Rome has so many subjects.” Started Acacius, his voice now with a dangerous edge that was sharper than the blade as his neck.

She could see her brother, physically recoil a little at the tone. But he kept his blade on the neck of the General, in a vain attempt to pretend he was the one in control of the conversation.

“She must feed them.” Continued Acacius, almost snarling out the last few words.

He lifted his hand and batted the sword from his neck as though it were nothing more than a bothersome fly. Her brother looking at him with hatred in his eyes. His face fighting a loosing battle to retain ther same sort of nonchalant expression, Acacius did with ease.

“They can eat war.” Chuckled, Caracalla looking down at the blood on Geta's still raised blade with a smile before grinning up at Acacius.

Geta swung the sword and for a moment, she feared that he was about to lose it and strike The General down in the middle of the room, but instead he threw it. The sword landing, skittering across the floor and falling into the Koi pond with a splash that echoed around the silent room.

“Your triumphs will be celebrated, as attributed to the greatness of the Roman people.” He said, raising his hand for Acacius to kiss.

She could see the vein in Acacius’ neck bulge for a second, and he clenched his jaw and nodded his head. Taking her brother's hand in his and kissing the knuckles.

Geta swung around, his cape flaring out behind him.

“Come bother,” he said, gesturing at Caracalla. “We have games to plan.”

With that, the two of them strode out of the room, leaving Acacius and Aurellia alone.

She stepped forwards towards him, emboldened by the absence of her brothers. She turned to look over at the Koi pond, Acacius glancing in that direction too. The two of them watched one of the slaves pull the sword from the pond. He turned back to face her. She lifted her hand, and he flinched, she smiled. Then she gently wiped the blood from his wound with her finger. Looking down at it for a moment, she looked back up at him.

“I think that is the first time that sword of his has ever tasted blood. Likely the last time, too.” She smiled. “I apologise for my brothers' outburst, I will do what I can to delay their dreams of war to offer you some rest after such an achievement.”

“I appreciate that, my lady.” He replied with a nod, and the first genuine smile she had seen adorn his lips thus far.

“Aurellia,” she replied. “My name is Aurellia.”

He titled his head a look of curiosity flooding onto his face. She turned from him, placing her untouched goblet of wine on the table and retreating from the room. He couldn’t take his eyes off her as she left.

Chapter 3: Pretty Men Make Good Distractions From Dangerous Plots

A Link to My Complete Inventory

[the-unidentified-author]

The Lord, The Lady and The Long Winter | Cregan Stark | House of the Dragon

Chapter 2/5?: The Wolf of the North

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 - Comming soon

Cregan Stark x House Baratheon Reader

One or more parts in this story will include the following:

Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW], smut, minors DNI, new relationship, arguments, harsh words,longing, p in v, creampie, cum play, a little rough, Cunnilingus, fingering, consensual!, hes a big man, orgasm denial, one orgasm after another 🚨SLOW BURN🚨

Summary: You’re betrothed to Cregan Stark. The pair of you navigate this relationship of convenience and perhaps even find love.

Word Count: 3,317

Not my gif, if its yours and you would like me to remove it just ask <3

A/N RANT: I find writing easy. I just splat ideas down on the page. It’s the editing that really gets me. I spend so much time deleting and rewriting, googling synonyms because somehow I’ve managed to use the same word 4,000 times in the last twenty sentences. Agonising over the wording and then Word for some reason trying to make me spell things in american. Then the grammar actually sends me over the edge, Word telling me that there should be a comma, so I add a comma and then no that’s wrong there shouldn’t be a comma there. It actually makes me go feral. Anyway, if anyone wonders why it takes me so long to post more parts, these are some of the reasons.

Chapter 1

It had taken a little over a month for your father and your entourage to reach the castle of Winterfell. As you journeyed, the number of layers and furs you wore in the carriage increased, each piece a necessary defence against the northern chill. It was the last day of the trip, and you were thankful it had finally come to an end, eager to sleep in the same bed for more than one night in a row. You stepped up into the carriage and turned to your father, who was already seated, his expression one of calm reassurance. "Almost there," he said, his voice steady as he attempted a smile.

You averted your gaze, sitting down and looking out at the landscape that unfolded outside. A heavy blanket of snow cloaked the ground, transforming the world into a vast, seamless expanse of white. The trees stood tall and skeletal, their branches laden with frost that sparkled like diamonds in the weak and low winter sun. Occasionally, the wind howled through the barren branches, sending a shiver down your spine and creating an eerie symphony that filled the otherwise still air.

The world outside seemed lifeless, devoid of colour and warmth—how you longed for the vibrant greens and the golden hues of the south, of home. You hadn’t seen an animal for more than a week, and the silence felt oppressive, magnifying the sense of isolation that you felt. Your mind wandered to what your sisters would be doing right now, likely studying or playing in the garden with your mother watching sewing something beautiful as she always was. A lump formed in your throat as you thought about how long it would be until you saw them again. This new landscape was as much a part of your new life as your upcoming marriage; it revealed in its stark beauty but also served as a constant reminder of the challenges that lay ahead. With the shutter closed, you felt a growing knot of anxiety within you, the weight of the impending changes heavy as the snow that blanketed the ground.

At some point, you had fallen asleep, though you couldn't recall when. The anticipation of the day had kept you awake through most of the night, and the uncomfortable seat of the carriage left your body aching. But then, the resounding blast of trumpets heralding your arrival jolted you from your sleep.

“Are we here?" you asked, glancing at your father, whose expression was distant, as if lost in thought.

"Yes," he replied, turning his gaze to meet yours.

"How long do we have before meeting the Starks?" you asked, smoothing your clothes and hoping the nap hadn’t left your hair in disarray.

"Lord Stark will greet us as soon as we step out of the carriage," your father replied, straightening in his seat.

"What? Aren’t we meeting in the hall after we've freshened up?" you exclaimed, taken aback by the immediacy, realising just how soon you'd face the man who’d share your future.

"Ah, but they're Northerners," your father said with a dismissive wave, "They'd find you lovely even in rags." The carriage lurched forward, jolting you both, as your heart raced.

You thought you would have just a little more time, a chance to gather your thoughts and brace yourself for the momentous introduction. Panic rose inside you as it became clear you had mere minutes before meeting the man who would be your husband.

Your heart raced with a flurry of questions and doubts. Would he be as the tales described—harsh and unyielding as the Northern winters—or might there be warmth beneath the layers of fur and Stoic silence? The uncertainties swirled, each more daunting than the last, wrapping around your thoughts like a relentless blizzard.

You fidgeted with the edge of your cloak, trying to calm the rising tide of unease. What if your mannerisms seemed too foreign, your presence too delicate for the rugged North? At this moment, you realised your entire future might rely on one singular, daunting introduction.

You focused on your breathing, counting each inhale and exhale slowly to five, as your mother had taught you to do in moments of unease. Her voice echoed in your mind, recounting stories of Lord Cregan Stark and how he had become the embodiment of his house’s strength. At just seventeen, he had fought for power against his uncle, rallying the North to his cause and earning the legendary title of the Wolf of the North.

Now, at twenty-five, he was widely renowned as the most powerful man in the region, with whispers even calling him the King in the North. His influence stretched far, untethered by the intricacies of southern politics. In the refuge of your measured breathing, you hoped to draw some comfort from the formidable reputation of the man who would soon become your husband. Could a man so brilliant at war be kind?

The carriage came to a rest, jolting you back to the present, you looked at your father, who attempted to give you a reassuring nod as the door of the carriage swung open. He moved through it first, giving you a precious few moments to prepare yourself before he turned and extended his hand inside the carriage to help you out and down.

