ultraintrovertedgryffindor

[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

DUMB & POETIC

Johnny Storm X Female!reader || WC: 6.1K

SUMMARY: Johnny Storm flirted like it was a reflex, so when he starts showing up at work with that grin and some line about taking you out, you didn’t flinch. You want to believe him, want to think there’s something real under all that fire and flair, but it’s hard when every time you look, some starry-eyed fan is hanging on his arm.

WARNINGS: Fantastic Four: First Steps minor Spoilers! Typical Marvel themes, angst, fluff, steamy kiss (no pun intended), cursing, Sue being Johnny’s defender yet still humbles him, self-deprecating thoughts, Ben and Johnny banter, lots of pet names, lovesick!Johnny

A/N: As soon as I saw the first trailer for this movie, and saw Joe Quinn as Johnny I knew he would do the role justice! I’m just sad now we have to wait until next year for the next set of Marvel movies! 😩 Divider by @saradika-graphics <3

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Weekends at Maisie’s Delicatessen were a whirlwind of clinking dishes, muffled jazz from the radio behind the counter, and the sweet, yeasty warmth of the oven creeping into every corner of the narrow shop. Nestled on a street corner in Manhattan, its red neon sign buzzed softly beneath the fire escape, a beacon for locals and regulars alike. Inside, mismatched chairs and linoleum floors bore the scuffs of a hundred hurried mornings.

Your hair had been shoved into a bun since dawn, already loosened by the heat radiating off the pastry case. You moved nonstop, dodging customers and slinging paper bags filled with brownies, marble loaves, and chocolate croissants to neighborhood regulars. The cookies, especially the chocolate chip, were gone before noon, and you'd slipped a few warm ones to the kids who lived across the street, ignoring their mother's frazzled protests. Kids needed sweetness in a city like this.

You leaned against the counter for the first time in hours, arms dusted with flour and sugar, the faint hum of a delivery truck idling outside. You took a quick sip of water, your lips still tasting faintly of cinnamon. Then came the bell, ding-a-ling, that delicate sound above the door. You glanced up and froze in amused recognition. Ben Grimm stood in the doorway, trying (and failing) to disguise his massive, craggy frame beneath a trench coat that strained at the seams.

His fedora sat low, shadowing his unmistakable orange brow, but you’d recognize that stance anywhere. A few folks glanced up, but New Yorkers were practiced in the art of pretending not to notice things that didn’t concern them. “There’s my favorite customer!” You grinned, the weariness melting from your voice as you waved him in. Ben chuckled low in his throat, the sound gravelly and warm. “The usual, a dozen black and white cookies, fresh outta the oven.”

You beamed, already holding out the brown paper bag before he could part his lips. Ben’s rocky features relaxed into a rare, boyish grin. The warmth in his eyes was unmistakable, even beneath the shadow of his hat. “You spoil us way too much, Y/N.” He murmured, reaching into the inner pocket of his coat with those thick, stone-like fingers. Before he could fish out his wallet, you gently laid your hand against his arm. “Nah,” You whispered, your eyes crinkling. “It’s the least I can do. You keep our city from crumbling, literally.”

He hesitated, then chuckled softly, the corners of his mouth pulling into something half-sheepish, half-grateful. The coat shifted slightly as he straightened up, careful not to knock over the tiny table near the window. Outside, the city kept humming, taxis honking, a dog barking somewhere down the block, steam curling from a grate on the corner like clockwork. Ever since that mission to space, the one that turned the four of them into something the world had never seen, they'd been more than just heroes.

Earth-828 called them protectors. Some folks whispered “miracles,” others muttered “monsters,” but to you, they were still people. People who liked black and white cookies warm and still a little gooey in the middle. Ben tucked the bag under one arm with reverence, like he was holding something precious instead of simply just cookies. “Reed says carbs’ll slow me down,” He grunted, already lifting one to his mouth. “But he doesn’t know what he’s missin’.”

You laughed, the sound light above the soft vinyl music playing from the back. The overhead light flickered briefly, a flaw in the old wiring you never bothered fixing, casting a golden glow across the glass counter and catching the powdered sugar still clinging to your forearms. “Anything else I can get for you?” You asked, tilting your head as Ben scanned the pastry display. “Will you let me pay for it this time?” You shrugged with a playful glint in your eye watching as he shook his head in disapproval.

“Just the cookies today. I’ll take the offer next time, though.” Ben grunted, approval or defeat, it was hard to tell, and adjusted his coat. “Fair enough,” You smiled, raising your hands in mock surrender. “Tell everyone their favorite baker said hello.” You added, wiping your hands on your apron. As if summoned, the front door jingled again, and in blew a gust of hot air and unmistakable cologne. “Ben! What a coincidence!” Johnny Storm strolled in like he owned the block, hair windswept, a grin already loaded and ready to fire.

He clapped a hand on Ben’s shoulder, more for show than anything, before swiveling toward you like a sunflower toward the sun. “Why hello, gorgeous.” He purred, leaning casually against the counter, elbows propped like it was a bar and not a bakery. His blue eyes flicked over you, every detail catalogued in a glance that burned hotter than anything the ovens could crank out. You didn’t flinch. You’d seen this act before. “Johnny.” You replied, arms crossed more for protection than posture.

It didn’t stop your heart from racing, not with him standing there, all charm and endearing smile. He’d been flirting ever since the first time Ben sent him to pick up cookies, weeks ago now, throwing one-liners your way. It had become routine, really. Every day around noon, Johnny would stroll through the doors of Maisie’s Delicatessen, sometimes in uniform, sometimes in civilian charm, like clockwork.

He’d order the same cherry danish or lemon tart he never finished, pick at a croissant he claimed was “too flaky,” or simply ask for something sweet and then spend twenty minutes leaning on the counter and making small talk. You’d never seen him eat more than a bite. The truth? He didn’t like pastries. You knew. You noticed the way he’d discreetly leave half of them on the plate, or slide one into a napkin and “forget” it on the windowsill. But he came back anyway.

Every. Single. Day.

Only unlike all the women in New York City, you’d brushed him off. You always did. The whole city knew Johnny Storm’s reputation. He was the Human Torch, flashy, unpredictable, and impossible not to look at. Blonde hair like sunlight, eyes blue enough to drown in. You weren’t naive. You just weren’t stupid enough to fall for him and get your heart broken. At first, you assumed it was just Johnny being Johnny, chasing a pretty face with his signature swagger and a smirk that could melt through steel.

His flirtation had seemed harmless. But lately… something about him felt different. He asked questions that had nothing to do with your looks. Asked about your favorite books, your childhood dog, whether you liked jazz or doo-wop better. He once brought you a bouquet of tiger lillies because “you looked like someone who deserved a Wednesday pick-me up.” He listened. Really listened. And yet, you still didn’t let yourself believe it. Because he was Johnny Storm.

Famous. Reckless. Traveled to space. And you? You baked cookies on 3rd and Grand and slipped extras to neighborhood kids. So when he leaned in across the counter today, eyes locked on yours like you were the only person in Manhattan, it made your stomach twist. Because you couldn’t tell if it was all just part of the game, or if maybe, just maybe, he meant it. Still, you reminded yourself to breathe, burying the stupid crush on the blonde-haired, blue-eyed heartbreaker as far down as it would go.

You’d dug that hole weeks ago, right around the time he started showing up for pastries he didn’t eat, and you’d kept digging ever since. “Surprised you’re not at the Baxter Building,” You teased, grabbing a nearby rag to wipe a nonexistent smudge on the counter. “Don’t you have a world to save?” He grinned, eyes glinting. “Figured I’d start with yours.” You almost choked on your own breath. Ben rolled his eyes so hard you could almost hear them click.

“Flamebrain, pick up your danish and let the woman work.” But Johnny didn’t move. He leaned in further, elbow resting against the counter like he had all the time in the world. “Aw, come on, Y/N.” He drawled with a smirk so effortless it should’ve been criminal. That wink, practiced, perfect, probably had women lining up around the block. You huffed a laugh despite yourself, because dammit, he was impossible not to smile at. Shaking your head, you turned your back to him, pretending to be very, very busy with the new tray of croissants still warm from the oven.

You didn’t need to see his face to know he was still watching you, you could feel it. You grabbed the pineapple danish, the one he always claimed was his favorite, though you were 99% sure he hated pineapple, and placed it gently on the counter between you. “Have a nice day, Johnny.” It was meant to be the end of it. A line drawn in powdered sugar. But the way he lit up when you said his name made your chest tighten in a way that was wildly inconvenient.

His whole face softened, the cocky veneer still there, but something genuine flickering behind it. The corners of his mouth curved, his blue eyes twinkling like he'd just won something. He pulled out his wallet, soft leather, edges worn, and slid a crisp $10 bill across the counter without breaking eye contact. “See you next time, beautiful.” That should’ve been it. Any normal person would’ve taken their pastry and left. But Johnny Storm wasn’t normal. Before you could even blink, he leaned in again, this time reaching for you.

Reflex made you freeze, lips parting on instinct as his hand came up to your face. His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek, slow and deliberate. Your breath hitched. Your skin went electric beneath his touch. “Gotcha.” He whispered with a smug grin, dusting flour off your cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world. And then, like some cinematic fever dream, he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, slow, gentle, and let his fingers linger just a second too long.

You couldn’t even look at him. Not directly. Not with that smile. Not with the way his cologne curled through the air, something warm, woodsy, and undeniably him. Not with his broad shoulders in your peripheral, framed by the soft golden light of the storefront window. Your heart was pounding like the city outside, and you hated how easily he could turn you to absolute mush. With one last cheeky wink, he straightened up and strolled past Ben toward the exit like he hadn’t just short-circuited your brain.

You stood frozen, still gripping the edge of the counter as the bell above the door chimed again. Ben lingered for just a second longer, eyeing you with something between amusement and pity. “He’s trouble, kid.” You managed a breathless laugh, cheeks still burning. “Tell me something I don’t know.” He gave you one last tip of his hat before he was out the door. Through the foggy window, you watched Ben shove Johnny as they walked down the street, his expression deadpan as Johnny laughed, head tilted back, beaming.

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop the stupid smile tugging at your lips. The rest of the evening passed like a worn-out record, quiet, predictable, and just a little too slow. No more superhero drop-ins, no flirtatious banter, just the comforting rhythm of clinking coffee cups, parents herding sugar-hyped kids, and the usual faces grabbing day-old rye for half price. You moved on autopilot, smiling when necessary, nodding when expected, but your thoughts weren’t behind the counter anymore.

They were still caught somewhere between Johnny Storm’s hand brushing your cheek and the lingering scent of him that had somehow stuck to the sleeves of your apron. At four o’clock sharp, you finally peeled off the fabric, folding it with practiced hands. You greeted your coworker with a tired wave, slung your bag over one shoulder, and grabbed the small box of pastries you’d stashed for yourself, your ritual comfort after long shifts. With a practiced motion, you nudged open the back door and stepped into the fading amber of early evening.

It was cooler now, a soft breeze threading through your sleeves, but it didn’t soothe the heat still smoldering beneath your skin. You leaned against the brick wall beside the shop, juggling the box and your bag awkwardly as you searched for your keys. Of course, they’d sunken to the bottom. Because today was that kind of day. “Geez, Y/N! Don’t you know it’s not safe out here?” You jumped slightly, box nearly tipping. But then the voice registered, cocky and warm like always, laced with amusement.

You glanced up, and there he was. Johnny Storm, leaning casually against the wall beside you, hands in the pockets of his jeans, wearing a fitted maroon tee that left nothing to the imagination. His eyes sparkled under the streetlamp like he knew exactly the effect he was having on you. You didn’t even bother hiding your eye-roll this time. “Don’t you know it’s rude to sneak up on a woman when it’s nearly dark?” He laughed, that rich, golden sound that always felt like it was meant just for you.

“Walking a beautiful girl to her car after a long shift? That’s not rude, sweetheart. That’s practically chivalry.” You hated the way your heart fluttered. “I might even ask her out to dinner, if she doesn’t already have plans.” He added, stepping a little closer. “You never quit, do you?” Your voice was breathier than you intended, your composure already fraying. The city seemed to fall away, no cars, no lights, no sound, just the heavy press of his presence and the impossible closeness of him.

He took one more step, caging you. His arms bracketed the space like a promise. His eyes were softer now, but blazing all the same. “When it comes to you? I don’t.” You looked up at him, and you felt it, that dangerous pull. Like you were standing on the edge of something steep, and he was gravity. For one brief, selfish second, you wanted to fall. His gaze searched yours, blue eyes impossibly sincere, and you felt your whole body lock up. You didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or lean in.

It was too much, all at once, the heat, the closeness, the way his words curled inside your chest and ignited everything you’d been trying to bury. “Johnny—” You started, just as quick reality struck. “Johnny! Johnny! Can we get a picture?” A chorus of high-pitched voices broke through the quiet. You both turned. Across the street, three girls, all wide smiles, glossy hair, and miniskirts, were waving excitedly. “Please! We love you!” His shoulders stiffened. For once, he was speechless, gaze flickering between you and them.

And that’s when it hit you.

Of course girls like that followed him. Of course they screamed his name and got his smile and maybe more. Girls who were everything you weren’t, glamorous, shiny, effortless. You felt plain in comparison, dusty from work, apron-wrinkled, flour on your jeans, your lipstick smudged from hours behind the counter and sneaking coffee during your breaks. You felt your throat tighten, breath catching behind clenched teeth.

He looked at you, torn, visibly. You saw the guilt, the hesitation. But you couldn’t handle it. Not the look. Not the choice. You beat him to it. “Go,” You whispered, voice thick. “Take pictures. Sign autographs. Don't let me stop you.” His head whipped back to you. “Y/N—” But you were already slipping. Already falling back into the walls you had spent so long building. Don’t get attached. Don’t believe him. Don’t be a fool. “I’ll see you around, Johnny.” Your smile was brittle.

A cracked-glass version of the one you used to give him. You turned before he could speak, before he could reach for you, because you knew, if he said the right thing, if he looked at you that way again, you’d stay. And you couldn’t. You clutched the pastry box like it was armor and speed-walked to your car, fumbling with the keys as your eyes blurred. You slammed the door shut behind you, hands gripping the steering wheel hard enough to make your knuckles pale.

You let out one shaky breath, but it didn’t help, your chest still felt like it was caving in. The first tear slipped down your cheek, and you swiped at it with the back of your hand. You blinked hard, biting down on the inside of your cheek to keep from sobbing, swallowing the thick lump that refused to go away. Through the windshield, you could still see him, standing there, not moving. Not chasing after you. Of course not. He was Johnny Storm. And you? You were just the girl who made the cookies.

It had been two days. Two painfully long, quiet days. Ben had still come in like clockwork, trench coat tight around his frame, tipping his hat with a low grunt and walking out with his usual dozen black and white cookies. Business carried on, regulars filtered in and out, the register chimed, the espresso hissed, and the world, somehow, didn’t stop turning just because Johnny Storm hadn’t walked through your door. But you noticed.

You hated how your heart leapt every time the bell over the door jingled, hated how your eyes darted up from the pastry case expecting him, golden hair tousled like he’d just stepped off a beach, sunglasses halfway down his nose, wearing that crooked grin that always seemed a little too proud to be real. But it was never him. An old man wanting lemon bars. A tired mother with her toddler. A delivery guy. Anyone but Johnny.

By the second afternoon, you were scolding yourself. You’re fine. You don’t care. It didn’t mean anything. It never meant anything. But even that was starting to ring hollow. So when the bell chimed again near closing and your head shot up on instinct, eyes connecting with familiar blue ones. Only it wasn’t Johnny. “Sue?” You breathed out, heart stumbling in your chest at the familiar face, equal parts relief and renewed confusion bubbling up behind your smile. “Hi.”

Her face lit up, warm and elegant as always, framed by a neat headband and soft waves, dressed in a powder blue coat that fell just past her knees. You rounded the counter before she could say a word, pulling her into a gentle hug. “Congratulations, you and Reed, you’re both going to be such amazing parents.” Susan laughed softly, pulling back, her hand instinctively resting over the small swell at her abdomen.

“Thank you, darling.” She whispered, her smile tender, eyes softening at your touch as you caressed the curve just barely beginning to show. Susan glanced around the shop, the quiet obvious now that the last customers had filtered out. She must have seen something flicker across your face, something you didn’t mean to let show, because her gaze settled on you a little too knowingly. "Johnny and Ben didn't tell me you were stopping by."

You hoped it sounded casual, but your voice betrayed you, just a little. She tilted her head, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “No, Ben's been busy helping Reed with all the baby stuff,” She replied gently. “And, I don’t think Johnny's mentioned anything the last day or two, actually. He’s... been a little off.” Off? Your chest tightened. You didn’t ask why. You didn’t have the right to. You weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t even sure you were a friend.

You were just the girl who made the pastries he didn’t eat, the one he flirted with until fans screamed his name and you reminded yourself to be practical. Still, it gnawed at you. The absence. The silence. The ache that felt like a bruise just beneath the surface of your ribs. You forced a smile. “I’ve got some brioche cooling in the back. Want to take some home?” Susan smiled and nodded, but her eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary.

And you wondered, how much did she know? Because if anyone could see through the armor, it was the Invisible Woman. You wrapped the warm loaf in parchment, the buttery scent of brioche rising with the steam as you folded the edges with careful precision, anything to keep your hands busy while your mind threatened to spiral. Susan lingered just past the counter, fingertips brushing along the glass display case, watching you with an unreadable expression.

Her silence wasn’t uncomfortable, just... weighty. Like she was debating whether or not to cross a line. The silence stretched a few beats longer before she finally broke it. “You know,” She began, almost too casually. “Johnny’s a lot of things. Loud. Reckless. Infuriating.” A wry smile tugged at her lips. “A complete pain in the ass, honestly.” You snorted quietly, folding the twine over the loaf and tying it into a neat bow. “You don’t have to tell me.”

Her gaze sharpened at that, the playful warmth in her voice dipping into something more sincere. “But he’s also been completely, hopelessly hung up on you.” You froze, not dramatically, but just enough that your fingers faltered mid-knot. Susan leaned in slightly, voice softening. “I mean it. Ever since he met you, it’s been nonstop. You’d think Reed and I were hosting a teenage girl in love. Every dinner, it’s always ‘Y/N made me try this pastry’ or ‘You should’ve seen the way her eyes lit up when I told her a dumb joke.’”

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry as your heart pounded loud enough to rival the ticking bakery clock. “I thought it was just another Johnny phase,” Susan continued, her eyes kind now, but serious. “He’s... well. He’s had his share of admirers. Most of them louder. But none of them stuck. None of them made him show up every morning like he forgot how to sleep or act like a lovesick teenager.” Your lips parted, but no words made it out.

Susan gave you a long look, stepping closer until her voice dropped again, almost conspiratorial. “You know what really got me? He started asking me about baking.” You blinked. “He what?” She nodded, confirming that you in fact had heard her correctly. “Wanted to know how long croissants proof. What makes a good butter ratio. If semi-sweet chocolate was the same as milk chocolate, I nearly dropped a plate.”

She gave a quiet laugh, brushing her coat sleeve with her thumb. “He burns toast, Y/N. He once tried to boil eggs in the microwave.” That startled a weak laugh out of you, but the ache behind it remained. “I’m not trying to play matchmaker,” Susan added, gentler now. “And I know he’s a mess, God, he really is, but... this isn’t a game to him. Not this time.” You stared down at the loaf in your hands, chest tightening under the weight of everything she wasn’t saying outright.

You could still feel the ghost of Johnny’s hand on your cheek from two days ago. The way his voice had softened when it was just the two of you. How his grin faltered when he thought you weren’t looking. The worst part? You wanted to believe her. You really did. Yet, that quiet voice in the back of your head, the one that always whispered your insecurities when the lights dimmed and the bakery closed, wasn’t so easily silenced, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it.

Why would someone like him want someone like you, when he could have models, actresses, girls with legs for days and zero baggage?

You pushed the thought down, deep, wrapping the last piece of tape around the box like it could hold you together too. Susan’s hand landed lightly on your arm, anchoring you for a moment. “Whatever you decide, just don’t let the noise drown out what’s real.” You met her eyes. And in them, you saw none of the pity you were bracing for, just quiet encouragement. Understanding. You gave a faint nod and offered the brioche across the counter.

She took it gently, her smile warm as she tucked it into her bag. “Take care of yourself, Y/N.” And then she was gone, the bell jingling softly behind her as she disappeared into the golden spill of the afternoon light. You exhaled slowly, and for the first time in two days, you didn’t flinch at the thought of Johnny Storm. You just ached. The door had barely swung closed behind Susan when you stood there, motionless, loaf of brioche crumbs still scattered across the counter like the remains of a decision just made.

Your heart pounded so loudly you swore the walls could hear it. The hum of the bakery lights, the tick of the clock over the register, the faint laughter of kids down the block, it all faded beneath the sudden, sharp thrum of possibility. What if she was right? What if he wasn’t just another cocky grin in a fireproof suit? What if, under all the swagger and fanfare, Johnny Storm had been waiting, hoping, for you to see him the way he saw you?

Your hands moved before your fear could stop them. You ripped off your apron, tossing it onto the hook so fast it spun, grabbed your purse and keys, and locked the till with barely a glance. You rushed around the counter, fumbled with the light switches, not bothering to sweep the back or double-check the signage. The “Closed” sign swung crooked in the door’s window as you burst out into the late afternoon sun, scanning the sidewalk like a woman on a mission.

There she was. Susan, a block away, was sliding her sunglasses on as she reached the driver's side of a navy blue Fantasticar. You called out her name, your voice cracked with urgency and nerves. She turned, brows lifted in surprise, then slowly tilted her sunglasses down as you approached, breathless and wide-eyed. “I need a ride,” You exhaled, planting your feet like you might change your mind if you moved again. “To the Baxter Building.”

A slow, knowing smirk curled on her lips, like she’d known this would happen all along. Like she had simply laid out the breadcrumbs and waited for you to follow them. Without a word, she unlocked the car with a flick of her wrist and gestured to the passenger side. You slid in, heart hammering, palms damp, and stared out the window as the city blurred by. Your mind ran faster than the wheels on the pavement. What would you say when you saw him? What if he laughed? What if you were wrong?

But then you remembered the way he looked at you. Not like you were an option. Like you were it. The crack in his cocky demeanor when he thought nobody was looking. Susan glanced at you from the corner of her eye, her voice casual as she merged into traffic. “Took you long enough.” You glanced down, flushed and nervous, but a small smile crept across your lips. “Yeah, I guess it really did.” And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel afraid of what came next.

The drive to the Baxter Building felt endless, not because of traffic, but because of what waited at the end of it. Every red light was another second for doubt to crawl back in. Every street corner flashed with reminders: his face on magazines in bodega windows, girls with teased hair giggling over autographed photos, memories of your own reflection feeling small in comparison. Still, you didn’t ask Susan to turn around.

The building rose ahead like a monument, sleek steel and glass stretching toward a stormy Manhattan sky. As you stepped through the lobby, nerves clamped around your lungs, but Susan’s hand on your arm kept you grounded. “Just breathe,” Her eyes told you without a word. The elevator ride was silent, the kind that buzzes with everything unspoken. When the doors opened, both Reed and Ben turned like they’d sensed a bomb ticking.

Ben looked you up and down like you’d grown an extra head, half a cookie still in his massive hand. Reed’s brows lifted, already calculating variables. But before either of them could utter a syllable, Susan threw them a look sharp enough to slice concrete, one perfectly arched brow raised, hand on her hip. You chuckled inwardly, thinking she had definitely mastered the 'mom look'. Ben grunted, glanced between the two of you, then quietly retreated toward the kitchen, muttering something about minding his own damn business.

Reed blinked a few times and gave a tiny, approving nod before following suit. You turned to Susan, your pulse thudding like it might give up entirely. She only smiled, placed a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Third door on the left. Go.” You didn't need to be told twice. Your heels clicked softly against the polished floor as you approached the door, H.E.R.B.I.E chirped a happy greeting in your direction. You waved, resting a hand on the smooth top of the robot’s head with an affectionate pat.

As you eyes locked on the door just past him, you could have sworn your heart lurched. You didn’t bother knocking. Your hand turned the knob, and the door flung open with all the force of your barely-contained storm. There he was. Johnny Storm, sprawled across his navy couch in a gray NASA tee and sweatpants, wearing a full space suit helmet. His posture screamed boredom, limbs flung over the cushions, one leg lazily propped up on the coffee table, until he saw you.

His eyes widened, nearly cartoonish behind the visor, and he jolted upright with such force the helmet slipped sideways on his head. “Y/N!” The name flew from him like he’d been holding it in for days. His voice cracked with disbelief as he scrambled to yank the helmet off, his hair sticking up wildly from the static. “Uh, hi! I mean—hey, you’re here. You’re… in my room.” You stood just inside the doorway, hands curled into your coat pockets to keep from fidgeting.

He blinked at you, breath shallow, eyes flicking from your coat to your flushed cheeks to the tense set of your jaw. “You okay? Did something happen? Are you—?” You didn’t even let him finish. Five steps, that’s all it took. You crossed the room with a force you didn’t know you had, your palms gripping the soft cotton of his white t-shirt, knuckles white with all the tension and longing that had been brewing for weeks, and tugged him down to your level.

Then you crashed your lips into his like it was the only way to keep from falling apart. Johnny’s breath stuttered, caught completely off guard, but only for a second. One of them slid up your spine, fingers splayed wide, pulling you impossibly closer until there was no space left between your bodies. He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss like he’d been starving for it.

Your tongue brushed his, tentative at first, but then his low, guttural moan vibrated through your chest and your grip tightened in his shirt, knuckles aching. You kissed him deeper, mouths moving in perfect sync, hot and messy, with the urgency of two people who had waited too long and couldn’t wait a second more. Johnny broke the kiss just long enough to gasp your name against your jaw, voice rough and reverent.

He ducked his head, lips dragging down your neck in soft, open-mouthed kisses that made your breath catch. When his teeth grazed just beneath your ear, a sharp whimper escaped you, unfiltered and raw. “God, do you have any idea what you do to me?” His voice was hoarse, like the words had clawed their way out of him. You didn’t answer, you couldn’t. Not with your pulse pounding in your ears.

Not with the way he was looking at you like you were something sacred. Instead, you kissed him again, harder this time. The scent of him, smoke and whatever cologne he wore that made your knees weak, clouded your senses as his tongue swept across your bottom lip. Your teeth knocked, breath mingled, and his hand slipped down to the back of your thigh. Without breaking contact, Johnny bent slightly, hooking his arms under your legs and lifting you as if you weighed nothing.

You gasped into his mouth as your back met the cool plaster of his bedroom wall, the contrast making you shiver, but Johnny’s body was all heat, all fire pressed flush against you. Your legs wrapped instinctively around his hips, and the sound he made in response, part growl, part groan, was nearly enough to undo you right then and there. He kissed you like a man possessed, like he’d held back every second since the first time you handed him a croissant and smiled in his direction.

His fingers flexed at your hips, anchoring you, grounding you, while his mouth explored yours with a tenderness that burned hotter than anything reckless. You broke apart only when your lungs screamed for air, panting, foreheads pressed together. His hands trembled slightly where they gripped you, and your own were buried in his hair, fingers tangled and unwilling to let go. Your gaze met his, blue eyes wide, wild, soft, and for once, all the noise in your head quieted.

You could feel it in the space between heartbeats, in the way his thumb brushed over the back of your knee, in the breath he stole and gave back with each kiss. This wasn’t just a crush. It wasn’t a game. “Now, can I take you to dinner?” He murmured, lips brushing yours. You let out a breathy laugh, stealing one more chaste kiss that left both of you grinning like fools. “I think we might've missed a couple steps.” You teased, hands absentmindedly playing with the soft hairs at the nape of his neck.

The same ones you’d always dreamed of running your fingers through but never dared to. His eyes softened, that usual cocky glint melting into something heartbreakingly earnest. “I don’t care in what order it happened,” He whispered, blue eyes tracing every line of your face like he was trying to burn it into memory. “As long as it’s you.” Your chest tightened, the words wrapping around something fragile and long-buried in you. He leaned in, nudging his nose gently against yours, and the breath that left him was barely a whisper.

“I should’ve stayed with you that night. I should’ve kissed you the second I saw you leaning against that wall. I should’ve never let you walk away. God, I’ve been such an idiot.” You drew in a shaky breath, heart swelling in your chest. Lifting your hands from his neck, you cupped his face in your palms, thumbs brushing across the faint hint of stubble along his jaw. “Hey,” You coaxed, voice soft but firm, grounding him before his thoughts could wonder. “I’m not going anywhere anymore.”

He closed his eyes like he didn’t trust himself to believe it until you said it again, so you kissed the tip of his nose. Then the corner of his mouth. Then fully on his lips, almost as if sealing the promise between you. A knock sounded faintly, followed by Reed’s voice muffled through the door. “Johnny! Is your friend staying for dinner?” You paused, eyes meeting his. There it was again, that flicker of vulnerability, like the part of him that still feared you’d run if given the chance.

But you didn’t even need to speak. Your smile answered for you. Johnny turned toward the door, cocky grin returning with full force. “Yes she is!” He called out, eyes never leaving yours. “Tell Herbert to set another plate at the table because—” He leaned closer, pressing a final lingering kiss to your flushed cheek. “My gorgeous girlfriend is staying over for dinner.” You couldn’t help it. You beamed. That word, girlfriend, made your skin tingle.

It felt impossibly good. Honest. Earned. You tugged him back down for one more kiss, slow and sure and full of everything you’d both kept buried for far too long. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t second-guessing it. You were exactly where you wanted to be. Where he wanted you to be. Wrapped in the arms of a man who once flirted like it was a reflex, and now held you like you were the only thing in the world that ever made him feel real.

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[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

───✮Playing with Fire✮───

Johnny Storm x fem!New Avenger!Reader

Summary: You’re helping the Fantastic Four create a strategy for a new threat, and your boyfriend Johnny is bored out of his mind. He decides to try and fire you up to heat up the meeting.

Warnings: dom!Johnny, hair pulling, fingering, rough sex, unprotected sex (wrap before you tap<3), dirty talk, prob lightly ooc Johnny but it’s okay lol

No spoilers for The Fantastic Four First Steps! It takes place during Doomsday (hopefully <3)

The new threat in New York has both your team, The New Avengers, and your boyfriend’s, The Fantastic Four, working together strenuously to plot a strategy to save the city. Everyone’s working hard, putting their ideas together and talking amongst their teams to discuss the best course of action. The New Avengers, (or Thunderbolts, Bob still doesn’t know which exactly to call your group), are at the Watchtower, going over their own plans. As for you? You’re at the Baxter Building relaying your own team’s information with the Fantastic Four, working alongside them to merge both routes together to tweak some small bumps around. It’s all very, very important, and you’re extremely focused and intrigued.

And Johnny couldn’t be more bored.

He’s sat in the chair directly across from where you stood, his eyes not leaving you. You’re standing between Reed and Sue, the squeaking of his marker making Johnny close his eyes in disagreement. It’s so antagonizing just.. knowing each frantic erase meant adding more time to the meeting. You felt heat on your back, sending a shiver through your body. Ben glances at you, opening his mouth to comment on your sudden movement, but shut his mouth. Maybe you just got a chill?

Your eyes flicker up as Reed spoke, looking at Johnny. He’s slouched in the chair, legs spread with his head tilted to the side a little. One elbow is propped up on the armrest, fiddling with a paperclip, and the other arm is laid on his lap lazily. His eyes are locked, glaring as he focused on you. He looked like he commanded the room, he radiated power. Power he used on you.

Reed hums, another idea coming to him, because of course it is. He’s only the smartest man in the universe. “So, if we take this route, we run the risk of getting intercepted from the one way exit. It’s easy and secure until we get there. Anyone have any ideas they would like to add?”

You cleared your throat, preparing to propose another idea, “We could split up. If we get intercepted, at least it wouldn’t be all of us. This way, the others could come around and hit them from behi-,” your voice catches, cutting you off as warmth caresses your inner thigh. Your eyes closed, mouth snapping shut to prevent yourself from moaning in front of the team. “Honey, are you okay? Do you need some water?,” Sue comments, placing a hand on your shoulder. You took a deep breath, before looking to her. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just feeling a little under the weather. Thank you though,” you lie, giving her a grateful look. You felt horrible lying to her, knowing her genuine concern for you, but you couldn’t let anyone, let alone her, know that her brother was teasing you during a very important meeting. She nods, returning the smile before both of you move your eyes back to the map in front of you. You take one more glance up to Johnny, who’s now looking to the ground as he now spun a pen around in his fingers. He’s pretending to be bored by it all, but he’s now heavily intrigued in this meeting as he tries to to get you hot and bothered.

He’s succeeding.

He knows he is.

It’s not like he’s never saw you like this. Just this time, it’s more interesting to see you revel under his touch, as you try to shrug it off.

“I like that idea. The next time they come back, we’ll be ready for them. I appreciate you and your team working with us, you’ve been more than helpful. Now, about sending a few of us through this building— what are your plans to hit them in the dark?,” Reed asks, now switching to a tablet, showing the blueprints to a warehouse. One where you plan for Yelena, Ava, and Walker to take out a group in the dark. Your body has calmed down, your voice now strong again as you point at the tablet.

“If we send Ghost through here, she can hit the transmission and knock the power out. I’ve read up on the building’s power lines. If she does it correctly, we’re looking at the power being rerouted. It would take at least 3 minutes for the generator to start up, and the alarms wouldn’t trigger if we cut the wire to them first. Saying she does this right, it would give Yelena and Walker time to take them out in the dark, significantly lessening the blow on the rest of us. I’ve seen their work before in a similar situation, at an O.X.E facility. They’re perfectly capable for a job like this,” your voice firm, confident in your team as you pitched the idea to him. Reed nods his head, tapping his fingers on the table. Sue and Ben exchange a look of approval, trusting your judgment.

“Are we looking at any guards? Anything possibly unprecedented that we should take into consideration?” You nod at Reed, before zooming into the map. “This building, last year, had some suspicious activity. There were some guards that came and went. Some days there were none, others rotated ever so often. Just last month, I spotted a handful of them going in and out. Their gear was unmarked, but,” you voice falters. Heat ignited between your legs, right at your core, making you grip the table and shut your eyes tight. “Are you okay? It seems like you’re not doing the best,” Ben comments. He’s noticed your moments of weakness during the meeting, but after three times it’s more concerning than he thought. Through clouded eyes from the tears threatening to fill your eyes from the stimulation, you look at him and nod. He stares at you for a moment, before turning around to grab a thermos of water. You looked at Johnny, who’s looking at you blankly, eyes slightly dark, and he mouths:

“Keep. Talking.”

The rest of the team are busy looking through files, giving you time to mouth a reply back.

“Stop. Teasing. Me.”

He smirks, tapping his foot slightly.

“Make me. I dare you.”

You shake your head in frustration. He won’t back down. He’s going to tease you until this hell of a meeting ends. No one noticed how your hands grip the table so tight that it creaks and your knuckles turn white, or how you’d unconsciously made a face of pleasure as you looked down at the map again.

Well, Johnny noticed. And it made him want to make you suffer more.

Your legs pressed together, feeling the warmth from before travel in circles around your center. You looked back at him from the table, noticing the pen from before was now bit between his teeth, as a small flame came from his fingers in your direction, slowly making the motions of rubbing you. He stood up from his chair, placing the pen on the desk beside him, before walking around the table and behind you. He reached around you, hand extending to grab a sheet on the table, as his other slides around your hip and into your pants, going between your legs. His fingers rub slow, painful circles around your clothed pussy as he keeps the façade of reading up. His breath was hot on your neck, kissing the shell of your ear before whispering:

“That’s it, baby. Be good for me. You’re so wet. Interrupt the meeting or have attitude with me again, and I’ll drag you right out of here to remind you how to listen to me.”

A small moan escapes you without warning, and he kisses your neck before harshly cupping your center, then removing his hand from you. He takes the papers he was “looking at” back to his chair, propping himself up again in the same way he was before: one hand preoccupied as the other was free, ready to tease you again at any moment. Your knees buckled, yearning for his touch to come back to you. Everyone else was heavily into looking through files, talking amongst themselves. You could be helping them, but there’s no way you’re in the right mind to do so. Not when you’ve got Johnny Storm, the universe’s hottest man, watching you like your prey as he thrives in your agony. Just as you thought he was done teasing you for now, the heat against your core returned. You’re struggling to keep quiet, knowing you cannot give into this. A smirk formed on his mouth as he watched you writhe oh-so-subtlety, your eyes following each movement his fire-lit fingers made. You’re lucky your knees haven’t given out, and that everyone is still looking through their plans and information. You looked at him again, eyes glaring before you rolled them, pleasure and frustration taking over. Johnny’s flame extinguished, hand moving to take the pen out of his mouth. His smirk falls, and he ‘tsk, tsk, tsk’s at you, shaking his head. Now you’ve gotten more attitude with him, and he told you what he’d do. He placed the paper beside him on the desk, moving to stand up. Then, he stops.

“We’re missing some files, Reed. I’ll have to go through the system and see what I can find,” Sue interrupts the silence, turning around. Ben agrees, with some of the blueprints he’d been going through being too outdated to be a trustworthy piece of data. Reed nods again, before clearing his throat.