The cold hit you first, making you draw a sharp breath, the icy air burning your lungs. For a brief moment, you looked around and watched as snowflakes danced in the chilled air, touching gently on Winterfell's ancient stone façade. You stepped out, the snow crunching beneath your feet, you were thankful for your father's firm grasp on your hand, worried for a moment that without it, you would slip.

The northern air was sharp and invigorating, a biting chill that seemed to permeate the very fabric of everything it touched. It was the kind of cold that, if endured for too long, would nestle deep into your bones, leaving a lingering reminder of the North’s untamed power. Pulling your thick cloak more tightly around yourself, you sought its warmth and comfort, a shield against the relentless chill.

Your father stepped forward with the practiced grace of his station, turning to address the Northerners who had assembled to witness your arrival.

"Greetings House Stark, I am Lord Borros Baratheon, of the House Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End. I have come to present to you, my daughter." His voice was, steady and confident. It carried over the soft whisper of the wind, acknowledging the strength of the Northern families and the significance of the union that would soon bind Baratheon and Stark.

He turned to you and gestured for you to step forwards, and you did, curtseying to the group. Your eyes swept over the crowd of Northerners—a sea of rugged faces hardened by the winter landscape. And there he stood, amidst them, undeniably Cregan Stark. His towering form was enveloped in commanding furs, every inch the lord who embodied the unforgiving north. He looked younger than you thought he would, hearing stories of how the north aged you beyond your years made you worried about what you would be confronted with up getting here.

Cregan stepped forward with an elegant grace, offering a formal bow. Yet, the warmth in his eyes spoke an unspoken promise of understanding and curiosity.

"Welcome to Winterfell," his voice resonated, deep and steady, his accent thick.

Your father and Cregan began discussing the plans for the coming days, their voices a steady hum amidst the towering stone walls of Winterfell. You followed closely behind them, the chill of the Northern air slowly giving way to the warmth of the hall, its fires crackling and casting flickering shadows that danced across the ancient stone.

Eventually, you found your place on a chair, one of many surrounding a small table strewn with maps and parchments that detailed the intricacies of alliances and strategies. The gathering of lords settled into their respective seats, enveloping the table in a sense of purpose and gravitas. Your father leaned forward, engaged in discussions about the expectations of this union, emphasising duty and honour—the very fabric of noble life.

As they spoke, a few lords occasionally cast friendly glances in your direction, but you could sense the unspoken rules that governed the conversation. This was not the sort of assembly where women were expected to voice their thoughts; instead, you listened intently, absorbing the dialogue around you. It was both fascinating and daunting, a whirlwind of responsibilities that felt far removed from the warmth of family gatherings you had known.

You were taken aback that they allowed you to sit at the table at all, a privilege that your father would never have granted you in the South. Perhaps the customs were different in the North, a notion that intrigued and unsettled you. As your gaze wandered around the assembly, it landed on one woman at the table—until that moment, you hadn't realised she was among them.

Dressed in masculine attire, she seemed to blend right in with the lords surrounding her, sitting tall and confident as they addressed her with the same respect reserved for their male counterparts. It was a striking sight, one that momentarily pulled you from your anxious thoughts about the future.

Then, the unexpected happened; she caught your eye and offered a warm smile that brightened her otherwise stern countenance. Heat rose to your cheeks as you realised you had been staring. Quickly, you turned your attention back to Cregan, the man you were to marry, feeling the weight of the room around you as you grappled with the complexities of your new reality.

Cregan Stark was a striking figure to behold, towering head and shoulders above your father, making it instantly clear why others held him in such high esteem. His presence conveyed more than mere physical stature; as soon as he began to speak, his demeanour and the way he carried himself revealed the essence of a man of honour. Unlike the tall men of the South, who seemed like a gust of wind might send them hurtling over the battlements into the sea, Cregan's stature was built broad and firm.

The cloak draped over his shoulders only added to his impressive build, yet you could tell at a glance that this was a physique forged through hard work and rigorous training, not by indulgence in luxuries. Every movement hinted at discipline and strength, an embodiment of the Northern spirit you had heard so much about.

Your eyes focused intently on his face as he spoke, captivated by the way his shoulder-length brown hair framed his features, catching the light to highlight the rugged lines that undeniably spoke of his Northern lineage. Cregan had a strong jaw, lending a chiseled quality to his visage that perfectly complemented the air of unyielding determination he exuded.

But it was his piercing blue eyes that truly drew you in—striking and deep, they seemed to hold an entire world within them. In contrast to the often stark demeanour he carried, those eyes contained an unexpected warmth, like a flickering flame against the cold backdrop of winter. There was a kindness in their depths, a silent promise that perhaps beneath the fierce exterior lay a man capable of tenderness and understanding. With every glance, you felt the pull of his gaze, an invitation to see beyond the bravado and discover the complexities that made him who he was.

He turned and met your eye, and it took you a second to realise that he had asked you a question, you looked around the room at the lords. All poised to listen to your response. You looked to your father for guidance.

"You'll have to excuse my daughter, the journey north has been long. However, I do think that she has enough strength left to accept your suggestion of a tour of Winterfell." he smiled at Lord Stark, who looked from you to your father, an understanding smile playing on his lips as he worked out you hadn't been paying attention.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t expose your lapse in concentration, just stood and shook your father's hand. You stood too as all the other lords stood and moved towards the door. You watched as they filtered out of the room, your father and Cregan being the only two aside from yourself still left in the room.

"Well, I would say that no chaperone is required, it is said that no one in the realms have as much honour as the Starks." your father said, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword as he looked between the two of you.

He nodded and gave you a small smile and turned to leave the room, the guards at the door opening and closing the door. You felt the resounding boom of the door closing in your chest as it seemed to echo around the entire room. The room seemed smaller as you looked from the door to Lord Stark, he looked so much more intimidating now it was only you in the room.

"My Lady, what part of Winterfell would you like to see first?" he asked stepping towards you.

"I- I don’t know." you whispered, finding it too difficult to look him in the eye.

"May I?" he asked, gesturing to your cloak which you had removed and placed on the back of your chair.

You nodded, he carefully picked it up and placed it over your shoulders, you moved your hands to do up the buckle that would secure it to your body and turned to Lord Stark. The massive sword slung across his back caught your attention, its hilt visible above his shoulder—a symbol of the strength and legends whispered in the halls of your childhood home. It seemed a natural extension of him—an embodiment of Cregan Stark, the warrior and the lord.

He smiled down at you, warmth and friendliness lighting up his features. With a gentle tilt of his eyebrow, he extended his elbow towards you, inviting you to take it.

"Well, I shall show you my favourite parts of the castle, and then we'll join your father and the other lords for a late tea," he said, his deep voice smooth and rich, like honey.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, as you took his hand and allowed him to guide you out of the room. Agreeing to marry someone you had never met was undoubtedly a gamble, fraught with uncertainties. Yet, with this match, a sense of hopefulness stirred within you—a feeling as if you had struck gold in a world tarnished by rusted steel.

Your thoughts drifted back to the moment you first learned of your betrothal. That night, your mother had remained by your side, holding you close as you cried, part of you mourning your childhood and the other terrified of the future. She assured you that everything would be alright, words you initially dismissed as just the comforting words you say to someone when they're crying.

But now, with time and distance, you started to see that moment in a different light. There was a certainty in her voice that had been unwavering, and it made you wonder if she had played a part in your match with Lord Stark. Her confidence lingered in your mind, suggesting that perhaps this match carried more promise than you dared to imagine in those initial, tear-filled moments.

Winterfell was a beautiful castle, said to be one of the oldest still standing. As Cregan showed you around, you noticed something different in the way he spoke. Unlike most men, who seemed more interested in proving themselves smarter than you by belittling or over-explaining, Lord Stark had a unique approach.