“Alright, we’ll call it for now. Everyone, do what you can to find more up-to-date information and layouts. Meet back here tonight around 8,” he declared, his leadership coursing through this voice. He pushed his glasses up, before grabbing the tablet and folder with one hand, and reaching the other out to Sue to guide her to the office. Ben follows suit, taking a thick portfolio with him, heading off to the another part of the Baxter Building. The door shuts, the silence was deafening. The chair creaked as Johnny stood up, making his way over to you. You turn so your back is against the table, though not looking at him.

“You’ve got an attitude today, huh?,” his voice calm, concerningly calm as he stood in front of you. Instead of playing into his words, you let some of your frustration take hold of your actions and you ignore him. You move from the table, walking away from him and towards the door. You don’t hear him coming up behind you, until the door slams shut before you could make it through the frame. You turn to face him, and his body is so close to you that you’re practically pressed against his. He locks the door, sliding the hand up your body and around your neck. He didn’t squeeze, it’s not a tight grip. It’s a reminder of who’s in charge. It’s warm, passionate, controlling.

“I told you to keep that attitude in check, didn’t I?”

He pushed against your neck a little more, the slightest ounce of pressure now tightening your airways.

“You want to go against my orders? You better be ready to take what comes with it, sweetheart.”

Thoughts run in your mind. You could answer him and let him take you now, ending your desire for him after the tantalizing hour-long meeting— or, you could keep being a brat to him to see what really pushes him over the edge. Yeah, that seems like the right one. Your eyes glare at him, “I don’t have to listen to you. It’s not my fault you can’t keep your hands off me. You even have to use your powers against me because you can’t help yourself.”

“Oh, honey, I know how to keep my hands to myself. There you were, so damn interested in your little plan, I just had to make it interesting for me,” his voice low, face dangerously close to yours. So close, you could kiss him with the slightest movement of your head. But you’re not going to. You’ve got more fight in you.

“I tried to ignore you. I told you to quit teasing me.”

“And I told you to behave or else.”

“Yeah. Or else what?”

That was it. That pushed him. His other hand grabbed your wrist, holding it tightly above your head, as the hand around your neck pressed even tighter.

“You really want to find out, princess? Because right now, I really want to bend you over that table and fuck some sense into you.. remind you who you belong to and who you’re gonna listen to. All because you didn’t want to behave today,” he growled, voice darker than you’d ever heard it sound. He let go of the hand holding your wrist, moving it down to your pants to start unbuttoning them. Maybe one more snarky reply wouldn’t hurt.

“It’s not my fault you have no self control.” His hand left your neck and grabbed your jaw, forcing you to look straight into his eyes. “I’d be real careful if I were you, sweetheart. You keep it up and I’ll have the entire building know how much of a brat you’re being.” Your eyes stare into his darkened orbs, the look matching his intimidating one. The hold on your jaw tightens, stopping you from sneaking another remark in. “You really want me to stop teasing you? Fine. You asked for it.”

He picks you up over his shoulder, carrying you to the table in the middle of the meeting room. He basically throws you down on the table, face first. Your hands are beside your head, reaching straight out in front of you. He makes quick work of your pants and underwear, pushing them down in one solid move. He glides his hands up your waist, up to your arms to grab you by the wrists. With one hand, he holds them behind your back.

“Think you can listen to me now?”

You shake your head no. His snarls are loud, and you could swear you felt his body temperature raise. The grip holding your wrists together stays steady, but his movements stop. It was silent, too silent. You turned your head to look back at him, before feeling his hand push your head back down. His breathing slowly got louder, matching your racing heartbeat. He’s thinking about something. Then, he huffs.

His palm lands on your bare ass with a loud, sharp crack. It burns, but not the way a normal slap does. He smacked your ass while his hand was ablaze.

“Count,” he demanded, the words falling from his mouth were laced with desire.

The smack burned, the pain of the hit made it worse. You couldn’t really process it, before he spoke again.

“Count,” he ordered again, voice deeper as he felt anticipation charging in his veins.

“One,” you finally muttered out, teeth gritted together.

“Louder. I can’t hear you.”

“One.” You spoke with as much stability as you could muster.

“Good girl,” he praised, rubbing the red print on your ass.

With each strike, his hand warmed more and more, and the pain was almost too much, but not enough that it wasn’t still the hottest punishment you’d ever received. Literally.

By the 6th smack, your voice had fallen to a light whimper. You can almost tell the way he’s looking at you with each hit. There’s no smirk, no smile. Just a focused look on you, mouth open in admiration for how you’re doing as he says, with his teeth gritting after he landed each one.

“Now you’re behaving me, huh?,” he bends over your back, lips close to your ear, “It’s a little too late for that, sweetheart.”

He leans back up, rubbing his warm hand over the prints he’d left on you, light burns and palm shaped welp marks overlapping each other.

“Now, you’re gonna keep listening to me, correct?”

You nod quickly, eager for his next move.

“You’re not going to come until I say you can. Not until you tell me who you belong to. Do you understand?” His voice is strong. Commanding. Controlling.

The sheer power in his voice brought shivers back down your spine. He’d never been this dominant. Sure, there were times, more often than not, that he had control over you in the bedroom. That was just Johnny’s nature. But this? You have yourself to blame for this. Had you just listened, he’d not been this powerful over you. Not to say that’s a bad thing, not at all. Hell, you were enjoying this.

Your breath is shaky, not really having it in you to respond.

“Hmm? Do you?”

You nod you head, but that’s not enough for Johnny.

He lets go of your wrists and at the same time, he grabs a fistful of your hair, pulling you harshly up to him.

“Say it.”

“J-Johnny..”

Another harsh smack to your ass, hotter than the previous ones.

“Say. It.”

“I’m yours, Johnny. Only yours. I’m yours..” you quickly whimper out, the whiniest and most pathetic your voice has sounded the entire night.

“There it is. Now, you’re gonna take your punishment like a good girl.”

He unzipped his pants, pulling them, alongside his underwear, down to his ankles.

He rubbed his cock a few times before lining it up with your absolutely soaked pussy. As he pushed in, the heat from his body had you clench around him, your exposed core was cold in comparison. He pushed your head back down, grip never faltering on your hair. His other hand holds onto your hips, bracing himself so his thrusts hit as hard and as deep as he could possible get them to go.

“Oh, fuck,” you cried out, each thrust hitting that spot. Your hands reach to grab something to hold onto, one finding some sheets of paper to grip and the other holds one of Johnny’s wrists as they’re holding tight onto your hair. Your moans are more whiny than anything, showing Johnny just how desperate you were for this.

“That’s it, baby. Take it all for me. That’s good,” he praises, disguising his moans with the words. You could barely make what he said out over the sound of your uncontrollable whines of pleasure.

He gripped ever so slightly tighter on your hair, using it as a reign to pull your body into each of his thrusts. Fuck, does he want to make you come now, but he also wants to tease you just a little more.

He pulls out of you, causing you to let out a sad moan, immediately missing the feeling of how he felt.. He tugged on your hair, bringing your weak body to a stand. Letting go, he turned you around to face him, lifting your arms, and removing your shirt before taking his own off. His eyes scan up and down your exposed chest, revealing in the beauty before him. He shook his head, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you to sit in the table.

“Open your mouth.”

You obeyed, your lust-filled eyes driving him insane. He wastes no time, grabbing the hair at the top of your head and fucks his fingers into your mouth. Your eyes start to close, and he yanks your hair to bring your gaze back to his.

“Don’t look away. Keep your eyes on mine.”

It’s hard. You’re already getting exhausted, but you don’t want it to end and neither does he. You’re enjoying your punishment. His fingers go deep into your mouth, just almost enough to make you gag, but he knows your limits. He respects them, even when he’s fucking the shit out of you like he is tonight. There’s the unspoken trust the two of you share. Sure, he may be an asshole, tonight more than usual, but in your relationship he wanted you to trust him. He treated you like a princess, worshipping the ground you walked on, respecting you even in your deepest, most sensual moments like this.

He pulled his fingers out of your mouth, taking his hand down to your pussy. The two fingers slid in perfectly, reaching as far back as he can, curving as much as can, as quick as he can. Your hands hold onto his shoulder, head buried into his neck as he uses you for his own viewing pleasure. “Fuuuck, Johnny, please, let me- ughhhhhh,” you growned. He stopped again.

“I told you, not until I say so. I thought you understood?,” you did. But you couldn’t control it, not when his warm fingers were as deep into your cunt as the were, his breath blowing straight onto your face as he moaned in safisfaction. By now, tears were filling your eyes from the many times you were denied pleasure, denied your desperately needed release.

You wanted to respond, but you just couldn’t form coherent words, stuttering over the same few sounds. The two fingers from your core are brought to his mouth, as he looked you dead in the eyes, licking your slick off of them. Then, you felt a slight smack to your face. Warm, as he uses his powers against you for the seemingly thousandth time tonight.

“Are you going to answer me? Do. You. Understand?,” he questioned you. He knew you did, but he was addicted to the way you were already losing it from the relentless teasing.

“Yes.. Yes, I understand,” you whimpered out.

“Good girl.. That’s what I thought,” his hand moved back down to your throbbing core, rubbing it lightly.

“A little reward for you. Feels good, doesn’t it, sweetheart?”

“Mmm-hmm, it.. sure does.. Johnny,” you whisper out, pleasure numbing your responses.

He hums back, kissing your forehead. He was giving you a break, reminding you that despite how harsh he’s been tonight, he still wants you to feel loved. It’s a small gesture, but there’s an understanding between you two. It’s short, sweet, refreshing.

He stops his movements, taking his hand away and moving it to your hip.

“Please, Johnny, I.. I..” you whine, leaning forward to nuzzle your head against his bare chest. He knows exactly what you want, and what you’re trying to say to him.

“You think you deserve it? After mouthing off at me? You need my cock buried inside you? The one belonging to the man you smart-assed?”

“Yes, yes I do. I’m so sorry, Johnny. I’ll be a good girl for you,” you promised. The levels of desire and yearning were taking over you, making you say whatever got you closer to finally getting to come.

He grabbed your shoulders, pushing you off his chest.

“You promise you’ll be good? If you’re not, you’re going to make me ruin you all over again. And you wouldn’t want all that, would you?”

Vigorously shaking your head no, you tilted your head to look at him, using your best puppy-dog eyes.

“There’s not an ounce of fight or attitude left in you, is there? Looks like my job is almost done,” he noted, knowing you’re both more than ready to receive the full extent of your punishment.

“Ruin me, Johnny. Please. I need you,” your voice is small, but he heard you perfectly fine. He taps your legs, signaling them to open farther, running his hands down your body before stopping one at your hips.

“No, sweetheart, you don’t get to need me. You’re going to take what I give you. You got that?”

“Yes, mm-hmm, yes.” You’re not sure how much more desperate you could sound, but you’re more than overdue his touch, and you’re willing to do anything to relieve yourself.

His other hand holds the back of your neck, bracing you as his slams into you in one rough thrust. It’s desperate, it’s aggressive, it’s needy. Just like you.

Your moans are loud, echoing off the walls and right back into your ears. You can barely hear his grunts under the sound of your own cries of pleasure.

“Oh, baby, that’s it. Yeah.. that’s it. Take everything I’m giving you. Taking it all so good… my sweet girl.”

He doesn’t set a pace, a rhythm, anything. It’s just him fucking you as hard and as much as he can get from you. By now, you’re overstimulated and haven’t even gotten your release. You know it’s coming, and part of you doubts you’ll get it— that he’ll pull back out of you again and ruin your orgasm, much like he’s ruined you all night.

He’s denied you, teased you, fucked you, fingered you, everything. There’s not much else you could take if he were to pull out of you. Hell, you’d probably come just from the thought of it all.

“Fuck, you’ve got the tightest fucking body. You knew what you were doing, huh?”

You didn’t respond. You weren’t even going to try this time.

Another slap to the face; not hard, not too painful. Just enough to bring you back to him. The flames flickered off his hand as his touched your skin. You hadn’t even noticed the heat.

“Didn’t you?”

“Mm-hmm,” is all you could muster.

“Look at you. You’re so beautiful when you’re fucked stupid. I don’t even have to move,” he abruptly stops his thrusts, and you don’t even notice for a second— your hips are rocking back at his without knowing, “See? You’re so lost in it all.”

He picked his thrusting back up, moving his hand from your neck, and to your other hip. You put your arms over his shoulders, holding your body closer to his as to keep yourself braced. You’re close— dangerously close.

“I can’t anymore, Johnny, I’m.. I’m gonna..”

“You want to come, sweetheart? Who do you belong to?”

“Mmmm, I’m yours, Johnny, I’m forever yours,” you croak out, voice hoarse and throat hurting from the now hours of teasing and denial.

“Good girl… such a good girl. Come for me, baby,” he finally said. After what seemed like forever, your release was here.

And you’re destroyed. Your body shakes as your nails scratch at Johnny’s back, the intense wave of your orgasm driving you insane. You practically convulse as your moans are nothing short of loud, hoarse whines.

He comes inside you, and had you not felt the warmth of it filling you up, you wouldn’t have been in the right mind to know it happened. The combined symphony of your moans and his bounced off the walls of the room, the silence holding the two of you making it all more sensual. Your body is shaking, hips involuntarily jerking as he’s still inside you. The feeling of his warm cock has you clenching him, and he’s still moaning at each one. You feel his hands run up your body, holding your arms and pulling back to look at your face.

“That’s my girl, you did so good- hey, are you okay?”

You feel one of his hands rub at your eye. You’re crying, and you didn’t even notice.

It’s not from pain, or agony, or anything of the sort.

You’re just downright exhausted. You went through hours of denial and to finally be granted the okay to let it all go? Yeah, you’re absolutely spent.

“I’m okay, just overwhelmed,” you laughed, giving him a small smile, “that was a lot.”

He pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug. You can hear his heart thumping still, letting you know that he needed this almost as bad as you did.

“Easy, princess, I got you. Just breathe with me, okay?” He kisses your forehead again, before setting a steady breathing pattern for you to follow. A hand runs through your sweaty hair, lightly scratching your scalp as an act of comfort.

You hum in content, kissing his chest as a ‘thank you.’

“Did I go too far? Was I too rough on you, baby?”

At first you didn’t respond, trying to focus on keeping your breathing steady so you wouldn’t just lay back and pass out.

“Baby, tell me. I’m worried now, did I do too much?”

He feels your head slowly shake against his chest, and he let out sigh, relief showering him. He didn’t even think during most of it, neither did you; you were just living in the moment of it, too caught up in the tension to have anything else run through your mind. Now that you both were recovering, his voice matched yours; hoarse and spent.

“It was amazing, honey. Perfect, even,” you spoke against his skin, before kissing up his chest and to his neck, each one filled with love and reassurance.

“Thank God,” he said with a long sigh, “look at me.”

You obliged, looking up at his face. He’s so handsome like this— the level of care and comfort he gave you after each private session where you showed each other the amount of trust and love you shared. It was raw, it was.. always so perfect. Johnny may be an asshole, and yeah he’s got his moments with you. But he’d never want to hurt you, and deep down he knew that you’d let him know if he did. And tonight, despite the rough demeanor, you both knew you trusted each other, and would be reassuring if the other ever doubted.

“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. You did so good, always so perfect. You’re such a strong woman. I love you, so damn much.”

And just like that, the tears threaten to fall again. This time from the love you felt for him. He rested his forehead against yours, taking in the peaceful silence left between you too. You took his chin in your hand, bringing him in for a kiss. One filled with more love, more reassurance, more trust, more than anything the two of you had voiced tonight.

“If I ever push you to your limits, or I hurt you, or.. if anything ever feels wrong, you’ll let me know, right?”

You nod, putting your forehead against his shoulder.

“Of course I will. Never once have I or did I feel like you would. I trust you, Johnny. I always will. I love you with all of my heart.”

A few moments of silence pass, before he goes to move, finally pulling out of you. Your core throbs at the loss of what felt like a perfect puzzle piece. Johnny puts his clothes back on, and walks across the room to gather the pieces of your clothing that he threw. He offered you his hand, and you hopped off the table. As soon as your feet hit the ground, you almost, legs weak as water.

“Woah, woah, woah, I gotcha.” He lifted you back onto the table, helping you redress as much as he could without you standing. “You sure you can walk? Or do I need to carry you?”

“I got this, watch me,” you playfully rolled your eyes, before hopping off the table once again, a little sturdier this time, buttoning your pants. Standing was one thing, but actually walking? Yeah.. that’s not happening right now.

“Okay, I’m carrying you. Come on, sweetheart.” He muttered to himself as he bent down to carry you. You yelped in surprise as he lifted you, carrying you bridal style to the door.

“You know, one day I’ll be carrying you through a doorway just like this, except it’ll be on our wedding day.”

Your eyes widened in disbelief. There was one thing that many people agreed on: Johnny Storm was not marriage material.

You never expected him to say anything about that— ever. You were content with just being with him, married or not. But to hear him say those words? That one day the two of you will get married? It made your heart swell.

“Oh, really, now? You’ve thought that far ahead?”

“Of course I have. I would love nothing more than to grow old you with, baby.”

The two of you come to a stop as you arrive at Johnny’s room, and he puts you down for a second to unlock the door.

“Like this,” he states, picking you up again and crossing into his bedroom. Your head just barely hits the frame, and he stops, frantically making sure you’re okay. You’re laughing, and the look of panic on his face somehow makes it even funnier. He watched you crack yourself up with a loving smile, just thinking about how much he adored you.

After the two of you finally got into his room, he sat you down at the edge of the bed and went to run a bath. Once you both relaxed in the warm water for what seemed to be forever, you both got ready for some well deserved rest, and nestled into his bed.

You’re curled up into his side, your head on his chest, ready to doze off before you heard him speak.

“You okay?”

“Mm-hmm, just tired is all. I’m more than okay,” you promised, nodding your head against his warm chest.

“Tired from what? Having so much attitude or getting what you deserved for an hour?”

Ah, there it was. There’s the Johnny you knew. Now, not to get it misconstrued or anything, you loved when Johnny had his soft, romantic side. But this? This version of Johnny is what you loved the most. His sarcastic, joking manner. You flicked his chest, laughing slightly. His grip on you tightened, starting to laugh with you.

A few moments pass of you both just taking in the peace and comfort of being in the presence of one another.

“You really do trust me, don’t you?”

“Absolutely. With my life, Johnny.”

He doesn’t reply, not immediately. You feel him nod, and the hand on your arm rubs up and down.

“There’s no one else on this Earth I’d rather spend my life with.”

He opens his mouth, ready to hit you with another joke, but he stops himself.

“Get some sleep, you deserve it. I got you, sweetheart.”

You nestle closer, and Johnny pulls the sheets up farther up over the two of you. Listening to his heartbeat as the calm, grounding sound echoed in your ear, you drifted off into sleep, in the arms of the man you loved more than life itself.

The meeting at 8 that night never happened, seeing as some of the blueprints were smudged and crumbled up. Wonder how that happened?

[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

Thank you so much💕💕💕😭 I love me some forced proximity😂 and step bro Tom is just…😍🥵❤️‍🔥

𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐞

sorry, i was craving some step brother tom bennett 🙈🤭 *drops this fic here and scurries away like a rat*

Summary: When your mother told you she was remarrying, you thought it would be to some stranger you've never met before; but somehow, it managed to be even worse. Cheers to the new happy couple, and your new stepfather: Douglas Bennett!

Warnings: smut (18+ minors dni), stepcest, forced proximity, enemies to lovers, stepsiblings to lovers???, masturbation, loss of virginity, oral (f!receiving), p in v, religious kink if you squint, creampie, fluffy ending

word count || 4.1k🤙🏻

At first, you didn’t mind your mother remarrying…then you found out she was marrying Tom Bennett’s father.

Now this wouldn’t have been a problem if not for Tom Bennett–to put it bluntly–being the bane of your existence.

You were schoolmates back when you were kids. You were the stereotypical straight A student, and he was the stereotypical bad boy. It seemed nothing had really changed. He picked on you a little in school, but your mother always told you it must be because he liked you. After Tom’s own mother died, the ‘teasing’ only seemed to get worse.

It started off as stealing your pencils or erasers, forcing you to ask for them back, or simply pulling at strands on hair or your clothes. It was kind of sweet then; innocent. Then–as you both grew older–it turned into cat calling, ‘accidently’ shoulder checking you, pretending like he didn’t see you. It never went anything beyond that, but it still hurt. 

You did have feelings for Tom a little, after his mother died, you couldn’t help but feel bad for him. So, everything he did to you or to others, you always gave him grace for it. And this is mostly where you two differed greatly.

Everything you stood for, he was indifferent. All the morals you had, any compassion for others, it seemed like he just had none. And it infuriated you. You never understood his lack of empathy, or just simple concern for the state of the world. Of course, you understood why someone wouldn’t want to fight in a war or put themselves in danger for any reason. But it seemed he didn’t care which way the war went.

All while you went out and volunteered, Tom went to pubs and hit on girls without a care in the world and caused fights. You knew his sister and father, and they were good, nice people. Sweet, even. His sister wanted to do something to help out, at least, and so did his father. You and Tom were polar opposites, and that was okay with you–until you realized he was about to be your new stepbrother.

Your mother, being a widow as well as Tom’s father, bonded while volunteering at the same shelter and fell in love. You knew how much of a big deal this was, considering how much your mother adored your father. So, who were you to stand in the way of another chance at happiness for her? It was just that…one little problem.

“Ain’t no way I’m sharing a room with her!”

You rolled your eyes at Tom’s outburst. You felt the exact same way, but at least you were being mature about it. “As if I wanna share a room with ‘conscientious objector.’ What the hell does that even mean?”

Your mother thought it best to move in with her new husband…in his tiny apartment. To be fair, it was bigger than the place you and your mother previously lived in, but in this place, you’d have to share a room with Tom.

You were a woman now, and a woman needs privacy. How were you going to have your own sense of privacy in the same room as a full grown man? A fucking curtain between the beds.

“At least I’m not crying over stepping on a fuckin’ ladybug.” Tom sneered, making you growl in frustration. You couldn’t even go to your room to be angry, because then Tom would be in there too. You didn’t know how you were going to survive. You already had plans to move into your own place, but finding a good paying job was rough in this climate. You were just thankful Tom’s sister had already moved out, otherwise you’d have to share a room with two strangers and not just one. You would’ve preferred sharing the room with Lois.

But, to your surprise, weeks of awkwardness turned into a somewhat less hostile situation. At first, it was full of tension and arguing. You still hadn’t really forgiven Tom for all he put you through during your school years, and it showed. You were often short with him, every time he did something you didn’t like, you would pick a fight and sometimes it turned into a screaming match that made your parents bang on your bedroom door and yell at you to knock it off. You sometimes cried yourself to sleep, knowing fully well Tom could hear it through the flimsy curtain that separated the two of your beds. It was embarrassing, and knowing you had no way to escape it yet made it all the more worse.

Tom didn’t feel too dissimilar to how you felt. He was angry at his dad for marrying another woman. How could he just forget all about his mother? He knew it wasn’t that simple, but like his mother, he was just as stubborn and took a long time to come around to the idea. He never even had a problem with you, if he was being honest. He was angry and he lashed out at anyone. Tom never felt more embarrassed than when he learned you’d be living with him.

Thinking back on it, he never teased you to hurt your feelings. He just didn’t know any other way to express his fondness for you. It’s not an excuse, of course, he should’ve known better. But now he has to literally live with the choices he made back then. When he heard you crying on the other side of that curtain, he couldn’t help but curse himself for how majorly he fucked up with you. By the third or fourth time he heard you, he couldn’t just lie there and pretend nothing was wrong.

“Hey…” Tom started off nervously, which when the fuck was he ever nervous? “I know that, uh, this situation isn’t what either of us would want…I’m sure how I treated you in school doesn’t help that much either.” He chuckled awkwardly, clearing his throat and taking a quiet, deep breath before continuing. “I know I was a prick, okay? But I was a prick to everyone, still am. I just…I want you to know I didn’t mean anything by it. I was a stupid kid that didn’t know how to act. That’s no excuse, I know, but…I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.” You were silent across the curtain, Tom couldn’t even hear if you were breathing or not. God, he hoped you didn’t fall asleep during that cause there was no way he could bring himself to give that speech again. “You don’t have to forgive me, I sure wouldn’t have. But I hope, after tonight, we could try to be civil with each other–for our folks, at least.” Still silence, and Tom sighed, rolling over to face the wall. “Well, goodnight then.”

Tom closed his eyes, trying to relax into his firm mattress, trying to ignore the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. Until, “Thank you.” It was so soft, he almost didn’t hear it, but there it was and he felt a weight lifted from his shoulders. He smiled, and drifted off into a dreamless sleep. 

After that night, things got better, it wasn’t comfortable by any means, but you both learned to just…not get in each other’s way. You still complained about Tom’s smoking though. The only other thing that was starting to get increasingly irritating was the fact that…you couldn’t masturbate. It wasn’t the biggest problem in the world and you felt terrible feeling like it was when the world was in a state of peril, but god it was frustrating.

Ever since moving in with the Bennett’s, you didn’t have a chance to touch yourself, clearly, because Tom would absolutely hear you and proceed to make fun of you for the rest of your life. It wasn’t fair, because you knew Tom had relations with other women a couple times a week, he often snuck through the window smelling of cheap perfume and sweat. You were a virgin, so you were always so pent up. You had only been fingered by some soldier who begged to touch you before he was deployed, and it was…fine, but the memory often made you reach between your legs in the late hours of the night to try to replicate the feeling.

Now, here you were, lying in bed not even two feet away from Tom, not being able to have an orgasm for almost two months, and your clit throbbing so hard you feel like it’s going to shrivel up and fall off. Your clock said 2:33 am, and Tom had been snoring softly across the tiny room. You couldn't fall asleep, probably because you haven’t gotten your rocks off in what felt like forever. You needed something.

You exhaled quietly, reaching under your covers and down your body–where you could already feel a damp pool in your underwear. You gently pressed down on your cloth covered clit, tears lining your lids with how good it felt to finally feel pleasure, even if just a little bit. But that was your first mistake, once you got a taste, you couldn’t help but give in to more.

You exhaled a shuddering breath into the palm of your hand as you slowly rubbed circles over your clit, your hips slightly bucking into your moving fingers. You glanced over at the curtain, Tom’s snoring had stopped, but his breathing was still steady and slow, like it always is when he’s sleeping. It was the green light you needed to continue. You didn’t truly understand how bad you needed this until the tears finally spilled over, damping the parts of your pillow they landed on. You dared to go further, shoving your hand inside your underwear to get full skin to skin contact, and god you almost moaned aloud. This far, you had been doing well keeping yourself quiet…until you decided to push one of your digits inside your pulsing entrance.

You felt like you stuck your face in an oven when you let out a small, strained squeak. It wasn’t that loud, you definitely have been louder, but with how quiet the streets had been tonight, the how quiet the room was, it sounded echoing to your ears.

You held your breath for what felt like ages, praying Tom wouldn’t stir in his sleep or wake up. After a few minutes, you let out the breath you had been holding, relieved and frustrated at the same time. If you had your own room, you wouldn’t be having this problem. You needed to get this over with already, so you bit down on your hand as the other swiftly worked you towards your well earned climax…until you heard a chuckle. “Burning the midnight oil, are we?” You froze as you heard Tom’s amused voice, quickly removing your hand from your underwear and wiping your slick on your nightgown.

You jumped as Tom stepped past the curtain, crossing into your space and chuckling as he saw your state–a woman clearly almost close to an orgasm and frustrated she couldn’t finish. “What are you doing?” You asked, flustered. Your eyes widened as he sat on your bed near your feet, you were too embarrassed to even look at him so you looked down at your bed covers like they were the most interesting thing in the world. 

“What am I doing? You’re the one touching yourself in the same room as me.” He giggled, but stopped once he saw your mortified face. “You don’t have to be so ashamed, ya know? Everybody does it, even I’ve done it. Though, I have better control over my sounds.” He whispered, a permanent smirk on his face.

“Oh god, can we please just not discuss this right now?” You groaned, trying to hide beneath your blanket.

“How long has it been?” Tom asked nonchalantly, making you pop your head up from the blanket with your brows furrowed.

“What?”

“I mean, it must’ve been awhile if you felt you needed to do that right now.”

“Uh–it’s, uh–been about two months…” 

Tom’s eyes widened. “It’s been two months since you’ve been laid?”

“No…since I, ya know.” You admitted, gesturing towards yourself.

Tom’s face seemed to soften, somehow seeing you in a different light. “You’re a virgin?”

“You don’t have to rub it in.”

“I’m not, I’m not, I’m just surprised. Pretty girl like you? Makes me wonder if this whole town is blind.”

You thought you couldn't possibly blush harder when he caught you, but you supposed Tom did like proving people wrong. You shook your head, “You don’t have to make me feel better, you know. I’m embarrassed enough as it is.”

“I’m not lying,” Tom said while grabbing ahold on your ankle through your covers, “and I’m not trying to be mean to you, not again. I’m done with that, okay? I think you’re beautiful.”

“Thanks, Tom.” You whispered. “But please, don’t mention this to anyone. People will think I’m crazy.”

“I won’t.” He spoke softly, gently rubbing up and down your calf, making the heat in your belly bubble up once more to your displeasure. “You know, I feel really bad about interrupting you. I’d like to make it up to you, if you’ll let me?”

You let out a confused chuckle. “What do you mean by that, Tom? Like, you’ll leave the room or something?”

Tom’s brows furrowed and shook his head. “No, I mean,” he leaned closer to you, “I’d help you finish myself.” He said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You suddenly pulled back, bringing your legs close to your chest. “Woah, woah, woah, Tom. You can’t–we can’t…you can’t say things like that! We’re…siblings now…”

“Are we though? I didn’t live with you in the same home, we’ve never roughhoused in the backyard or cried to mum and dad complaining about the other when we didn’t get our way. What makes us siblings? Our parents married each other? Here’s a secret, luv, we’ve known each other longer than they have. That doesn’t seem quite fair, now, does it?”

“Tom…” You sighed, “it’s not right…”

Tom scowled. “No, you know what’s not right? Having feelings for you all my fuckin’ life and never getting the chance to act on it until we’re fuckin’ folks get married. It’s a joke. And I ain’t letting a joke get in the way of what I want–and what I know you want too.” Tom ended his rant by surging forward and capturing your lips in a passionate kiss, and unfortunately, you didn’t have the will nor strength to stop him. But with every click of saliva and swipe of his tongue, the more and more your concern faded into oblivion. You let yourself melt into his embrace, his hands roaming your body like he’s been your lover for years, goosebumps pebbling your flesh in anticipation of Tom’s future actions.

You moaned softly as Tom kissed down your body, sucking licking your hardened nipples through the thin material of your nightgown, dampening the fabric. He pulled the blankets off you, landing in a quiet puddle on the wooden floor. He smiled wide as he lifted your gown over your hips, finding the prize between your legs still soaked from your previous ministrations. “I can already tell you have such a pretty, wet cunt. Shall I see for myself?” He teased, rubbing his finger up and down the seam of your folds though your panties, making you shudder and nod. “I need your words.”

“Yes, Tom, please.” You whispered, rewarded by having your undergarments completely taken off, your pussy exposed for him to see.

“Fuck, I knew I was right. Can’t believe I’m the first one to ravish you like this.” Tom seemingly took all the breath out of your lungs as he started to lap at you like an animal starved, teasing your pussy and prodding his tongue at your entrance, his nose gently pressing against your clit.

“Tom, my God-!” You moaned, your head thrown back in pure pleasure as he worked you expertly. You had heard rumors about his skill from the women at the pub who’d been so lucky as to have had a night with the infamous Tom Bennett, but you never knew he could be this good at pleasuring someone.

“Saying the Lord’s name in vain, and here I thought you were a good Christian girl.” Tom chuckled darkly, not even giving you time to retort as he started to lap at your clit, shutting you up before you even had the chance to open your mouth. “You were already so close before, weren’t you? Think you’re gonna come for me soon? If not, that’s okay, I can be between your legs all fuckin’ night and day if I have to.”

As tempting as that sounds, you were absolutely way too close before which made it so easy to be so fucking close now. You almost felt you should’ve been embarrassed at how close you were already, but the way Tom was moaning into your pussy like he was the one being pleasured–all you needed was one more right move. “I want you to come for me, luv. All over my fuckin’ face, I need it, please.” He almost whimpered, pushing two fingers inside you and curling them against your pleasure spot. And yeah, that’ll do it.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as your body convulsed in a powerful orgasm, but before you could scream out in pleasure, Tom’s large hand covered your mouth before a peep could escape. “Don’t want our folks waking up to this, do we?” Tom smirked. “That feel good, sweetheart?”

You could only nod your head in exhaustion, sweat beading at your brow bone, heavy breaths escaping you as Tom sucked on the fingers that were inside you, shining from your slick in the moonlight peaking through the window curtains. You giggled as Tom peppered kisses all over your face, maneuvering himself to be in between your legs, and they wrapped around his waist naturally. “I feel like I should pay you back now.” You spoke nervously, looking into his eyes to see slight hesitation.

“You really want me to be your first?”

“I mean, we’ve come this far, haven’t we?” Tom nestled his face against your neck, leaving gentle kisses that encouraged you to cant your hips upwards to press against his obvious erection. From what you could tell, your first time wouldn’t be that easy if his cock was actually that big. He groaned, grinding back against you. You gasped at the sensation, your clit still throbbing from your previous climax, but you didn’t care–you want him. Badly.

“You’ll let me know if it hurts?” You nodded, smiling warmly at Tom’s concern, your heart beating against your ribcage as he removed his clothes, positioning his length at your entrance, the ruddy tip prodding against your sensitive flesh. “I’ll try to be gentle.”

Your mouth opened in a silent gasp as Tom slowly pushed in, his cock stretching your tight walls to accommodate his size. It wasn’t too painful, just some pressure, your muscles contracting at the intrusion, making Tom groan. “Fuck, sweetheart. Try to relax for me, yeah? That’ll make it easier.” You tried to relax as best you could, whimpering as he reached the end of you, staying still as you adjusted. “You alright?”

“Yes.” You nodded, holding onto his shoulder for purchase as he started to thrust into you gently. Tom was being so gentle with you, he held onto your hip as his other hand kept himself up so he wouldn’t crush you completely, but soon, you found out that’s exactly what you wanted. You tightened your legs around his waist, pulling him as close as possible to you, his body flush against yours. You felt suffocated, but in the best possible way. “Tom, please…”

“Please, what, pretty girl?”

“I want it harder, faster.”

“Yeah?” Tom smirked, “I can do that.” With all your slick left over from your orgasm, it wasn’t difficult at all for him to thrust in and out of you with ease, each sound of each other’s skin slapping together rhythmically music to your ears. It felt like every nerve in your body was being lit up with every piston of his hips, your whimpers becoming louder in volume until Tom had to reach up and put his hand over your mouth once more. “Shh, sweetheart, shh. I know my cock feels good, but try not to be too loud, yeah?” You couldn’t even be annoyed at his arrogance because you both knew how true it was.

You heard Tom groan as you bit into his palm, a mischievous glint in your eyes as his own darkened. “You wanna play that game, do you?” Without another word, Tom pulled out and flipped you over onto your belly and climbed atop of you, forcing you into a prone position. Tom shoved your face down as he entered you from behind, the new angle making you cry out into the pillow. Tom thrusted into you with an invigorated force, each powerful thrust making you let out a strangled groan, the bed squeaking slightly as his hips pushed you further and further up the bed until your head banged against the metal bars of the bed frame. “How’s that, sweetheart?”

“So good–” You cried out, doing your best to muffle your pitiful noises into your drool-dampened pillow.

“Yeah? You like feelin’ my cock stretching out your sweet little pussy?” Tom could barely understand your ramblings, too drunk on his cock to even form a sentence, a prideful smirk adorning his face. He pushed all his weight on you, reaching around to gently hold onto your neck, kissing your temple as he rutted into you in a slow, yet still powerful rhythm, your moans turning into small whimpers. “I’ve wanted to do this to you for a while now, ya know?” He chuckled, “The amount of times I’ve come to the thought of you–too many times to count.”

His words–and the way he was holding your throat so gently as he thrusted inside you–made another orgasm try to bubble up to the surface. This was so wrong, but it felt so right. Tom breath hitched as you squeezed around him, your gummy walls suffocating his cock in a vice grip as you neared another peak. He grunted, almost painfully, as you tightened around him in another spine-tingling climax, coating his length in another layer of your slick. “Christ–ain’t gonna last long with you grippin’ me like that.” He chuckled breathlessly, resting his head on top of yours in an almost defeat as he neared his own release. “Fuck, I can’t hold on. Where do you want me to come?”

“Inside.”

“You sure, luv? I wouldn’t want to get you–”

“Please, Tom, I want to feel it…” You moaned, reaching behind yourself to grab a hold of his hip, pressing down hard to emphasize your desire. 

“Shit–coming–!” Tom moaned breathily in your ear, hips stuttering as his sticky spend released inside you, a wince escaping him as you squeezed around him one last time before he pulled out, almost collapsing on top of you in exhaustion.

Tom moved to lay next to you, but in your simple little twin, he would’ve fallen right off the edge. So instead, he rose from your bed and you watched in fascination as he removed the curtain, and started to push his own bed right up next to yours. You giggled as he wore a self-satisfied grin, laying down next to you properly, pulling your body to his. His warmth was all encompassing, but it was a welcome heat–the sweat on your bodies rapidly cooling from the chilly nighttime weather that leaked in through the slight cracks in the window pane. “Did you like that?” Tom’s smug voice filled the otherwise empty room, but you could hear the genuine concern he masked with his arrogance.