His way of speaking about the castle and its history felt more like listening to a passionate teacher than a rehearsed lecture. He engaged you with stories, making each tale and detail come alive, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of respect and curiosity grow within you. It was refreshing and made you appreciate not only Winterfell, but also the man guiding you through its storied halls.

He had suggested that the two of you look out over the battlements before retiring to the great hall for something to eat. The climb up to the battlements was more challenging than you had anticipated. The stairs were far narrower than any you had navigated at Storm's End, making you marvel at how men clad in armour could swiftly manoeuvre them during times of war. Yet, as you reached the top, the sight that greeted you was nothing short of breathtaking—a vast, snowy landscape stretching as far as the eye could see. There was a vast expanse of forest in the distance, but even that was coated in snow.

Your home back in Storm's End prided itself on its massive walls for protection against invaders. However, here at Winterfell, the tall walls paired with its isolated, formidable position in the North presented a different kind of strength. The harsh, unforgiving landscape surrounding Winterfell seemed an ally to its defenders, an icy gauntlet capable of claiming the lives of unprepared southern soldiers long before they could even reach the walls. The beauty and latent power of the scene sent a shiver through you, a reminder of the resilience required to thrive in this raw and rugged part of the world.

"There is a small moat hidden by the snow at the bottom of the wall," Cregan began, his gaze shifting to you with a knowing glint in his eyes, as if he was sharing a secret of the North only a few were privy to. "If aren't aware of it and attempt to climb the wall, you sink into snow taller than a man."

You withdrew your hand from the warmth of your fur muff, moving to grasp the metal handle fixed to the wall, hoping to steady yourself for a better view over the battlements. The chill of the metal immediately shot through your fingers, contrasting sharply with the cozy warmth of the muff.

"Agh," you gasped, yanking your hand away from the frigid metal.

Before you could even check for injury, Cregan Stark's gloved hand enveloped yours with a surprising gentleness. He looked down at your hand, his thumb softly brushing across your palm, sending a tingle through your skin. "Careful, My Lady," he murmured, his voice carrying a deep, soothing timbre. "Warm hands stick to cold metal. You could lose some skin if you're not careful."

You grimaced at the thought and glanced back at the metal, reassuring yourself that none of your skin lingered there. "It burns,” you whispered, eyes dropping to the red mark on your palm.

Cregan's gaze met yours, holding a mix of concern and something unspoken. He raised his hand to his mouth, biting the finger of his glove and pulling it off, his breath misting in the cold air. He placed his large, now bare hand over yours, its warmth seeping through your skin, soothing the sting of the cold. His touch seemed to linger longer than necessary, then he removed his hand from yours and pulled the glove from his mouth.

"Careful my Lady, the cold burns sometimes more than fire." He remarked, eyes locked on yours, before slipping his hand back into the glove with deliberate care. "We ought to get you some gloves." His voice carried both practicality and an undercurrent of tenderness that surprised you.

He offered his arm once more, and this time, as you looped your arm around his, the touch felt more intimate, more charged. You tucked your hand back into your fur muff, your hand still feeling the ghost of his.

A Link to My Complete Inventory

[the-unidentified-author]

Are We Living, Just to Die? | Marcus Acacius | Gladiator II

Chapter 1: Two Brothers and Their Sister

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3- Comming soon

One or more parts in this story will include the following:

Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW], smut, minors DNI, new relationship, arguments, harsh words, longing, Graphic depictions of violence, Canon typical Violence, bad opionions on women that would have been the norm at the time, talk of Stds, Madness, Cruely, Animal Cruelty, Gladiators, fighting, blood and gore, injury description, p in v, creampie, cum play, a little rough, Cunnilingus, fingering, consensual!, hes a big man, orgasm denial, one orgasm after another 🚨SLOW BURN🚨

Summary: BRED FOR COMBAT. BUILT FOR WAR. Aurellia lives in the shadows of her brothers, the tyrant twin Emperors. When a General returns for war and shows her kindness she is not used to she begins to fall for him. Not realising that she is stepping right into a conspiracy to depose her brothers and save Rome from their violent rule. Will love and hope to prevail or will the carefully laid plans fall through, causing defeat and ruin for all involved?

Not my gif, if its yours and you would like me to remove it just ask <3

Aurellia flinched at the screech of Emperor Geta calling, "Aurellia, come sister, where are you?", as the sound of doors slamming reverberated through the property. Hurried feet slapped against the stone floor and marched down the corridor towards her.

Aurellia exhaled a long, frustrated sigh, the interruption tearing her away from the scroll she had been engrossed in. Reluctantly, she rolled it up with swift, practiced motions, placing it with careful precision on the small table beside the chaise lounge where she had been finding solace before this unwelcome disturbance. In these fleeting moments before her brothers' imminent intrusion into the courtyard, she hurried to compose herself, smoothing out the creases in her tunic with decisive strokes. Her nerves hummed as she listened intently to the echoing footsteps drawing near, rehearsing the serene façade she was about to conjure.

As she stood, her fingers danced nervously with the rings she wore, a mindless ritual of comfort. Her sharp gaze caught sight of her brothers, flanked by their entourage, weaving their way around the rectangular koi pond at the heart of the courtyard's garden. The water's gentle ripples mirrored her efforts to maintain calm. She knew well the precariousness of the situation; her brothers' unpredictable moods meant any hint of defiance, real or imagined, could spark their ire. Thus, she waited for them, steeling herself to greet them with an appearance devoid of irritation.

“Yes Geta?” She answered, trying to sound cheery. Forcing a smile onto her face as he stopped in front of her.

The stench of perfume, radiated off him and the people surrounding him. It was as though they had brought a cloud of it with them. It made her eyes sting. She tried to breathe as shallowly as possible, hoping to avoid inhaling the overwhelming stench.

Her brother stood before her, grinning maniacally, his arms spread wide as if he were about to embrace her. Yet, instead of stepping forward, he merely clapped his hands together, releasing a high-pitched squeal, reminiscent of a small child upon receiving a cake. She maintained the broad smile on her face, the strain of holding the expression beginning to manifest in the ache blooming in her cheeks.

"We have fantastic news this morning! General Acacius has returned from war, bringing word that Numidia has been conquered in our name. The Roman Empire is now larger than ever before," Geta exclaimed, squealing with delight. He then turned to his younger twin, Caracalla, and, towering over him by a head and shoulders, affectionately placed a kiss atop Caracalla's head.

“Congratulations brothers, you are now the most powerful Emperors Rome has ever seen.” She said, trying to sound rosy as she could, hoping it would disguise any hints of sarcasm that might push its way into her words.

If he, or his entourage, detected the disdain veiled in her voice, none of them let on. Instead, they simply smiled at her with practiced politeness, their eyes unwaveringly fixed on him. Their faces were masks of adulation, bodies poised to tend to his every whim.

"Even better, news." Caracalla's voice dripped with unbridled glee, his grin twisting into an even more deranged expression as he addressed her. "They have brought back slaves, from the savage lands out there. They're being escorted into Rome as we speak. We are going to have games on at the colosseum to celebrate."

The words rolled off his tongue like a macabre dance, each syllable laced with an unsettling enthusiasm that sent shivers down her spine. The thought of these enslaved souls, torn from their homes and forced to fight for the entertainment of the people who had conquered them sickened her.

“You must attend, sister.” Said Geta, stepping around his brother.

“I must.” She smiled with a nod, trying to swallow down the sick trying to claw its way up her throat.