You hummed lightly, “I did.” Tom breathed out a sigh of relief, squeezing you closer to him, placing a chaste kiss on your forehead. Now cuddled up next to him, bathing in the afterglow, you meekly asked, “What happens now?”

“I don’t know, but I can tell you this: no matter what happens, no one is taking you away from me.”

“Oh yeah?” You smiled up at him. “And when your parents eventually find out? What then? Will you fight to be with me, mister conscientious objector?”

Tom smirked, rolling on his side to face you. “If that’s what it takes. Would you do the same for me?”

You reached up and brushed his cheek with the back of your hand, smiling as you felt some heat beneath his skin. You would give anything to see his blush in the daylight, you’d have to do this more often then. 

“Yes.”

[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐞

sorry, i was craving some step brother tom bennett 🙈🤭 *drops this fic here and scurries away like a rat*

Summary: When your mother told you she was remarrying, you thought it would be to some stranger you've never met before; but somehow, it managed to be even worse. Cheers to the new happy couple, and your new stepfather: Douglas Bennett!

Warnings: smut (18+ minors dni), stepcest, forced proximity, enemies to lovers, stepsiblings to lovers???, masturbation, loss of virginity, oral (f!receiving), p in v, religious kink if you squint, creampie, fluffy ending

word count || 4.1k🤙🏻

At first, you didn’t mind your mother remarrying…then you found out she was marrying Tom Bennett’s father.

Now this wouldn’t have been a problem if not for Tom Bennett–to put it bluntly–being the bane of your existence.

You were schoolmates back when you were kids. You were the stereotypical straight A student, and he was the stereotypical bad boy. It seemed nothing had really changed. He picked on you a little in school, but your mother always told you it must be because he liked you. After Tom’s own mother died, the ‘teasing’ only seemed to get worse.

It started off as stealing your pencils or erasers, forcing you to ask for them back, or simply pulling at strands on hair or your clothes. It was kind of sweet then; innocent. Then–as you both grew older–it turned into cat calling, ‘accidently’ shoulder checking you, pretending like he didn’t see you. It never went anything beyond that, but it still hurt. 

You did have feelings for Tom a little, after his mother died, you couldn’t help but feel bad for him. So, everything he did to you or to others, you always gave him grace for it. And this is mostly where you two differed greatly.

Everything you stood for, he was indifferent. All the morals you had, any compassion for others, it seemed like he just had none. And it infuriated you. You never understood his lack of empathy, or just simple concern for the state of the world. Of course, you understood why someone wouldn’t want to fight in a war or put themselves in danger for any reason. But it seemed he didn’t care which way the war went.

All while you went out and volunteered, Tom went to pubs and hit on girls without a care in the world and caused fights. You knew his sister and father, and they were good, nice people. Sweet, even. His sister wanted to do something to help out, at least, and so did his father. You and Tom were polar opposites, and that was okay with you–until you realized he was about to be your new stepbrother.

Your mother, being a widow as well as Tom’s father, bonded while volunteering at the same shelter and fell in love. You knew how much of a big deal this was, considering how much your mother adored your father. So, who were you to stand in the way of another chance at happiness for her? It was just that…one little problem.

“Ain’t no way I’m sharing a room with her!”

You rolled your eyes at Tom’s outburst. You felt the exact same way, but at least you were being mature about it. “As if I wanna share a room with ‘conscientious objector.’ What the hell does that even mean?”

Your mother thought it best to move in with her new husband…in his tiny apartment. To be fair, it was bigger than the place you and your mother previously lived in, but in this place, you’d have to share a room with Tom.

You were a woman now, and a woman needs privacy. How were you going to have your own sense of privacy in the same room as a full grown man? A fucking curtain between the beds.

“At least I’m not crying over stepping on a fuckin’ ladybug.” Tom sneered, making you growl in frustration. You couldn’t even go to your room to be angry, because then Tom would be in there too. You didn’t know how you were going to survive. You already had plans to move into your own place, but finding a good paying job was rough in this climate. You were just thankful Tom’s sister had already moved out, otherwise you’d have to share a room with two strangers and not just one. You would’ve preferred sharing the room with Lois.

But, to your surprise, weeks of awkwardness turned into a somewhat less hostile situation. At first, it was full of tension and arguing. You still hadn’t really forgiven Tom for all he put you through during your school years, and it showed. You were often short with him, every time he did something you didn’t like, you would pick a fight and sometimes it turned into a screaming match that made your parents bang on your bedroom door and yell at you to knock it off. You sometimes cried yourself to sleep, knowing fully well Tom could hear it through the flimsy curtain that separated the two of your beds. It was embarrassing, and knowing you had no way to escape it yet made it all the more worse.

Tom didn’t feel too dissimilar to how you felt. He was angry at his dad for marrying another woman. How could he just forget all about his mother? He knew it wasn’t that simple, but like his mother, he was just as stubborn and took a long time to come around to the idea. He never even had a problem with you, if he was being honest. He was angry and he lashed out at anyone. Tom never felt more embarrassed than when he learned you’d be living with him.

Thinking back on it, he never teased you to hurt your feelings. He just didn’t know any other way to express his fondness for you. It’s not an excuse, of course, he should’ve known better. But now he has to literally live with the choices he made back then. When he heard you crying on the other side of that curtain, he couldn’t help but curse himself for how majorly he fucked up with you. By the third or fourth time he heard you, he couldn’t just lie there and pretend nothing was wrong.

“Hey…” Tom started off nervously, which when the fuck was he ever nervous? “I know that, uh, this situation isn’t what either of us would want…I’m sure how I treated you in school doesn’t help that much either.” He chuckled awkwardly, clearing his throat and taking a quiet, deep breath before continuing. “I know I was a prick, okay? But I was a prick to everyone, still am. I just…I want you to know I didn’t mean anything by it. I was a stupid kid that didn’t know how to act. That’s no excuse, I know, but…I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.” You were silent across the curtain, Tom couldn’t even hear if you were breathing or not. God, he hoped you didn’t fall asleep during that cause there was no way he could bring himself to give that speech again. “You don’t have to forgive me, I sure wouldn’t have. But I hope, after tonight, we could try to be civil with each other–for our folks, at least.” Still silence, and Tom sighed, rolling over to face the wall. “Well, goodnight then.”

Tom closed his eyes, trying to relax into his firm mattress, trying to ignore the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. Until, “Thank you.” It was so soft, he almost didn’t hear it, but there it was and he felt a weight lifted from his shoulders. He smiled, and drifted off into a dreamless sleep. 

After that night, things got better, it wasn’t comfortable by any means, but you both learned to just…not get in each other’s way. You still complained about Tom’s smoking though. The only other thing that was starting to get increasingly irritating was the fact that…you couldn’t masturbate. It wasn’t the biggest problem in the world and you felt terrible feeling like it was when the world was in a state of peril, but god it was frustrating.

Ever since moving in with the Bennett’s, you didn’t have a chance to touch yourself, clearly, because Tom would absolutely hear you and proceed to make fun of you for the rest of your life. It wasn’t fair, because you knew Tom had relations with other women a couple times a week, he often snuck through the window smelling of cheap perfume and sweat. You were a virgin, so you were always so pent up. You had only been fingered by some soldier who begged to touch you before he was deployed, and it was…fine, but the memory often made you reach between your legs in the late hours of the night to try to replicate the feeling.

Now, here you were, lying in bed not even two feet away from Tom, not being able to have an orgasm for almost two months, and your clit throbbing so hard you feel like it’s going to shrivel up and fall off. Your clock said 2:33 am, and Tom had been snoring softly across the tiny room. You couldn't fall asleep, probably because you haven’t gotten your rocks off in what felt like forever. You needed something.

You exhaled quietly, reaching under your covers and down your body–where you could already feel a damp pool in your underwear. You gently pressed down on your cloth covered clit, tears lining your lids with how good it felt to finally feel pleasure, even if just a little bit. But that was your first mistake, once you got a taste, you couldn’t help but give in to more.

You exhaled a shuddering breath into the palm of your hand as you slowly rubbed circles over your clit, your hips slightly bucking into your moving fingers. You glanced over at the curtain, Tom’s snoring had stopped, but his breathing was still steady and slow, like it always is when he’s sleeping. It was the green light you needed to continue. You didn’t truly understand how bad you needed this until the tears finally spilled over, damping the parts of your pillow they landed on. You dared to go further, shoving your hand inside your underwear to get full skin to skin contact, and god you almost moaned aloud. This far, you had been doing well keeping yourself quiet…until you decided to push one of your digits inside your pulsing entrance.

You felt like you stuck your face in an oven when you let out a small, strained squeak. It wasn’t that loud, you definitely have been louder, but with how quiet the streets had been tonight, the how quiet the room was, it sounded echoing to your ears.

You held your breath for what felt like ages, praying Tom wouldn’t stir in his sleep or wake up. After a few minutes, you let out the breath you had been holding, relieved and frustrated at the same time. If you had your own room, you wouldn’t be having this problem. You needed to get this over with already, so you bit down on your hand as the other swiftly worked you towards your well earned climax…until you heard a chuckle. “Burning the midnight oil, are we?” You froze as you heard Tom’s amused voice, quickly removing your hand from your underwear and wiping your slick on your nightgown.

You jumped as Tom stepped past the curtain, crossing into your space and chuckling as he saw your state–a woman clearly almost close to an orgasm and frustrated she couldn’t finish. “What are you doing?” You asked, flustered. Your eyes widened as he sat on your bed near your feet, you were too embarrassed to even look at him so you looked down at your bed covers like they were the most interesting thing in the world. 

“What am I doing? You’re the one touching yourself in the same room as me.” He giggled, but stopped once he saw your mortified face. “You don’t have to be so ashamed, ya know? Everybody does it, even I’ve done it. Though, I have better control over my sounds.” He whispered, a permanent smirk on his face.

“Oh god, can we please just not discuss this right now?” You groaned, trying to hide beneath your blanket.

“How long has it been?” Tom asked nonchalantly, making you pop your head up from the blanket with your brows furrowed.

“What?”

“I mean, it must’ve been awhile if you felt you needed to do that right now.”

“Uh–it’s, uh–been about two months…” 

Tom’s eyes widened. “It’s been two months since you’ve been laid?”

“No…since I, ya know.” You admitted, gesturing towards yourself.

Tom’s face seemed to soften, somehow seeing you in a different light. “You’re a virgin?”

“You don’t have to rub it in.”

“I’m not, I’m not, I’m just surprised. Pretty girl like you? Makes me wonder if this whole town is blind.”

You thought you couldn't possibly blush harder when he caught you, but you supposed Tom did like proving people wrong. You shook your head, “You don’t have to make me feel better, you know. I’m embarrassed enough as it is.”

“I’m not lying,” Tom said while grabbing ahold on your ankle through your covers, “and I’m not trying to be mean to you, not again. I’m done with that, okay? I think you’re beautiful.”

“Thanks, Tom.” You whispered. “But please, don’t mention this to anyone. People will think I’m crazy.”

“I won’t.” He spoke softly, gently rubbing up and down your calf, making the heat in your belly bubble up once more to your displeasure. “You know, I feel really bad about interrupting you. I’d like to make it up to you, if you’ll let me?”

You let out a confused chuckle. “What do you mean by that, Tom? Like, you’ll leave the room or something?”

Tom’s brows furrowed and shook his head. “No, I mean,” he leaned closer to you, “I’d help you finish myself.” He said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You suddenly pulled back, bringing your legs close to your chest. “Woah, woah, woah, Tom. You can’t–we can’t…you can’t say things like that! We’re…siblings now…”

“Are we though? I didn’t live with you in the same home, we’ve never roughhoused in the backyard or cried to mum and dad complaining about the other when we didn’t get our way. What makes us siblings? Our parents married each other? Here’s a secret, luv, we’ve known each other longer than they have. That doesn’t seem quite fair, now, does it?”

“Tom…” You sighed, “it’s not right…”

Tom scowled. “No, you know what’s not right? Having feelings for you all my fuckin’ life and never getting the chance to act on it until we’re fuckin’ folks get married. It’s a joke. And I ain’t letting a joke get in the way of what I want–and what I know you want too.” Tom ended his rant by surging forward and capturing your lips in a passionate kiss, and unfortunately, you didn’t have the will nor strength to stop him. But with every click of saliva and swipe of his tongue, the more and more your concern faded into oblivion. You let yourself melt into his embrace, his hands roaming your body like he’s been your lover for years, goosebumps pebbling your flesh in anticipation of Tom’s future actions.

You moaned softly as Tom kissed down your body, sucking licking your hardened nipples through the thin material of your nightgown, dampening the fabric. He pulled the blankets off you, landing in a quiet puddle on the wooden floor. He smiled wide as he lifted your gown over your hips, finding the prize between your legs still soaked from your previous ministrations. “I can already tell you have such a pretty, wet cunt. Shall I see for myself?” He teased, rubbing his finger up and down the seam of your folds though your panties, making you shudder and nod. “I need your words.”

“Yes, Tom, please.” You whispered, rewarded by having your undergarments completely taken off, your pussy exposed for him to see.

“Fuck, I knew I was right. Can’t believe I’m the first one to ravish you like this.” Tom seemingly took all the breath out of your lungs as he started to lap at you like an animal starved, teasing your pussy and prodding his tongue at your entrance, his nose gently pressing against your clit.

“Tom, my God-!” You moaned, your head thrown back in pure pleasure as he worked you expertly. You had heard rumors about his skill from the women at the pub who’d been so lucky as to have had a night with the infamous Tom Bennett, but you never knew he could be this good at pleasuring someone.

“Saying the Lord’s name in vain, and here I thought you were a good Christian girl.” Tom chuckled darkly, not even giving you time to retort as he started to lap at your clit, shutting you up before you even had the chance to open your mouth. “You were already so close before, weren’t you? Think you’re gonna come for me soon? If not, that’s okay, I can be between your legs all fuckin’ night and day if I have to.”

As tempting as that sounds, you were absolutely way too close before which made it so easy to be so fucking close now. You almost felt you should’ve been embarrassed at how close you were already, but the way Tom was moaning into your pussy like he was the one being pleasured–all you needed was one more right move. “I want you to come for me, luv. All over my fuckin’ face, I need it, please.” He almost whimpered, pushing two fingers inside you and curling them against your pleasure spot. And yeah, that’ll do it.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as your body convulsed in a powerful orgasm, but before you could scream out in pleasure, Tom’s large hand covered your mouth before a peep could escape. “Don’t want our folks waking up to this, do we?” Tom smirked. “That feel good, sweetheart?”

You could only nod your head in exhaustion, sweat beading at your brow bone, heavy breaths escaping you as Tom sucked on the fingers that were inside you, shining from your slick in the moonlight peaking through the window curtains. You giggled as Tom peppered kisses all over your face, maneuvering himself to be in between your legs, and they wrapped around his waist naturally. “I feel like I should pay you back now.” You spoke nervously, looking into his eyes to see slight hesitation.

“You really want me to be your first?”

“I mean, we’ve come this far, haven’t we?” Tom nestled his face against your neck, leaving gentle kisses that encouraged you to cant your hips upwards to press against his obvious erection. From what you could tell, your first time wouldn’t be that easy if his cock was actually that big. He groaned, grinding back against you. You gasped at the sensation, your clit still throbbing from your previous climax, but you didn’t care–you want him. Badly.

“You’ll let me know if it hurts?” You nodded, smiling warmly at Tom’s concern, your heart beating against your ribcage as he removed his clothes, positioning his length at your entrance, the ruddy tip prodding against your sensitive flesh. “I’ll try to be gentle.”

Your mouth opened in a silent gasp as Tom slowly pushed in, his cock stretching your tight walls to accommodate his size. It wasn’t too painful, just some pressure, your muscles contracting at the intrusion, making Tom groan. “Fuck, sweetheart. Try to relax for me, yeah? That’ll make it easier.” You tried to relax as best you could, whimpering as he reached the end of you, staying still as you adjusted. “You alright?”

“Yes.” You nodded, holding onto his shoulder for purchase as he started to thrust into you gently. Tom was being so gentle with you, he held onto your hip as his other hand kept himself up so he wouldn’t crush you completely, but soon, you found out that’s exactly what you wanted. You tightened your legs around his waist, pulling him as close as possible to you, his body flush against yours. You felt suffocated, but in the best possible way. “Tom, please…”

“Please, what, pretty girl?”

“I want it harder, faster.”

“Yeah?” Tom smirked, “I can do that.” With all your slick left over from your orgasm, it wasn’t difficult at all for him to thrust in and out of you with ease, each sound of each other’s skin slapping together rhythmically music to your ears. It felt like every nerve in your body was being lit up with every piston of his hips, your whimpers becoming louder in volume until Tom had to reach up and put his hand over your mouth once more. “Shh, sweetheart, shh. I know my cock feels good, but try not to be too loud, yeah?” You couldn’t even be annoyed at his arrogance because you both knew how true it was.

You heard Tom groan as you bit into his palm, a mischievous glint in your eyes as his own darkened. “You wanna play that game, do you?” Without another word, Tom pulled out and flipped you over onto your belly and climbed atop of you, forcing you into a prone position. Tom shoved your face down as he entered you from behind, the new angle making you cry out into the pillow. Tom thrusted into you with an invigorated force, each powerful thrust making you let out a strangled groan, the bed squeaking slightly as his hips pushed you further and further up the bed until your head banged against the metal bars of the bed frame. “How’s that, sweetheart?”

“So good–” You cried out, doing your best to muffle your pitiful noises into your drool-dampened pillow.

“Yeah? You like feelin’ my cock stretching out your sweet little pussy?” Tom could barely understand your ramblings, too drunk on his cock to even form a sentence, a prideful smirk adorning his face. He pushed all his weight on you, reaching around to gently hold onto your neck, kissing your temple as he rutted into you in a slow, yet still powerful rhythm, your moans turning into small whimpers. “I’ve wanted to do this to you for a while now, ya know?” He chuckled, “The amount of times I’ve come to the thought of you–too many times to count.”

His words–and the way he was holding your throat so gently as he thrusted inside you–made another orgasm try to bubble up to the surface. This was so wrong, but it felt so right. Tom breath hitched as you squeezed around him, your gummy walls suffocating his cock in a vice grip as you neared another peak. He grunted, almost painfully, as you tightened around him in another spine-tingling climax, coating his length in another layer of your slick. “Christ–ain’t gonna last long with you grippin’ me like that.” He chuckled breathlessly, resting his head on top of yours in an almost defeat as he neared his own release. “Fuck, I can’t hold on. Where do you want me to come?”

“Inside.”

“You sure, luv? I wouldn’t want to get you–”

“Please, Tom, I want to feel it…” You moaned, reaching behind yourself to grab a hold of his hip, pressing down hard to emphasize your desire. 

“Shit–coming–!” Tom moaned breathily in your ear, hips stuttering as his sticky spend released inside you, a wince escaping him as you squeezed around him one last time before he pulled out, almost collapsing on top of you in exhaustion.

Tom moved to lay next to you, but in your simple little twin, he would’ve fallen right off the edge. So instead, he rose from your bed and you watched in fascination as he removed the curtain, and started to push his own bed right up next to yours. You giggled as he wore a self-satisfied grin, laying down next to you properly, pulling your body to his. His warmth was all encompassing, but it was a welcome heat–the sweat on your bodies rapidly cooling from the chilly nighttime weather that leaked in through the slight cracks in the window pane. “Did you like that?” Tom’s smug voice filled the otherwise empty room, but you could hear the genuine concern he masked with his arrogance.

You hummed lightly, “I did.” Tom breathed out a sigh of relief, squeezing you closer to him, placing a chaste kiss on your forehead. Now cuddled up next to him, bathing in the afterglow, you meekly asked, “What happens now?”

“I don’t know, but I can tell you this: no matter what happens, no one is taking you away from me.”

“Oh yeah?” You smiled up at him. “And when your parents eventually find out? What then? Will you fight to be with me, mister conscientious objector?”

Tom smirked, rolling on his side to face you. “If that’s what it takes. Would you do the same for me?”

You reached up and brushed his cheek with the back of your hand, smiling as you felt some heat beneath his skin. You would give anything to see his blush in the daylight, you’d have to do this more often then. 

“Yes.”

[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

Firstly, when you get this, you have to answer with 5 things you like about yourself, publicly. Then, send this ask to 10 of your favorite followers//non-negotiable, positivity is cool

Uhhhhh i guess….

I like my music taste, metalhead for life

I like that people seem to like my fanfictions (got another one releasing soon👀)

I like that I’m protective and loyal to my friends

I like that I can make people laugh sometimes

And last uh…fuck it, I like my big boobies🤣 (most of the time at least)

[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

Rise in the Heat

Pairing: Tom Bennett x f!reader Warnings: Angst, smut. Word count: ~4.6k

Summary: Tom comes to watch her perform every night while he's on shore leave, and he's a good tipper. When she finally relents and agrees to meet up with him for a drink, she's dismayed when he doesn't show up, and keen to find out why.

Author's note: Based on this request. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

There was something magical about a portside bar. On the nights when the Argentinian heat was so thick in the air it felt as though she could taste it, the cigarette smoke hung around the dingy yellow lamps like tendrils of silk. With the press of bodies all clustered around the stage, sipping sticky glasses of dark rum, it was easy to forget that the world was in the midst of a war. There was freedom in standing in front of a crowd and singing, she didn’t even have a microphone. An upturned soapbox served as her stage, a pint glass by her feet for the punters to throw their loose change into if they felt so inclined. In exchange for working behind the bar four nights a week, the landlord allowed her to take a room above the ramshackle little pub and sing in exchange for tips on the remaining three, if she wanted to. There had yet to be a night when she hadn’t wanted to. Her audience were usually all sailors on shore leave, who hadn’t seen a woman in weeks, and so by the end of each of her three nights off, the tip glass was usually overflowing.

Tonight was the beginning of two evenings off in a row for her. She stepped up onto her makeshift stage, the curls at the nape of her neck already clinging to her skin with a combination of sweat and humidity, and was met by cheers and whistles as she wet her lips, took a breath and then launched into her own rendition of Tar Paper Stomp. Her eyes moved over the crowd of sailors as she sang, some faces more familiar than others, but it was one in particular who stood out to her. He was tall, around six feet, and so easy to pick out of a crush of bodies, with sandy coloured hair and blue eyes that twinkled with mischief whenever he flashed one of his crooked grins. He tipped well – better than anyone, actually – while most of her audience would throw a half penny into her tip glass, occasionally a centavo if they’d received one in their change, this particular naval officer was far more generous. Every night that he had watched her since arriving in port two weeks ago he had dropped an entire shilling into her glass. It was a gesture she appreciated, but she knew better than to believe it was without intent, and he proved her right when he would push to the front at the end of every set he watched to ask to buy her a drink.

“I can buy my own, thank you,” came her curt response each time. He was handsome, but getting involved with someone who was at risk of never returning once they shipped out again was not an emotional investment that she was prepared to make. She had witnessed too much loss already. She simply wanted to sing and allow the world to pass her by in the warm embrace of the South American heat, until the world returned to normal once more. Then she would take the tip money she had saved, return home and buy herself a nice little place in the country. That was the dream.

By the time she finished her set, she noticed that he hadn’t come up to the front as usual to drop a shilling in her glass like he usually did. Perhaps he wasn’t feeling as flush tonight, or had simply given up on the idea of trying to woo her. She pushed the thought from her mind, and stepped down from the soap box, grabbing the pintful of coins, eager to get to the bar for a cool glass of water to relieve her parched throat.

"Oi, wait," he demanded, grasping her wrist as she attempted to work her way through the crowd. The press of bodies blocked her exit, slowing her down, so he was able to halt her progress with ease.

She sighed in exasperation, her eyes looking quickly down in annoyance to where his long fingers were wrapped around her arm, then back up to his face. His blue eyes were wide and imploring, but it wasn't enough to soften her to him. "You haven't tipped tonight," she said, holding up the pint glass of coins and rattling it, "my time's not cheap."

"Thought I'd save my money tonight," he said, raising his voice to be heard above the loud chatter of the other people in the pub, "use it to buy you a drink."

She rolled her eyes, tugging her wrist free of his grasp and pushed once more towards the bar. She didn’t have to look to know he was following her as she spoke. “We’ve had this chat many times before. My answer hasn’t changed.”

“But it could,” he insisted with a cocky smirk, leaning his elbow against the bar, watching as she gratefully accepted a glass of water from the bartender and drank greedily. “Give me a reason why not.”

She sighed, putting down her half empty glass and turned to face him. He really was handsome up close, even with strands of dirty blonde hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He’d taken off his navy blue smock at some point in the evening, tying it by the sleeves around his waist. She watched as a bead of perspiration ran from his collarbone, down the centre of his chest and disappeared beneath the neckline of his white vest. “I don’t go for drinks with dead men,” she finally said, lifting her eyes to meet his and immediately felt herself grow hotter at the appraising look she was met with. He had noticed her looking and that was all the encouragement he needed.

“Pretty sure I’m alive, actually,” he quipped, tipping an appreciative nod to the bartender as he leaned across to top off his glass.

“You serve in the navy though, right?” she asked, not really needing an answer, “you’re putting yourself in danger every day, so you might not be around for much longer. So what’s the point?”

She drained the rest of her water glass and set it down heavily, ready to take her leave, but he reached out quickly, grasping her wrist once more. He grinned as he looked at her and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to kiss or slap the look off his face. It was maddening.

“If I’m gonna get blown to bits by Germans, don’t you think I deserve a proper send off?” he joked.

He had finally worn her down. She wasn’t sure if it was the heat, his persistence or simply how he looked looming over her, broad chested and glistening with humidity, but she found herself nodding. “Fine, but I don’t want a drink from the bar I work in. Take me on a proper date.”

She laughed softly as he raised an eyebrow at her suggestion, and then told him all about a little restaurant a few streets away that served asado and empanadas – it was cheap and cheerful, but would serve as a decent place for a first date, perhaps the only date they would ever have. He nodded, agreeing to meet her there the following evening.

Excitement fizzed restlessly in her lower belly as she waited for him to arrive. In spite of herself, she was looking forward to their date. She had taken the time to carefully curl her hair, and fought against the humidity to ensure that the rouge upon her lips stayed in place. It was early evening, the sun had only just begun its slow dip upon the horizon, streaking amber across a cloudless sky. She sat beneath a red and white striped parasol on the restaurant’s front patio. The paint was chipping away from the uncomfortable metal chairs and tables, the red flaking off to reveal the rust beneath. She didn’t mind; the food was good here – flavourful, if a little spicy, and they served cheap red wine by the glass that made you feel too lightheaded to care how oppressive the heat of the evening was.

Thirty minutes passed, then turned into an hour, and she realised with an unpleasant prickle of humiliation and then anger that she had been stood up. He wasn’t coming. Perhaps she had asked too much in refusing a simple drink and insisting they go for dinner. Cursing him under her breath, she pushed abruptly out of her chair, ignoring the loud scrape of the metal legs against the concrete and stalked back towards the bar, determined to give him a piece of her mind the next time he came in.

There was no next time, however, as a week passed by with no sign of her mystery sailor. Every time the door to the pub swung open with a creak of protest, her head turned reflexively towards it, disappointed anew each time it wasn’t him that stepped through it. It dawned on her that perhaps he hadn’t stood her up, he’d simply been shipped out and hadn’t had the chance to tell her. Another week passed and the news of the attack upon the HMS Exeter by the Admiral Graf Spee reached her. Her heart sank. Though she couldn’t be sure, she had a feeling that the Exeter was the ship that he would have been aboard. She berated herself for calling him a dead man – such a thoughtless thing to say, considering the fate that had likely befallen him. The next time she stepped atop her soap box to sing, she lent her voice to her own rendition of We’ll Meet Again – a fitting tribute to the sailor whose name she’d never known.

Tom came to, his mind feeling foggy and struggling to keep pace with the speed his body seemed to want to move at. He didn’t know where he was or how long he’d been there. Confusion at his surroundings further muddled his thoughts as he slowly took in the bright white walls and pea green linoleum coating the floor. It wasn’t until he turned his head, and saw the unconscious man in the bed next to his – a ginger haired, heavy set man that he had served alongside on the HMS Exeter – that he realised he was in a hospital.

He groaned, attempting to sit up, and a dull ache in his head made the room swim as a wave of nausea filled his mouth with foul tasting saliva. He flopped back down heavily against the pillow, the movement alerting the attention of a doctor, who approached the bed from the far end of the ward, his long white coat billowing behind him with the rapidity of his steps.

“How are you feeling, Private…er–” the doctor paused, looking down at a clipboard he held tightly in his hands, lifted a page on it, then returned his gaze to Tom, “Bennett? I’m Doctor Roberts.”

The doctor had the well spoken southern English accent of someone highly educated, and the tone of someone who seemed irritated by the responsibility that such luxury has thrust upon them. He was a man who ought to be wearing a smoking jacket and drinking French brandy, not elbow deep in blood and sweat.

“Like my head’s been stamped on,” Tom replied, scrubbing a hand over his face and closing his eyes to block out the way the room spun. “How long’ve I been here for?”

“You were admitted last night,” the doctor said, coming to stand at the head of the bed and looking down at Tom, “brought up from the coast. You took quite the nasty blow to the head.”

It was then that Tom remembered. The dull boom that had sounded as though it was both hundreds of miles away and also right by his ear. The floor of the ship had rocked beneath his feet, and he’d struggled to stay upright as he had moved as fast as his legs could carry him on the unsteady surface, making his way down to the missile magazine to help load artillery to defend against the attack they were under. He had slipped, banging his head so hard against the steel wall of the ship that he had felt his teeth rattle. Adrenaline had kept him going through all of the smoking carnage, through the horror of seeing death all around him, and the entire length of the rocky journey in the bed of a truck to the inland hospital – the medical tents that were closer by were too overwhelmed to take anyone not at immediate threat of death. It was upon his arrival that he had finally lost consciousness and awoken in a hospital bed.

“So how long until I can leave?” Tom asked, blinking his eyes slowly open, to take in the olive skin of Dr. Roberts’ face, deeply lined with exhaustion.

“It’ll be around a week,” he said, glancing quickly over his shoulder as a man a few beds down cried out in pain while a nurse attempted to dab iodine onto a wound upon his shoulder, and then looked back at Tom. “You have a concussion, the worst of which you managed to stay awake for, but you’re also severely dehydrated, so we’ll need to give you plenty of fluids.”

Tom scowled, immediately wincing at the pain that it sent spearing through his skull. “A week in hospital for a bump on the head and a few glasses of water?! C’mon, doc, that can’t be right.”

Dr. Roberts sighed, lowering his voice as he leaned conspiratorially down towards him. “We currently do not have the resources to ferry you all back as and when you recover. The truck that brought you all here will take you all back when you have all recovered.”

“Christ, what the fuck am I gonna do in that time?” he complained.

“Well, the nurses are miserably understaffed,” Dr. Roberts offered with a shrug, “perhaps you could lend a hand with sponge baths once you’re feeling up to it?”  

Tom tutted, turning his face away. As Dr. Roberts moved to walk away, he called him back. “D’you think I could send a letter from here?”

The doctor nodded. “I’ll have one of the nurses sort it out for you.”

He wanted to write to her. He didn’t even know her name, and yet she’d frequented his thoughts ever since he’d laid eyes on her in that dingy portside bar. She sang like an angel, but had the look of the devil about her; all blood red lips and glossy black curls. Tom had just wanted to have some fun, and had attempted to sweeten her up by lifting a shilling from the ship’s betting pool, to drop into her tip glass, each time he went to watch her perform. There wasn’t much to do between waiting to ship out, besides play cards, write letters and gamble, so the sailors placed bets on almost everything – the date of their next voyage, who’d be first to catch the clap from a port town whore – the coins were all placed into a canvas bag, and Tom had regularly stolen from it. He wondered where it was now, probably sunk to the bottom of the South Atlantic. He had been digging through his kit bag, trying to find his civvies for his date that evening when the call had come - the Admiral Graf Spee, an enemy boat that had been attacking merchant ships had been spotted not far off the coast. The HMS Exeter was going to pursue and attack it. They had raised the anchor before he’d even had the chance to consider that he was inadvertently leaving her in the lurch. 

Once a nurse had delivered to him the things he needed, Tom leaned on his side, ignoring the way his head throbbed, and began to write.

Hello gorgeous,

Bet you thought I’d stood you up, didn’t ya? I s’pose in a way I did – had a more important date with a war ship. But I’m alive, and still want to take you for that dinner, if you’re not too pissed off. I’m in hospital, it’ll be a week till they let me out, but I’ll come straight to you. Don’t worry, my handsome face is fine, just my head took a bit of a knock, but I don’t use that much anyway. By my count, I must owe you at least four shillings by now, for all of your singing I’ve missed.

See you soon,

Tom.

It wasn’t until he’d folded the page and tucked it inside of the envelope that he realised he didn’t know the address, not even the name of the bar. Angrily, he stuffed the envelope beneath his pillow, flopping back against it with a groan of frustration.

The man in the bed next to his was now awake and looked over at Tom with a playful smirk. “Cheer up, mate, the Nazis scuttled their ship. We won.”

Tom huffed through his nose, eyes fixed firmly upon the bright white ceiling. “Yeah, doesn’t feel like it.”

God, he wanted a smoke.

The day of their departure came, and time seemed to have slowed to an agonising crawl. Tom felt as though he might jump right out of his skin with the impatience of waiting for nurses to put shoulders in slings, and re-dress wounds ready for travel. The pain in his head was gone, and he was left only with a few bruises and scrapes – injuries that would fade until he never remembered they were there. He was lucky, but right now he didn’t feel it. He just wanted to get back to the port, back to her.

By the time the truck rattled back into the little town, the sky was inky black, but the air still hung thick and oppressive, uncomfortably warm even without the sun beating down. He pushed out of the truck bed, not caring to listen to the officer who had climbed out of the passenger seat, ready to give further instructions regarding new ship assignments. Tom didn’t plan on spending the night in a cramped and uncomfortable bunk. He had other plans.

He walked his intended route in long strides, too preoccupied to notice that the physical exertion was making him sweat. He didn’t stop until he reached that dingy, little pub. It was empty of customers, obviously closed for the night, but through the window he could see her. She was standing behind the bar, wiping a glass with a rag. The dull yellow light of the lamps overhead illuminated her features – she was even more beautiful than he remembered. For a moment Tom was frozen to the spot. He didn’t know what to say. What if she was angry with him? What if she didn’t care at all? Maybe he’d imagined their connection as being more significant than it actually was and she’d find it strange that he’d come back for her.

Pushing the thoughts away, he took a deep breath, and tried the door handle. Thankfully, she hadn’t locked it yet and it creaked noisily open. He stood in the doorway as her head snapped up, her eyes settling on his face, and before he had had the chance to say anything, she had run out from behind the bar towards him, throwing her arms around his neck as she crushed her body tightly against his. He staggered backwards at the force of it, before composing himself and wrapping his arms gingerly around her waist, as an involuntary smirk tugged at his lips.

“What’s all this then?” he asked softly, pulling back with a grin, “almost knocked me over.”

There were tears in her eyes as he looked at her, and it made something in his chest twist painfully. He regretted pulling away from her embrace, wanting nothing more than to tug her back against him and make it all better.

“I thought you were dead,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “I’m so sorry, I called you a dead man, and then you didn’t come back, and I–I…oh god, I’m just so happy to see you.”

Once Tom had calmed her, stroking her hair soothingly and quietly assuring her he was okay, he ushered her further into the bar, encouraging her to take a seat at a nearby table. He locked the door, before going behind the bar to fetch a bottle of rum and two glasses. He poured them both a generous measure before sitting next to her.

“Thanks,” she said appreciatively once she’d taken a sip, dabbing beneath her eyes with the back of her hand. “Sorry for getting weepy on you. It’s just…I was a nurse before all of this–” she gestured around the bar, “I packed it in. Got tired of seeing all that death. Being here, singing, working behind the bar, it feels like an escape from it all. But then you went missing and it reminded me that I can’t ever really run away from it. You must think I’m such a coward.”

She looked at him with sad, watery eyes and a lump formed in Tom’s throat. He didn’t think she was a coward at all, he had never related to anything more in his life. Thoughts of desertion had crossed his mind continuously during his week in the hospital. He still wasn’t sure he wanted to go back.

“I think you’re really brave, actually,” he told her, reaching across to grasp her hand and give it a reassuring squeeze, “it takes courage to admit that. And I found my way back, I had to. Needed to give you this–”

He reached into his back pocket, pulling out the letter he’d written and handed it to her. She took it from him, unfolding it silently before she read it. Her eyes softened, the ghost of a smile upon her ruby lips as she scanned the page. When she finished, she looked up and Tom took the page from her, turning it over and showing her a crudely scrawled pencil tally on its back.

“I kept count of the days I’d missed you singing. Wanted to make sure you knew I still wanted to give you your tips, and that I still wanna take you on that date, maybe we–”

She cut him off as she lunged at him from her seat, grasping him by the collar as she kissed him so hard he could scarcely breath. Tom melted into her touch, cupping her cheek in one hand as his mouth moved eagerly against hers, not caring that he was smearing her lipstick. With his other hand, he pressed against the small of her back, wanting her as close to him as she could physically be. Until this point, Tom had been drowning and hadn’t even realised it – the touch of her lips was like being pulled to the surface and brought to life again.

“We could head upstairs, if you wanted,” she whispered breathlessly, her gaze dark with desire when they finally parted for breath.

The thought of being parted from her, if only to walk upstairs to her room, was excruciating; he was painfully hard already. He shook his head. “Here’s fine. Need you. Now.”