Caracalla, ever the instigator, moved once more to stand in front of his twin, Geta. The younger brother's impulsive actions seemed to elicit an almost visceral reaction from the elder, his jaw clenched tight as iron, while his fists balled at his sides in a not-so-subtle display of barely contained fury.

"They've brought back creatures from the wild lands!" Caracalla giggled, a note of manic delight in his voice. "Great cats with thick fur around their shoulders, and a huge, fat grey pig, complete with fangs." He threw his arms wide, twirling on the spot.

"How wonderful," she replied, her voice laced with feigned enthusiasm as she willed the smile to remain fixed on her face.

"Sister, you must be in the Throne Room, within the hour, to meet the General. We are dressing in gold, so should you." Said Geta, coolly appraising her, his gaze betraying his distaste at her current attire.

She wore a simple, unadorned tunic of natural cloth, its hue a modest testament to her understated elegance. The fabric draped gently over her form, devoid of finery or opulence, much to the chagrin of her brothers, who once ridiculed her for appearing like a mere servant and took the opportunity to mockingly command her as such. Yet, amidst the simplicity of her attire, there glimmered two significant tokens of her true standing: the golden clasps securing her tunic at the shoulders.

These were precious heirlooms, once belonging to her mother, each cast with care into intricate depictions of divine figures. One clasp bore the likeness of Juno, queen of the Gods, her serene majesty captured in gold; the other held the image of Jupiter, king of the gods, a figure of regal strength and authority. Her father had given these to her mother in the early days of their union, a heartfelt pledge that, like the eternal bond of the gods, their love would transcend the sands of time.

Geta gave her a smile, which in his head may have been an attempt at a happy one. But it set her teeth on edge. They were getting worse, their mental states deteriorating. He turned his back to her. Then the two of them and their group of slaves and whores scuttled out of the courtyard, talking of death and how entertaining it will be to watch men fight wild animals.

Although her brothers were twins, born no more than twenty minutes apart, they did not in any way resemble each other. One was tall and the other short. The only similarities they shared was their golden hair and the madness that seemed to run through their veins. They did attempt to make themselves look a little more like one another, painting themselves with makeup to look a little less human. They claimed it made them look as though they were gods, but in her opinion, it made them look as though the sun had never touched their skin.

The makeup they wore around their eyes, a brilliant red that almost made them look sickly, was a poor attempt to hide the illness that had exacerbated their madness. The sort of illness one gets from bedding too many whores, its dark tendrils creeping surreptitiously into their minds, poisoning their thoughts with insanity. Despite their efforts to appear divine, to her, they remained mere mortals, their madness a stark contrast to the celestial figures they sought to emulate.

At last, the courtyard descended into tranquility once more, allowing her to catch the subtle gurgle of the fountain at its centre. Occasionally, the serene surface would be interrupted by the splash of a koi, its tail playfully breaching the water. She inhaled deeply, thankful that the overpowering scent of her brothers and their entourage was fading from her sanctuary. It was rare that they disturbed her, often preoccupied with the bloodlust of men fighting to the death or losing themselves in barrels of wine. Yet, these fleeting visits always seemed to serve as reminders of their supremacy, as they paraded their inheritance before her eyes. In their view, she was little more than a pawn, her value only as significant as the role she played in their grandiose plans.

Her thoughts turned to General Acacius and the men who had been dispatched on such a futile mission — to win a mere couple of hundred miles of land in the name of The Roman Empire. They, too, victims of the mad princes. How many people have died, in their name, for nothing more than a bit of land? She thought about what her brothers were doing to Rome, how long would it be until it grew to the point it was no longer sustainable? Like a grape vine with too thin a stem, nothing more than a strong gust of wind away from being toppled.

She eased back into her seat and retrieved the scroll, letting it rest gently on her lap. Her mind wandered, momentarily caught in the scarce yet treasured memories of a time before her brothers arrived. She recalled the life her mother and father shared before the birth of the boys, a period that now felt almost dreamlike in its normalcy. As she chewed the inside of her cheek, a tempest of emotions swirled within her. She remembered vividly the haunting moment before her father's death when he confessed his wish that the rules of succession were different. He had expressed a longing for her to ascend the throne instead of her brothers, fearing that Rome would not be safe in their hands.

A maid hurried into the courtyard, and she nodded at her before rising from her seat again. With a deep breath, she recognised the weight of her role; it was time to don her formal attire and slip back into the façade of a dutiful sister, hiding the turmoil that brewed beneath the surface.

Chapter 2: The Bite of a Blade, Stings.

A Link to My Complete Inventory

[the-unidentified-author]

Stranded | Kylo Ren| Star Wars

Warnings/ Tags: little angst, arguing, angry kylo

Summary: You are stranded on a planet with Kylo Ren, at first you thought that it would be a nightmare. However, it turns out that he has another side to him thats seperate to his firey temper and hot shot persona as the Supreme Leader of the First Order. He relaxes and become less insufferable and more intriguing with every hour you spend with him. Wandering around the forest looking for shelter you find yourself slowly beginning to catch feelings for him...

Word Count: 7,466

Not my gif, if its yours and you would like me to remove it just ask <3

You watched in horror as another one of your ships was violently blown from the sky, the debris spiralling down to the ground mere yards from where you stood. Ducking, you turned your back and covered your ears, but you still felt the jarring impact reverberating through the earth. The resistance had caught you off guard. Five ships, pitifully outmatched by their twenty, were no match for their nimble manoeuvres and relentless gunfire. You could do little more than dodge, scarcely finding a moment to return fire. Amidst the chaos, you caught sight of Kylos’ ship, desperately attempting to retaliate. His anger fuelled increasingly reckless manoeuvres; each passing second pushed him further into danger. You knew he had crossed a line when his vessel narrowly missed colliding with two resistance ships barreling towards him. Your craft had long since been brought down, and with four enemy ships closing in from all directions, your only option was to eject and pray you weren’t shot out of the sky. Thankfully, they spared you, content with the explosion of your ship or perhaps failing to detect you on their radar. Yet here you were, stranded on a hostile planet, powerless as you watched your comrades fall to their demise in the skies above.

“You must engage hyperspace immediately; it’s our only chance to lose them!" you shouted urgently over the crackling radio, your voice cutting through the surrounding chaos. The sound of distant explosions echoed ominously, each blast sending a tremor through the ground beneath your feet. Your heart raced as you imagined the enemy ships closing in, their menacing silhouettes etched against the fiery sky. You clenched your jaw, gripping the radio tightly as you prayed he would listen to you, your pulse pounding in tandem with the frantic beat of your thoughts. You could almost picture him on the other end, the weight of the choice nearly palpable between you, and desperation clawed at your chest, urging him to understand the gravity of the moment.

"No!" came the agitated voice of Kylo Ren, sharp and cutting through the static of the radio like a blaster shot. "If we jump to hyperspace, we'll have to land on the first planet we see, and then we'll be stranded!" His voice roared with frustration, each word laced with fury, making you flinch as you watched his ship dodge and dive to avoid incoming fire. You could hear the tension in his breath, the weight of his concern evident.

“I’m already stranded, my ship is gone, save yourself while you can! They can't track you through hyperspace it's the best chance you have!" you yelled back, no longer caring that you were talking to the supreme leader, and letting the panic and frustration flow out of you.

Your only focus was now getting out of this situation alive, and trying to save the supreme leader, no matter how difficult it proved.

“Give me your coordinates,” he commanded, his voice firm and unwavering even amid the chaos that blanketed the sky. The urgency laced through his words was palpable, cutting through the static like a lightsaber through the darkness. You could almost envision him in the cockpit, brow furrowed, gaze fixed intently ahead as he navigated the storm of enemy fire.

“No, just run,” you urged, your voice filled with urgency as you fought to keep the panic at bay.