He shifted, lifting her onto the sticky table they were sitting at, sending their glasses crashing to the floor with a tinkle of shattering glass. That would be a problem for later, right now he just wanted to feel her, to remind them both they were still alive, that there was more than war and death, that they could seek pleasure even when the entire world seemed as though it were aflame.

She gasped as he nipped at the skin of her neck, her flesh salty upon his lips as she arched her body against his. Her hands worked eagerly to unfasten his trousers. He grinned at her boldness, before diving in for another kiss – this one messy, a frenzied clash of teeth and tongues. He groaned, pushing her skirt up her legs, his fingertips grazing the tops of her stockings. The feel of the nylon made him pulse and throb against the confines of his briefs, he hadn’t felt this lightheaded since he’d first awoken in hospital.

“I need to be inside you,” he panted, hooking a finger into the elastic of her knickers and tugging them to one side.

In response, she pushed down his briefs, freeing his cock. That was all the encouragement that Tom needed. He spat into his palm, stroking it along the length of his erection, groaning as the sensation sent white hot flames of pleasure licking along his lower spine. He dragged the residual moisture against her slick folds, an attempt to ease his passage. But even as he pressed against her, her tightness resisted and he hissed through clenched teeth at the mixture of pleasure and pain as she titled her hips, attempting to help him push deeper. He should have taken more time to prepare her, but he was desperate, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been inside of a woman. When he finally sank all the way to the hilt he stilled, his forehead pressed against hers, lips parted as he savoured the feeling of her heat wrapped like a silken fist around him. He also knew he’d find his end all too soon if he got carried away.

She reached down, giving the swell of his backside a playful squeeze, a silent urge for him to move, and he began to thrust – slowly at first, beginning to gradually pick up speed as he rocked into her, his fingers digging tightly into the meat of her thighs. The table rocked beneath them, the rickety wood protesting and threatening to give way beneath the intensity of their movements.

“Let it fucking collapse”, Tom thought, “I’ll just fuck her on the floor.”

There wasn’t a thing that could have stopped him. The entire world had narrowed to the point where they joined together, there was nothing but them and the coil of tension he could feel tightening in his gut as he drove into her. He could feel his balls beginning to draw up tight, and he released one of her legs, snaking a hand between them to rub his thumb insistently at the delicate bundle of nerves at her centre.

She mewled wantonly in response, rippling around him, making his breath hitch. He screwed his eyes shut, fighting against the way his manhood pulsed and throbbed inside of her.

“Christ…please…” he choked out. He needed her to come before he did, but he was close, embarrassingly so.

She shuddered beneath him with a keening cry, spasming around his length as she reached her peak and he pulled out quickly, stroking himself in juddering, jerky movements as he spilled himself across the tops of her stockings. When the final aftershocks had finally subsided, and clarity returned to his mind, he looked at her, spread out on the table, flushed and sweaty, breathlessly debauched, and he huffed a soft laugh as he realised he must look similarly wrecked.

“That was…” she trailed off, a dreamy smile upon her lipstick smeared mouth.

“Yeah, yeah, it was,” he agreed softly.

Leaning forward, he placed a hand around the back of her neck, tugging her to his chest as he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. There were so many things he wanted to say to her – “come back with me”, “my sister sings, she could find you work in a pub”, “leave this all behind and we’ll make it work”.

As he twirled the curls at her nape around his fingers, he finally settled on the words he felt were fitting. He’d ask for her name.

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[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

Geez I got a lady boner now

Improper Fraction

Pairing: Michael Gavey x f!reader Warnings: Sexually explicit content. Word count: ~5.1k.

Summary: Michael gets great satisfaction from humiliating a fellow student during the fresher's week pub quiz, only to get a nasty shock when he realises he'll be seeing lots more of her. And she's keen to get her own back.

Author's note: Based on this request. No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

“Isn’t this something we should save for the first years?” she asked Libby, as they pushed through the door of The Bull.

It was early evening, and the place was already starting to fill up as students crowded in for The Bull’s annual end of Fresher’s Week pub quiz.

“We come every year,” Libby replied breezily, making a beeline for an empty table in the corner, and shrugging out of her denim jacket.

“But we’re not students anymore,” she protested, hovering behind the empty chair opposite her friend.

“I’m not, but you are, so why break tradition?” Libby grinned, a toothy, determined smile that made it clear she would not be budged on the matter or from her seat. “Since you’re stood up, you can get the first round. I’ll have my usual.”

She rolled her eyes, sighing as she turned to go and fetch their drinks.

She had studied Mathematics for four years at Oxford University, before being accepted for the integrated master’s level course in Mathematical and Theoretical Physics. She was hoping that the research level training would help her on her path to becoming an astrophysicist, until then she worked weekend shifts at a bookshop just off of the high street. Libby had completed the three year History of Art course more than a year ago, and had yet to move on from the city. Libby claimed it was because she enjoyed the culture and pace of life, but she knew her friend better than that – it had more to do with the bartender she’d been hooking up with on and off since she’d started a part time job at the wine café in Jericho. Whatever the reason, she was grateful for Libby sticking around – it meant not having to look for another flatmate, and Oxford would be a lonely place without her; a proclivity for numbers and equations left little opportunity for socialisation.

Pushing her way back through the crowd, trying and failing not to allow the two pints of Strongbow she carried to spill over the edge of the glasses, she frowned as she saw two men she didn’t recognise seated at the table either side of Libby. One was dark haired with a nose that looked as though it had been broken more than once, and the other was sandy haired and bespectacled – the sort of person she’d move away from on a bus, judging by the well worn Merrell walking shoes that peeked out from beneath the table.

Placing the glasses heavily down upon dog eared beer mats, sending more cider frothing over the sides and onto the sticky wood beneath, she shot Libby a questioning look, before taking her seat opposite her, the two strangers now on either side of her.

“This is Oliver,” Libby explained, dragging her pint towards her, “ and this is Michael. You need a minimum of four people for a quiz team, so I invited them to join us.”

“Hope you don’t mind,” Oliver said apologetically, shifting his gaze to her, “all the other teams were full.”

“Fine by me,” she replied with a shrug, hoping she appeared more casual than she felt. There was something about Oliver that made her feel uneasy, though she couldn’t fathom a tangible reason for why that was.

Libby took a swig of her drink, either not noticing the tension around the table or choosing to ignore it. “Oliver’s studying literature,” she said brightly, “so we’ll smash that round. What about you, Michael?”

“Maths,” he answered.

There was something smug and self assured in how he allowed the syllable to roll off his tongue, as though he were announcing to the table he was better than anyone else seated at it, without even needing to say the words.

“No way!” Libby swatted his arm, earning a scowl which she again chose not to notice, and nodded towards her friend seated opposite her. “Two maths boffins at the same table!”

Michael turned to her, his eyebrows raised in obvious disbelief. “You’re reading maths?”

“I was. I’ve just started my masters,” she offered a thin smile, taking a drink as a distraction from the scrutiny she felt beneath the intensity of his stare. The bittersweet liquid fizzed against her tongue, and she found it an effort to swallow as he continued to study her intently.

“Wow, someone actually worth talking to,” he scoffed finally, having decided he was satisfied with her answer. “I’m a genius. I can do any sum in my head. Go on, ask me.”

She hadn’t expected that. A normal person would have asked follow up questions, enquired about what a masters degree in mathematics entailed, instead he had managed to turn the conversation back to himself.

Laughing nervously, she shook her head. “What?” she stammered, “I–”

The tapping of a finger against a microphone echoed through speakers around the pub, and the loud chatter and laughter quieted down, as the quizmaster introduced himself and explained how each round would be conducted and scored. It was broken out by subject – a round each for English, maths, science, history, geography and art, with a bonus round for pop culture. Not an average pub quiz, but Oxford wasn’t an average university, and the student body revelled in flexing the superiority of their intelligence.

Oliver took care of the English round, marking his answers down against the shared sheet of paper with quiet confidence. When it came to the maths portion, Michael gleefully snatched up the answer page and pencil.

“I’ll take care of this round, don’t worry,” he announced, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his forefinger.

She scowled, irritated by his dismissal of her, but decided, for the sake of keeping the peace, to keep quiet. It wasn’t until the final question in the round – add 8.563 and 4.8292 – that she finally spoke up.

“I should get to do at least one,” she insisted, grabbing the pencil from Michael and slanting the paper towards her. 

She quickly scribbled her answer – 13.395 – and then righted the page back towards him.

Michael’s eyes moved from what she had written and then to her. “That’s wrong,” he said with a smirk, and crossed out her answer, replacing it with 13.3922.

He was right, of course – in her haste to contribute she had forgotten to add a zero to the end of the 8.563 portion of the sum, and instead carried the final 2 of 4.8292 into her addition of 9 and 3.

She dropped her gaze to the drink in front of her, watching the bubbles rise to the top of her half drunk pint, as it sweated with condensation. Her cheeks blazed with humiliation. If only this Strongbow were large enough for her to topple into and drown. “How could I have gotten that wrong?” she thought, “Such a stupid bloody mistake.” The quizmaster announced a short break, and Oliver offered to buy a round for the four of them. Michael joined him at the bar, leaving her and Libby alone.

"Don't spiral," Libby urged, leaning across the table and rubbing her arm in a comforting gesture, "literally no one but you cares that that wasn't the right answer."

She raised her head, glancing around, and her eyes immediately met the steely stare of tMichael as he looked over his shoulder at her from the bar. The smug, self satisfied smirk on his face was proof enough that Libby was wrong – he cared.

“That’s wrong,” echoed in her mind on repeat for the rest of the evening.

By the time the quiz drew to a close, their team had not even come close to winning. The fifty pound bar tab had gone to a team that Oliver told them was made up of a student named Felix, and his cousin, Farleigh, and a gaggle of their hangers on. He spoke of them with a longing that suggested he would much rather be at that table than theirs. The maths and science portions they had perfect scores for, thanks to Michael – she hadn’t participated after he had corrected her, what little enthusiasm she had started with had been crushed. They had done okay on English and art, thanks to Oliver and Libby’s efforts, but had only managed a few points for geography and history, and had gotten nothing at all for the pop culture round.

“Guess we’re all just a bunch of losers then,” Michael commented with a wry smile, before downing the dregs of his lager.

There was something about the enunciation he placed on the word “losers” that formed a pit in her stomach – even if it wasn’t a direct dig at her, it served only to exacerbate the embarrassment she already felt at her earlier blunder. She knew it was silly to have such a strong reaction to an honest mistake that had been made in a hurry and, deep down, she knew it wasn’t that that was getting at her – it was how he seemed to gloat and take satisfaction in her having been wrong in the first place.

“Right,” she said, rising from her seat and grabbing her bag as she looked to Libby, “shall we?”

Libby nodded. “Was great to meet you both,” she said brightly, pulling her hair free of the collar of her jacket as she put it back on. “Sorry we weren’t better quiz buddies.”

“Wait,” Michael called after her as she turned to leave.

She paused, eyes wide in anticipation as he rose from his seat and extended a beer mat towards her. There was a phone number scrawled hastily on the lager stained edge of it, alongside the name ‘Michael Gavey’. “Just in case you ever want any tutoring,” he grinned, “seems like you might need it.”

Before she could open her mouth to speak, Libby was dragging her outside, the beer mat still held limply between her thumb and forefinger. The moment the door swung closed behind them, she exhaled a growl of frustration up at the sky, which had turned to the inky black of night in the time they had spent in the pub.

“I’m sorry,” Libby said, the soft look in her eyes showing she really meant it, “if I’d have known he was such an arrogant twat, I’d never have–”

She sighed, waving a hand dismissively as she interrupted her. “It’s not your fault. I just want to forget I ever met him.”

“Don’t chuck it away!” Libby called out, halting her actions as she held the beer mat precariously over the top of a litter bin on the street corner.

“Why in god’s name would I ever want to keep it?” she asked incredulously, yet found herself slipping his number into her bag all the same.

Libby grinned, linking her arm through hers as they began to stroll back towards their flat. “You could have some fun with him, get your own back.”

She huffed a soft laugh, shaking her head. She’d settle for never seeing him again, that would suit her just fine.

Unfortunately, she had no such luck.

**DIVIDER**

It was an uncomfortably warm Thursday afternoon, almost a week had passed since the Fresher’s Week pub quiz, and she had mostly forgotten about the egomaniac she had been forced to share a table with. She had spent the week buried in dissertation research, wanting to make a start as soon as possible to ensure she chose the field best suited to her to write about. However, the unseasonably warm weather was making the library feel stifling – as much as she admired the university’s dedication to preserving the historical beauty and structure of its buildings, it was days like today that she resented the lack of modern conveniences, such as air conditioning. Original stonework was all well and good, but she failed to see how it could be appreciated if its occupants were all forced to sweat to death.

She rested her elbow on the table, her chin propped on her hand as her eyes scanned repeatedly over the same line in the plasma physics textbook she had pulled from the shelf. Her eyelids felt heavy, and she placed her hand over her mouth much too late as she let out a loud and exaggerated yawn.

“If this is the attitude you have towards your studies then no wonder you get such simple addition questions wrong.”

She tensed, her shoulders pulling up to her ears. “Oh christ, please no,” she thought. 

That familiar voice, smooth as silk, and yet maddeningly irritating sounded again, this time much closer. “Mind if I join you?”

Michael didn’t wait for a response, instead placed his books beside hers on the table and sat down.

“Is your friend…Oliver?” she began, searching her memory for his name, “Is he not around for you to study with?”

“No,” he answered, his tone clipped and more curt than it had initially been, suggesting this wasn’t a topic he wanted to discuss further. He opened a notebook, drumming his fingertips listlessly against its lined pages before looking at her again. “What’s that you’re reading?”

She sighed, lifting the textbook to show him the cover before setting it back down again.

“You don’t like me very much, do you?” he asked conversationally.

The casualness of the question caught her off guard, and she frowned for a moment before leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms across her chest. “Would it upset you if I didn’t?”

“I suppose not. I’m quite used to people disliking me. But I’d be curious to know why you in particular feel that way.”

She hated the way she felt when he stared at her like that, his gaze penetrating and intense. It made her skin prickle, and her mouth run dry. She wet her lips, doing her best to keep her voice quiet and even in the hush of the library. “I find you rude and arrogant.”

“Well, you’re meek and insecure,” he stated matter of factly.

Bristling with annoyance, she rounded on him, leaning closer as the anger in her voice combined with the effort to keep quiet caused it to come out as a hiss. “See?! This is exactly what I mean, who the fuck says things like that?!”

“I’m confident in who I am, secure in my intelligence,” he explained calmly, “can you say the same about yourself?”

She scoffed, pushing her chair back so hard that the legs scraped loudly against the stone floor, the sound echoing off of the vaulted ceiling of the library. There was no way she was going to stay here with this prick and be insulted, it was too hot to put up with someone so irritating. She gathered her belongings into her arms, not bothering to put them back into her bag, and stormed away.

**DIVIDER**

“He called me meek and insecure, can you believe it?” she raged at Libby as she sat cross legged on the sofa of the living of their small flat. 

The communal space was open plan, a cosy living room that opened out onto a poky kitchen. Libby stood at the breakfast bar, her back to the cupboards as her fingers tapped against a Super Noodles flavour packet, while she waited for the kettle to boil.

“We-ell…” Libby began, offering her a tight smile.

“Are you kidding me?!” she seethed, wide eyed with disbelief.

Her friend turned, poured boiling water over the noodles in her bowl, before placing it into the microwave. It beeped as she pressed buttons, before whirring to life.

“You’re my best friend,” she said, crossing the space to sit next to her, “and I think you’re amazing, but I don’t think you think that. Do you understand where I’m coming from?”

She frowned, her mouth twisting in confusion. “Is it a bad thing that I’m not arrogant?”

Libby shook her head. “It’s a bad thing that you allow yourself to be torn down so easily. Look at how you acted at the pub quiz.”

“That jumped up little twat was rude to me!” she protested, throwing her hands up in exasperation.

“He was,” Libby agreed, “but what I think got to you is that you share the same field of study, and despite only being in his first year he’s more secure than you are.”

She fell silent, chewing her lip. She wanted to protest, to say she was wrong, but she couldn’t. It had gotten to her how confident he was in his own ability, and he was really only just starting out. She had just begun a master’s degree and was still doubting herself, feeling as though she didn’t belong.

“I think he quite likes you,” Libby added with a knowing smile, “and I think if you gave yourself the chance to think about it, you’d realise you fancy him a little bit too.”

“Absolutely not,” she denied flatly, “have you seen the way he dresses?!”

“Already thinking about taking his clothes off, see?!” Libby laughed as she swatted at her.

She tutted, pawing through the things that she had brought back with her from the library, noticing something that she hadn’t bundled in with the textbooks she’d borrowed. She rummaged in her bag, her heart dropping upon realising it wasn’t in there either. “He’s got my notebook…”

Libby grinned as the microwave beeped, jumping to her feet “Saved by the bell!”

Feeling around amongst the stray bobby pins and discarded chewing gum wrappers at the bottom of her bag, her fingers finally wrapped around the beer mat she’d chucked in there the previous week, and pulled it out. She tapped it against her knee as she looked at the phone number, trying to decide between spending ten pence on a text message to ask if he had her notebook, giving Michael her own number in the process and opening herself up to further interactions with him, or just cutting her losses and buying a new pad. The one she had left in the library had all of her dissertation notes though, and she’d have to start from scratch if she bought a new one.

Flipping open her Motorola, she typed out a text message – “Do you have my notebook?” – and hit send.

Almost twenty minutes later, and ten minutes into an episode of Come Dine With Me, her phone buzzed with his response – “who is this? ;-)”

“For fuck’s sake,” she groused to herself, letting her phone snap closed and drop back onto the sofa cushions, as she resigned herself to simply buying a new notebook. She didn’t want to play his stupid games, and certainly wouldn’t be texting him back.

A few moments later, her phone buzzed again – “Yes, I have it. You could come & collect it from me tomorrow?”

**DIVIDER**

This was not how she had envisioned spending her Friday night. When she had finished her third year, and moved into a flat with Libby, she thought she had seen the last of student halls. Yet, here she was, trudging up the steps of Balliol College as the faint sounds of laughter and music drifted faintly along the hallways. It was a reminder of her own university experience – or rather the one she’d missed out on. She had spent many Friday nights lost in her studies, while the rest of her peers socialised and partied without her. It was what had made her glad to be out of student accommodation – she was free of the reminder that the world was going on around her while her own was at a standstill.

She checked her phone again, ensuring she had the correct room and then knocked. Michael answered, wearing a blue checked shirt tucked into tan coloured cargo trousers, and she had to fight a smirk at the sight of how high up they were belted around his waist. 

“Come in,” he offered, stepping to one side.

She hesitated – she had been anticipating just grabbing her notebook from him and then leaving. An invitation into his room was unexpected. She relented when he gave an impatient raise of his eyebrows, and stepped inside.

It was cleaner, much cleaner, than a student’s room had any right to be. The window was cracked open, allowing a slight respite from the humidity of the old building, and the scent of bar soap and clean laundry hung lightly in the air. The sheets were pulled taut against the single bed that sat against the far wall of the room, with a poster above it that made her lips quirk into an involuntary smile – “sketching rational functions is a pain in the asymptote”. The desk in the far corner of the room was even tidy, with all of the books stacked neatly. It was there that she spotted her notebook, placed close to the edge.

“So, I’ll just grab this and go then…” she began, moving towards it.

“What’s the rush?” he asked, grabbing a plastic water tumbler full of white wine from the bedside table and holding it out to her, “I’ve got us drinks.”

“Wine?” she asked with a raise of her eyebrow, accepting the cup from him. “Very fancy for a student.”

He smirked. “Well, you’re an older woman, I thought alcopops might be beneath you.”

She sipped the wine. It was room temperature, and so tart upon her tongue that her face reflexively twisted in disgust as she swallowed it with a slight sputter. “Thank you,” she coughed, “that is truly, truly awful.”

Michael lifted his own drink in mock toast. “Costcutter, two bottles for a fiver. I am a student after all.”

The two of them sat side by side on the bed, their backs against the wall as they drank their sour wine, and chatted. He was all of the things she had thought he was – arrogant, obnoxious and callous – but he was also fiercely intelligent, confident, witty and handsome in his own curious sort of way, though she attributed that to the bottle of wine they had polished off between them. She discovered that he had earned his place at Oxford via a scholarship, and had an eidetic memory for numbers – he really could do any sum in his head, and was hoping to specialise in mathematical engineering.

“So, theoretical astrophysics is your thing then?” he asked, as he cracked open the screwtop on the second bottle of wine and refilled both their tumblers.

“You read my notebook?!” she asked, feeling her skin grow heated with embarrassment. The idea of him reading her notes made her feel vulnerable, as though he was looking at her naked.

“I had a quick flick through,” he admitted with a shrug, “it’s rare to find someone our…well, your age, with an interest in maths and physics, especially a woman.”

She hummed softly in acknowledgement, her gaze falling to the plastic rim of the cup she held in her hands.

“Why do you do that?” he asked, twisting his torso to face her properly. “Why do you diminish yourself like that?”

She shrugged, sipping her wine. It was less foul now that she had gotten used to the taste. “I dunno. I just–”

“I’ve read your notes,” he pressed, “your intelligence is far superior to anyone I’ve met here so far. Why aren’t you proud of that?”

She lifted her head, her eyes meeting his, her brow furrowed in confusion. “Hard to be confident in your abilities when you get a stupid pub quiz question wrong.”

Michael scoffed, rolling his eyes. “But you knew where you went wrong,” he insisted, “do you see what I mean? You aren’t walking around genuinely believing that 13.395 is the answer, you know it’s not.”

“Then why were you so cruel about it?” she asked softly, her tone laced with uncertainty.

“I was teasing you, I didn’t mean to be cruel,” Michael admitted, “I guess I was trying to flirt…”

Her lips parted slightly in surprise, the admission making her breath hitch, before she giggled. “So you are bad at something after all.”

He grinned. “I suppose so, but I’d still rather be a maths genius.”

She shifted around on the bed to face him. “Can you still do any sum in your head after a bottle of wine?”

Michael reached up, placing his half drunk cup on the window sill. “Try me.”

She lifted her gaze towards the ceiling momentarily as she thought of a sum, before looking at him again. “98 times 63?”

“6,174,” he answered with a confident smile.

“That’s incredible,” she laughed, leaning forward and placing her hand on his thigh. “149 divided by 4.8?”

She noticed him tense, his sharp intake of breath from the presence of her touch, and he blinked, hesitating before he answered. “Erm…31. Shall I do the decimal places?”

“No,” she replied, smirking as an idea occurred to her.

She moved to straddle his lap, her knees either side of his legs as she wound her arms around his neck, her breath ghosting against the shell of his ear. “865 times 17?”

“Jesus Christ," he breathed as his hands came to rest up on her hips.

She could feel him trembling beneath her, and she enjoyed it. She wasn’t sure if it was the cheap wine, or knowing she had a self proclaimed maths genius at her mercy, but she felt powerful. “That’s not the answer, is it?” she cooed, burying her fingers in the soft hair at the nape of his neck and tugging gently. Michael groaned and the sound made her clench around nothing as heat pooled in her belly. “865 times 17?”

“Uh…it’s…it’s…14,705,” he stammered, his breaths becoming laboured.

She wasn’t even sure if that was correct herself, she’d need a calculator to check, but right now she was too lost in the moment to care. For the first time in a long time, she felt confident. “Good boy,” she purred.

Trailing her hands down the cotton fabric of his shirt, she slowly began to unbutton it. His skin was pale as it was revealed to her, his chest had a light dusting of blonde hair that trailed down to his bellybutton. He was thin, but in a way that showed the definition of wiry muscle instead of the outline of bone. He looked mesmerised as he stared up at her, pupils wide and full lips parted, and he muttered a curse under his breath as she dragged the flat of her palms over his bare skin.

She was curious to see if he’d make a blunder and embarrass himself just as she had when they first met. She rolled her hips against his provocatively, feeling him growing hard beneath her, as she ran the tip of her finger down the centre of his chest. “58,793 plus 118,248?”

Michael whined, his eyes screwing shut as he bucked up against her, gripping her hips tighter as she rocked against him.

“Ah, ah, ah,” she chided, grasping his chin and forcing him to look at her. “Correct answer, or I’ll stop.”

“Fuck,” he groaned, contining to press his erection insistently against her through his trousers. “It’s er…it’s…shit…it’s 177,041.”

“Well done. I think that deserves a reward, don’t you?” She smiled wickedly down at him, pulling away as he leaned up in an attempt to kiss her. “No, not that.”

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to kiss him, it was just that that felt too intimate for what they were doing. She was enjoying being in charge, and didn’t want to break the spell of whatever had empowered her to take the lead.

His eyes dropped to her hands as they grasped at his belt buckle, tugging it open and freeing his cock. His chest rose and fell unsteadily as she wrapped her hand around it, stroking slowly. It wasn’t overly girthy, but what it lacked in thickness it made up for in length. A prominent vein ran along the underside, and the head was ruddy and swollen, weeping with arousal. Michael hissed through his teeth as she swiped her thumb against the tip of him, the pass of her palm against his shaft becoming more insistent.

“17,604 divided by 56?” she whispered.

He moaned, the back of his head hitting the wall with a soft thud as it tipped backwards in pleasure. She could feel herself growing wet at the sight of him, the telltale patch of dampness in her underwear growing sticky and clinging to her flesh.

“It’s…it’s…”

“Yes?” she urged, stilling her hand on his shaft, but not letting go.

“Please…please don’t stop,” he panted, his voice a pitiful whine.

“Then tell me the answer,” she demanded, giving him a gentle squeeze that made his hips jerk off of the mattress.

“314…point…point,” he gasped as she resumed the back and forth motion over his manhood, and she grinned wolfishly.

“Poor baby can’t remember the decimal point?” she teased, feeling him begin to throb against her palm.

“I can’t…I can’t,” he panted, “I’m gonna…”

With a final flick of her wrist, she watched in rapt fascination as spurts of pearly release coated her hand and splattered across his lower abdomen as he pulsed steadily in her hand, gasping for breath as his hips bucked involuntarily.

She smiled down at him when he finally stilled, taking in the sight of his flushed cheeks, fogged up glasses, and the mess he’d made of both of them. “Turns out there are some sums you can’t do, after all,” she teased, letting go of him.

“Fucking hell,” he breathed, lifting off his glasses and running a hand through his hair as he sagged back against the wall. “I don’t even care, that was incredible.”

She laughed softly, wiping her hand off on the bed spread as she climbed off of him and sat next to him. “What about me?” she asked coyly, “You got to come and I didn’t.”

He eyed her sheepishly as he put his glasses back on, his throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly. “I don’t really know how. I mean, I’ve never…”

Dread passed over her like a bucket of ice water as she realised he was a virgin. She hadn’t even stopped to think that this could be his first sexual encounter, she’d just assumed it wasn’t, and was now terrified she’d taken advantage of him.

Seeming to sense her inner turmoil, he reached out, his slender fingers gently encircling her wrist in an attempt at reassurance. “I guess I don’t know everything after all,” he offered with a slight smile, “but lucky for me, I have a brilliant teacher.”

She softened, her eyes lifting to meet his as she relaxed, knowing she hadn’t overstepped. “I suppose tutoring sessions may be required after all.”

Read on AO3

More Michael fics

[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

just finished watching Thunderbolts and this is absolutely what I needed😭

Sentry and void degrade you but in wildly different ways

okay okay I do have thoughts about this... (18+)

here's the theory: sentry is a brat tamer (I know you know @thyme-in-a-bubble) but void is a dumbifier

with sentry you're being corrected and punished, so the degradation is straight forward and intense, matter-of-fact even.

you remember the rules. don't act innocent now: get on your knees and do as you're told.

he's not brutal, and he hardly even seems angry... he just refuses to bend, knowing that eventually, you'll have to.

he's completely confident in his power over you, so he has nothing to prove. for a brat tamer he has a lot of patience-- he'll wait for you to obey, you'll just have more consequences to deal with the longer you resist.

you're being difficult on purpose. you know I'll do anything I want to you, you know how strong I am-- save us yourself the energy and stop being such a bitch.

the way he says it with hardly any emotion is jarring yet eerily arousing. it's not an accusation, it's a statement of fact.

he's so cold with you, all your disobedience is just an attempt to rile him up. it works, in a sense, but it's usually not worth it. he can hurt and punish you without breaking a sweat, without changing his face, without even blinking.

slut, he growls at you when he's finally getting what he wants; only when he's about to come does he start to really react. that's when the frustration and irritation comes out and he pulls your hair and holds you down even harder than he needs to.

but when void calls you a slut? it's a compliment. sort of.

you're just a slut, aren't you? you don't have to hide it from me.

he says it like he's proud, but he knows it makes you feel sort of dirty. yet, he also knows you like to feel dirty.

give into it. don't pretend to be something you're not. that is: smart, funny, or even particularly interesting...

the cruelty, embarrassingly enough, only enhances your pleasure. he laughs in your ear when you get noticeably wetter after being insulted.

just be what you are, baby: my. fucking. toy.

it's a bit freeing, you can't deny it. letting go and giving in and embracing everything you're typically ashamed of.

you'd let anyone use you if they gave you a shred of attention, wouldn't you? but... who wants you?

you find yourself begging him not to leave you, you'll do anything to keep him from getting bored with you. and he always finds something very creative for you to do to make sure he's properly entertained.

for every way he violates your body, there's another dozen ways he violates your mind.

you'll be so good for me, won't you? you'll let me empty this mind of yours and fill your desperate holes, right?

you can only nod of course, your words are long gone, and you crave the way he almost seems proud of you then. it feels nice to stop fighting.

so yes, the degradation is very different...

it's the difference between sentry's "come on. you know better." and void's "oh sweetie... you don't know any better, huh?"

it's the different between sentry's "don't play dumb with me" and void's "it's okay, be as dumb as you want."

[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

Lmao okay I was a victim too what’s your point? I put MULTIPLE warnings in my tags, you saw and knew you’d be triggered by it but you STILL read it?? Bruh make it make sense.

If you don’t like what I write, you have the total freedom to skip, just like I have total freedom to write whatever the fuck I want🙄

[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

I loved this way too much holy shit

Touched By An Angel... Drained By A Succubus (Roman Godfrey X Reader)

A/N: This oneshot is an anon request. Alsooo I’ve mentioned before how Katie McGarry’s books influenced me and I think it’s only right we get Roman’s POV for this one! (think S1 when he’s upir but doesn’t know it yet and just has this “ugliness” inside of him.)

Summary: Roman thinks you’re innocent—which, to be fair, isn’t entirely wrong. But once you cash in your V-card, he quickly realizes he seriously underestimated you.

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, fluff, loss of virginity, explicit sexual depictions, oral, light bondage, foul language, alcohol/drug use, maybe some angst? back at it with religious/angelic references (sorry to the anon who requested this but you can’t bring up an innocent virgin and expect me not to make it a religious experience), Reader is insatiable and Roman will never know peace again.

Word Count: 15.2k uhhh… so yeahhh it definitely got a little out of hand here.

Roman

Letha’s been talking about angels again.

Some dream she had. She says it felt real—holy, even. Like a sign. Archangel Gabriel visiting Mary type of shit. She talks about it like it was beautiful. Like it meant something.

I think she’s cracked.

I’ve only ever set foot in a church for funerals, and even then, I waited outside most of the time, smoking instead of wasting my breath on prayers no one’s listening to. God’s never shown up for me. Can’t say I blame him.

She walks next to me through the halls of Hemlock High, still wrapped up in her fantasy, her voice all lit up like something’s watching over her. But the lights above us flicker like they’re about to burn out, and the whole building hums with decay. If angels exist, they’re not here.

It’s the first day back after summer break, and everything already smells like sweat, stale ambition, and whatever cheap cologne’s trending this week. The eyes are back too. Watching. Whispering. Letha gets the saint treatment. I get the devil in designer clothes.

She smiles at people. I don’t.

We pass the trophy case, and some underclassmen part like we’re royalty. Or poison. Same difference.

She keeps talking about the dream. Her voice is light, almost reverent. Like she’s trying to keep something sacred alive in a place that only knows how to kill it.

“Do you think it means something?” Letha asks, glancing up at me like I might actually say yes.

I let out a short laugh, running a hand through my hair. “Means you need to lay off the NyQuil before bed, cuz.”

She doesn’t laugh. She just keeps walking, flicking her blonde hair over her shoulder in a way that makes it obvious I’ve hit a nerve.

The halls buzz with that familiar cocktail of hormones and insecurity. Girls pretend not to look at me; their boyfriends pretend it doesn’t bother them. But it does. I see it in the clenched jaws, the stiffened posture, the way their hands clamp just a little tighter around their girlfriends’ waists—like that’ll stop her eyes from wandering.

I can’t help but smirk.

I’d almost feel bad for them—if I didn’t get such a kick out of watching them squirm.

Letha’s voice pulls me back in, still going on about angels and signs like she’s some kind of prophet, but I’m way past giving a damn. The halls are a tired mess of whispers and sideways glances, and I’m just counting down the minutes until my next cigarette.

“You really don’t believe in anything, do you?” she asks, almost pouting.

“Sure I do.” I smirk, deciding to have a little fun with it. “I believe in nicotine, in fucking like I invented it, and the last time I heard angels sing, Brooke Bluebell was begging me not to stop.”

She scrunches her face in a full-on grimace. “Ew, Roman!”

I can’t help it—I burst out laughing and reach for her shoulder, trying to steady myself. The look on her face is too good, like I just personally offended God.

The bell slams through my laughter—a brutal reminder that the day’s begun and summer’s officially over. I let out the last of it with a breath, still grinning as the hallway stirs back to life.

The crowd breaks apart, scattering like crows at the sound of a shotgun. Letha rolls her eyes and shakes her head at me, but there’s the faintest trace of a smile before she turns and disappears into her English class.

I walk a few doors down and slip into History, the grin already fading. Back to reality.

The classroom door feels like a cage snapping shut behind me. I slide into my usual spot—back corner, where nobody bothers me. The teacher drones through roll call, the list of names a litany of wasted potential. I zone out, counting ceiling tiles, running my fingers along the scuffed edge of my desk.

Then the door opens again.

She walks in like she’s not sure she’s allowed to. Cheeks flushed, eyes down, arms folded like she’s trying to hide inside herself. It’s subtle, but the whole room shifts. People notice.

So do I.

Dark hair falling neatly around pale skin. Winged eyeliner sharp as a knife. Oversized sweater swallowing her small hands. And her eyes—icy blue, wide and uncertain. Like someone who still expects the world to be kind, even when it proves otherwise.

She’s beautiful.

Not in the obvious, desperate way most of the girls in Hemlock are—no heavy makeup, no fake-ass smile, no push-up bra screaming for attention.

She’s the kind of beautiful that doesn’t know it yet. The kind that doesn’t try; doesn’t have to. Cute, quiet, shy. Soft around the edges in a way this place will eat alive.

And under that oversized sweater—unbuttoned just enough to tease—is a shirt that hugs every curve. Tight waist, long legs, and yeah… amazing tits. But she’s not putting them on display. It’s like she doesn’t even know they’re a weapon yet.

That just makes it worse. Or better. I haven’t decided.

“Take a seat next to Roman,” Mrs. Rowe says, pointing vaguely in my direction.

I’ll be damned. Maybe God’s finally throwing me a bone—a fragile, porcelain one, in the shape of a teenage girl.

For a split second, I let myself believe it.

But then I remember—god doesn’t give a damn about guys like me.

I huff out a laugh, low and sharp, and shove the thought down before it even has a chance to take hold.

Damn. Letha really got in my head this morning.

She walks slowly, quietly, like she’s afraid even her footsteps are too loud. Her arms wrap the sweater tighter around herself. She doesn’t meet anyone’s gaze, not even mine. And when she sits down beside me, it’s like a ripple goes through the room—except I’m the only one who feels it.

She smells like strawberries.

The real kind, not the fake candy version girls here usually drown themselves in. Something softer. Natural. Sweet.

And fuck, she looks just as sweet as she smells.

I stare straight ahead, trying to pretend I’m not already thinking about her—those lips, that body, the way her fingers might feel if she touched me. Trying not to care. Trying to bury whatever this is. But the ache is there, low and hot, curling in my gut like a secret I don’t want to get out.

I steal a glance—just one.

She’s got her head down, doodling in a notebook like the paper’s safer than people. Her lip is caught between her teeth, her hands still hiding in her sleeves.

Like this, she almost looks breakable.

And all I can think is, I shouldn't be anywhere near her.

Not with the things I think. The things I want.

Not with the way people like me ruin everything we touch.

Still, she’s here.

Looking innocent in a way that makes my chest ache and my pants tighten.

Fuck me.

Maybe Letha’s right. Maybe angels do exist. But if so, this one’s already fallen—and now she’s sitting next to the worst kind of sinner.

Reader

Everyone in this school has a staring problem.

Not the normal, curious “oh, new girl” kind of stares. No. These are different. Lingering. Pinning. Like they’re trying to dissect me without saying a word. Like I walked into their perfect little snow globe world and knocked something off the shelf.

I pull my sweater tighter, wishing it could swallow me whole. Like maybe if I hide deep enough in the folds, I can skip this part. The part with the burning stares, the awkward first lunch, the low-grade humiliation that clings to every second of being new.

Because it’s not just the stares. It’s the silence between them. The whispers that stop just a second too late. The way everyone already seems to know each other, like their roles have been carved in stone since freshman year, and I missed the casting call.