The silence that followed your desperate plea was deafening, a stark contrast to the relentless chaos that consumed the world around you. Only the distant echoes of explosions and the fading roar of Kylo's ship remained, a haunting reminder of the precarious situation you both found yourselves in. Your heart pounded in your chest as you scanned the vast expanse of the impossibly blue sky, searching for a tiny blip that would signify Kylo's survival.

After a brief, tense pause, your eyes finally found him racing through the chaotic sky overhead, the enemy ships zooming by like shadows of death, unaware of your desperate search on the ground. There he was—a flicker against the deep blue, a glint of something falling fast. Relief surged through you as you spotted his parachute, blossoming open like a flower in a hostile garden, guiding him gently down just beyond the line of trees before you. The swirling winds tugged at the fabric, sending it fluttering in a dance as he descended, a small yet bold figure amidst the sprawling chaos of fire and destruction surrounding you. You hadn't seen where his ship had gone down, but he would know.

Letting out a deep sigh, you looped your thumb around the strap of the emergency backpack you had managed to scavenge from the wreckage of your ship. Then pulled the blaster from its holster on your hip. You were sure that the Resistance wouldn't bother to make planet fall and look for anyone who had survived. It would be too risky, they had no idea how far out your main ship was. As though reading your mind, you watched as the resistance ships began to flash out of the sky. Each of them jumping to hyperspace. Little did they know that your main ship was a fair distance away.

You smiled as you walked across the soft, mossy grass, each step a gentle caress against your weary feet. After so many months, confined to the cold, unyielding metal of your ship, this lush, green floor felt like a long-lost friend. The rich scent of earth and vibrant green surrounded you, invigorating your senses as the sunlight filtered through the canopy above, dappling your path with patches of warmth. The ground gave you a delightful spring in your step, almost as if urging you forward, as you headed in the direction where Kylo had descended. You could hear the faint rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of hidden creatures, a symphony of life that reminded you—you were not alone in this vast forest.

Well, that wouldn't be very nice," you replied, forcing a smile that felt shaky at best, desperately attempting to mask the unease swirling in your stomach. The certainty of fear settled on you like a heavy cloak as Kylo's gaze pierced through the expressionless mask.

"This is your fault," he stated again, the coldness of his words cutting into the tension between you. You had flown with Kylo many times, his real voice crackling through the radio; you'd heard it more times than you could count, but you had never seen his face, only ever the mask.

"Yeah, it's my fault that we are alive. You're welcome, by the way," you retorted with a hint of defiance, though your grip on the blaster tightened instinctively as your heart hammered in your chest. Survival mode kicked in, and your senses heightened, forcing you to scan the shadowy depths of the surrounding forest, searching for any threat that could emerge from the underbrush.

If he pulled his lightsaber, there would be little you could do to stop him from cutting you down where you stood. You were going to at least attempt to fight back, regardless of how pointless it would be.

"Look, we've flown loads of missions together, so let's just cut the crap, down here our ranks don't matter. The wildlife out there doesn't care who you are, to them, you're nothing more than a meal. So, we can either work together or I am going to walk into that forest and let you die." You said your survival instinct kicking in once again as the wind rustled through the trees and the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end as the eerie feeling of being watched washed over you.

The helmet turned in your direction, and for a moment, you were certain that this was it. This was the point of no return, the climactic moment where everything you had experienced, everything you had endured on this hostile planet, would culminate in a sudden, violent end. You had taken it too far, the panic and stress you were feeling was making you snap at the one man who could deal out a death sentence with just a simple flick of his hand. The weight of his stare bore down on you, a relentless pressure that threatened to crush you where you stood.

"Okay" he said matter-of-factly, he raised his hands to his helmet, and you frowned for a second, heart hammering yet again, before you realised what was happening.

He placeHe placed his hands on either side of his mask. A small click was followed by a hiss of air as the mouthpiece of his helmet moved forward.d. He lifted the helmet off his headKylo shook his head, his shoulder-length raven-black curls lurking in contrast to his dark reputation, cascading around his face. He dropped his helmet to his side and looked over at you with his deep, almost black eyes. His face contorted into a frown as he noticed the expression on your face.

"What?" he asked, looking less than amused.

"Nothing," you said, shaking your head and averting your eyes.s. You walked in the direction of his spaceship and as you passed him, you mumbled, "Just not what I expected. " You had your back to him, so you hadn't seen his expression shift from annoyance to amusement as he smirked, shook his head, and picked up his helmet to follow you.

"What are we looking for?" he asked, placing his helmet down in his spaceship as he lent against the doorframe and crossed his arms.

The back of his ship was destroyed, but the cockpit was relatively intact. He might have even survived the crash if he had stayed in his ship. But that was far too much of a gamble, so ejecting from it was the right call.

"Anything that we could use to survive here" you replied, looking in all the cabinets and compartments that he had in his ship.

He didn't move, he just followed you with his eyes a curious expression on his face.

"Come on, we don't have much time" you said, stopping your frantic searching for a brief moment to motion for him to look too.

He stuck his tongue in his cheek and smiled, shaking his head before stepping forwards and opening the cupboard near him. He looked at it for a brief second before frowning, closing it and turning to you again, crossing his arms and frowning.

"You don't give the orders, I outrank you.” he said in an authoritative tone, crossing his arms again.

You took a deep breath and then let it out in an audible sig"Look, I scanned the planet—it's beautiful in daylight, but at night it turns into a frigid nightmare." It looks positively delightful in the daytime, with the sunlight pouring through the green leaves, moss, and flowers covering the ground. But at night it all changes. It gets cold, colder than you've probably experienced. Everything freezes but that okay because all the plants here have adapted to that, the problem is: We haven’t.” You stopped to peer in another cabinet, then turned to look at him. “So we need to find a cave and firewood. Somewhere to wait out the cold for a day or two until the First Order picks up our signal. Now, you can throw your weight around and remind me of your rank over and over until it gets dark and we both freeze to death. Or you can help me because It's starting to get dark, and we only have a few hours before this whole place turns into a frozen hellhole." Desperation tinged your voice as you ranted, frustration over his naivety consuming you.

"No one's ever spoken to me like that and lived," he remarked, a playful tone undercutting the threat.

"I have a little sister back on the ship, if I don't make it back, then she will be all alone in this world"So please, God, just help me!" you yelled, frustration surging as his moods shifted.

He smiled again, watching you open and close the cupboards angrily, admiring the determination in your expression.

"Okay, cupboard up on the left there's an emergency pack filled with medical supplies and blankets" he said, vaguely, gesturing with his gloved hand.

"Okay" you opened it, took out the bag and threw it in his direction. He caught it with ease and slung it over his shoulder. “Do you have a blaster around here or something?" you asked, your eyes scanning frantically.

"Yeah here" he said, opening a compartment near him and taking out the same model as you had.

"Okay so that's it right" you replied, scanning the ship one last time before heading towards the door.

"Yeah" he watched you again with moderate fascination as you brushed past him, down the ramp and back outsideHe punched a button, grabbed his helmet, then moved down the ramp after you. As his feet touched the ground, the ramp began to raise until it clicked shut.

"So why don't we stay inside the ships and wait out the cold there?" he asked, following you as you headed into the thick of the forest, he already knew the answer, but he was sort of enjoying the way you were speaking to him, he had never experienced it before.

"We don't have enough fuel to power the heaters and send out the distress signal, we don't know how long it could take for them to find us so we need the distress signal to go on for as long as possible" you replied stepping over a fallen log, frowning slightly wondering why he would ask something so stupid.