But I made it through three classes.

That’s something.

And, okay—maybe I made a friend.

Letha Godfrey. Ethereal. Effortlessly kind. The kind of girl who makes you want to believe genuine friendship still exists. She sat next to me in chemistry, complimented my eyeliner, smiled like she meant it, and told me I could sit with her at lunch.

Just like that.

And now here I am, walking toward the cafeteria, trying to pretend I don’t feel like I’m about to throw up. I suck in a breath, hold it for a second. I can do this. I’m sweet—charming, even. People like me. I can make friends, no problem. I just have to get past the shyness first.

I spot her almost immediately. Long blonde hair, shining like she stepped straight out of a Pantene commercial. My nerves twist themselves into knots. She’s already at a table near the center of the room, surrounded by people who look like they’ve never had an awkward phase in their lives.

And next to her—

Slouched.

Legs spread.

Looking like he owns the school and might burn it down out of boredom—

Roman Godfrey.

His eyes meet mine before I’m even halfway across the room.

Green. Sharp. Unwavering.

And suddenly I forget how to breathe.

Roman was the first person I noticed staring at me today. First period, History. He sat in the back corner like the class didn’t matter—like nothing really did. I was assigned a seat next to him, and his eyes kept drifting toward me when he thought I wasn’t looking. Not in that gross, obvious way most guys stare. His glances were slower. Measured. Like he was trying to figure something out.

And if I hadn’t been so busy trying not to blush under the weight of it, I might’ve enjoyed it more.

Now, under his gaze, my skin prickles with heat. I want to look away, but my feet keep carrying me closer—to Letha, to their table, to him.

Letha waves me over, smiling like this is the easiest thing in the world. Like we’re already friends and not two people who just shared a lab table and some small talk.

I try to smile back, but it feels shaky at best. I probably look like I’m about to cry, throw up, or spiral completely. Honestly, I’d prefer to do none of the above. Fingers crossed I can hold it together through lunch.

Roman doesn’t blink.

His gaze hooks into me like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do next. And I hate how aware I am of it. The way his lips tug at the corner like he’s got a secret. The way his fingers toy with a silver ring on his hand like he’s bored—but still watching. It only makes the churning in my stomach worse. Whether it’s nausea or butterflies, I honestly can’t tell. All I know is he’s hot. Like, stupidly hot. And it’s making me feel jittery, off balance, and way too flustered to think straight.

I take a breath. Then another. My heart’s punching against my ribs like it’s got somewhere better to be. I remind myself that it’s just lunch. Just a table. Just a girl who’s being nice to me.

Just a boy who makes it hard to think.

No big deal… right?

Letha’s smile brightens as I reach the table. She leans forward and pats the seat across from her. I slide in, setting my binders and books down with a soft thump. My sleeves slip down over my hands again as I fold them in my lap, fingers immediately fidgeting with the fabric—anything to distract myself from Roman’s eyes.

Letha leans in, her voice soft like we’re sharing a secret. “I’m so glad you came.”

“Me too,” I say quietly. “You kind of saved me from eating in the bathroom.”

She laughs, bright and warm. “That is the alternative for most new kids, yeah. But now you’ve got me, so you’re safe.”

Roman doesn’t say anything. He just leans back in his seat with that half-lidded, unreadable look, still spinning his ring with slow fingers. I don’t look at him, but I feel him. Every shift. Every glance. Just like in history class.

“So,” Letha starts, turning to me like this is the part she’s been waiting for, “Ashley Valentine’s throwing her annual back-to-school party this Friday. It’s at her lake house—massive bonfire, music, keg, regrettable decisions—standard high school chaos.”

My stomach dips again. I’m not really a party person. Too many people, too much noise, and way too much opportunity to humiliate myself.

“I don’t know...” I start, already wincing at how lame I sound.

“You should come,” Letha says, cutting off my hesitation with a grin. “Seriously. You can stick with me the whole time. No pressure. But it’s kind of a thing here, and it’s a good way to meet people without the awkward ‘what class are you in?’ crap.”

“She doesn’t seem like the type,” Roman cuts in, quiet, like a thought he didn’t mean to say out loud.

I glance at him, caught off guard, and there they are again. Those eyes. Striking, magnetic. God, they're beautiful. No—he's beautiful. And distracting. Effortlessly so. His slicked back hair is just tousled enough to look like he ran his fingers through it, and I can't help but wonder what it would feel like tangled in mine.

The thought barely forms before I rein it in and arch a brow. “And what type is that?”

Letha groans. “Ignore him. He’s allergic to manners.”

Roman shrugs. “I’m just saying. You seem like the ‘stay home with a book’ type. Classic good girl.”

Heat flares in my chest. Good girl. Like that’s a bad thing. Like he’s already put me in a box and closed the lid.

“You don’t know what type I am.” I say, sharper than I intended.

Something shifts in his expression, so quick I almost miss it. But it’s there. Interest sharpening. Like, I surprised him.

“I’m figuring it out,” he says.

And just like that, my mouth goes dry.

Letha glances between us, eyebrows raised like she’s watching a movie and isn’t sure if it’s a rom-com or the setup to a psychological thriller. “Okayyy… weird tension noted,” she says, half-laughing. “Anyway, please come. Seriously. It’ll be fun, I promise!”

I hesitate. My brain’s still stuck on the way he said it—I’m figuring it out. Like I’m a challenge. A Rubik’s Cube he’s just picked up, already twisting pieces into place to see how I work.

And somehow, that makes me want to go more.

“Yeah.” I say, “I’ll come.”

Letha beams. “Yes! Perfect. You can come to my house first. We’ll get ready together, raid my closet, all that girly stuff!”

Roman doesn't say anything. But he doesn’t stop looking at me either.

And when Letha turns to someone else, pulling them into a conversation about the party playlist, I glance at him—just a flick of my eyes.

He’s still watching.

And this time, he smiles. Just barely.

But it’s there.

Roman

The bass is already rattling the floorboards, beer-soaked air thick with sweat, smoke, and teenage hormones. Someone spilled a drink two songs ago, and the floor’s still sticky. The back deck’s full of people making bad decisions in the dark, and inside, at the beer pong table, I’ve been on a winning streak for half an hour.

Lightweight girls teeter on the edge of drunk, squealing every time the ball bounces, like it’s their first party and they’ve never seen a ping pong ball before. I’ve already taken forty bucks off two guys who thought backwards hats and letterman jackets made them legends—like they’re destined for frat greatness and this is step one.

The ball lands in the last cup with a clean plunk.

The guy across from me groans, dragging a hand through his hair like I just ended his career. Technically, I ended his wallet.

I flash a grin around the rim of my Solo cup, tilt it back, and drain the last of the beer. Victory tastes like pouty little douchebags and easy money.

I hear Letha’s laugh, and my eyes flick toward the door.

Backlit by porch lights like some twisted teenage holy vision—raven hair glowing at the edges, bare shoulders catching the light in the most distracting way. Legs for days. The dress is hugging her like it’s afraid to let go. She’s trying to look like she belongs, but the nerves are stitched into every inch of her posture.

She’s ditched the sweater. Good. It was hiding things I’d like very much not to be hidden.

My heart stalls. Just for a second.

Letha and her fucking angels.

That’s what she looks like, anyway—otherworldly, uncertain, too soft for this party, and too pretty not to cause a scene. The room stills when she walks in. I feel it. That breathless pause. Heads turn. Voices lower. Even the music feels like it dips.

She doesn’t notice the whole world stopped just for her—okay, maybe just my world.

She’s too busy clinging to Letha’s arm like it’s a life raft in a sea full of sharks.

And I don’t blame her. Every guy here won’t stop staring, circling like they’ve just caught a whiff of fresh blood.

Too bad for them; I won’t be letting anyone close enough to even breathe in her sweet, strawberry scent, let alone taste her.

I lean back against the table, arms crossed, letting the world slowly start moving around me again. I don’t move. I just watch. Make sure none of these dumbfucks try anything.

I can’t believe she actually showed up. She looked like she was going to be sick when Letha even mentioned this party. I figured she'd come up with some excuse, blow the whole thing off.

But she’s here.

And I can’t take my fucking eyes off her.

The music swells again—some shitty remix with too much bass. I barely notice. Because she’s still looking around the room, still smoothing invisible wrinkles from her dress, still holding her breath like she’s waiting to be swallowed whole.

Letha spots me first. Her teal eyes narrow, like she already knows the gears turning in my head. Knows I’ve already made a decision she’s not going to like. She leans in, says something to my angel, and steers her toward the beer pong table.

I wait until they’re within earshot before speaking. Smooth. Confident. A hint of challenge beneath the tease.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

She jumps. Just barely. But I catch it. That flicker of surprise before she straightens, trying to play it cool.

“Guess I’m full of surprises.” Chin up. Shoulders squared. Like she’s daring me to push.

Cute.

Letha shoots me a look as Ashley Valentine starts to pull her away. The kind that says, Behave. The don’t-you-dare-flirt-with-my-new-friend kind.

I ignore it.

“I’d say you look amazing, but that feels like underselling it,” I say, eyes flicking down, then back up. She always looked beautiful in school but now, in that dress, it’s like words don’t even come close.

I watch as her cheeks go pink, and I like it. I like knowing I can make her blush—make her breath catch with just one compliment. Makes me wonder what other reactions I could pull from her… if she let me.

I bite my lip, fighting a smirk, watching as she shifts her weight from one leg to the other, fingers brushing down the front of her dress like she needs something to do with her hands.

“Thanks,” she says, quiet but sincere. Then, after a beat, her gaze lifts to mine again. “You look... good too.”

I raise an eyebrow, teasing. “Just good? Not damn good?”

She ducks her head, laughing softly, and it sounds like something rare, like something she doesn’t give away easily.

“Okay, fine,” she says, blue eyes sparkling. “You look damn good. Happy?”

“Very.” I grin, leaning just slightly closer. “I knew you'd admit it eventually. And lucky I for you, I like being admired.”

Her eyes go wide for half a second, then she rolls them, trying to hide the blush creeping up her cheeks.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she mumbles, smiling despite herself.

“Too late,” I say softly, just loud enough for her to hear over the music.

She opens her mouth, but before she can say a word, someone behind us calls my name, loud and impatient. Time for the next round.

I let my gaze linger. Hold her there a second longer. Let her feel it. Then I push off the table, grabbing the ping pong ball from a red cup and spinning it between my fingers.

I take another drink, letting the beer wash over the wicked thoughts clawing at the back of my mind.

Because if she’s an angel, then damn me—I’m already halfway to hell just for wondering how fast I could clip off her wings.

And maybe how soft they’d feel in my hands.

Reader

The party drags on—louder, sloppier. Music warps into one endless, thumping heartbeat, and the living room starts to feel too full, like the walls are closing in on me. Somewhere between someone throwing up in the sink and a girl crying over a Snapchat story, Letha laces her fingers through mine and tugs me outside.

“Bonfire’s this way,” she says with a knowing smile, like she can tell I’m two seconds from bolting.

The night air hits my skin like a lifeline—cool, pine-scented, and quiet in a way the house isn’t. The yard stretches into a clearing where a crackling bonfire kicks shadows across everyone’s faces. People sprawl out on blankets or sit in collapsible chairs, red Solo cups tipped lazily between their fingers.

Letha and I find a spot on a log near the edge, and someone passes us both drinks of spiked cider, syrup-sweet and deceptively strong. I sip it slowly, hoping it’ll smooth the nerves out of my hands.

But my thoughts are stuck.

Stuck on Roman. Stuck on the moment his voice dipped low, smooth like velvet but rough around the edges, saying I looked amazing like it was a fact. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world—something I should already know about myself. Could he really think I’m that beautiful?

I’ve replayed it in my head at least ten times since.

The way his eyes dragged over me, slow and focused. The way his smirk curled just at the corner, like he knew something I didn’t. It was too much. And still… not enough.

And that scares me.

Because he’s the guy girls warn each other about. The first thing I heard about him, before I even knew his name, was he’s a player. A heartbreaker. The kind of beautiful that causes pain. The human version of a rose—gorgeous, but built to bleed you if you get too close.

I should know better.

But still… there was something different in the way he flirted with me. Like I wasn’t just another girl at another party. Like he wasn’t just bored and looking for a distraction. Like, somehow, it meant something. Like I meant something.

God, I want it to mean something.

I’m probably being stupid.

I’m definitely being stupid.

A guy claps his hands by the fire, dragging me back to reality. “Let’s play a game,” he says, grinning.

Groans and cheers ripple around the fire.

“It’s like Never Have I Ever,” he explains. “Five fingers. You hear something you’ve done, put one down. The last person with fingers up wins. Losers drink.”

A few people laugh and raise their hands without question. Letha lifts hers with an easy smile and nudges me until I raise mine too. I do it slowly, still half-trapped in the haze Roman left behind.

The first question comes quickly:

“Put a finger down if you’ve ever smoked weed.”

Letha drops one immediately, no shame in the smirk she tosses me.

I glance at her, wide-eyed. “Really? You told some guy no earlier.”

She shrugs, laughing. “It was one time! Roman convinced me! I didn’t even inhale right.”

A few people laugh, but I keep my finger up. Letha gives me a mock-scandalized look.

Another question:

“Put a finger down if you’ve ever lied to your parents about where you were.”

That one’s easy. I drop a finger and sip my drink.

Next:

“Put a finger down if you’ve ever hooked up with someone at a party.”

More laughter. More fingers fall.

I hesitate, then keep mine up.

The fire pops and shifts. Sparks spiral into the sky like dying stars. And then the guy running the game looks at me and grins.

“Put a finger down if you’ve had sex.”

My stomach does this weird swoop, like I missed a step. Around the circle, fingers fall. Some hesitantly. Some proudly.

I don’t move.

My hand hovers in the air—four fingers raised, standing out like a neon sign.

Still a virgin.

I try not to overthink it. Try not to feel like the world is caving in on itself. But then—glass shatters. Someone threw a bottle into the fire, and the sharp crack jolts through me.

And that’s when I see him.

Roman.

From across the fire, half-shadowed, cigarette dangling from his fingers, his eyes are locked on me. Not mocking. Not smug. Just… focused. Curious in a way that makes my stomach tighten.

His lips are slightly parted. His head tilts—like something about me just got a lot more interesting.

Like the information just told him something he didn’t expect. Or maybe something he hoped for.

The moment stretches—soft, slow, suspended in the smoke between us.

Then someone laughs and throws a marshmallow into the flames. The circle shifts again, attention moving on. But not his.

He’s still watching.

I glance away fast, cheeks warm. I stare down at my drink, pretending to be fascinated by the amber liquid in my cup. But my fingers are still trembling, like they know something I don’t want to admit.

That I want him to look at me like that again.

That I want him to mean it.

Even if I know better.

Roman

This bathroom is too pristine for what I’m about to do.

Marble countertops. Gold fixtures. Probably costs more than my Jaguar. I stare at myself in the mirror for a second—eyes red, jaw tight, every inch of me vibrating with the need to shut everything up. The dull thump of the party hums through the walls; muted bass and bad decisions soaked into every square inch of the house.

I twist the cap off the little vial.

As the powder spills onto the counter, my mind flashes—not to the party, not to the noise outside—but to her.

Four fingers raised.

She hasn’t had sex.

She’s untouched—pure. Holding onto something that half the people at this party threw away the first chance they got. And yet, there she was—chin lifted, cheeks burning, owning it like it meant something.

It does mean something.

It means I should stay the hell away from her.

It means I won’t.

Because I can’t stop thinking about what it would feel like to be the first.

To be the one she lets take that soft, wide-eyed version of her and unravel it slowly.

To see how far she’d let herself fall before the halo slipped.

God, I’m so fucked up.

I grind the edge of the credit card into the powder and exhale through my nose. My chest’s already tight, pulse already skipping.

I shouldn’t want her like this.

But I do.

I want to see if she’d let me in—not just the physical part, not just the body, but the trust. The surrender.

Would she lean into it? Would she fall for real? Would she look at me like I was worth it?

Fuck, I want that more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time.

To be the one she chooses when she’s ready to give that part of herself away. Not because I talked her into it. Not because I played it right.
But because it was me.

Because she saw something good in me no one else ever has and said, yes.

I want to be good enough to hold her without making her regret it.

I lean down, inhaling just as the door creaks open behind me.

I hear the gasp before I see who it is.

Shit. Too late to play innocent.

I glance up, still hunched over the counter, wiping at my nose like it makes a difference now.

And there she is.

My porcelain-perfect angel.

Frozen in the doorway like she walked into a crime scene. Her eyes are huge, dark lashes fluttering as they dart from the counter to me, then back again—like she’s trying to make sense of it. Like she initially thought better of me.

Her lips part, but nothing comes out.

Fucking perfect. Just what I needed. The girl I want more than anything to be good enough for, looking at me like she just stumbled into the devil’s den. I straighten up, slow and stupidly casual. Like, if I move too fast, I’ll spook her.

“Well,” I say, smirking through the sudden throb of shame in my chest. “Didn’t expect an audience.”

She blinks, color blooming high on her cheeks. “I—I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

“No lock.” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face like I can wipe this moment off me. “Homeowners mistake.”

Her eyes flick to the line still waiting on the counter. She looks like it’s physically painful to stare at it, but she can’t help herself. Like it’s a car crash and she’s stuck in the passenger seat.

“I’ll just—I’ll go,” she says quickly, backing up a step.

She turns to leave, and before I can think better of it, my hand shoots out and catches her wrist.

She stiffens.

Great. Now I’m the asshole who grabs girls in bathrooms after snorting coke.

“You don’t have to.” I say, voice so quiet I barely recognize it as my own.

She doesn’t say anything. She just looks at me like I’m some strange insect she’s never seen before, something unsettling, but not worth screaming over just yet.

“…Unless you have to get back to Letha.” I add, trying to sound unaffected. Like the thought of her running from me doesn’t make something crawl under my skin.

But I don’t let go.

Her throat moves as she swallows. “You’re doing coke.”

“Yeah,” I say. Then, with a bitter smile, “You deserve a gold fucking star for that observation.”

Her blue eyes widen, and regret hits me instantly. I didn’t mean to be a dick, the words just slipped out, sharp and defensive. I want to take them back the second they leave my mouth. But I can’t, so I clench my jaw and say nothing.

“You don’t seem like the type,” she says, softer now, like my words actually hurt.

My stomach twists. I look at her for a second too long, then drop my gaze, ashamed. I let out a dry laugh, tongue tracing the inside of my cheek. “Funny,” I mutter. “Looks like we both misread each other this week.”

Her brows knit. “I just thought—” She cuts herself off.

Thought I was better than this.

She doesn’t have to say it.

“You ever tried it?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

She shakes her head. Quick. Automatic. Like the question physically unsettles her. “Of course not.”

Of course not.

Because she’s a good girl. Way too good for someone like me.

The kind of girl who smells like fresh strawberries and wears sweaters to hide her body. The kind who blushes when you compliment her, who avoids eye contact and plays with the sleeves of her sweater when she’s nervous. A virgin, for fuck’s sake.

I didn’t want her to see this part of me.

But she’s here, and there’s no hiding it anymore.

“Good,” I say after a second, softer. “Don’t.”

She looks up at me, confused. “Then why do you?”

I almost tell her. Almost say it helps. That it shuts everything up. That sometimes I don’t like the way it feels to be in my own skin, and this is the only thing that makes it tolerable.

But I don’t.

Instead, I give in to the one urge that might drive my angel to run, as if she’s just glimpsed the serpent in the garden. But I can’t stop, not when the forbidden fruit hangs so close, just within reach.

I step in, closing the distance between us until she’s backed against the door and I’m right in front of her. The air shifts—charged and electric, like a storm about to break.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

“Because I already fucked up the parts of me that could’ve been good.” I whisper, finally giving an answer to her question.

Her eyes search mine like she’s looking for something to hold on to. Something redeemable. She won’t find it.

“I don’t believe that for a second, Roman,” she says, soft but certain. “I can see the good in you… even if you can’t.”

And fuck—something in me cracks.

Because she just said the one thing I’ve been dying to hear my entire life.

My hand twitches at my side, aching to reach for her. But I don’t. I shouldn’t. I can barely breathe with how close she is—blue eyes wide, lips parted, chest rising in quick little stutters like maybe she feels it too.

“Don’t say shit like that,” I murmur, gaze flicking down to her mouth. “Not when I’m trying so fucking hard not to want you more than I already do.”

And even with those words she doesn’t push me away, doesn’t pull back.

So I give in. Just a little.

I lean in, slow, like I’m reaching for something I know could burn me, and stop just before our lips touch. Hovering. Waiting. Giving her time to change her mind. Praying to a god I don’t believe in that she doesn’t.

But still she stays perfectly in place.

And that’s all I need.

I kiss her.

Soft at first, like maybe I don’t deserve it. Like maybe I’m still waiting for her to pull away.

But then she kisses me back.

And it’s not shy.

It’s real. Deep. Hungry.

Her back hits the door with a soft thud as I close the space between us, one hand braced beside her head, the other curling around her waist dragging her in, locking her against me like I need her to stay upright. Like I'll fall apart if I don't feel every inch of her pressed against me.

She's soft against me in all the ways that count, and when our bodies align—it's not just contact. It's collision. It's a threat. A promise. Every inch of her is heat and temptation and I'm barely holding it together. My breath hitches, my heart races, and I can feel the hard evidence of how she affects me pressing insistently against her stomach.

She gasps into my mouth, and I take it—suck it down like oxygen l've been missing too long. I chase it deeper, turn the kiss hotter, rougher. It's not just desire. It's desperation. It's been building all night. Maybe longer. Maybe my whole goddamn life.

Her fingers fist in my shirt like she's trying to keep herself grounded, but all it does is drive me closer to the edge. Her nails drag across my chest, her body arches into mine, and when her hips roll—slow, deliberate—I lose track of everything but the feel of her. The pressure. The fire.

My brain goes blank. My body takes over.

There's only her.

Only this.

The heat of her breath. The shape of her lips, soft and swollen. The way her chest rises and falls against mine. And the ache—fuck, the ache—of her grinding into me like she knows exactly what she's doing.

Is this girl sure she’s a virgin?

I pull back just enough to see her face—flushed, lips parted, pupils blown wide like she's on the edge of something dangerous and divine. And hell, maybe she is. Maybe we both are.

My hand slides lower, settling on the curve of her hip, my thumb moving in slow circles over the fabric. She shifts again—barely—and that single movement sends a shock straight through my spine. My grip tightens. And fuck, if she isn’t the most sacred thing I’ve ever touched.

Because in this moment—her, me, the drugs on the counter, and the taste of her on my mouth—I’m not sure if I feel more like the devil she walked in on…

…or a boy who just got saved.

Reader

His mouth is on mine again, and I can’t think—I can barely breathe.

It’s like something inside me snapped the second he kissed me. That quiet, careful, disciplined part of myself—the part that would normally tell me to stop, to slow down, to breathe, and to think this through—no longer exists within me. She’s gone. Silenced. Drowned beneath the weight of his mouth on mine and the way his hands know exactly where to touch without even trying.

I don’t know what’s gotten into me.

I’ve kissed before. I’ve dated before. I’ve had boyfriends, been alone in bedrooms, and felt the brush of wandering hands under my shirt. But it never went further than that. I never let it. I never wanted it to.

Until now.

Until him.

And now here I am, pressed up against a bathroom door with Roman’s mouth on mine, his hands burning paths across the fabric of my dress, my body rolling into his like it’s something I was made to do.

And maybe that's what's throwing me the most.

Because I barely know him.

It's only been five days. Five days since I even learned his name. Since we sat next to each other in class, and he looked at me like I was something worth noticing. Since everything shifted.

That should matter. It should be the thing shouting at me right now: This is reckless, this is fast, you don't do this.

But that voice is silent now.

Completely, blissfully silent.

Because he's not like anyone I've ever met. I've heard the stories. I know what people say about him. He's dangerous. He parties too much. He’s been with more girls than I could probably count on two hands.

He’s everything I’ve always been told to stay away from.

And yet…

The way he looks at me—like I matter. Like I’m something holy, something worth worshipping. Like, I mean more to him than he wants me to know.

God, I've never felt anything like this.

It’s both terrifying and intoxicating.

Because deep down, something about him feels familiar. Like I’ve seen him in my dreams before I ever knew his name. Like I’ve been waiting for this moment—for him—without realizing it until now.

His hands slide over the curve of my hip, skimming under the hem of my dress, and I gasp into his mouth without meaning to. My whole body feels hot, like my skin is too small for everything inside me. My hands grip the front of his shirt, holding tight, trying to ground myself, but it's hopeless.

I'm already gone.

He groans into the kiss, low and rough, like he's barely holding on. His lips move from my mouth to my jaw to my throat, trailing heat that makes my knees go weak. I tilt my head instinctively, giving him more, craving the way it feels to be seen, touched, and wanted like this.

I don’t even recognize myself right now.

But I don’t care.

Because I want him. I want this.

And maybe it's insane. Maybe it's too fast. But it doesn't feel wrong.

It feels right. So, so right.

Roman's hands are everywhere. My breasts, my waist, squeezing my ass before trailing down to the backs of my thighs, and before I can even think, he’s lifting me—effortless, like I weigh nothing—and setting me on the marble counter. My dress rides high, my legs falling open just enough for him to step between them. He fits there like he belongs.

Like he was always meant to be there.

I feel him—all of him—hard against me.

Needy.

His mouth crashes back to mine, rougher now, and I meet it with everything I have. My fingers tangle in his hair. My hips roll into him. My body stops caring about rules or time or how little sense any of this makes.

Because I’ve never felt like this with anyone before. I’ve never wanted to be touched like this. I never wanted to give up control, to let someone see me so fully, so close.

But with Roman, I want all of it.

And more.

I want to give him more.

His tongue slides into my mouth again, slow at first, then deeper—hungrier—like he's tasting something he doesn't ever want to give up. I moan softly into him, and it seems to ignite something in both of us. The kiss turns urgent, messy, and full of heat and tension that's been building since the second our lips touched. The way his tongue moves against mine sends a hot rush straight through me, dizzy and sharp, until I can't think of anything but him. Just the taste of him. The feel of him.

His hands trail down, rough and warm, then slip under the hem of my dress like he has every right to be there. His fingers skate along my thighs until the fabric gathers high around my hips. My skin burns where he touches, and when his palms finally land on the bare curve of my waist, I can't help it—I arch into him, a moan escaping me.

I'm trembling, desperate, melting into every inch of his body pressing against mine. My hands fist in his shirt like I'm holding on for dear life, but the truth is I'm already falling. My body has completely surrendered—no more logic, no more caution, no more control. Just need. Just him.

His fingers trace along my waist, pressing just enough to spread the fire already burning beneath my skin. Slowly, they drift higher, my dress lifting further as they glide over my ribs, each light brush sending a delicious shiver through me. Then, with a deliberate slowness that makes my breath catch, his fingers curl around the band of my bra—firm, teasing, and full of promise—setting my pulse racing and leaving me breathless.

And then—

He stops.

Like someone hit pause on the moment.

The sudden stillness of his hands—his mouth—feels like a cruel twist, leaving me burning, breathless, and aching for more. He presses his forehead against mine, his chest heaving like he’s just run a mile, every breath rough and ragged between us.

I blink, dazed and breathless, the spell half-broken. “Roman…?”

He exhales slow, like it physically hurts to pull back. His thumb drags across my hip in one last, lingering touch, gentle and almost reverent, before his hands fall away completely.

“I don’t want this to be how your first time goes,” he says, voice rough and low. “You shouldn’t lose it in a bathroom at a party.”

His words land softly, but they cut deeper than I expect. Coming from the boy who tried to tell me there was nothing good in him—no redeeming qualities—only proves I was right to trust him anyway. Because he cares. He cares enough not to rush me, not to let this be a moment I’d regret. He’s offering me a choice, an out. Most guys would have seen the green light and kept going without a second thought.

But Roman’s not most guys. He’s different, unlike anyone I’ve ever met. I’m starting to wonder if he’s even the same person all those rumors and warnings were about.

I stare at him—this beautiful, complicated boy with the cocaine still sitting on the counter beside us and guilt swimming behind his eyes—and something rises up inside me that I didn’t expect.

“I don’t care…” I whisper, reaching up to touch his cheek, my fingers trembling a little as I turn his green eyes back to me. “I just want you.”

I don’t say it to be reckless. I don’t say it because I’m drunk or trying to prove something. I say it because it’s true.

In this moment, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more than I want him.

Roman runs a hand through his hair, fingers dragging slow and shaky through the dark mess of it, like he’s trying to get a grip on himself. His hand lingers there for a beat too long, his jaw clenched, his eyes now fixed somewhere over my shoulder like if he looks at me again he won’t be able to stop himself from touching me again.

Then, under his breath, almost like it slips out without permission, “Fuck.”

He drops his hand. Green eyes on me again.

There’s a war in his eyes—hunger and restraint battling it out in real time—and I don’t breathe until he moves. His hands return to my hips, gentle now, careful. He tugs my dress back down slowly, smoothing it into place like an apology. His fingers brush the outside of my thigh as he steps back, not far, but just enough to see me fully.

“You make it really hard to be the good guy,” he says quietly. His voice is still rough, but there's a softness in it now.

He doesn’t see it, but he is good. So much better than he thinks.

My last boyfriend never would’ve stopped like this. He barely knew how. Half the time, I had to push him off and pretend like I wasn’t shaken after. Roman, though? Roman stopped. Not because I asked. Because he chose to.

He licks his lips, hesitating. Then he says, “If you’re really sure… we can go back to my place. My mom’s not home. We’ll have the house to ourselves.”

The words make my chest flutter. I feel the smile rise before I can stop it, soft, but the excitement’s there. I nod a little too quickly, take his hand and let him help me off of the counter.

His fingers stay wrapped around mine as he leads me out of the bathroom, through the haze and hum of the party, past bodies pressed too close and music too loud. No one even notices us. The moment feels small and private, like we’re moving through a world where we don’t exist to anyone.

Outside, the air hits me fast and cool, like a splash of water across overheated skin. The porch light catches on the sleek curves of Roman’s car—the cherry-red Jaguar parked at an angle on the driveway. It fits him perfectly. Expensive. Bold. Too beautiful to be safe.

He opens the passenger door for me and I slide inside, the leather cool and smooth beneath my thighs.

While he walks around to the driver’s side, I pull my phone out. One unread text from Letha:

You good?

I hesitate. My thumbs hover. And then I type:

Hey, I wasn’t feeling great so I left. I’ll text you later <3

I stare at the screen for a second before hitting send, guilt blooming quietly in my chest.

She’s the first real friend I’ve made since moving to Hemlock Grove, and now I’m lying to her. But what could I possibly say?

Hey Letha, I’m leaving to go lose my virginity to your cousin. Hope that’s cool xoxo

Yeah. Definitely not.

I lock the phone and drop it into my lap just as Roman starts the engine. The car hums to life, low almost like a purr. He eases the Jaguar out of the driveway, the convertible top sliding back smoothly. A rush of cool night air washes over us, and I shiver, partly from the chill, partly from the fluttering nerves that won’t settle. It feels good, though, like something waking up inside me.

Then, a song starts playing from the speakers, Sugar for the Pill. I recognize it immediately and reach over to turn the volume up. “I love this song,” I say, smiling.

Roman glances over at me, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s one of my favorites too.”

“What else do you listen to?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light, hoping to distract myself from overthinking what I’m about to do.

He shrugs, eyes locked on the road. “Depends. Sometimes I go for something dark and heavy—usually alternative. Other times, softer and ambient. I like the mix.”

I nod, curious. “Any favorites?”

“Deftones. Ethel Cain. Whirr. And if I’m in a rap mood, usually Mac Miller or 6lack”

My jaw drops when he says Ethel Cain. “Oh my god, I love Ethel! Have you listened to Chelsea Wolfe?”

Roman’s eyes flick to me, a slow smile playing on his lips. “Oh, I’m all about my goth girls. What’s your favorite song of theirs?”

Without hesitation, I say, “Definitely Dust Bowl by Ethel and Feral Love by Chelsea. You?”

He smirks. “Both solid picks. I’m torn between Inbred and Punish for Ethel, and 16 psyche for Chelsea.”

If I wasn’t already into him, that just sealed the deal.

We fall into an easy rhythm, trading bands and songs as the street lights blur past. The music pulls us closer, the words bridging the gap between us.

After a few minutes, Roman turns into a long driveway, and I blink, caught off guard. He never mentioned he lived here.

The house ahead is massive. Three stories of brick, tall windows framed by ivy crawling up the walls. It’s beautiful and a little intimidating.

“This is your house?” I ask softly, almost in awe.

Roman nods, killing the engine. “Yeah. Wait here.”

He climbs out and walks around to open my door, his hand steady as he helps me out. We move toward the front door together. Inside, the marble floors gleam under the soft light of crystal chandeliers. Polished wood lines the walls, and everything feels pristine—elegant, but cold.

He takes my hand leading me towards the spiral staircase just on the other side of the entryway. As we climb, my eyes drift to the old family portraits lining the walls. One catches my attention—a woman with long dark hair (she’s absolutely stunning), with a small boy on her lap. I know immediately it’s Roman.

“Oh my god, you were so cute!” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop myself.

Roman freezes mid-step, glancing at me, then following my gaze to the painting. His eyes widen a little.

“God, I hate that picture. Hated sitting for it even more,” he mutters, a faint flush creeping up his cheeks. “Come on. We’ll have a lot more fun in my room than wasting time with these stupid ass portraits.”

I bite back a laugh as he takes my hand again. For someone who acts so cocky, he’s surprisingly cute when he’s embarrassed.

At the top of the stairs, he opens a door, and the room feels like a different world—messy, warm, personal. Posters cover the walls, books and records are scattered on shelves, and there’s a bar at the corner of his room.

This room, this space, it’s Roman. Not the polished mansion on the other side of the door, but the messy, complicated boy I’m falling for.

The door clicks shut behind us, and my heart beats so hard it feels like it might break free. I want this. I really do. But I’ve never done anything like this before.

Roman’s experience dwarfs mine in comparison, and the questions start tumbling through my mind. What if I’m not what he’s expecting me to be? What if I’m not sexy enough? What if I do something wrong and ruin this?

Almost as if he can sense how nervous I am, Roman reaches out, grabbing my hand and turns me around to face him. He smiles softly, his upper lip curling into it, “You can change your mind.” He says, voice low, almost a whisper. “I need you to know that.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and smile back, small but certain. “I don’t want to change my mind.”

He leans down, his breath warm against my cheek. “We’ll take it slow, okay? And if anything hurts, just tell me. I’ll stop.”

My voice is barely steady. “okay… it’s just—I’m sorry if I’m bad at this.”

He chuckles softly, lips brushing mine teasingly. “That’s not possible.”

I don't have time to respond before he closes the space between us, lips fully pressed to mine now. He kisses me slowly at first, careful, like he's still not entirely convinced I could actually want him. There's this hesitation in him, like he's afraid to take too much, too fast. But I don't want careful.

So I kiss him back, fingers curling into the back of his neck, pulling him down closer to me, like I need him to feel how badly I want this. How badly I want him. The second I lean into it, something shifts. His hand tightens on my waist. His mouth parts against mine, and suddenly the kiss is no longer tentative. It's hot. Messy. Starved. It's like something we've both been holding back for too long, and now there's no going back.

He steps forward, guiding me backward with gentle insistence. I move easily, letting him lead, until the backs of my knees hit the edge of his bed. He doesn’t move me onto it right away; instead, we stand there kissing a moment longer, his hands sliding beneath the hem of my dress, teasingly skimming over my clothed sex, turning my legs to jelly almost instantly. I gasp into his mouth, my fingers threading through his hair, tugging just slightly and he responds with another soft groan, like he's barely holding himself back.

He eases me down onto the bed, his body following mine, bracing himself on his forearms to keep most of his weight off me. But I don't want distance; I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him flush against me, and the heat that flares between us is enough to make my whole body tremble.

"Fuck," he whispers against my throat, kissing down along my jawline, then lower, to the soft curve of my neck. "You have no idea what you're doing to me."

"I think I might," I whisper back, sliding my hand down to feel just how badly he wants me. He lets out a soft moan again at my neck, and my breath hitches as he finds that one sensitive spot just beneath my ear and sucks gently.

His hands roam with more confidence now, pushing my dress higher, fingers tracing the lace edge of my underwear. He doesn't move past it yet, but the promise is there. My skin burns under his touch, my whole body aching for more, and it's all I can do not to beg for it.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching mine. "You're still sure this is what you want?"

I nod, but that's not enough. I want him to know that I won’t change my mind. "I want you," I whisper, steady, certain. “So fucking bad.”

That does it.

Roman doesn't hesitate. He leans back down without a word, pressing another kiss to my lips. It's immediate and insistent, and our mouths fall into perfect rhythm, like muscle memory. I feel the soft scrape of his teeth as he catches my bottom lip between them, a teasing bite that sends a shiver down my spine. A moan slips out—raw, involuntary—half pleasure, half relief, like I've been holding my breath without realizing.

I feel him smile into the kiss, that subtle curve of his lips giving away just how much he’s enjoying every little sound he’s able to pull from me. It makes me wonder—do other people make these kinds of sounds too, or are they something only virgins make? Because with every touch, every kiss, he draws out something new from me, like he’s unlocking parts of me I didn’t even know were there.

He breaks the kiss only to pull the dress over my head. He’s gentle taking it off, and I giggle when he tosses it aside. I like how excited he is, how badly he wants this. Wants me. It only makes the wetness between my legs grow. I watch as his shirt comes off next, his eyes dragging down my body like he's starving, and I swear he says my name like a prayer before lowering his head again.

He kisses down my neck to my chest, fingers sliding beneath my back, and I feel the clasp to my bra pop open. Roman doesn’t waste any time pulling that off of me as well. His mouth moves to my breasts, sucking one nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling, teasing, while his hand works the other. I arch into him, gasping, my body already trembling with how badly I want him.

“God,” he says, breath hot against my skin, voice thick. “You’re so beautiful.”

I can't speak. I can only smile, hips rolling up against him, chasing any friction I can get. He keeps moving lower, leaving a trail of warm kisses down my stomach, past my hips. When he reaches the spot where I need him most, he lightly grazes over my panties.

His mouth finds the inside of my thigh, and I gasp, the first brush of his tongue sending a jolt straight through me. The warmth of him, the slow, deliberate drag of his tongue so close but not quite there—it's maddening.

He chuckles softly at my reaction, and the sound is pure sin, vibrating against my skin. His breath is hot and teasing, and when he speaks, his voice is low and rough. “This will help to warm you up.” His lips graze the sensitive skin just beside where I need him most. “Make it feel better for you later.”

Warm me up? How many virgins has Roman dealt with?

My thoughts start to spiral again, and then my breath stalls when I realize what he means. I try to breathe again, but it’s still shaky, not from doubt—but anticipation laced with a hint of fear. The stories, the warnings—it'll hurt at first, you'll bleed, just get through it—echo in my mind.

He feels it in my body, the tiny way I tense beneath him.

"Hey," he murmurs, looking up at me, his emerald eyes soft but serious. "We don't have to. Not unless you're ready.”

"I want to," I whisper, and I mean it. "I just... I'm a little nervous. Everyone says it hurts the first time."

His expression shifts—something protective in it, but still gentle. “It might. But it doesn't have to be awful.” He kisses my inner thigh again, slower this time. "Let me take my time with you. Make it feel good."

I nod, and he doesn't move right away. He watches me, waiting, checking. When I slide my fingers into his hair and push gently, guiding him back down, then he moves.

He presses one more soft kiss against my inner thigh before his fingers clasp around my panties, pulling them down with slow, careful ease. The fabric slides from my hips, then down my legs, and the air kisses my skin as he peels them away. He drops them beside the bed without looking, his focus entirely on me.

For a moment, he just takes me in, eyes dark and reverent, his breath shallow. His fingers trace along my thigh, featherlight, before returning to rest against my hips, grounding us both.

“You look exactly as I imagined,” he says quietly, almost in awe.

Oh? He’s imagined me naked?

The heat rushes back to my cheeks, fierce and sudden. I want to be embarrassed—I feel like I should be—but instead, I’m even more turned on than I was before.

My pulse pounds in my ears. I feel exposed in the best way, vulnerable and completely safe. My fingers flutter up to his cheek, and he turns his face into my palm, pressing a kiss there before lowering himself again.

He starts slow, pressing his lips gently against the inside of my thighs. Each kiss is soft and careful, never rushing, as if he's memorizing every inch of my skin. The heat from his mouth spreads quickly, making my muscles tense and my breath catch.

When he finally flicks his tongue across my clit, I gasp sharply at the sudden, intense contact. My fingers find his hair, pulling him closer without hesitation as he moves his tongue in slow, measured circles. His eyes meet mine, dark and steady, full of quiet hunger.

“God, Roman, that feels so… ahhh…”

Roman lets out a low, satisfied sound, the vibrations only increasing my pleasure as he continues to move his tongue against my clit. The rhythm is patient but firm, coaxing my breath to quicken and my hips to press against him.

His hands slide from my thighs to my hips, holding me steady as he continues. Every touch, every movement, is focused on making me feel good, making me feel safe.

He doesn't rush. Every flick, every stroke is deliberate, like he's learning exactly how to undo me. And God, he is. I can feel it building, fast and hot, my body straining toward the edge.

He sucks lightly, his tongue pressing harder, faster and I fall apart. My vision blurs, back arching, fingers tangling in his hair as he slips a finger inside me, curling it just right. I let out a rather loud moan as he adds another, the sting of it barely registering in the pleasure I’m feeling.

God, if his fingers feel this good, I can’t wait to feel him inside me. The nervousness I felt earlier is almost completely gone as my pleasure builds, bringing me closer to the edge. My body clamps around him, tight and aching, and I can't hold back the noises spilling from my throat—soft, broken, desperate.

"That's it, baby," he murmurs against me. “Come for me.”

And I do.

The orgasm hits me like a tidal wave—sudden and overwhelming. Tears of pleasure brim my eyes, my breath shatters, and I cry out his name as everything inside me clenches and pulses. He keeps going, licking me through it, drawing every last tremor from my body until I'm limp and trembling.

When he finally lifts his head, his mouth is slick, his green eyes dark with heat, and the faintest, satisfied smile plays on his lips. He looks wrecked in the most beautiful way—flushed, breathless, proud.

And he should be.

My body's still trembling, heart racing, but the only thing I can think about is getting him closer. I reach down, fingers clasping his chin, and pull him toward me.

He comes willingly, his weight pressing into me as his mouth meets mine in a kiss that's nothing like the first. This one is deeper than before—more desperate on my end. I taste myself on his tongue, and instead of hesitation, there's only hunger between us now. My legs part for him instinctively, wrapping loosely around his waist, keeping him close.

He groans softly into the kiss, one hand bracing beside my head, the other trailing up my ribcage, fingertips brushing the underside of my breast before resting over my heart, like he needs to feel it pounding beneath his palm.

"Tell me what you want," he says, voice low and rough, lips brushing mine.

"I want you," I whisper against his mouth, pulling him closer, pressing my body into his. "All of you."

I kiss him again, slower now, savoring the feeling of skin against skin. My hands move down his back, then to the waistband of his pants. I quickly move my fingers to the front, fumbling with his belt. Fuck me, why is this shit so hard to undo?

I bite my lip, frustrated but trying not to break the moment with laughter. The leather is stubborn, and my fingers feel clumsy, slick with sweat.

He catches my struggle with a quiet chuckle, his warm breath brushing against my ear. "Here," he says softly, sliding his hands over mine as he moves to his knees, now straddling me. His touch is steadying and patient, and when he takes over, the buckle clicks free in an instant.

I let my head fall back down against the pillow, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "I swear it's not nerves," I whisper. "It's your ridiculous belt."

His grin is slow, teasing. "Sure. We'll blame the belt."

He slides off of me, standing now. His hands move to push down his pants, the soft rustle of fabric the only sound between us. My eyes follow the motion—slow, careful—drinking in the sight of his sculpted pecs, the defined lines of his abs, and the veins pulsing along his arms. Then my gaze lingers on the way his briefs cling to him, outlining every hard inch of him and leaving almost nothing to the imagination.

I bite my lip. I'd felt him through his jeans—hard and insistent—but seeing it now? It's more than I expected. He's more than I expected. And for a beat, the nerves creep back in, curling low in my stomach.

God, I hope I don’t bleed. That would be—embarrassing. No, humiliating. Honestly, devastating to my ego. Totally not sexy—tragic to say the least.

I watch, lifting myself to my elbows as he moves to his nightstand, opening the drawer and pulling out a condom. He pauses for a second before turning back to me, holding it in one hand.

“Last time asking, I promise,” he says, voice low but sincere. “Are you still sure it’s me you want to do this with?”

I can’t help but smile. Like there was ever a chance I’d change my mind. Like he hasn’t already had more of me than I ever gave to anyone else. He’s so good for me, and he doesn’t even know it. “Positive.”

My eyes follow Roman as he sets the condom on the nightstand—close enough to grab easily. Honestly, I was a little nervous he might be one of those guys who say, “Oh, but condoms kill the feeling,” thank god he’s not.

He moves back onto the bed carefully, his eyes never leaving mine. His hand rests gently on the pillow beneath me, steadying himself as he leans in slowly. His lips meet mine again with the softest pressure, and any worry of pain or bleeding disappears.

My fingers curl into his hair again, pulling him down onto me. The heat of his skin against mine only makes me want him more—closer, impossibly close, like even skin to skin isn’t enough. His tongue moves gently against mine, teasing and tasting, and when I deepen the kiss, I feel his cock press between my legs.

His mouth trails to my ear, teeth grazing my earlobe before he nibbles gently. “Can you feel how badly I want you?” he whispers, voice low and rough. “This… us?”

“I want you too,” I breathed, my body shuddering against him, and fuck, his words lit something inside me—something raw and ravenous I didn’t know was there until now, starving for affection, for touch, for him—every throbbing inch. “So fucking much.”

My hand instinctively went down to the band of Roman’s briefs, dipping beneath them, wrapping my fingers around his cock, and stroking gently, silently praying I’m able to make him feel as good as he’s made me feel.

As his lips trace a slow path down my neck, sucking gently on the sensitive spot just below my ear, my prayers are answered when I feel his hips shift against my hand, every hard, pulsing inch of him pressing insistently beneath my touch. His skin is warm, taut with need, and the subtle throb of him matches the rapid beat of my heart. A low, ragged groan escapes him, thick with want and surprise, as he whispers against my skin, "Fuck, you do that so well."

I bite my lip, smiling as I continue stroking him, but Roman doesn’t melt under my touch. His lips are back on my neck, his teeth grazing the hickey I’m sure he’s just made. The sharp, teasing pressure made my breath hitch. His fingers slide down my stomach, light as a feather, sending tiny shivers across my skin, making me squirm in response. But that reaction was nothing compared to the way my hips bucked up as his fingers began rubbing circles against my already sensitive clit once more.

I couldn’t help it—the pressure was overwhelming. My hands flew up to Roman’s back on their own, nails digging in as he continued working those maddening, slow circles with his fingers. Every motion sent sparks through me, and I was powerless to stop the tremble that shook my body.

"P-please, Roman—" I stammer, breath hitching as another flick of his fingers sparks a sudden rush through me. “I—ah—ahh…”

My voice breaks, but this time he slows, his touch more deliberate, more teasing.

“Can’t wait any longer?” His voice is low, full of lust—want.

I try to speak, but his fingers moving against me blur my thoughts, making words impossible to find. Instead, I shake my head, a whimper escaping my lips. The desperation in my eyes is raw and unspoken, practically begging him to give in—to finally take me.

"Good." His voice is thick with need, husky and urgent, making my pulse race. His hand moves from me to the waistband of his briefs, sliding them down with a quickness I’ve never seen before. “Neither can I.”

His next moves were quicker now, knees settling between my legs as he leaned over. With a swift motion, he grabbed the condom from the nightstand, tearing the wrapper open without hesitation. With a practiced hand, he slid it on, then looked back down at me—his green eyes filled with nothing but adoration.

Roman leaned back down, his mouth finding mine in another slow, heated kiss. His plush lips moving against mine with perfect rhythm. As he lowers himself between my thighs, his body presses into mine, all heat and weight and tension.

His cock drags against my slick folds, pressing right against my clit—thick, hard, deliberate—and the contact sends a sharp jolt of pleasure through me. I gasp into his mouth, hips arching, chasing more of that friction.

He smiles against my lips, like he knows exactly what he's doing to me, and he's not in any rush to stop. His hips begin to move, smooth and steady, his cock sliding between my folds, dragging over my clit with precision—each thrust sending a pulse through me that leaves my body aching for more.

My hands clutch at his back, fingernails digging into skin, desperate for something to anchor me as the friction builds—slow, torturous, perfect. With every roll of his hips, I grow wetter, aching more with the need to feel him inside of me.

"Roman..." I whisper, barely a breath, more plea than name.

He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, a smirk playing on his lips. "Think you’re ready?" he asks, eyes sparkling with excitement.

I nod, breath shaky but sure. His hands trail down my sides, steady and grounding, before one wraps around his length. He guides himself to my entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing into me with the slowest of strokes.

My breath hitched at the stretch, a subtle burn blooming as he pushed deeper. My hand shot up, fingers gripping his hair, needing something to hold onto. I winced, just slightly, but masked it with a moan as his thick length gently worked me open, slow and careful.

Roman hovered above me, muscles tense, like he was holding back. His eyes flicked down to where our bodies met, then back to mine. He moved carefully, each thrust controlled, watching for even the smallest sign of pain.

"Fuck," he breathed, eyes closing briefly in pleasure. "You feel like heaven."

My head tipped back against the pillow, breath coming in shallow, trembling heaves against Roman’s shoulder. “Roman,” I whimpered, barely able to say his name. “You feel so—“ I couldn’t finish the sentence. I hadn’t expected the way it would feel—hadn’t expected the way my whole body lit up like a live wire. Every nerve felt raw, awake, and desperate.

Being filled up by Roman wasn’t just overwhelming—it was consuming.

My first time was nothing like I’d imagined.

But also everything I’d hoped for.

It felt good—so, so good. It felt right, in a way that made my chest tighten and my breath catch.

A soft moan escaped me as his cock slowly pushed deeper, filling me inch by inch. My body clenched around him, reacting instinctively, overwhelmed by the fullness and the warmth. There was a tenderness in the way he moved, a kind of reverence, like he knew exactly how much I could take and wasn't willing to give me anything more than I could handle.

Roman let out a shaky breath, maintaining a steady, gentle rhythm—one I could tell took effort. He was holding back, resisting the urge to move rougher, faster, like he probably would with girls who weren’t virgins.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, eyes searching mine even as his hips moved in careful strokes.

“No… ah—no, not at all.” I smiled, enjoying the feeling of him inside of me.

“Good.” He breathed, continuing to fill me at a sweet pace. “Ready for the rest?”

The rest? There’s more?!

“You—you mean that’s not all of it?”

Roman’s eyes met mine again, and he bit his lip—clearly trying not to laugh at the panic in my voice. “I hate to break it to you,” he started, voice thick with restraint, “but I’m only halfway in.”

My eyes widened before I could stop them, a flicker of panic rising in my chest—then I reminded myself that panicking definitely wasn’t sexy. Besides, I did say I wanted all of him.

So I swallowed hard, forced a breath, and nodded. “Yeah, okay,” I said, my voice a little shaky. “I’m ready.”

I braced for the sting, the sharp stretch—I thought it would hurt worse than before. But as he pushed deeper, the pain never came.

Just the kind of pleasure that made my back arch and my breath catch.

Every inch of him filled me perfectly, sliding in and out with a rhythm that had me clenching around him, needing more. It wasn't gentle anymore—it was all-encompassing, and God, it felt so good I could barely think.

My legs wrapped tighter around his waist, needing him closer, deeper—all of him. I was losing myself in it, in him, every thrust unraveling something inside me I didn't even know was wound that tight.

Roman groaned low in his throat, his rhythm faltering just slightly as I clenched around him again. "God," he let out a satisfied sigh, pressing his forehead to mine. “You feel… fuck, you feel unreal…”

I couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. My nails dragged down his back, needing something to hold on to as pleasure coiled low in my belly, sharp and fast, building with every snap of his hips.

I finally understood why people did drugs.

Because this—sex with Roman—was addictive in a way that felt dangerous. The way his cock moved inside me, deep and deliberate, like he was trying to brand me from the inside out—it was the kind of pleasure that blurred everything else. My thoughts, my breath, even my name.

Each thrust sent sparks through me, my body tightening around him, hungry for every second, every inch. The friction, the pressure, the stretch—it was pure bliss, and I never wanted it to stop.

My breath hitched, ragged and raw, spilling into frantic moans that filled the room as the heat inside twisted tighter and tighter, winding me up until I was trembling on the edge, barely holding on.

"Roman," I gasped, my voice breaking, the sound trembling with need, my fingers clawing at his back as waves of pleasure began to crash.

And then—everything shattered.

My body shook as I came, thighs trembling, every muscle tensing and releasing around him in tight, rhythmic pulses. I clung to him, nails digging into his back, breath stuttering as the climax ripped through me in hard, relentless waves. My chest rose and fell fast, lungs struggling to keep up with the pleasure still rolling through my body.

Roman gripped my hips tighter, fingers digging into my skin as his pace faltered. His breath was ragged in my ear, hot and uneven, and I could feel the way his control was slipping. His thrusts grew rougher, deeper, and more desperate, and the way he groaned told me he was right on the edge.

"Fuck" he breathed, voice low and strained, like he was barely holding himself together. His body tensed above mine, the pressure building between us thick and electric. He was close—so close I could feel it in every thrust, every sound he made, and every way his hands tightened around me like he wasn't ready to let go.

And all I could think, through the haze of heat and friction and bliss, was, God, don't stop.

Because I'd never felt anything like this. And now that I had, I didn't think I could stop.

Roman

Okay, I was wrong.

She’s no angel.

A succubus, maybe.

Or the girl from The Exorcist, right before she starts levitating and screaming about my mother sucking cock in hell.

Hasn’t happened—yet.

But with the way she’s moving, the way she looks at me like she’s already planning round six?
It’s only a matter of time.

I’m flat on my back, chest heaving, lungs wrecked, heart stuttering like it’s thinking of tapping out. Sweat’s slick down my spine, muscles pulled tight and trembling like I just survived a car crash. I can’t even feel my legs. Honestly? I’m pretty sure she dislocated something I didn’t even know could move.

Yeah. Definitely not an angel.

Whether or not she was actually a virgin beforehand is also up for debate.

Because no virgin drags a guy through this many rounds in one night and still looks like she’s barely broken a sweat. No virgin bites and scratches like she’s marking territory, like she’s been waiting her whole life to leave someone completely wrecked.

And let’s get one thing straight—I’m no stranger to going rounds. Girls don’t walk away from me—they stagger. You don’t get a reputation like mine by being gentle and forgettable. I leave them wrecked. Legs shaking, voices hoarse, minds blown.

Most girls don’t even make it to round three by the time I’m through with them.

But her? She’s something else. She’s relentless, insatiable, like every touch only winds her up tighter instead of wearing her down.

She's propped up on one elbow, sheets tangled around her legs, skin still glistening from the last round. There's a softness to her face now—almost innocent, like the last two hours never happened. Like she's just some sweet girl catching her breath after her first time.

But her fingers tells a different story.

She’s dragging slow, lazy circles across my chest, over the sweat-slick skin and fading nail marks she put there. Innocent motion. Devilish intent.

I’m still half-dead, lungs burning as I struggle to pull in steady breaths; each inhale shallow and ragged, every exhale a slow surrender. My nerves feel raw and frayed, twitching beneath my skin like exposed wires.

And she just hums. Light, content, like this is a lazy Sunday morning and not the aftermath of an exorcism I somehow volunteered for.

Then, softly—barely above a whisper—she says, “You okay?"

I give her a look that says, What-the-hell-do-you-think? And let my eyes linger on her for a moment. Goddamn—how could someone look so innocent and still have me flat on my back like this?

There's still that sweetness in her eyes. Concern, even. The kind that almost makes me think she means it.

Almost.

"Yeah," I rasp, voice ruined. "Eventually.”

She bites her lip like she's trying not to laugh. "I'm still..." Her eyes flick down, then back up through her lashes. "Kind of aching.”

I blink. "You're aching?”

She nods, slow and shy. "In a good way." But still..."

Her fingers drift lower. I flinch. She smiles.

"I could maybe go again."

I let out something between a cough and a laugh. "You're joking."

She leans in and presses a kiss to my jaw, soft and sweet.

"Come on," she murmurs. "I'll even get on top this time. Do all the work..."

Her lips ghost over mine as she whispers the rest, syrupy and sweet:

"You can just lie back. Be my pretty little pillow princess. Doesn't that sound nice?"

Excuse me?

Pillow princess?

She's teasing me now?

A few hours ago, this girl was stammering through kisses like she'd only ever read about sex in books with flowery covers. All wide eyes and trembling hands. Now she's hovering over me like a goddamn apex predator, talking to me like I'm the plaything.

I should be insulted.

Instead, I'm getting hard.

Her eyes catch the twitch under the sheets. Her smile widens, just a fraction. No gloating yet, but it's there. Lurking. Like she knows.

"You really are easy," she whispers, voice sweet, dragging her nails lightly down my chest again, right over a fresh scratch. I flinch, not from pain—no, from the way my body reacts, heat pooling fast, dizzying.

"Not easy," I say, my voice hoarse. "Just trying not to look like a bitch—even if it kills me.”

Her hand finds me under the covers, fingers wrapping around me with a slow, possessive grip that makes my breath catch in my throat. She strokes once, deliberately, watching my face the whole time.

"Still alive," she says softly. "Still hard. I'd say you're doing fine."

Her thumb teases the head, smearing pre-come like she's playing with her favorite toy. I bite down on a groan, hands clenching at my sides.

She continues to stroke me as her mouth moves down, over my throat, and across my collarbone. She bites this time, just enough to sting, then soothes it with her tongue. My hands twitch, wanting to grab her, flip her, and remind her who she's dealing with.

But I don't.

I can’t.

Because she's moving lower, slow and dangerous, kissing every inch like it's hers to claim. She continues stroking me, pressing a kiss against my hip before her other hand pulls the blanket down, exposing me completely.

Then she smiles. Slow. Confident. Mischievous.

Her tongue flicks out, teasing the head first, a light flick that makes my hips twitch. Then she licks a long, deliberate stripe from base to tip, like she's savoring me.

A soft moan escapes before I can lock it down. It rolls out of me, unguarded, and I swear she glows at the sound of it.

She hums, the vibration sending another jolt straight through me. "There it is," she whispers against my skin, her voice like honey, her tone triumphant. "Knew you had more in you."

Then she wraps her lips around the tip, slow and sure, her hand still working the base. Her mouth is warm—so warm—and wet, and she takes her time, easing down with a patience that feels like torture.

I grip the sheets. Hard. My thighs tense, muscles locking up like I'm about to snap.

She pulls back, just slightly, letting her tongue swirl before sinking down again—deeper this time. Her hand slides to my thigh, holding me down, like she knows I'm seconds away from losing it and she's not ready to let me go just yet.

I can't even speak. Can't breathe right. My head's tipped back, mouth half-open, and I'm making sounds I don't even recognize as my own.

And all the while, she takes her time. Tongue twirling around every inch of me like she’s sucking on her favorite hard candy.

She pulls off with one last flick of her tongue that nearly makes my vision white out, then draws back completely, letting the cool air hit me where her mouth had just been. I groan—half frustration, half disbelief.

She glances up at me, all innocent eyes and flushed cheeks, and then, without a word, she slips off the bed.

I lift my head slightly, chest still heaving, watching her move—still naked, unhurried, like she's got all the time in the world and every ounce of control.

My eyes are locked on her as she bends down and picks up my pants from the floor. What the fuck is she doing? Her fingers curl around the waistband, then slip my belt free from the loops, and for a second, I just stare.

Wait.

Is she…?

No. No way. She wouldn’t—

My thoughts are cut short when she climbs back onto the bed with that same quiet, dangerous confidence. Straddles my hips, belt in hand, and gives me a look that's somehow both soft and merciless.

“Hands up,” she says, casual as anything.

I blink, trying to process what the hell I’m witnessing. “Seriously? You can’t possibly—”

“Mmhm,” she hums, cutting me off as her fingers wrap around my wrists, guiding them above my head with a softness that doesn’t match her intent. “I’ve always wanted to try this.”

Freak.

Absolute freak.

The good kind. The kind that ruins you and smiles sweetly while doing it.

The leather bites gently into my wrists as she threads the belt through and cinches it tight against the headboard. I pull against it—just to see—and yeah, it holds. Too well.

Which is weird, because earlier tonight, she couldn't even get the damn thing off me. I had to help her—her fingers were all over the place, fumbling with the buckle like she was afraid it might bite. She laughed, blushed, and stammered through it. And now? She ties me down like she's done it a hundred times.

Where the hell did that girl go?

She smiles as she works the belt, a little breathless but glowing, flushed with power. There’s something different in her eyes now—something bold. Like she just found a part of herself she didn’t know existed, and it likes having me beneath her.

“I thought you said tonight was your first time,” I mutter, voice filled with disbelief and something dangerously close to admiration.

She leans down, her lips brushing my ear as her breath ghosts warm across my skin.

“It was,” she whispers. “But from the way girls at school talk... you’re not exactly known for giving up control.”

Her hands slide back up the belt, tightening it a little more—just because she can.

“This way,” she murmurs, “it’ll be a night of firsts for both of us.”

Then her hand slips between us, trailing down my stomach, moving with that same unshakable calm. Her fingers wrap around my cock again, and I flinch beneath her, hips twitching instinctively at the contact.

She grins, just a little.

Still watching me, she lifts her hips, lining us up with a slow, practiced precision that shouldn't be possible for someone with as little experience as she claims to have. And then—smooth, steady—she sinks down onto me.

It's not rushed. It's deliberate. Controlled. Like she's taking her time on purpose, letting me feel every second of her sliding onto me, and fuck, she’s tight.

My breath catches—hard. I let out something between a groan and a curse, my spine arching against the restraints. The belt holds.

She gasps too, a quiet sound that tightens around my ribs. But she doesn't stop. Doesn't falter. She just keeps going until she's fully seated, until I'm completely inside her, and she's got her palms flat against my chest like she's staking a claim.

And fuck me—she fits like she was made for this.

For me.

She rocks her hips once—slow, deliberate—and I can't help the way my body reacts, jerking up toward her, needing more. But before I can get even half the motion, her hands press harder against my chest, pinning me down with more force than I expect from someone so soft and sweet-looking.

"Ah-ah," she says, soft but sharp. "Pillow princess, remember?”

There's a flicker in her eyes—something wicked and bright. She's enjoying this. Enjoying me like this. Bound, straining, aching, helpless beneath her while she takes exactly what she wants, how she wants it.

She rolls her hips again, slower this time, grinding down in a long, measured arc that makes my eyes roll back in my skull. She's tight, wet, and perfect—and she knows it. She's not rushing, not even close. She's savoring the way I come apart beneath her, her lips parting slightly as she watches my mouth fall open in a raw, unfiltered moan.

"That's better," she whispers, circling her hips once more, deeper now. "Just stay there and let me do the work.”

She leans forward, palms sliding up my chest, fingers tracing every twitch of my muscles, every breath I can barely catch. Her thighs tighten around me as she picks up a rhythm—slow, rolling, steady—like she's riding a wave and dragging me under with her.

And I'm gone. Totally hers.

Every stroke pulls a sound out of me, low and wrecked, and she drinks in every one like a woman dying of thirst.

Her hands move again—one braced on my chest, the other sliding down between us. I watch her shudder as her fingers find her clit, and her hips falter just slightly before she picks the pace back up, riding harder, more urgent, grinding down like she's chasing something just out of reach.

She leans over me, dark hair falling around her face, lips parted. Her breaths come faster now, matching the rise in mine, and the heat between us is almost unbearable. Every movement hits deeper. Harder. She's losing control but not giving it up.

And when she finally breaks—body trembling, soft gasp catching in her throat—it undoes me.

I curse, loud and broken, as the heat crashes over me all at once. My hips jerk despite the restraint, lost to instinct as I spill into her, muscles locking, chest arching, the whole world narrowing to just her—tight, wet, shaking around me, dragging every last drop out of me.

She collapses onto me, breath ragged, forehead resting against mine. Neither of us moves for a moment. Can't.

Her skin is flushed, slick against mine, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven bursts. I feel her heartbeat thudding where we're pressed together—fast and wild—but controlled. Like the rest of her.

Her hands slide up to my face, slow and tender, a contrast to what she just put me through. Her thumb brushes across my cheekbone, featherlight, like she's grounding me after everything she took.

And then, with a grin curling at the edges of her mouth, she murmurs:

“Round seven?”

Her voice is silk, soft, and smooth, but sharpened at the edge like a blade you don't see coming until it's already under your skin.

I let out something between a breathless laugh and a groan, eyes closing for a second as I try to remember how to breathe.

I shake my head, barely. "You're insane.”

But my hips twitch beneath her—a weak, broken jolt I don’t have the strength to stop. My body’s already giving in, moving on instinct, on hunger, while the rest of me is unraveling. Every muscle is trembling, overworked and useless, my chest rising in ragged, uneven gasps like I’ve been drowning for hours. My lungs are screaming, my head’s spinning, and somewhere in the back of my mind, what’s left of me is still begging—no fucking way.

But the truth is, I'd let her ride me straight into oblivion if she asked nicely enough.

Hell, even if she didn’t ask at all.

Because whatever the hell she is—angel or succubus—she’s got me pinned, breathless and wrecked, right where she wants me.

A/N: I’m actually foaming at the mouth—I had no idea how badly I needed sex from Romans POV. Anon, you are a saint. 🙌🏻

Sweetest lil taglist:

@vadersangel @muchwita @malenoradgn @fish-eyes-png @ch404 @voidpixies @peachesinto @a-differentbrandof-beans

[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

Thank you I love you❤️‍🔥😭

Who are some of your favorite Aemond writers? I am always looking out for new people but the tumblr algorithm is very bad

Hello!

Tumblr is blessedly algorithm free - it's one of the only social media sites left that will show you posts chronologically, rather than force what it deems most relevant to you to the top of your feed first. To ensure the best viewing experience for your dashboard, amend your dashboard preference settings to the following, and ensure you're scrolling the "following" tab and not the "for you" tab:

(Essentially, all but the final option should be toggled off)

Similarly, when browsing tags, look at "latest" instead of "top posts" and you'll see newest to oldest posts first.

Here is a list of all of the Aemond authors I currently follow: (beneath a cut, because it's a lengthy list)

@starvulture (not currently active in fandom, but has some x reader bangers)

@levithestripper (not currently active, but again, has some good stuff, plus a really good Tom Bennett fic, if you're into him)

@bronze-furys (mostly Gwayne and Cregan fics, but there's some Aemond stuff too)

@marthawrites (Midnight Passages slaps so hard)

@exitpursuedbyavulcan (entire masterlist is *chef's kiss*)

@st-eve-barnes (not actively writing at present, but has lots of great stuff to read)

@asa-do-your-thing (writes for an entire host of ASOIAF characters, but there's some Aemond sprinkled in there)

@lya-dustin (has a couple x oc long fics on her masterlist)

@happilyhertale (predominately Daemon, but also writes for Aemond and Tom Bennett)

@ripdragonbeans (mostly modern Aemond fics)

@flowerandblood (Hagi's masterlist is really more of a library - lots of gems for you to read)

@ultraintrovertedgryffindor (not really active anyway, but has some really good fics on her masterlist)

@toms-cherry-trees (a few really good one shots)

@in-a-mountain-pool (selfishly stopped writing in pursuit of attaining advanced degrees - please bully her in the comments of her WIPs to come back - STEM is temporary, fan fiction is forever)

@foxinthegodswood (no longer active in fandom, but all of her Aemond fics on AO3 - username: acrossthesestars - are genuine masterpieces)

@peachessndreamss (another creator that ought to be bullied back into writing, if we're being perfectly honest)

@kate-mccannon (recently started her first OC fic, go and cheer her on in the comments)

@huramuna (Aemond x oc fic - on hiatus, but what is there is great)

@almondmilktargaryen (lots of great stuff on their masterlist)

@the-dendrophile-bookdragon (again, masterlist is enormous, go nuts)

@lauraneedstochill (hasn't written for Aemond in a while, but has some really lovely stories)

@targaryenrealnessdarling (a fandom staple, needs no introduction)

@thought--bubble (Jess has written loads, and if you pester her with comments and reblogs, perhaps she will write more)

@yoursweetheartsrevenge (a really varied masterlist with lots of choice)

@sepherinaspoppies (lots of series to read, some still ongoing)

@mourning-sapphire (very active in fandom, posts decently sized chapter updates, very good)

Apologies to anyone I have accidentally overlooked! This was pulled together from a quick skim of the people I am following.

[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

Pyrrhic

Rating: Explicit

Relationship: Baron Helmut Zemo x Female Reader

Length: 14k+

Summary: Once, HYDRA sought to create an improved version of the super soldier through breeding the Winter Soldier with another super soldier they made for that express purpose.

Now, fourteen years after escaping HYDRA's clutches, Bucky Barnes comes to you for help with the rise of super soldiers under the title Flagsmashers. Unfortunately, Barnes' feelings drive you closer to Baron Helmut Zemo, and you find yourself hoping for a future for the first time in your life.

Warnings: Unrequited Bucky Barnes/Reader, Bucky Barnes is a bit controlling, Manipulative Helmut Zemo, HYDRA comes with it's own whole bucket of warnings, HYDRA had a secret super soldier breeding program, Reader is a kidnapping victim, Reader is 3/4 Sokovian, P in V sex, oral sex (f receiving), reference to potential purity kink, loss of virginity, reader is touch-adverse, reader is also touch-starved, shower sex, ambiguous ending, consent is discussed multiple times, enthusiastic consent, Helmut Zemo is a consent king. Let me know if I missed something!

“Are you ever going to tell us about this person you’re insisting we need for this mission?” Sam asked as he stepped carefully through the thick brush of the forest around them. Bucky ducked under a large branch, shoulders tense as he practically stalked through the woods. His companions, reluctant as they may be, could tell that he didn’t want to answer the question - he was always evasive, but something about this person was making him especially tense. Sam was just happy that the Baron had kept his mouth shut so far. Considering his royal upbringing, one might think he would struggle on this mostly uphill hike through thick forest and untamed land, however Sam knew he’d been part of an elite Sokovian task force and that he had the strength and stamina to prove it.

“She was called Mat when I knew her, though she hated the title, so I wouldn’t recommend using it. Too fucking young for it anyways.” Bucky spat that last sentence, and Sam raised an eyebrow sceptically, not having the linguistic context to put two and two together. Zemo, however, huffed a breath laced with disdain and curiosity. Bucky shot him a dangerous look over his shoulder, and the Baron raised his hands placatingly, though Sam noticed him roll his eyes the moment Barnes looked away. The tension had been at a record high since Zemo was broken out of the German prison he’d been interred in, and Sam was starting to get sick of playing mediator between them.

“How did you know her?” Sam asked, and James paused mid-step, then turned to his two companions.

“She was held by an offshoot group of HYDRA scientists at a lab in the Czech Republic from the age of eight. They gave her a modified version of the super soldier serum used on the soldiers at the Siberian facility against her will, and they kept her locked in the facility until she escaped when she was eighteen.” Every word was said carefully, and while Sam took that as Bucky struggling to tell the girl’s story, Zemo observed him with open curiosity. He could tell that there was quite a bit that the former Winter Soldier wasn’t telling them.

“Modified how?” He asked, and Barnes scowled, but Sam’s equally curious gaze made him bite his cheek to stop from chewing the Baron out.

“She was… faster than any other super soldier I’ve ever seen. Not as strong physically, but her reaction time is far superior. She heals fast like the rest of us, but they did something to her pain responses. Dulled them, but didn’t remove them completely. She wasn’t as aggressive as the ones in Siberia were. The scientists made some hormonal changes as well.” Bucky shrugged, getting uncomfortable as he mentioned that last part, and Zemo tilted his head, studying his reactions.

“She didn’t want the serum, though? I mean, she was eight when they took her. How old was she when they gave it to her?” Sam asked, and Barnes closed his eyes briefly, his expression pained.

“They gave it to her shortly after she arrived at the facility. Maybe a month. She was just a kid. I could hear her screaming from the other side of the facility. They didn’t put her through the same brainwashing bullshit they did to me, but she wasn’t willing like the other soldiers, so they… they used to beat her until she started to learn to fight back like they wanted. She tried to escape, but they never let her out of the facility.” He replied, “So don’t start up your ‘I need to kill all super soldiers’ bullshit with her, Zemo. She never had a choice.”

The Baron considered his words, pursing his lips for a moment before softening ever so slightly.

“As you say, she was only a child.”

Bucky nodded, then continued his solemn march, cresting the top of the hill and sighing as a dark wood cabin came into view. Smoke trailed from the chimney, and there was a long driveway heading from the cabin to the road they’d abandoned nearly a mile back due to Bucky’s insistence that they approach on foot from the forest lest she know they were coming. An old, beat up pickup truck sat like a rusty silver beacon in the driveway with a large, newer-looking storage box hooked into the bed. There was a storage shed behind the cabin, and an old, large stump that appeared to be used as a woodcutter’s block considering the axe sunk deep into it. The firewood rack was full to the brim against the right wall of the cabin, and a full clothesline hung between the opposite side of the cabin and a sturdy nearby tree.

“You okay, man?” Sam asked, clapping Bucky on the shoulder when the other man didn’t move for over a minute, staring at the cabin trepidatiously. The hundred-and-six year old man was always tense, but his shoulders felt like iron under Sam’s hand.

“She might not be happy to see me.” Barnes admitted, and Sam hummed his acknowledgement, then started trudging down the small slope towards the house. This finally kicked Bucky into movement, and he followed swiftly, pausing only briefly when he spotted your tall frame exiting the shed behind the cabin. There was a Browning Citori against one shoulder, and blood had soaked into the dirty blue plaid shirt you wore. Your knees were muddy from kneeling in the woods. To the far left of the cabin in a clearing past a line of thick trees were two worn stones sticking out of the earth, and you approached calmly, dropping to kneel before them.

“Well, she looks real friendly.” Sam mused, clapping Bucky on the back, “Good luck.”