He fell into stride with you, and the two of you walked in silence for a few minutes as you tried to wrap your head around what the hell was happening. You were wandering around a forest with Kylo Ren, but he wasn't like the Kylo so many people had grown to fear, in fact, he was nothing whatsoever like what you had expected. But it made you happy, you kept stealing glances in his direction. Each time you noticed something different about him, how full his lips were or how angled his jawline was. You had expected a horrific creature to reside under the mask but instead there was this person, who if you dressed him in fine clothes could pass for a prince, not the ruthless leader of the first order.

"Its warm" he said in an attempt to make conversation, he had just caught you looking in his direction, and it made him smile as he had been doing the same. However, these feelings confused him a little, he hadn't felt this comfortable around someone for a long time, and it was almost like his body was longing for it. He tried to maintain his emotionless expression and authoritative stance as the two of you walked, but you made him want to relax.

"Well you are wearing plenty of layers, take a few off" you replied, glancing at him briefly before looking back to the endless green forest.

He smirked at your comment and shook his head a little, biting his tongue.

"Did you just tell me to take my clothes off" he said in a serious authoritarian tone.

Your heart skipped a beat, and you turned to look at him wide eyes and ready to apologise profusely and beg him not to shoot you. But instead of seeing an angry scowl you saw a small smile as he raised his eyebrow at you and flashed you a cheeky smile. You clenched your jaw in an attempt not to smile, but failed and shook your head, bringing your attention back to where you were going. Your cheeks blazing red.

You watched out of the corner of your eye as he removed his gloves and put them in his helmet before putting them into his bag. Then you watched as he unbuttoned his jacket. You took a breath and tried to turn your attention back to navigation.

You had got a little lost in thought when suddenly Kylo stopped.

"What the hell was that?" he whispered, you looked down to see that he had his arm outstretched in front of you in a protective manner and his back slightly turned to you as his he slowly looked around.

He had raised his blaster so it was pointing out in front of him.

"Run" he said, grabbing your hand and running through the undergrowth. He led the way as he dragged you though the forest, branches hitting your face and leaves tangling in your hair. You strained your ears to try to determine whether something was following you. The pace at which you were traveling and the amount of concentration it took not to lose your footing and keep up with Kylo took all the concentration that you had.

He stopped suddenly, the unexpected manoeuvre sent a thrill coursing through your veins, and as you stumbled slightly but managed to catch your balance. He caught you, and you felt the heat of his body against your own, a sensation that left you momentarily breathless.

"What the hell did you see?" you gasped, doubling over as a wave of nausea surged through you, the damp air heavy in your lungs. Panic clawed at your throat, tightening like a vice as adrenaline coursed through your veins.

"I don't know, I just heard something," he said, his voice low and strained, as his eyes darted around, scanning the shadows that loomed around you. He glanced back the way you had come, and for a split second, the forest seemed to hold its breath, an eerie silence enveloping you both. Dread crawled up your spine as if the very trees were whispering secrets, hinting at something lurking just out of sight, ready to pounce at any moment.

"Well I didn't hear anything chasing us, did you see it?" you asked, your breath burning in your throat and lungs, your eyes stinging with unshed tears.

"No" he said, grabbing his open jacket and flapping it open and closed in an attempt to cool himself down before giving up and removing it altogether. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, and looked at you.

"So it’s entirely possible that the great and powerful Kylo Ren just ran from a strong gust of wind," you said, straightening as your chest heaved, but not as badly as moments ago.

"It sounded big," he breathed, his voice steady as he shook his head, rising to his feet with a relaxed movement. He casually slung his bag over his shoulder again, the tension in his posture easing slightly.

"Alright, alright. It’s entirely possible you actually saw something," you replied, raising your hands with your palms facing him in a gesture of small surrender. "We'll stay vigilant; a planet like this must have some kind of wildlife, so let’s do our best to keep our distance," you added, nodding before setting off in the direction you had been running.

"Wait" he said, and you turned to him and looked back down the way you had come, your heart hammering.

"Oh no, I don’t see anything. Well, you just have some leaves in your hair," he said, his gaze lingering on you as he gestured playfully upward. The warmth of his smile made your heart flutter, the space between you felt charged with a connection that sent a shiver down your spine.

"Well that's entirely your fault, I lost count of how many trees I hit on the way" you said, your hands going to your head, your French braided hair was now messy and filled with leaves and twigs.

You scrambled to pull them out, wincing as you accidentally tugged some hair.

"Wait, no, here—let me help," he said, concern etched on his face as he stepped in front of you. His presence felt warm and protective. With gentle hands, he began plucking the leaves from your hair, his fingers deftly weaving through the strands. As he brought your braid around to the front, his fingertips brushed against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine like a spark of electricity. There was an intimacy in the way he carefully picked out the leaves and twigs, each touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary, as if he wanted to savour the connection.

He smiled once he finished. You hadn’t realised you had been staring at him the entire time, completely entranced by the way his dark curls framed his face and how his lips curved in that charming smile. When his gaze finally locked onto yours, the world around you seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you suspended at that moment. The air thickened with an electric tension, and you felt a warmth blossom in your chest, that you hurried to push down.

"There now you look a little less like a crazy forest dweller" he said with a small laugh, his eyes twinkling playfully. He winked at you, making your heart skip a beat, before brushing past you, the heat of his body and the subtle scent of his cologne lingering in the air. "It's this way, yeah?" he finished, his voice low and husky, heading off into the forest.

You stood there for a moment, the corners of your mouth twitching as a small laugh escaped your lips, a light sound that mingled with the rustling leaves overhead. You couldn't remember the last time that you had laughed. The surrounding forest seemed to hold its breath, waiting, as if it too was amused by the unfolding scene. You glanced down at your tangled braid, still feeling the remnants of his gentle touch, and then back to him as he strode confidently ahead, his figure being swallowed by the dappled light filtering through the trees.

With a shake of your head, disbelief mingling with a flutter of excitement, you turned on your heel. The sun broke through the canopy overhead, illuminating the path ahead, inviting you deeper into the lush greenery. You could hear the faint crunch of twigs underfoot and feel the cool breeze brushing against your flushed cheeks. As you caught up to him, the faint scent of pine and earth filled the air, grounding you at the moment. It felt like a turning point, perhaps he wasn’t so bad after all.

You had been walking for a little over an hour in silence, the only sounds being the soft rustle of leaves and the distant calls of unseen creatures. With no more signs of the thing Kylo had seen, you decided to take this as a small victory—a fleeting moment of peace in the otherwise tense atmosphere. Part of you hoped that whatever he had heard was just a log falling, something mundane amidst the unknown. Yet, another part of you couldn’t shake the chilling memory of that eerie feeling of being watched back at the ships, like a shadow looming over your thoughts. That unsettling notion was enough to keep you on edge, a tingling awareness heightening every sense.

Your gaze drifted down to the hand he had grasped so tightly when you both fled through the jungle. You recalled how his fingers had wrapped around yours, warm and slightly rough against your skin, offering a strange blend of comfort amid chaos. It was not just a handhold; it felt like a lifeline. You remembered how he’d delicately pulled leaves from your hair afterward, his touch tender and surprisingly gentle. At that moment, you were torn between the image of the man capable of such softness and the fierce warrior you knew him to be. It left you wondering how someone with such a capability for care could be perceived only as a creature of violence.

"It's growing colder," Kylo murmured, his breath a visible mist as the wind whipped around us, carrying a biting chill.

“It must be getting closer to dark,” you replied, glancing around at the encroaching shadows. “I scanned the ground on our way down; it was difficult to get a clear reading through the thick trees, but it seemed like there’s a cave just down this way.” With that, you stepped up onto a moss-covered log, straining to see deeper into the forest in the direction you had indicated.