~

Five hours earlier, you had thumped a deer carcass down on the butcher table in your shed, then hung your trusty shotgun on the rack behind the door where it belonged. It had taken you a long time to perfect field dressing, and even longer to learn to get good at butchering your meat, but you had learned. You had no choice. Society and its shiny grocery stores full of pre-packaged food were far too dangerous for you. HYDRA still had a hold on the world when you first escaped, and there were still monstrous little tentacles everywhere who had escaped the punishment they deserved for what they had done. You knew how to hunt humans, so animals weren’t such a big stretch. Now, after fourteen years, you were an expert at surviving on your own. You went into town once a month at most, on a different day every time to avoid routine, to pick up the essentials you couldn’t scavenge for yourself.

With the deer butchered and packed away in your meat freezer, you made your way towards the two gravestones just out of view of your cabin. With a heavy sigh, you tucked the shotgun under your chin, sitting with it between your knees, and stared at the cold stones. Upon one, Rickard Stroud. On the other, Imogen Whitley.

“Thank you both. Thank you Imogen, for having mercy on a broken creature and freeing me from my shackles. I’m sorry that I couldn’t save you in return. I bet you’re sick of hearing it by now, but I will never forget what you sacrificed for me. Thank you Rickard, for leaving me everything I needed to survive. I wish I could have known you. I hope you wouldn’t be too mad at me for moving into your home, but I promise I’ve tried my best to maintain it with the care you clearly did.”

~

Bucky jerked forwards as he watched you point the shotgun at yourself, panic racing through his veins at the thought of losing you before he’d even gotten you back. Not that he’d ever had you in the first place - you were a name on his reparations list that he needed to cross off. He was responsible for what happened to you, regardless of whether he was in control of himself or not. The entire choice to upend and ruin your life was made because of him. The inability to make amends sparked every selfish fear response in his body.

“Wait-” The Baron’s gloved hand closed around Bucky’s metal bicep, not quite able to pull him back, but enough to pause his forward momentum, “Look closely, James. Her finger is not on the trigger. This is a ritual.”

Sam felt sympathy coil in his gut as he watched the woman kneel in the dirt, the cold metal against her skin as if it gave her peace. He inwardly acknowledged that if anyone might understand a grief ritual of this specific breed, it might be Zemo, though he didn’t want to give the man the credit. Bucky stared down at her, seeming to deflate before their very eyes, though his face showed some measure of relief. He shrugged Zemo’s hand off of his arm, then continued forwards at a slower pace, no longer panicking. Zemo watched for a moment before following them, noting the way the woman’s head tilted ever-so-slightly in their direction before straightening out again.

~

Three approached from the southwest. One stomped through the forest despite the ability to soften his steps, one walked with purpose but made a poor attempt to soften his steps, and the third walked leisurely but with an awareness to his gait. All soldiers of varying service, if you weren’t mistaken. One of them was, unfortunately, familiar.

You let out a long, laboured sigh as you laid your shotgun down in front of you, then pushed yourself up from your knees. The footsteps stopped, and you shed your plaid shirt, leaving yourself in only a black undershirt and your muddy sweatpants. If this was going to be a fight, you’d make sure it was one they regretted. You spun to face the trio with a raised eyebrow, biceps flexing, shoulders rolling as you prepared yourself.

“Soldat. Falcon. Ah, and the Baron as well, how curious. To what do I owe the pleasure?” You asked, noticing Bucky’s gaze fixed on your shotgun, “Relax, Soldat, I’m far too much of a coward.”

The former Winter Soldier scoffed, taking another step closer to you but freezing when you took a step back, “I’m not going to do anything, doll. I’m not… I’m not him anymore.”

The Falcon put his hand on Barnes’ shoulder as if to hold him back and steady him all in one shot while the former Winter Soldier processed your fear of him, guilt eating away at his guts. The Baron leaned against a tree nearby to observe, just out of the way to avoid getting in the middle of any conflict.

“I know what you are, Barnes. Better than most.” You replied, glancing from him to the Baron and taking the time to stare at him from top to bottom, curious, “You’re working with Zemo. I would assume that meant you were here to kill me, but you would have chosen an easier method, surely. Which means that there’s another super soldier or two running about, and you’ve decided to try and bring me along. Why?”

Bucky squirmed as your intense stare moved from the now slightly flushed Baron back to him, and he clenched his fists a few times to work through the nerves.

“I’ve known where you were for a while. Look, I don’t want to call you… that, so what name are you using these days? Your old name?” You don’t answer him right away, brow arched sceptically as you observe his expression. “You’re long overdue for an apology, and we need someone who can go toe-to-toe with super soldiers.”

You scoffed, turning your back on them.

“I don’t have- I’ve been going by Stroud, after the guy who owned this cabin before I found it. My old name is no one’s business but mine, Barnes. He certainly doesn’t need to know any more about me than he already does. I’d like to be offended that you brought a man to my doorstep who will no doubt want me dead, but I suppose that the greater good calls, doesn’t it?” You asked, gesturing towards Zemo, whose somewhat conflicted expression did nothing to quell your worry.

“I don’t want you dead, liebling. You did not choose your fate, and you’ve kept to yourself instead of enforcing your will on others.” The Baron said confidently, and you acknowledged him with a nod, then turned a twisted smirk towards Barnes.

“You didn’t tell them my whole story, clearly. Was that to protect me, James, or was it to protect yourself?” You asked, and both Sam and Zemo turned their concerned gazes to the former soldier. You picked up your shotgun lazily, marching towards the house.

“Why don’t we go inside and Barnes can tell you the whole story. From the beginning, since he remembers all of it. Take off your shoes - if you track mud through my house I’ll make you regret it.” You called over your shoulder, tapping off your boots on the porch then heading through the door. Once inside, you kicked them off and headed towards your bedroom to get changed. When you returned, the Baron was standing in your kitchen making tea while Barnes and Sam took up every inch of space on the small sofa. You claimed your armchair after scooting it at least a foot out of Bucky’s reach.

“Well, go ahead, James. Tell them my sordid tale. Or, at least, the parts you conveniently left out.” You encouraged him, accepting the tea that Zemo offered you with a soft ‘Danke’. He nodded, returning shortly after with a tray of tea and water for himself and the others. When he sat in the other armchair no more than a foot or two away from you, you didn’t scoot away, simply looked him up and down quickly as if assessing a threat. His demure smile did little to soothe you, but you weren’t scared of him in this situation - he was much more terrifying when he had the time and space to plan your demise.

“Stroud was eight when… when I was sent to kidnap her. She spent her summers and school breaks in Sokovia, but grew up in Canada, chosen because she had no genetic deficiencies or hereditary health issues. She was on vacation with her parents visiting her family in Sokovia when they sent me. I… I took her to the lab just outside of Prague, and HYDRA left me there for a couple of months while she settled in. They unfroze me up a couple times through the years to… to test her.” Bucky explained, watching Sam and Zemo’s faces to see their reactions.

“Your family is Sokovian?” The Baron asked, and you shrugged your shoulders but nodded.

“My father, and my mother’s maternal side. They were in Novigrad.” You explained, and he gave you a sympathetic nod, “Tell them the rest, James. I don’t believe the news will make my Baron want to kill me any more, now that he knows I’m one of his citizens.”

It was said teasingly, but from the way Zemo shifted in his seat and pursed his lips, you didn’t think you were far off. You could understand - he had lost his homeland, and you were a relic of that, using it against him to protect yourself shamelessly.

“The scientists chose her because… they liked her genetics. She didn’t have any concerning genes, hereditary health conditions, and none of her family suffered from any obvious addictions…” Bucky took a deep, steadying breath before continuing, “This was important to them because… because they wanted to… they theorised that breeding two super soldiers might create a stronger variant.”

Silence reigned, while you sipped your tea patiently, letting the men absorb that painful and disgusting truth. Sam got up from the sofa, clearly needing to pace, his hands resting on his hips as he thought it over. Bucky seemed to sink into the sofa on the other hand, as if he could hide from this somehow. Zemo rubbed his hand over his mouth, lost in thought, but it seemed that the most active of them all found his voice first.

“So they made you kidnap a child so they could turn her into your… what, baby mama?” Sam asked, his sneering face matching yours. He wasn’t mad at Bucky, obviously, but the entire concept of this was entirely antithetical to his worldview and moral structure.

“Does that seem so far out of the realm of possibility for the psychotic eugenic-freak nazis, Falcon?” You asked, and he shuddered visibly, “I wasn’t trained the same way as the Widows, or the other Soldiers. I didn’t need to be. I was just a broodmare, and the Winter Soldier was to be my eighteenth birthday present. Shame they didn’t put a bow on him.”

Zemo squeezed his eyes closed in your periphery, his jaw clenched tightly, and you took pity on the men who were clearly struggling with this reveal. Sam’s fury was evident, his whole being like an exposed nerve upon which his last remaining vestiges of control were barely a bandaid. The Baron, however, kept himself far more under wraps than the other two. There were signs, of course, to his discomfort, but he restrained himself in a way that Sam and Bucky both were incapable of.

“I’m still… God, pleasantly surprised sounds terrible, but it was a shock that they waited until you were eighteen. I… I still have nightmares about that day. And only partially because you tried to bite my throat out.” Bucky said, trying to sound playful on that last part despite the trauma you were all discussing. He didn’t quite achieve the tone he was trying to set, and you gave him a serious look, bordering on sympathy.

“Tried? James, I nearly got your jugular. You had to go into surgery immediately, that’s the only reason they stopped the whole thing.” You reminded him, and he shrugged, clearly thinking he deserved it, “Enough about me. Tell me what brings three of the four horsemen to my doorstep.”

Barnes huffed a breath through his nose at the reference, but Sam stepped in to show you the video from Torres and explain the Flagsmashers to you. You hummed along appropriately, considering his words as he described the truck fight to you, and explained who the hell John Walker was when he came up. When Sam was done, you turned your gaze to the man who’d kidnapped you so many years ago and narrowed your eyes, dubious rather than angry.

“You come to my home bringing death and destruction to my doorstep, Barnes. Why? You think you’re enough to bring me into the light? I have weathered much darker storms, Soldat. I have kept to myself while your so called Avengers ripped themselves and each other apart. Why do you think I will join you now to squash this little resistance? All that your friends have done is raise the bar for sinister minds. I am not like you, James, I never wanted this. I never wanted to be a soldier, or to save the world. I wanted to be a gardener. I had such… Lofty aspirations. As if my hands can do anything now but destroy.”

You stood as you finished your tirade, eerily calm as you walked towards the kitchen, giving the men space. For your safety and theirs. You placed a box of your favourite tea on the counter, examining your kitchen for anything you would want to bring with you if you decided to accept.

“The people who have this serum are dangerous, doll. We don’t know how many there are, what their plan is, and how bad things will get. I need backup. I need someone who can withstand a fight against them, or this might go south.” Barnes explained as best as he could, “You’re hiding here, barely living. I get it. But you deserve better. If you help us, we can back you up against whatever remnants of HYDRA are left if they come for you. You could live a better life.”

You scoffed, splaying your hands out on the countertop to brace yourself as you considered your choices.

In the end, you think it must’ve been inevitable. What else could you have done?

~

Music pounds in your ears as you walk through a crowd towards the bar, your arm delicately linked with that of the Baron. No one knew you here despite your brief stint while you were roaming the world aimlessly in an attempt at getting away from your past, and having you as backup that blended in rather than outwardly dressed as a soldier was the best choice, according to Zemo. You weren’t sure you’d be much help at all - after years in the quiet of the woods by yourself, the bar was overwhelming at best. But, Zemo had been confident when he presented you with a dress that you were certain despite knowing very little about dresses that must have cost a fortune, and told you your role. Tonight, you would be arm candy. It had taken ages to get yourself groomed enough to pass as anything but a wild woman, but you had to admit as you admired yourself in the mirror that you did clean up well.

Despite knowing he is more of a threat than he appears - evident in the bulge of his bicep against your arm if nothing else - the man is a comforting presence. His grip on your waist is possessively tight as he guides you in front of him at the bar, caging you in with his body. His nose bumps against your ear and you shiver as he whispers against it.

“What would you like to drink, schatz?”

“Whiskey, please, Baron.” You say back, louder than he had asked you, looking at the bartender through your lashes. He hums a response, greeting Sam and asking for his drink order while he pours a shot for Zemo. You watch over the rim of your glass as Sam struggles with his repulsive drink, distracted by the soft stroking of Zemo’s hand over your stomach, and his lips against your neck. Something about having constant, roving contact with him is making it easier to tune out every other overstimulating input in the bar. You wonder if he planned it this way, or if he’s simply putting on a show. You can feel Bucky glaring at him, but the Baron seems nonplussed by the Winter Soldier’s ire.

You aren't a huge fan of physical contact, but Zemo had quietly explained his plan to you on the plane ride to Madripoor, and cleared what he might have to do to enforce your role with you. It was far more than you expected from the man, but the consideration was worthwhile in making you trust him at least a little. You had a safe word, which had been a new concept to you that Zemo had surprisingly patiently explained while studiously ignoring the way that Barnes glared daggers at his back. You weren't entirely sure what James' problem was with Zemo and you specifically, but you were putting it down to either base male ego due to the fact that you were intended for him (a gross concept) or protective instinct (less gross, but unnecessary). Or both, perhaps. He was only human, after all. 

The Sokovian had done a good job of pretending that Barnes didn't exist, focused entirely on you as he explained that he may have to touch you quite intimately, and likely would have to kiss you. Selby was a woman who delighted in the obscene at times, and had a taste for pretty things. She might demand a show of perversion to prove you weren't a spy while simultaneously getting her rocks off. You gave him permission to do what he had to do, and promised that after the events were over, you would check in with him privately. You had to admit, you were impressed by his genuine show of concern, and the amount of effort he was putting into establishing consent and trust with you.

Even now, he kept his body between yours and anyone else's in a way that protected your personal space but seemed possessive to the outward eye. A man approaches Zemo from behind, telling him that the message from above is that he isn't welcome, and you splay your hands across his stomach to brace him, staring up into his eyes to see if he needs you. He speaks to the man calmly, and you slip your hand under his shirt to trace along his ribs, your gaze moving between your date for the night and the man ‘interrupting’ it like you were simply an impatient girl. The man leaves, and you listen as Zemo explains the power broker, pausing briefly and switching to Russian as a hand clasps around his shoulder.

"Winter Soldier. Attack."

The man is swiftly removed, and you watch around Zemo's shoulder as Barnes goes on the attack, your arms slipping around the Baron's waist in a way that he clearly approves of from the rumble he lets out, and the hand that covers yours to hold you in place. He’s smirking as he watches the fight, and you scoff as he pushes another body at Bucky before making a snarky comment to Sam about how little it took for him to fall back into form. Like it wasn’t his fault. You roll your eyes, pressing closer to the Baron as if trying to watch the fight, and using that closeness to whisper in his ear,

“Try to enjoy this a little less, Baron. You’re being too obvious. S’a flimsy basis for the wedge you’re trying to drive.”

You feel him shiver against you, and his honey eyes find yours over his shoulder, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

“Apologies, häschen.”

Soon enough, the violence ends and you are brought back to meet Selby, letting the Baron guide you into his lap as if you belonged there. A large, warm hand closes around the meat of your thigh, just under the hem of your dress, and you watch Selby's eyes track the movement with a hunger that makes you squirm against the man beneath you. Barnes and Sam watch with disapproval on their faces, though they snap back into character swiftly enough it goes unnoticed. The Baron gives you two squeezes, and you settle, draping yourself back against his chest with your head on his shoulder, face tucked demurely into his neck.

"She's a pretty thing, isn't she? New pet, Zemo? Last I heard you were in a German lockup. How'd you get out, and how'd you get a sweet little thing like that so quickly?" Selby asks, and Zemo laughs.

"People like us will always find a way." He remarks, "As for this little häschen... she hopped her way to me when she found out I was free, like a good little girl."

Selby's gaze digs into you, and you lift your head from Zemo's shoulder to trail kisses along his jaw, murmuring a quiet 'Hel, baby, I'm bored.' against his skin. You say it just loud enough to be heard, and you can see Selby out of the corner of your eye, her eyes glued to your thighs as if staring hard enough would make them open. You pointedly ignore the stirring you feel beneath you, knowing he’s only a man and at that, a man who’d been imprisoned for eight long years. It probably has nothing to do with you. The conversation continues around you as Zemo offers Selby the Winter Soldier in exchange for information about the super soldier serum, and you do your job well despite having no experience to draw on beyond the seconds the Winter Soldier had his hands on you before you nearly tore his throat out with your teeth. The Baron shivers as you kiss along his jugular, stopping briefly mid-sentence to squeeze your thigh with one hand while the other grips your hair and pulls you back.

“Häschen, I am working. You will wait.” He reprimands you gently, nipping your lower lip when you pout dramatically. Liquid fire floods your veins, and you have to clench your thighs to temporarily quell the burn even though you know he’ll feel it and probably know why.

“Give the girl a bone, Baron, she’s clearly gagging for it.” Selby commands, and you know from her tone that you’ve ignited her. Zemo glances at Selby briefly before sliding his hand further up under your dress, his fingertips skimming across your cunt. He gives you a startled look when he realises you’ve forgone wearing underwear, but masks it quickly before Selby could notice. You’re mortified to find that you’re soaked, and he can definitely feel it. He knows. The little hitch in his breath at the realisation makes your cunt throb.

“I’ve been trying to teach her patience, Selby. You know how easily a brat is born without a firm hand.” He reminds her somewhat playfully, and Selby smirks as she watches him spread your legs a little. It’s embarrassing to know she can see you, and she is shameless about tilting her head to take a long look, but you knew it was a possibility and you didn’t blame him for it. You try for an eager look instead of nervous, but yelp as Zemo’s hand slaps your cunt with a loud and worryingly wet-sounding smack, “She will get what she wants when she earns it.”

Something in that makes you sigh, and Zemo lets out a soft breath of a laugh, catching your lips in a kiss that sends fire through your veins. Your first kiss, somehow at 32, and it’s all a bit of a game. At least it’s a good one, the Baron’s soft lips moving gently against yours, guiding you to respond to him as his hand cups your jaw. His thumb traces over your cheek, tongue slipping past your lips to taste you, and you try desperately to make it seem like you aren’t as inexperienced as you are.

“Now that you’ve had your fun-” Selby begins as you part, leaving a string of saliva connecting you, only to be interrupted by the buzzing of Sam’s cellphone. You close your eyes, biting your cheek to restrain any noise of frustration, then shift in Zemo’s lap as if nothing is wrong at all while you survey the room for all aggressors and exits.

“Answer it. On speaker.”

Sam does, and you listen with a roll of your eyes as the man has a conversation with his sister. Strong hands hold you as the tension in the room mounts, until Sarah says her brother’s name, and the jig is up. Fortunately, Selby is swiftly assassinated. Unfortunately, Selby is now dead, and it appears as if it is your fault. Walking the streets of Madripoor’s Lowtown knowing that a bounty is likely already set on your head with the dings of phones all around you as the soundtrack of your departure is, you find, a great way to raise your blood pressure.

As all hell breaks loose, Zemo drags you in the opposite direction as Sam and Bucky, and you let him despite the obvious warning signals. You’re touched by how protective he acts, tucking you behind him when someone gets into your path. He efficiently takes out a man with a handgun, pilfering it from his body and leading you through several alleyways until you meet up with Sam and Bucky just as their pursuers are executed.

“You seem to have a guardian angel.” Zemo remarks to the two men, and you hum, keen ears picking up the crunch of boots just as Sharon Carter rounds into the alley with you all.

“Well this is too perfect.” She chimes, gun pointed directly at the Baron instead of Sam or Bucky. Instinct flares, and you move before you can rethink your actions, one hand clasping around her wrist to remove the gun while the other jabs sharply into her elbows to buckle her arms and stop her from being able to immediately retaliate. You turn the gun on her, grip confident as you step out of her reach.

“Who the fuck are you?” She asks, sneering as you place yourself between her and Zemo. She shifts as if trying to get an angle on him, and you mirror her effortlessly, eyebrow raised as you wait for her next move.

“You do not need to know.” You reply, tuning out the world to listen to her heart pound.

“What are you, Zemo’s new guard dog?”

You smirk. The Baron’s gaze sits heavy between your shoulders, and you wonder at his expression. Barnes and Wilson’s are less difficult to imagine.

“Woof.”

Sam and Bucky intervene to explain the situation, and you take the gun from Zemo before the others can demand it, surprised that he lets you so easily. His eyes burrow into you, and you tilt your head nearly in time with him, both of you attempting to understand each other as in the background, Sharon offers you all a place to stay in Hightown. As the boys negotiate with Sharon for her cooperation, you duck into the bathroom to clean up, pulling up the skirt of your dress. There are bruises on your thighs already, your healing factor taking you through the process faster than any human body could. More worrying to you is how wet you are. It’s not as if you don’t understand what is happening - you have a lack of experience, not knowledge - and it’s not as if you’ve never touched yourself. Unfortunately, your night isn’t over, and the cause of your apparent arousal was waiting in the other room. You’d pointed a gun at the proprietor of the house for him less than an hour prior. The instinct to protect was strong in you - it always has been, and apparently, you wanted to protect Zemo. Why? Because he had been kind to you?

You breathe out a heavy sigh, cleaning yourself up liberally before you head back into the other room, and you catch Zemo’s eyes darkening as he looks upon you. At first, you’re uncertain why, until you see his gaze flicker down to your pelvis and you remember that he’s the only one in the room aware that you aren’t wearing underwear. You bite your lip, hoping perhaps that he’ll forget or misunderstand how wet you were. You think you might die if he brings it up.

“Lay low, blend in, enjoy the party. Try to stay out of trouble and I’ll see what I can find.” Sharon says as she heads upstairs, and Zemo smirks as he shrugs, one hand open palmed in faux innocence while the other grips his tumbler of whiskey.

“Trouble?”

~

You have to give it to Sharon, she definitely knows how to throw a party.

You move through the crowd as the beat pounds in your ears, dodging drunken party goers with a supernatural alacrity gifted to you by the serum. The blue neons cast a surprisingly attractive light across the crowd, and you watch with growing amusement as Sam flirts with a girl while pretending to examine a gorgeous Monet. Bucky tries to get you to stay close to him, but you dip under his arm and continue on your path to the bar, ignoring the way he calls after you. A shot glass is slid into your hand moments after you smell him approaching. Warm and musky and delicious, with traces of leather and old books lingering on the edges of your awareness.

“We should talk.” The Baron murmurs, and you nod despite wanting to run, turning to him to find yourself once more caged between his body and the bar. You take a breath, clenching your thighs again as he examines your expression like he’s dissecting you.

“When the night is over, as promised, we will talk.” You reply, taking the shot easily after clinking it against his glass. He raises his glass to you, then takes the shot as if it isn't even alcohol, keeping his eyes on you. In this light, they’re more chocolate than honey, but no less expressive. You wonder if he’s getting drunk - your tolerance is better than any human’s, and you’re not sure how much it takes someone who isn’t a super soldier to begin to feel it - since he’s now on his third or fourth drink at the very least tonight.

“My room or yours?” Zemo asks, and you consider it before offering him a faint shrug.

“Yours will do. I can’t promise Buck won’t be trying to break my door down for an unnecessary heart-to-heart.”

The Baron smirks, and you lean up to kiss his cheek as you slip past him, feeling him lean into it but not letting yourself dwell on it, “Have some fun, Zemo. I’ll come find you in a little bit. Be safe.”

~

“Tell me you’re seeing what I’m seeing.” Sam mutters to you, and you hum, looking away from the painting Bucky is showing you to follow the other man’s gaze. It doesn’t take long for either super soldier to spot what has caught his attention, and you stifle a laugh, pushing at Sam’s shoulder playfully. Bucky’s snort and subsequent coughing on his drink makes your laughter break through, and you end up gripping Sam’s shirt for stability as you try to get a hold of yourself.

“He’s a rich boy, Sam, I’m sure you’d look much the same if you tried your hand at a slow waltz.” You tease, drawing a chuckle from Barnes. He leans closer to you, hand sweeping over your lower back in what you’re sure is probably a platonic way, but still gives you the heebie-jeebies as he reminds you that you don’t need to defend the Baron. His lips are too close to your ear, and he’s looking at you too intensely for you to handle despite his playful smile. You turn your back to Zemo to look at both Bucky and Sam, stepping out of the former Winter Soldier’s reach.

“So, who’s gonna go save him from himself and show him how to actually dance? Any takers? Consider it charity work if it makes you feel better.” You grin at them, your tone playful despite how tense you are, and Sam snorts.

“How d’you know how to dance? You’re basically a homeschool kid on steroids.”

That draws a genuine laugh from you, and you shrug your shoulders as you begin backing towards the Baron, decision made.

“I spent years roaming Europe and at least a month clubbing here in Madripoor, Sam. I may not have experience in a lot of things, but dancing is definitely not one of them. You keep Buck here unmolested by the masses, and I’ll handle our Baron.” You tease.

“Yeah, you’ll handle him alright. Gross.” Sam retorts mostly under his breath, only audible to you due to your enhanced hearing. You’re laughing as you approach Zemo, and you boldly slide an arm around his waist from behind as you press yourself up against his back, grinning as he startles. He twists to face you, and his smile is more open - genuine - as he takes you in. You’re not sure if he’s just decided he likes you, or if he’s a little tipsy.

“You’ve never danced like this before, Baron.” You state plainly, and he laughs, almost bashful but not quite as he shrugs his broad shoulders.

“Perhaps not, but I am enjoying myself.” He retorts, letting you guide him until his hips are pressing into yours, winding with the music in a way that can’t possibly be anything but intimate. You’re not sure why it’s so easy for you to touch and be touched by Zemo, when Bucky laying a hand on you sends shivers down your spine, but you don’t want to think on that too heavily right now under the blue neon lights and the pulsing of the music. As the crowd closes in around you, you move with them, all the while guiding Zemo through it. He’s observant, and he learns quickly, watching the rest of the crowd move until finally he feels confident. You grin as he presses against your back, his arm looping around your waist slowly enough that you could escape it if you so desired. His chin brushes your shoulder, and you’re tempted to look at him to see what he’s looking at, but you get distracted by a man who had been approaching you until he froze a couple feet away. You tilt your head curiously as he turns around and walks the other way, but Zemo’s mouth brushes against the back of your neck, and you scoff as you put two and two together.

“Protective or possessive, Baron?” You ask him boldly, and he smiles against your skin as if he isn’t surprised by the question at all.

“Oh, I believe both should cover it, schatzi.” he replies, guiding you towards the bar with a gentle hand on your back, “You don’t like when people touch you, even if you like them well enough. You flinched when Sharon touched your arm to apologise for her presumed insult, you shy away from Sam even though you laugh and smile with him often, and I don’t think I need to begin to touch on your avoidance of Barnes. I appear to be exempt from that, however I didn’t think he would be. I apologise if I was presumptuous.”

You order a drink for the both of you, as well as a shot each, laughing to yourself despite being a little touched by his observance.

“No, you’re not sorry. You know you were presumptuous, you’re just banking on the fact that you’re right. And now, when I tell you you are, it will reinforce your behaviour in the future.” You inform him, letting him cage you against the bar for the third time this night, “Fortunately, I’m okay with your presumptuousness, in this circumstance.”

Zemo clinks his shot against yours, and you both take them together, laughing when you spot an incredulous Sam and a frustrated Bucky staring directly at you. His metal arm is tense, hand fisted, and you’re glad he isn’t holding on to anything because it would most certainly be crushed by now. You give them a cheeky wave, and have to bite back your snicker when Zemo, seemingly noticing their attention, pulls you tighter to him so he can press his smug little smirk into the curve of your neck.

“You’re going to get yourself attacked soon, you know?” You ask in a sing-song voice, and he chuckles against your skin, collecting his drink and letting you lead him through the rows of stolen artwork. He lets you take his hand and squeezes gently, keeping no more than a step behind you the whole way.

“I’m certain I can handle it.” He retorts, and you laugh for what feels like the thousandth time tonight. You can’t remember the last time you laughed so much. You can’t remember the last time your life felt so full.

“Man, you really are trouble, aren’t you Baron?”

~

‘Interogating’ Nagel is a complete shitshow. You don’t blame Zemo for what he did, despite Sam and Bucky’s endless irritation. Nagel was smart enough to recreate and refine the super soldier serum, and he had to be stopped. He worked for HYDRA. You hadn’t had the chance to ask, but you were sure he easily could’ve been involved in the project that created you. He was the type who would never stop, no matter what got in his way - this was his life’s work. He was the type who would keep recreating it and refining it until he made even worse monsters than he already had.

You were just thankful that Zemo dragged you out with him before the second explosion, even if you would’ve been fine with the others. You didn’t have a gun, and a firefight would have been less than ideal, though you knew you could handle it. The Baron takes down several men while wearing a purple mask before you could even try to help him, and you roll your eyes as you follow him through the rows of shipping containers until he finds a car that makes his eyes light up. You can’t help a fond smile as he helps you into the passenger seat as if you need it, and you kick your feet up onto the dash. He offers you a surprisingly boyish grin, and you don’t feel any inclination to move away when his gloved hand closes around your thigh through your jeans, giving you a gentle squeeze that sears through you. You close your hand around his, and his gaze burns through you as he starts to drive, only looking away when he absolutely has to.

~

You’re going to die if he doesn’t tuck that stupid lock of hair out of his face.

Following the trail to Karli Morgenthau to Riga was simple with the use of Zemo’s jet, but you didn’t know the trials and tribulations that awaited you when you made it to his home in Latvia. While Bucky went on a walk to be sneaky, the Baron gave you and Sam a tour of his house, which you were kind of in love with. The style of the house was stunning, and you found yourself looking around excitedly for the next subtle detail that would catch your eye. Sam was quick to agree when Zemo offered you one of the three bedrooms to stay in by yourself, claiming the master as expected, and leaving the third to Sam and James. Then, he told you you could wear any clothing you found, that the second bathroom had a shower if you needed it, and departed into the master to clean up.

Sam gave you the honour first, and you tried to be efficient with your time, turning the water up just on the right side of too hot while you scrubbed yourself down. Once you were done, you dressed in a large purple dress shirt paired with a stolen pair of boxers that covered up enough of your thighs to be decent.

Now, sitting in the living room watching Zemo in his navy silk robe as he moved confidently around the kitchen, you wish you would’ve chosen anything else. When he first saw you, his eyes had burned into you. Now, you had three pairs of eyes on you for very different reasons, and you wanted to punch someone in the mouth. Sam’s gaze is a bit disdainful, since he detests Zemo and finds it incredibly uncomfortable that you don’t. Zemo looks equal parts smug and starving, which you wouldn’t mind so much if it weren’t for James glaring between the two of you like you’d both insulted him. His glare was softer on you, sure, but it was still uncomfortable when he had no right to be upset with you for wearing clean clothes. It wasn’t your fault that they’d rushed you out of your house when you agreed to help, and you’d only packed a couple of outfits.

As the boys discuss Karli, you find yourself lost in thought. What was your endgame, here? The Flagsmashers had attacked the GRC (who could all get fucked if you were being honest) instead of simply stealing from them, blowing up a building with several people still inside. There was a death toll now. That changed things. You could sympathise with Morgenthau, but you weren’t at all comfortable with her possession of the super soldier serum - both the vials of it, and that which ran through her and her companions' veins. At this point, she seemed to be escalating, and there was nothing worse than the escalation of a being with unnatural abilities. Power corrupts, and it was beginning to corrupt her if it hadn’t already warped her mind.

The Baron rants about the serum, and Karli, and you sigh as you hop up onto the counter. Sam wants to save Karli, you know it, and you’re sad for him. You know she won’t give up, no matter the cost. Nothing could outweigh her aspirations at this point. Hopefully, speaking to her at Danya’s funeral would help, but you were aware it was equally as likely to feed Karli’s anger as it was her compassion. Your eyes track the turkish delight that Zemo tosses to Sam and you have to restrain a grin at the way he says ‘Titi’.

“Zemo is right. Karli is dangerous. It’s worth trying to speak to her to see if she can be reasoned with, but you can’t hold out too much hope, Sam. It’ll break your heart when she fails you. And she will.”

Zemo gestures to you in agreement, and you hum as he plucks a turkish delight from the dish, reaching for it. To Sam and Bucky’s disgust, he unwraps it for you, and you open your mouth obediently for it even though you might’ve normally protested. Bugging Sam and James was beginning to become a sport.

“Come on, man.” Sam grumbles under his breath as you lick the sugar from the Baron’s fingertips, and you flip him off blindly, grinning around the sweet treat. Zemo’s eyes are all molten chocolate as he watches you chew.

“Okay, you know what? I’m starving. I’m getting food. Buck, c’mon. If she wants to spend her time with the Baron, we might as well let her keep an eye on him, and get ourselves some time without him.” Sam remarks, slapping Bucky’s arm, and the two depart while you shout over your shoulder for them to bring dinner home for you. Once they’re gone, Zemo raises an eyebrow at you.

“We didn’t get to talk.” He reminds you, and you nod, “I would like to. Have I made you uncomfortable?”

You shake your head, and he examines your expression for honesty before continuing, “I hoped Selby wouldn’t take an interest in you. I apologise for… groping you the way I did. I hope I did not cause you undue discomfort. Thank you, for disarming Miss Carter when she pointed the gun at me in Madripoor.”

Shrugging, you lean towards him a little, trying to read his face despite feeling as if you know what he wants.

“Her interest made her ask fewer questions. You don’t have to apologise for touching me - you asked permission before the mission, and I enjoyed it, as I’m sure you’re aware. I know that Sam and Barnes don’t trust you, but I trust what I know of you - you’ve gone out of your way to establish consent with me when you didn’t have to, you’ve protected me despite the serum that pumps through my veins, and I know you want to put an end to the Flagsmashers if only because they chose their fate. I don’t agree with everything you’ve done, Zemo, but I… I like who you are, and I can understand your choices even if I don’t approve of them.” You explain, rolling your lip over your teeth, and he moves a little closer to you.

“Helmut.” He murmurs, and you smile, watching as he drops a hand to your knee to see if you’ll protest, “I would like it if you would call me Helmut.”

“Not Hel?” You ask playfully, grinning as his grip tightens, pulling you to the edge of the counter as he steps between your legs.

“If you want to feel the softness of my bed while I reclaim my stolen clothes, by all means.” Zemo replies, and your pupils dilate as you consider the possibilities. The consequences. He’s so close, and you clench your knees around his hips, drawing a soft gasp from his lips. You swallow it, cupping his cheeks in your hands as your lips press against his. It takes very little effort for Zemo to lift you into his arms, and he carries you to the master bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him so he can drop you on his bed in privacy. He wouldn’t put it past Barnes or Sam to interrupt them on purpose.

“You weren’t kidding - this is way softer than the bed you gave me, Hel.” You tease, and he chuckles as he crawls over you, pressing you back into the sheets. He doesn’t hover over you like you might’ve thought he would. Instead, he lays mostly on top of you, hips against yours, and you feel smothered by him in the best way possible. He kisses you softly at first, but his passion grows as you respond fiercely, your hands gliding through his hair to get a good grip.

“Have you done this before, liebling?” He asks quietly, hushed with the intimacy of the closeness between you. You shake your head, locking your legs around his hips as you comb your fingers through his hair.

“When I was… before I escaped, they made the Winter Soldier pin me to my bed and… he was about to put it inside, so I leaned up and bit his neck as hard as I could. Since then, I haven’t had much desire. I danced a lot at clubs around Europe and in Madripoor when I was running from HYDRA before I found my cabin, to get used to people, but I never… I never indulged. You were my first kiss.” You admit, curling his hair around your fingers, and you can see the way his pupils dilate at that. He captures your lips again, and you feel the rumble of his moan against you, bringing a smile to your lips.

“Do you have a purity kink, Helmut?” You ask with a giggle, and he nips at your collarbone, grinding his hips into you.

“Perhaps. I hadn’t thought of it before,” He admits breathlessly, pausing to suck a dark mark into your neck, “I like the idea of being the only man to have you.”

Warm hands slowly unbutton the shirt you’re wearing, and you lay your head back with a gasp as your Baron’s lips trail kisses down over every inch of exposed skin. He smirks against your sternum, murmuring sweetness in Sokovian that has you sighing and tangling your fingers in his hair.

“I understand you, you know?” You whisper, and he blinks up at you as you’ve cut him off in the middle of waxing poetic about the size and shape of your breasts. He raises an eyebrow, tweaking your nipple between his fingers and biting down gently on the curve of your breast.

“I know, liebling. I can feel you tremble as you burn for me.”

You grab at his robe in retaliation, shoving it down over his shoulders insistently while he simultaneously tries to get his stolen boxers off of you. It doesn’t go very well for either of you, so he sits back out of reach to take off his robe for you, leaving himself in only a pair of boxers similar to the ones you’re wearing. Your fingertips rake through his chest hair as he crawls over you, and he sighs at the feeling, pulling your legs around him. In one easy movement, he pulls you up into his lap, one hand holding your lower back while the other strips his shirt from you. He kisses you slowly, sliding his hands into your boxers to grasp at your ass, squeezing as he pushes your hips together so you can feel how much he wants you.

“Have you ever touched yourself?” Zemo whispers against your lips, forcing himself to part from you despite how much he’d rather not. He kisses along your neck as he waits for you to answer, thumbs stroking over your nipples as he grinds against you.

“I’m inexperienced, Hel, I’m not dead.” You retort with a laugh, gripping his hair, “You feel bigger than the toys I’ve used though.”

That draws a hum from your Baron, and he lays you back on the bed, hooking his fingers in your boxers so he can drag them down your legs to toss them behind him. You look down at the tent in his boxers, wetting your lips and slowly spreading your legs for him, letting him take a good long look at what he has done to you. A low groan slips from his lips and he skims his hands up your thighs to soothe the tremble in them.