Your foot slipped as the moss pulled away from the log beneath you, and for a moment, it felt like you were about to completely lose your balance. Just then, two sturdy hands grabbed your waist, lifting you effortlessly before setting you down safely on the other side of the log. You looked up to find Kylo’s eyes on you, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips before he let go and resumed walking in the direction you had pointed. You swallowed hard as you placed your hands on your waist where his had just been, an echo of warmth lingering there. With a quick shake of your head, you dropped your hands and grabbed the straps of your backpack, hurrying to follow him. As you walked, you couldn’t help but bite your lip, your gaze lingering on his broad shoulders and athletic physique, drawing some rather bold thoughts into your mind.

You shivered as the chill in the air grew more pronounced. Glancing up at the leaves overhead, you noticed that the vibrant green light that had bathed the forest when you first landed was beginning to fade, signalling that the sun was starting to set.

"Hey I think I found it" you head Kylos voice called from a little ahead of you.

Pulling your gaze from the towering trees, you jogged to Kylo's side and spotted a small entrance to a cave, partially concealed by overgrown ferns. Your heart raced with a mix of excitement and apprehension as you knelt down, holding up your watch to scan the opening. The device whirred and hummed, its screen lighting up with data as you pointed it toward the cave. After a brief moment, it emitted a confirming beep, the sound drawing your focus deeper into the shadowy tunnel ahead.

“It’s empty, the entrance is probably too small for anything that can’t burrow in,” you said as you peered through the small opening. “Come on, we need to gather some wood to help us through the night. Make sure you collect pieces of different sizes, and steer clear of anything green, rotten, or soaking wet,” you added, wrapping up your instructions.

He nodded and set his bag down at the cave entrance with a soft thud, then turned and walked to your left. You raised your eyebrows confused, expecting him to protest yet again at your direction. A moment of silence hung between you, and you shook your head, realising he might have finally grasped the gravity of your circumstances. A flicker of relief washed over you at the thought; you were glad he hadn’t tossed out a snippy remark about already knowing how to make a fire your way. The urgency of the situation was palpable, and there simply wasn’t time for any further arguments.

Twenty minutes later, you both had gathered a sizeable pile of wood at the cave entrance. Kylo had used his lightsaber to take down dead standing trees with ease. However, it had noticeably grown colder, and snowflakes began to drift down from the grey sky. You worked diligently to drag the logs into the cave, moving back and forth, log after log. The entrance was narrow, requiring you to crouch to get through, but beyond it opened up into a spacious interior.

You aimed your torch along the walls, checking for any hidden openings that might let the planet's creatures slip in and feast on you while you slept. As the beam illuminated the rock surface, you noticed patches of crystals sparkling in the light. Intrigued, you smiled at their twinkling glow, imagining what they could be, maybe formations of salt or even brilliant diamonds. But knowing your luck, they were likely just quartz or something else that was beautiful yet worthless.

You stepped closer to examine the crystals, their shimmering beauty drawing you in, when an almighty roar echoed from outside, causing your heart to race. Your eyes widened in terror, and you spun on your heel, sprinting the short distance to the cave entrance. Dropping to your knees, you sank into the soft mud, your breath quickening as you shone your torch down the tunnel. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating Kylo’s face as he crawled toward you, urgency written all over him.

Panic surged through you, and without thinking, you dropped the torch, extending your hand to grab his as you helped pull him the rest of the way into the cave. He was heavier than he appeared, and as soon as he cleared the opening, you both collapsed onto the ground, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. The low growl of whatever lurked outside resonated through the cave, sending chills down your spine as you lay there, desperately trying to catch your breath and gather your strength against the encroaching darkness.

A low, menacing snarl slithered through the hole, echoing ominously around the cave. Your heart raced as you sat up, eyes darting to Kylo, who was now rising to his feet with a tense readiness. Instinct kicked in, and you jumped to your feet, feeling the electric charge of fear crackling in the air. He motioned for you to stand behind him, an unspoken promise of protection, and without hesitation, you obliged, pressing yourself against the cold cave wall as shadows danced around you. Cast by your forgotten torch still rocking slightly where you had dropped it.

The sound came again, this time more agitated and furious, a chilling cacophony of scratches echoing out of the opening. The noise scraped against your nerves, each shrill tear resonating like a warning bell, as if whatever lurked beyond was growing restless and hungry, eager to breach the safety of your dark sanctuary.

“How big is it?” you whispered, dread creeping into your voice. “Small enough to get through the hole?” You gulped as the sound of shuffling echoed down the tunnel.

Absent-mindedly you grabbed Kylos hand.

Kylo raised his other hand, and a rock from the side of the hole began to scrape across the floor, moving ominously toward the opening. Seconds ticked by, and the scratching at the other end intensified, sending a chill down your spine as it felt like it was inching closer to you. In a surge of instinctive fear, you stepped closer to Kylo, your other hand gripping his upper arm, practically clinging to him as you watched the rock slide into place over the gap, your heart pounding with anticipation. It hadn't even occurred to you that he had just used the force to move the rock. The only thing you could think about was the fact that you were now safe from whatever it was that lurked outside.

Letting out your breath, you looked up at Kylo, and after a moment of hesitation, you quickly dropped his arm, feeling a flush of embarrassment rise in your cheeks as you stepped away from him.

"Nice job…" you mumbled, a bit of awkwardness creeping into your voice as you turned away from Kylo to face the unlit fire you had constructed.

Even with the rock covering the door, the temperature was plummeting with every passing second, as if the very fabric of the world around you was conspiring to freeze you in place. You dropped to your knees, breath fogging in front of you as you began constructing the fire, fingers fumbling around in the dim light, desperately trying to create a spark of warmth against the encroaching cold. Kylo stepped up beside you, his breath visible in the air as he watched you work, a slight furrow appearing in his brow as he observed your laboured movements. Despite your best efforts, it was clear that your inexperience with building fires had led to some haphazard attempts at gathering kindling, but at least some progress was being made.

"Hey, could you pass me the lighter in my bag over there" you said, nodding in the direction of your bag sitting back on your feet.

You looked up at him when he didn't move, a smirk playing on his lips. He casually drew his lightsaber, its blade igniting with a confident swipe, casting the room in a fiery red glow. He touched the tip of the glowing blade to the logs, and within seconds they burst into flame.

"Show off" you said, shaking your head and standing up.

He turned it off with a smile before throwing it on top of his bag.

"You're different, you know" you started opening your bag and taking out the blankets and emergency rations. "Different from what I thought you would be."

"Why, what did you think I would be?" he asked, half sitting half leaning against a large rock in front of the fire.

"Well, the way you storm around the ship and the stories people tell. I just figured you were a bit of a jerk" you said, as you pulled the last items from your backpack and then opened his, placing his lightsaber inside.

"You wound me deeply," he said in a mock-hurt tone, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he folded his arms across his chest.

You shook your head, refusing to glance in his direction. You had put up with enough of those looks, each one adding to your growing confusion and frustration. He probably knew the hold he had over you, treating it like a playful game to pass the time.

"You should strip off as many layers as you can and lay them on that rock to dry," you suggested, unfolding the blankets and tossing one at him before spreading two more out on the ground for the both of you to sit on.

He caught it, and you looked up and him, he smiled.

"There you go again, teasing me," he said with a sultry laugh, tossing the blanket aside and leaning back against the rock. He then playfully tugged at the hem of his shirt, slowly lifting it upwards. His eyes never left yours, a soldering challenge dancing within their depths. In a swift motion, he pulled the shirt off, baring his toned chest to the warm glow of the fire.

He seemed to want you to look at him, not cowering away or becoming embarrassed. You quickly averted your eyes, and you heard him shuffle around. He radiated a magnetic energy, as if daring you to gaze at him instead of shyly looking away. With a slight shuffle, he settled down beside you in front of the crackling fire. The blanket hung loosely around his shoulders, fluttering open at the front, giving just a hint of the toned physique underneath. It struck you then that he was wearing nothing but his boxers, the flickering flames casting shadows that accentuated the chiseled lines of his frame.

You shook your head slightly, attempting to shake off the effects of his presence before getting to your feet. Wrapping the blanket tightly around yourself, you began to peel away your wet clothes. The moment you stepped more than a few feet away from the fire, a wave of chill enveloped you, radiating off the cave walls and biting at your skin. You shivered as you slipped off your shirt and trousers, bundling them in your arms before drawing the blanket closer for warmth.

With a wince, you placed your damp clothes on the rock beside Kylo, the thought of putting them back on after a day soaked in sweat, humidity, and snow making you grimace. You returned to the fire, ensuring the blanket was snug around you, and chose a spot on the opposite side, glancing at Kylo from across the flickering flames.

You watched the mesmerising flames dance before you, the light flickering in rhythm with the crackling wood. Every so often, a damp piece of timber would pop, sending tiny fragments of glowing ash spiralling up into the air. As you gazed through the flames, your eyes locked onto Kylo’s; he, too, was lost in the fiery depths.

His broad shoulders peeked out from under the blanket, and the firelight accentuated the sculpted contours of his face. The flickering flames played in his deep-set eyes, making them appear almost to glow while he clenched his jaw.

"What's the matter?" you whispered, your voice breaking the silence of the cave.

His eyes shot from the fire to meet yours, and you drew in a quick, small breath. They were intense, dark like the night sky, yet held an inviting warmth.

"Sorry.” You whispered, looking down at the dirt on your side of the fire, you had been absent-mindedly doodling in it with a stick.

"No it's okay, I just… I've never really done something like this" he turned his gaze back to the fire and bit the inside of his cheek.

He shifted to sit cross-legged on the floor, his forearms resting on his thighs, the blanket slipping down slightly to reveal more of his physique. His broad shoulders were well-defined, and the contours of his toned arms hinted at strength, while the light from the fire accentuated the sculpted lines of his chest and abdomen, giving a tantalising glimpse of his powerful frame beneath the fabric.

“What do you mean by that?” you replied, a hint of confusion in your voice.

He glanced up at you, causing you to shyly avert your gaze once more.

"Look don't worry, I'm not going to tell anyone that you to order from someone beneath you and sat around a campfire in nothing but your underwear" you said with a small uneasy laugh. "I wouldn't be surprised if the moment the first order arrive you kill me and leave" you continued now stabbing at the ground with a stick and clenching your jaw.

"Is that what you think of me? That I value life so little that I would kill you even though you're the reason I'm alive?" he asked, his voice was deep and alluring, but it almost seemed hurt.

"Well I've flown and fought alongside you for a long time, I've seen the sort of things that you do how angry you get over the smallest of things, so yeah. That's the Kylo Ren that you let the world see…" you looked up to meet his eye which were trained on you and stopped, his stare making you feel uneasy.

His eyes scanned your face as he tilted his head to the side, silently urging you to go on.

"Look, I promise that I won't mention the events that have happened today to anyone, as soon as we get off this godforsaken planet you can go back to being the supreme leader and me a pilot, and we never have to talk or cross paths again," you said looking back at the fire.

You heard him shift, and then he settled down beside you, sitting cross-legged with the blanket bundled in his lap. As he turned his head towards you, the firelight danced across his sharp jawline and his deep-set eyes, highlighting the intensity in his gaze. There was an irresistible charm about him that made it difficult to look away—a rugged handsomeness that seemed to radiate warmth in the dim light.

"I don’t want to forget about this, and I would rather not stop talking to you," he said in a soft whisper, his voice rich and resonant, with a throaty quality that sent a shiver down your spine. It had a warmth to it, making every word he spoke feel electric and deeply intimate..

"You know I mean what I said earlier, you really are different to what I expected" You placed your elbow on your knee and rested your head in your hand, hoping to steer the conversation in a different direction.

"Good different or bad different?" he asked, turning his head towards you with a small smile.

"Good different, I thought you were utterly terrifying, but you are actually quite nice" you said, returning his smile and returning your gaze to the fire.

"Well I need to keep the first order in line" he said, his eyes studying your face. "And you're different too"

You turned to look at him, suddenly feeling shy under his gaze.

"Huh, did the grumpy supreme leader just almost give me a compliment?" you laughed, your cheeks flushing slightly at the unexpected turn of events.

He laughed, the sound warm and inviting. You couldn't help but feel a little shy under his gaze, so you turned your attention back to the fire. But then you heard him move, and suddenly, he was sitting right next to you, his strong presence causing your heart to flutter in your chest.

"I don't think I can do that" he said, your heart dropped a little. "Every time your eyes meet mine, it's like I forget how to talk" you turned back towards him and frowned.

"See just like that" he said with a small smile as he shook his head, his eyes shifting from yours to your lips and then slowly back again.

You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of just how close your faces were, the heat between you palpable and electrifying, making your heart race wildly in your chest.

"Every time I look at you, I just want to do this.” He said, closing the distance and placing a small kiss on your lips before pulling away.

You drew in a quick breath, your gaze flickering from his intense eyes to his inviting lips. The moment hung thick with tension, and his quickened breaths only heightened the electricity in the air between you. Unable to resist, you leaned in, your lips brushing softly against his, igniting a spark that sent shivers down your spine. This kiss was different—deeper, more urgent. You didn’t pull away this time; instead, you melted into him, feeling the warmth of his strong arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer as though you were meant to fit perfectly together.

The world around you faded, leaving only the sensation of his mouth moving against yours, crafting a connection tinged with longing and desire. The kiss deepened, full of passion, each moment fuelling the fire building between you. You felt the blanket slip off your shoulders, the fabric falling away as his hands guided yours up to his chest, where you could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm, a rhythmic reminder of the undeniable chemistry igniting in the space between you.

You realised that I was likely a long time since he had been touched or had any sort of human companionship. You let your hand wandered over his chest gently. Your other hand wandered down his jawline and then round to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. One of his hands was on your waist and the other moved to cup your face. You began to grind against him, and he drew in a quick breath, drawing away from the kiss for a moment. Before coming back in stronger and more needy than before.

Next to you the fire crackled and popped as your hands wandered each other's bodies, his hand slowly made its way to the edge of the blanket, slowly pulling it off you. Then his right hand moved downwards and cupped your butt as suddenly in one fluid motion he lifted you off his lap, upwards so he was kneeling before slowly laying you down. His hand ran from your but down the outside of your thigh as you wrapped your legs around him as he placed kisses down your neck.

Next to you, the fire crackled and popped as your hands explored each other's bodies. His hand gradually traveled to the edge of the blanket, gently pulling it away from you. Then, with a swift but smooth motion, he cupped your butt, lifting you off his lap and kneeling before you. He laid you back down slowly, his touch lingering as his hand glided from your butt down the outside of your thigh. You instinctively wrapped your legs around him, feeling the heat radiate between you as he placed soft, teasing kisses along your neck.

"Tease" you breathed, moving his face back to yours and looking into his dark eyes as you bit your lip.

He gazed at you with a warm smile, his eyes reflecting a depth of warmth, before leaning in to place another tender kiss on your lips.

"You've been in charge all day; now it's my turn," he whispered, his voice low and rough, sending shivers racing down your spine as you instinctively bucked your hips toward him. His fingers danced teasingly over the clasp of your bra.

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