“I won’t hurt you, schatz.” He reminds you, gentle but serious, and you nod to say you know and understand. You glance at his boxers again, and he follows your gaze, quickly realising what you want. You watch as he shuffles out of the tight fabric, tossing it off the side of the bed and giving you a chance to stare at him. You’ve seen a cock before from a distance, but your only other close-up experience hadn’t put you in a position to see anything and while the Winter Soldier was being taken away by medical staff, you were unable to see anything, too busy with the taste of blood and flesh in your mouth. It didn’t help that one of the scientists took it upon himself to backhand you as punishment for your act of self-defence, sending you reeling.

Helmut Zemo is a gifted man. You can’t help but stare as he gives his cock a couple slow strokes to ease his discomfort, thumb stroking over the head to collect his precum to ease the glide. He’s bigger than you expected, thick enough that you aren’t sure how he’s going to fit, and long enough that you know he’s going to bump against your cervix with every thrust. You swallow hard, mentally trying to compare his cock to the toys you’ve used in the past, and trembling as you realise he’s easily twice as thick.

Sensing your panic, Zemo crawls onto the bed with you, covering you with his body again as he presses kisses to your lips. Your legs wrap almost instinctively around his waist, but he doesn’t try to take advantage of the position, focusing on intimacy instead of quick pleasures.

“Relax, liebling. I’m right here. I have you.” he murmurs as he nuzzles against your cheek, and you let out a breathy sigh, clutching at his back. He strokes his hands up and down over your sides until you relax under his touch, then begins a slow trail of kisses down your chest and stomach. You sigh as you realise what he’s doing, and your head falls back against the pillows before his lips even manage to make contact with the wet, aching heat of your cunt. His hands close around your thighs from below, pushing them up and apart as he plants a kiss against you, then swipes the flat of his tongue up through your cunt all the way up to flick across your clit. You shudder, and he holds you a little tighter, delving in with soft licks and sucking kisses that have you grabbing at the sheets beneath you.

Tangling your fingers in his hair, you whimper his name as he swirls his tongue around your clit then sucks it into his mouth, his eyes dark as night as he stares up at you to watch your face. Every move is calculated, running off of your reactions and looking to draw out more, desperate to feel you fall apart for him. It isn’t until his fingers gently prod at your entrance that you feel anything but pleasure. A small spike of fear, soothed by a gentle kiss to your tummy that feels unexpectedly sweet.

One finger, and then a second fill you, but you feel no pain. It’s about the same girth as the toy you’ve used, but no toy has ever been able to stroke across that spot inside of you with such surgical precision. His lips close around your clit, and you let out a cry as the dual sensations overwhelm you, trying your damnedest not to yank on his hair though you’re sure you fail since he grunts against you. There is nothing urgent or rushed about this - this is a slow, methodical dismantling of every rational thought, every worry, every fear you’ve ever had. This is a reconstruction on a spiritual level, replacing worries with pleasure, and fears with happiness, and thoughts with need.

You realise as you have the thought to tell Zemo how good he’s making you feel that there’s certainly no question about it. You didn’t even notice how much noise you were making, the soft whines and moans falling from your lips completely unrestrained, and it’s as if you zone back into your surroundings only to have them wiped away. A crook of your Baron’s fingers and a particularly hard suck on your clit have you tossing your head back against the pillows and shouting his name, “Baron!” and “Helmut!” in equal measure.

You return to yourself again to find yourself cradled in your Baron’s arms, his nose nuzzling gently against your cheekbone as he strokes your back, your thighs clenched around his hips as he presses you bodily into the mattress. You blink, and he smiles at the sight of you, dipping down for a gentle kiss that makes you tremble.

“Oh.” You whisper, and he laughs softly.

“Are you okay, schatz? Do you need a minute?” Helmut asks. You shake your head urgently, tangling your fingers in his hair so you can pull him into a kiss that has him moaning into your mouth. You chase the taste of yourself, tongue sliding across his, then part with a gasp.

“I need you.” You whisper, and he groans against your lips, grinding his hips into yours.

“You have me.” He promises, pushing himself up a little so he can take himself in hand and press the head of his cock against your desperate cunt.

“Now, Hel. Don’t make me wait.”

His groan reverberates through you as he pushes inside, inch by inch, carving his way through your insides. By the time he bottoms out, you’re panting for breath, clinging to his back as he presses his chest to yours. The closeness soothes you, and keeps you from digging in your nails.

“Fuck.” You moan, and he groans in response, nodding against your shoulder.

“You’re so tight, schatz, you’re strangling my cock.” He murmurs without a hint of complaint in his tone. You don’t think you’ll ever be ready when he finally starts to pull out, but his next thrust drives the breath from your lungs, and you sob, tears in your eyes from the pleasure. He kisses them away so gently that you nearly want to cry again, whispering to you about how beautiful you are, how perfect you feel around him, and how desperately he needs you to be his.

“I am!” You proclaim, and he groans his approval, catching your lips in a kiss that sends fire racing through your veins. His pace has been brutally slow so far, but he begins to move faster now, each thrust driving him in to the hilt. It feels like punishment. It feels like atoning. It feels like rebirth. It feels like a new beginning without the fear that’s kept you trapped in the woods all by yourself for so many years you felt like giving up. Blunt teeth clamp around your neck and you shudder, tilting your head back to bare more of it to him.

“Mine.” He mutters around your skin, and you nod frantically.

“Yours. And you’re mine, Helmut. My Baron. I won’t give you back.” You insist, and his laugh is broken by a groan. By the time he releases his hold on you, you’ve got a fresh bruise darkening on your throat.

“You may have to, schatz. Your friends don’t want me out of prison.” He reminds you softly even as he shatters you into pieces, each thrust breaking you apart and putting you back together again. You clutch him tighter to you like somehow, in the shattering and reassembling, he can become part of you. Pressure builds inside of you until you feel fit to explode.

“F-Fuck them.” You growl, and he reaches between you to stroke your clit, gritting his teeth. He groans - nearly growls - as he comes, filling you to the brim and fucking it in deeper with his next couple of thrusts. The heat sends you reeling, and you choke on a gasp as your orgasm breaks across you like a tsunami, washing you clean.

Laying together, panting for breath under your Baron’s sturdy weight, you realise the choice you’ve made for yourself. He’s gentle as he pulls out of you, stroking your legs to make sure you aren’t too stiff, and reaching for his towel to clean you up.

“Perhaps, showering after this might have been a wiser choice.” He murmurs, and you shake your head.

“No, clean was nice, I would’ve been self conscious otherwise. This was perfect. I’ll shower again if I have to.”

That draws a soft laugh from Zemo’s lips, and he curls around you, nuzzling his face into your neck, “Do you need anything from me?”

You contemplate his question for a moment, then hum softly to yourself, nodding.

“Just hold me a little longer. I promise I’ll get up soon.”

Helmut rolls his eyes, pressing kisses along the line of your shoulder as he strokes his hands down over your body.

“You’re in no rush, liebling. We have time.”

You sigh, because you know that you really don’t.

~

You’re reminded that Baron Helmut Zemo had a child before you as well as a wife when he interacts with the children in Riga. You overhear him speaking to them, and acknowledge them with a nod when he gestures to you and tells them you’re safe too. You know this will likely come back to bite you, but you let Zemo play his games. He’s got a plan, clearly, and you’re happy enough to go along with it. At least someone has one.

Ever since Sam and Bucky got back to the house, they’ve been giving you odd looks, and you can see the judgement in their eyes. You aren’t quite sure if they think you’re too stupid to know yourself and have just been wrapped up in Zemo’s sugary lies, or if they think you’ve switched sides somehow, but either way it’s beginning to get on your nerves. You aren’t a child, and you’re not stupid. You know when someone is lying to you, and you don’t sense mistruths or even manipulation from your Baron.

As Zemo leads you back into the house with Bucky and Sam, the argument starts up again. Sam believes in Karli’s goodness, while Bucky is being more practical. You roll your eyes as you sit beside Sam, and Zemo admits that he knows where the funeral for Donya will be.

“Keep talking.” Bucky snaps, and you breath out a heavy sigh. Like that’ll ever happen.

“Leaving you to turn on me once we get to Karli. Hmm. I prefer to keep my leverage.” Zemo replies simply. You watch as Bucky stands, grabbing Zemo’s glass and tossing it at the wall.

“You wanna see what someone can do with leverage?” He asks, and you plant your feet loudly, startling both men.

“Simmer down before I fucking make you.” You snap, while Sam gets up to stop Bucky.

“Take it easy. Don’t engage him. He’s just gonna extort you and do that stupid head tilt thing.” The leveller head says, drawing a snort from you, “Let me make a call.”

 You roll your eyes, holding your hand out for a cup.

“You need to stop antagonising them. I don’t want to have to hurt them, Helmut.”

~

The arrival of John Walker throws a wrench in things. The new Captain America with everything to prove is not a stable resource, and you want nothing to do with him. As he approaches, all ramped up to 11 like it's his new state of being, you put yourself between him and Zemo.

“This better be an unbelievable explanation-”

“Hey, take it easy before it gets weird.” Sam insists, his gaze flicking to you, and you tilt your head innocently as if you’ve no idea what he means.

“I know where Karli is.” Zemo explains, beginning to move past Walker. John puts a hand on Zemo’s chest, and you grab it before it can make contact, holding onto him tightly.

“Well whe-”

“Awww, ain’t this romantic?” You ask teasingly, giving him a gentle shove out of Zemo’s way. He scowls at you, and you let him go to slip by with your Baron.

“All we know is, it’s a memorial.” Sam continues behind you, and you ignore the argument as Walker tries to ‘reason’ with Sam. Thank God for Lemar, as he seems to be the only thing keeping Walker in line.

“We’ll deal with you later.” Walker states firmly, pointing first to Zemo, and then you.

“I’m sure it will all come to an agreeable conclusion. My associate is just up ahead.” Zemo replies, and you walk with him towards the little girl he’d been speaking to about Donya’s funeral. She leads you into a building, and you growl as Walker pushes Zemo, handcuffing him to a metal furnace door. Bucky hooks his arms under your armpits to stop you from fighting back, and you kick your legs out to smack against Walker’s stupid shield, running up his back and flipping over Barnes. He fights to get ahold of you, throwing you to the ground finally when you keep getting loose.

“Hey, you’ve got ten minutes-” Walker shouts after Sam.

“Really?” Zemo asks as he tests his handcuffs. His gaze finds you, checking you’re alright before looking back at John Walker.

“-then we’re going things my way.” The new Captain America finishes, making you roll your eyes.

“Aggressive.” Helmut comments, and you snort, “but I get it.”

You eye the handcuffs, but Zemo shakes his head, and you sigh.

“So, who the fuck is this?” John asks, and Bucky shakes his head.

“She’s none of your fucking business, Walker. Don’t look at her.”

Lemar and John both put their hands up, brows raised as they examine you, and you lean against the furnace door next to your Baron to keep an eye on the situation. Walker is clearly falling apart, staring at his shield like a psychopath, and you catch Lemar looking at you. You raise an eyebrow, then look at Walker and nod towards him. He follows your gaze, but doesn’t say anything.

“Uh-uh. No, no, no, this is a bad idea.” Walker starts, and you let Barnes field this one, knowing it won’t end well. You step closer to Zemo, watching the clearly unstable man with wariness in your eyes. You don’t want to have anything to do with him if you can avoid it. He goes after Sam, Lemar and Bucky at his back, and you rush to follow after giving Zemo a pointed look to take care of himself.

“You’re going to ruin it, Walker, give Sam a fucking chance. It’s like you want blood, you fucking maniac. What kind of Captain America doesn’t believe in peaceful conversation to avoid violence!?”

Your words fall on deaf ears, and you watch Karli run, Bucky close on her heels. You bolt off into the maze of the building, looking for where Karli could have gone, only to jump at a gunshot. You run in that direction, gunshots ringing in your ears, and you pray Zemo’s okay. You enter the room just moments after a shield collides with Zemo’s head, blue liquid and glass sprayed across the floor, and Karli nowhere to be found. You growl so deeply your chest feels like it’s about to come apart, and you’re across the room before you even know it.

“WALKER!”

Your fist nearly meets Walker’s spine, but Bucky grabs it, wrenching you back.

“NO! He could’ve killed him! You’re no Captain America, you fucking monster, I’ll tear you to pieces! Let me at him, Buck, I could kill him right here and solve all your problems. I’m already on the run, what’s one more stain on my name? Let me hurt him, please, come on, let me hurt him!” You shout, worming in Barnes’ grasp, but he’s stronger than you. All you’ve got on him is speed.

“Control your rabid dog.” Walker snaps, and you scream with frustration. Barnes drags you a few feet away, holding you tightly to him while you rage. Walker and Lemar leave, and only then does he let go of you, letting you sink to lift Zemo into your arms. You stand easily with his weight, your face permanently etched into a sneer as you stalk past Sam towards your Baron’s home. Sam follows you, watching as you lay Zemo down on the couch and get a cold towel for his head. When he wakes with a groan of pain, you bring him a drink, covering his eyes before he can open them.

“Are you okay?” He asks you, and you sigh.

“Barnes held me back. I was gonna break his spine.”

“Jesus Christ, kid, what the hell?” Sam asks, and you roll your eyes.

“He deserves worse. He’s a loose fucking cannon and you know it. The title is too much for him - it’s making him insane.” You spit as you stalk out of the room, “I need to wash up. If Walker shows him, tell him I’m going to rip his spine out and strangle him with it.”

Zemo laughs, but Sam scoffs, slamming down into an armchair with a muttered curse about excessive violence. 

~

“Shouldn’t have given him the shield.”

“I didn’t give him the shield.” 

“Well, Steve definitely didn’t.” You hear the tail end of Sam and Bucky’s argument as you exit the bathroom, tossing your bag down as the door slams open from Walker’s kick.

“Alright, that’s it, let’s go. I’m now ordering you to turn him over.” Walker orders as he stalks in with Lemar at his back.

“Hey, now, slow your roll. Shield or no shield, the only thing you’re running in here is your mouth.” Sam retorts calmly, “Now, I had Karli and you overstepped. He’s actually proven himself useful today, and we’ll need all hands on deck for whatever’s coming next.”

“How do you want the rest of this conversation to go, Sam, huh?” John asks, and you roll your eyes, moving forwards as Zemo circles the room towards you, “Should I put down the shield? Make it fair?”

You snort as he does just that, cracking your knuckles, only to be interrupted by the timely arrival of the Dora Milaje. Your shoulders relax, and Zemo gives you a quizzical look, but you don’t respond. They might be coming for Zemo, but Walker won’t be able to help himself. He’ll step right into their way, and get his ass kicked. You watch as exactly as predicted, Walker gets himself an asskicking, and you watch with a smile as you share a drink with your Baron. You’re not even slightly surprised when he grabs your hand and drags you into the bathroom behind him, closing and locking the door once you’ve grabbed your bag.

Together, you flee into the sewers, your hand gripping his as you race towards freedom. No matter how much you wanted to kick Walker’s ass, you know that the Dora Milaje will be able to do a better, and more demoralising job. And that’s what you’d prefer, honestly. You want John Walker broken down to his core as he realises that he never deserved the title of Captain America. Truthfully, he was just a placeholder while Sam figured his shit out.

~

The message you send to Barnes is simple.

‘If you take him from me, I will hunt you down to the ends of the Earth. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, James Buchanan Barnes.’

You discard the burner phone on a table outside of a cafe, running to catch up with Zemo where he waits in a nearby alley.

~

“They’ll come for me.” Helmut murmurs as he rubs his soapy hands across your stomach, up to cup your breasts, “I can only escape for so long.”

You snort, leaning back into his arms while your massage shampoo into his hair for him.

“They’ll certainly try. There are plenty of places we can hide.” You insist, sighing happily as he nuzzles against your neck. You dip under the running water to rinse yourself off, stealing a kiss from your Baron once the water runs clear. He swaps places with you and you run your hands over him slowly to rinse the soap away. Once the bubbles have been washed away, he presses you into the wall of the shower, and you gasp as he angles himself.

“Okay?” He asks, breathless, and you nod eagerly, spreading your legs a little wider. He pushes inside of you with a sigh, and you grasp at the tiles, eyes rolling back in your head.

“God, you feel so good around me, liebling. I did not… I did not expect this. I did not expect you.” He murmurs, grabbing your hips and rocking into you.

“I don’t know what you’ve done to me.” You whisper, letting him pull you back against him so he can steal a kiss, “I won’t lose you, Helmut. I won’t. If they come for you, I’ll destroy them.”

He sighs, holding you tighter, pressing soothing kisses to your neck, “You cannot, schatz. Do not sacrifice yourself for me.”

His next thrust makes you cry out, and he slips a hand between your thighs to stroke across your clit, driving you closer to the edge. It’s been barely any time at all, but you’ve been pent up with emotions, from aborted fights to nearly losing him. He holds you together as you tip over the edge in his arms, his thrusts quickening before you’ve even caught your breath. He strokes your clit firmly, and you find yourself caught in the drag of the tide, unexpectedly rising to your crest again so quickly you find yourself shaking in his arms.

“I can’t!” You gasp, and he chuckles against your neck.

“You can, and you will. Come for me, schatz. Let your Baron make you feel good.”

You claw at the tiles, pinned between the cold of them and the heat of his chest against your back, and your legs shake as he sends you spiralling over the edge into your end, shouting his name into the steam. He grunts against your neck, biting into your shoulder as he buries himself balls deep inside of you to fill you up. Gentle but strong hands clean you up, then guide you out of the shower and into a warm, plush robe. Your Baron guides you into the bedroom, and then into the bed, crawling in behind you to curl up around your back.

“Sleep, liebling. A nap will make things seem clearer when we wake.”

~

Together with Zemo, you decide to take your time together to hunt down the HYDRA lab you’d been kept in, and the scientists who may have worked there and escaped their due. Finding the lab was simple enough considering you’d escaped it fourteen years ago on foot. It wasn’t in any of HYDRA’s released records, which worries you. How many more facilities do they have hiding? Zemo watches with a smile on his face as you wrench open the door, breaking its seal as if the metal were molten. Not four steps in, you find the bloody bullet buried in the wall that took Imogen’s life, and you hear her screaming in your head for you to keep running as the blood drained rapidly from her body. There’s a stain on the floor, and it taunts you, outlining part of the shape of a body. You find her tucked into a security office only a few doors down, and Zemo has to lead you away, reading the security logs to discover what happened. Normally, she would have been discarded.

According to the logs, after you broke out, they went into a catastrophic failure, and the entire lab was purged with the loss of their only test subject. They didn’t think you’d make your way back to the lab so nothing was actually removed aside from personnel, but they didn’t need the facility so they closed it down and sealed it in case they needed it at a later date. You hunt through their files with your Baron, comparing them to the records of HYDRA operatives who’ve been found, until you find only one name that hasn’t been tagged.

Vanya Nikitin, one of the lead scientists behind your project. You remember him. He’s the one who hit you after you wounded their precious Winter Soldier. You stare at his picture, chest heaving as you find yourself lost in memories. How he used to touch your face and chest when you were strapped down and losing consciousness. How he stroked your stomach before he unleashed the Winter Soldier on you. How he promised you’d birth an army for them.

“Schatz.”

You jerk out of your spiral and glance at Helmut, letting him guide you over to look at the documents he’s digging through. He gestures to a paper and you muddle your way through it, your Russian rusty at best.

Fertility rates… show remarkable increase.

Your Baron’s hand strokes up and down your spine soothingly, and you crumple the page in your hand, “I can take the morning after pill.”

“You could.” Helmut agreed, sliding his arms around your waist, soothing you with his heat against your back, “For once, liebling, the choice is yours. I am happy to let you make this decision - I will support you if you want a child, and I will support you if you do not. You can have whatever you want.”

You nod, resting against him for a moment and letting yourself breathe. Something about being here with him is soothing. Like you’ve reclaimed the space from such evil, and it is once more just a simple laboratory instead of a place in which you were tormented.

“I can, can’t I? I mean, who the fuck is gonna stop me?”

Helmut smiles against your skin, and you only break away from him a few moments later to begin packing up the documents. Your phone dings, and you pull it out, looking at the screen with a raised eyebrow. You don’t know how the fuck you have reception in here, but it appears you do. The message makes you smile, and you show Helmut, stealing a kiss from him with happiness bubbling in your gut like champagne.

You’re emptying out a filing cabinet when you stumble across gold, pulling out Nikitin’s file and tossing it down on the desk in front of you, open to his personal information.

“Hey, Helmut, how do you feel about hunting for squid?”

“Whatever you like, schatz. I will give you whatever you like.”

~

“Breaking news. We’ve got a report from the Czech Republic - Two dead and thankfully none injured after an explosion at what appears to be a former HYDRA facility. Captain America Sam Wilson expresses his profound regret at the loss of Baron Helmut Zemo, former Sokovian royalty and the man who once tried to bring the Avengers to ruin. According to Wilson, the other deceased was a woman named Y/N Y/L/N, a victim of a HYDRA plot to create an army of super soldiers by way of forced impregnation of two victims of the super soldier serum. It appears that the two were attempting to destroy the facility in which she had been forcefully confined from the age of eight after she was kidnapped, and were caught when the detonation went off early.

James Buchanan Barnes and Sam Wilson will be holding a vigil for HYDRA victims in Y/L/N’s honour tonight outside of City Hall. A second vigil will be held at the Sokovian Memorial in three days time in honour of the late Baron and his family, to honour all the Sokovian lives lost, and those who no longer have a home.”

[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

💯💯💯

STICK BUDDIES SERIES MASTERLIST

story summary: You and Frankie find yourselves in a complicated situation when invited to Benny's wedding for a week in Mexico. Despite your strained friendship, you both pretend to be a couple to save Frankie embarrassment when seeing his recently engaged ex wife.  However as you navigate through this charade, old feelings and unresolved issues resurface. 

pairing: Frankie Morales x f!Reader

tags: friends to enemies, angst, fake relationship, bickering, there's only one bed, destination weddings, slow burn, enemies to lovers, jealousy, idiots in love, revealed secrets, mutual pining, smut, HEA, so many fucking tropes.

This story concept was inspired by an amazing series I just started called Swept Away by @punkshort and the Tonight you belong to me series by @intheorangebedroom

STICK BUDDIES

Prologue : HIT THE SILK

Chapter 2 : F.I.S.H

Chapter 3 : O.B.E.

Chapter 4 : S.N.A.F U

Chapter 5: AN IMPERIAL FU

Chapter 6 : F.U.B.A.R.

Chapter 7 : BRAVO ZULU

Epilogue : MISSION ACCOMPLISHED

Extras

Frankie's Instagram Grid

Headcanons

[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

THE F*CK IT LIST: MASTERLIST

During work at your father’s construction company, you’re inspired by your sexually liberated bestie to create a F*ck-It List of sexy experiences you’ve always wanted to try. But when the list accidentally ends up in the hands of Joel Miller— your dad’s best friend, the company’s co-CEO, and your immediate supervisor—things take an unexpected turn. Initially shocked by the discovery, Joel eventually agrees to help you tackle the list, leading to sexual adventures and undeniable chemistry.  However as you begin to fall for Joel the complications of your relationship come into focus, leading you both to realize that love may be one item you won’t be able to check off your list.

tags: DBF!Joel , Smut , Romance , Angst , Comedy, Mutual Pining and more Smut.

rating: 18+

Chapter One: The F*ck-It List

Chapter Two: # Eight

Chapter 3: # Four

Chapter 4: # Nine

Chapter 5: # One

Chapter 6: # Seven

[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

dirty work

You just bought a new house that needed a lot of work. Luckily, your grumpy old neighbor was more than happy to fix everything—not because he was generous, but because it gave him an excuse to be close. To look. To stare. And you? Love the attention.

Warnings: MDNI, 18+, hotgirl!reader, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), nipple play (f receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, filthy dirty talk, desperate!Joel, pervy!Joel, pathetic!Joel, age gap, Joel being down bad, obsessive staring, possessiveness, mild power play, teasing, so much cum (like he literally can’t stop), Joel not having sex in decades and it shows, Hot girl reader knowing she's hot, Joel being completely ruined by your pussy, and you loving every second of it

11k. Enjoy!

· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··

The house needed work. And probably a priest.

It wasn’t falling apart, but it also wasn’t move-in ready.

The kitchen faucet screamed whenever you turned it on, wailing like it had unfinished business in this world. The porch stairs were one strong gust away from sending someone straight to the ER- or the grave. 

The back gate swung open on its own, which was either a poltergeist or just bad hinges, but either way, it sent an unsettling creak through the yard at odd hours of the night.

The lights flickered sometimes. The water pressure was unpredictable. The floors creaked loud enough to make you think twice before sneaking around in the dark.

But it was cheap. And it had potential.

And you?

You weren’t a DIY girlie, but you could figure shit out. Probably…. Maybe. 

You did have a certain level of misplaced confidence that made you think you could tackle anything with enough trial and error.

The problem was—so far, it had been mostly errors.

Your first attempt at fixing the faucet resulted in a flood that had you sprinting to turn the water off before your kitchen turned into a slip-and-slide.

Trying to replace a light fixture nearly ended with you electrocuting yourself into another dimension. 

And the less said about the unfortunate caulking incident of last Thursday, the better.

Still, you were determined. A little clueless? Sure. But determined.

You wiped sweat from your brow, standing in front of your latest challenge: the front door. It didn’t latch properly. It wasn’t quite crooked, but something was off. The hinges, maybe? You had no idea. 

You just knew that a strong wind could blow the damn thing off, which wasn’t ideal for your safety or your sanity.

So there you were, kneeling on the porch, staring at a pile of tools you weren’t entirely sure how to use, the manual open beside you like it was about to offer some divine intervention.

You twisted the screwdriver in your hand, frowning at the misaligned screws. “Alright, bitch,” you muttered to the door, rolling your shoulders. “Let’s do this.”

And that was when a shadow fell over you.

A heavy presence.

You turned, blinking up at the broad figure standing at the foot of your porch.

Joel Miller.

Your neighbor. Big, built, silent as the grave. Old as fuck.

You’d seen him around—on his porch, smoking, reading the newspaper, doing old people things and watching. Always watching.

Never introduced himself. Never waved. Never made an effort. Just sat there, arms crossed over his chest, eyes unreadable, watching the world pass him by.

Watching you.

At first, you thought it was your imagination. A trick of the heat, the way his dark eyes always seemed to linger just a little too long before darting away. But then, as the weeks passed, you realized it wasn’t just some coincidence.

Joel Miller was looking. A lot.

From behind the safety of his porch, through his truck window when he pulled into the driveway, stealing glances while pretending to tinker with something outside—he was always looking.

He wasn’t the type to catcall or whistle or let his jaw drop like some dumb, desperate idiot. No, but he did openly watch, with that brooding, set-jaw expression, like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, fighting the urge to jump.

A man seeing something he wanted—something he knew he couldn’t have.

And, honestly? It was kinda hot.

You love a pathetic man.

Pathetic in the way only a man like him could be- big and strong and old enough to know better, yet still sitting on his porch like some clueless teenager, hopelessly caught in your orbit.

Joel had spent his entire life working.

Calloused hands. Aching back. A routine as grey and dull as the pavement he walked on. He wasn’t a talk-to-women kind of guy. He was a build-shit-and-keep-his-mouth-shut kind of guy.

He had probably spent years without even thinking about sex. Not because he didn’t want it—fuck, of course, he did—but because who the hell would even let him?

The man was a relic.

Pushing sixty. Grumpy. Built like a man who had done nothing but work his whole life—because that’s exactly what he had done.

No wife. No girlfriend. Nothing.

He didn’t flirt. Didn’t go out. Didn’t fucking bother.

Just work, fix, sleep. Get off when he needed to—always alone, always quick, no one to fucking hear him.

That was life.

And then you moved in next door.

And Joel broke.

Because Jesus Christ.

You.

Soft and sweet and fucking perfect—so young, so pretty, so effortlessly sexy.

You weren’t just beautiful. You were something else entirely.

Something cruel.

With your tiny little skirts and tight little tops, walking around like it wasn’t a goddamn crime to be that fucking perfect.

Joel shouldn’t have been looking.

Knew he shouldn’t memorize the way your tits bounced when you jogged past his house.

Shouldn’t have let himself watch the way you stretched on the porch, or walked in those obscene little shorts, or sunbathed out back with your top straps pulled down—looking so fucking soft, like you were made to be touched.

Made to be ruined.

It was sick.

And he didn’t care.

Because at night, when his house was quiet and the only thing in his bed was his own hand, Joel let himself imagine what it would be like to pull you onto his lap or spread you open, bury his face between your thighs and never fucking leave.

To get his mouth on you.

God, he was so hungry for it.

And the worst part?

He was pretty sure you knew.

It was pathetic.

And he fucking knew it.

But he couldn’t stop.

And right now, his gaze was locked on you.

Or, more accurately—your thighs.

You were still kneeling, skin glistening in the summer heat, your tiny skirt barely covering anything. Joel looked like a man who had just seen God.

His throat bobbed.

His fingers flexed.

Then, abruptly—his eyes snapped up.

“Need a hand?” His voice was rough, all gravel and rust.

You tilted your head, dragging your gaze over him.

You smirked.

“I got it,” you said simply.

Joel didn’t move.

Didn’t even blink.

“…No, you don’t.”

And before you could argue, he was stepping forward.

Taking the screwdriver right out of your hand.

And just fucking fixing it.

Like it was nothing.

Like you weren’t even there.

· · ──𖥸

From that day on, Joel… kinda never left.

Not literally. Not in a way that you could call him out on.

But he was always there.

At first, it was little things. Fixing what you couldn’t. Offering a hand when you were clearly struggling. Showing up at the exact right time, tools in hand, that furrow between his brows like you’d personally offended him by even attempting to fix something yourself.

Then, it escalated.

Because you didn’t even have to ask anymore.

He was just there.

On your porch. In your yard. Pretending to check something in his truck but really just looking at you while you stretched in the morning, your tight little tank clinging to every inch of you.

The excuses started getting thinner, too.

At first, it was, “Saw the porch light flickerin’. Just figured I’d fix it before it got worse.”

Then, it became, “Just keepin’ busy.”

Then, no excuse at all.

Just Joel, lingering around your property, finding any reason to be near you, any reason to work himself into a sweat just for the chance to look at you up close.

Because that was his payment.

His reward.

Every little smile, every little laugh. The way your tits moved when you pointed at something needed fixing. The way you stretched just right, your little skirts and shorts riding up, flashing soft, smooth skin that made Joel’s head spin.

He didn’t even need you to talk to him.

Didn’t need you to flirt.

Just existing was enough.

So he worked.

For free.

Because what the fuck else was he supposed to do?

You made him feel like some pathetic old pervert.

Standing around like a useless extra in the movie that was your perfect fucking life.

A washed-up, near-sixty-year-old loser with a bad back, a lonely house, and a dick that hadn’t worked properly in years.

And now?

Now, he nearly was hard all the time.

No blue pills. No coaxing. No thinking about some old porn magazine he had tucked away for emergencies.

Just your voice, your body, the way you smelled, the way you looked at him when you handed him a lemonade like he was doing something special—when all he was doing was fixing your fucking sink.

And the worst part?

He was leaking.

Like a damn teenager.

Hadn’t been this sensitive in decades.

And yet, here he was—barely keeping it together, feeling the way his cock throbbed and ached, fucking dripped inside his jeans while you leaned in, smiling, teasing—

“Thank you, Joel!”

Fuck.

That voice.

All sweet and grateful and warm, and it was fucking nothing. Just three little words.

And yet, his whole body reacted like you had just whispered something filthy in his ear.

Like you had just gotten on your knees, licked your lips, and told him

Sit back, Joel. Let me take care of you.

God, he was fucked.

So he mowed your lawn.

Fixed your AC unit.

Made sure the fence was latched, the gate was locked, the pipes weren’t leakin’.

And when he wasn’t fixing shit inside?

He was finding things to do outside.

Hammering shit that didn’t need hammering.

Cleaning tools that weren’t even his.

Anything. Anything.

Just to be there.

· · ──𖥸

Joel looked wrecked.

Sweat darkened the collar of his shirt, his broad shoulders sagging as he finally took a seat at the kitchen table he had just fixed for you.

His hands were rough and calloused, veins prominent, fingers flexing against the cool surface as he exhaled, deep and slow. He looked exhausted, the kind of exhaustion that clung to a man who had spent the whole day pushing his body to the limit.

And yet, even now, after hours of working himself to the bone, he was still staring.

Not at the food you’d set down in front of him, not at the cold glass of iced tea dripping condensation onto the table, not even at his own aching hands that had spent all damn day making sure every little thing in your house was perfect.

He was staring at your tits.

You noticed it immediately, of course. How could you not? Joel wasn’t exactly subtle.

His dark, hungry gaze stayed fixed on your chest, drinking in the way your tank top clung to you, damp with heat, the fabric just a little too thin, a little too low. His hands twitched every so often, like he had to physically stop himself from reaching out.

He barely responded when you spoke, offering little more than a grunt here and there, a slow nod, an occasional hum of acknowledgment. Not because he wasn’t listening, but because he was completely fucking gone.

And you?

You smirked.

Because this wasn’t new.

Joel Miller had been looking at you like this for weeks now, like a starving man watching a meal just out of reach, a man standing in the desert watching water slip through his fingers.

And he thought he was hiding it.

He wasn’t.

You leaned forward slightly, trailing a finger through the condensation on your glass, watching his Adam’s apple bob when his eyes immediately flicked down again, drawn like a magnet.

You waited. Let it stew. Let the tension stretch thick and heavy between you until you could practically hear the way he was grinding his teeth together, working his jaw, trying to think of something—anything—other than the way your tits were right there.

Then, casually, you spoke.

“You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

Joel didn’t move at first.

Didn’t even seem to register your words right away.

Just blinked, slow and dazed, before finally dragging his gaze back up to your face, blinking again, like he had just been pulled out of something deep.

“…Huh?”

His voice was thick, rough like gravel, his fingers flexing again before clenching into loose fists.

You tilted your head slightly, letting your gaze flick down to your own chest, then back up to him, pointedly.

“You like ’em?”

For a moment, Joel just sat there.

Silent.

Completely fucking still.

Then, finally, he exhaled. A slow, measured breath, dragging a hand down his face like he was collecting himself, trying to piece together a response that didn’t immediately give him away.

And then, voice lower, rougher, wrecked—

“…What’s there not to like?”

Oh?

That shouldn’t have affected you the way it did.

But it did.

The way he said it, low and warm and dripping with something dark, something dangerous. The way he looked at you when he said it, like he was memorizing every inch of you, like he needed to burn the sight into his brain.

A slow heat unfurled low in your belly, sinking between your thighs, pooling thick and molten as you shifted in your seat, pressing your legs together, suddenly very aware of how wet you were getting.

And Joel knew it.

Because his eyes flicked down for a split second, watching the way you shifted, the way your breath caught ever so slightly, and his fingers clenched tighter against the table.

And then, voice slow, teasing, stretching out the moment—

“Hmmm.”

You tapped a finger against your chin, watching the way his dark eyes tracked your movements, like he couldn’t help it, like he had no control over the way his body responded to you.

And then, soft and syrupy—

“You know, Joel… I feel kinda bad.”

Joel didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Just stared.

You watched the slow, deliberate way he swallowed, the way his whole body seemed to tense under the weight of those words, the muscles in his arms flexing as his fingers curled against the table.

“…Bad?”

His voice was barely above a whisper.

“For letting you do all this work without paying you back.”

There was a beat of silence.

Joel’s fingers flexed. His breath stuttered, sharp and uneven. You could see the battle happening in his head—his morals, his age, the voice in his head screaming this is wrong, you’re too old, don’t do this—

And yet.

When he spoke, it was wrecked.

“…Can I just—”

Joel swallowed hard.

His voice dropped lower, raspier, barely even a sound.

“Can I just see you? Look at you?”

The words sent a jolt of something electric through you, made your skin heat, your pulse quicken, made that molten heat in your belly throb.

You smiled. Slow. Sweet.

Cruel.

"You wanna see me, Joel?"

His breath hitched.

His fingers twitched.

He nodded, almost absently, his mouth falling open, chest rising and falling in deep, uneven breaths.

You dragged your nails lightly up your stomach, over your ribs, the movement subtle, slow, making him watch.

Your hands went to the hem of your tank top, your fingers curling around the fabric, slowly dragging it up.

Joel’s pupils blew wide.

His lips parted.

His breath hitched.

And when you pulled it over your head, letting it drop to the floor, you saw it.

The way his fingers clenched so hard around the edge of the table that his knuckles went white, like he needed to physically hold himself back.

You sat there in just your bra, running your hands up your stomach, over your ribs, tilting your head slightly as you murmured—

“Like this?”

Joel made a noise that was almost a groan, almost a curse, a low, strangled thing that caught in his throat as his eyes devoured you.

He swallowed again, hard, blinking like he was trying to process what was happening.

Then—rough, hoarse, desperate—

“…Please. Everything.”

So you did.

You reached behind you, undoing the clasp of your bra with a slow, deliberate flick of your fingers, letting the straps slip down your arms before shrugging it off completely.

And Joel lost the last shred of restraint he had.

His breath hitched—a sharp, audible inhale, like he had just been punched in the gut.

His eyes dropped from your eyes instantly, dragged down like they had no choice, like the second your tits were bare, he was physically incapable of looking anywhere else.

And fuck.

The sound that tore from his throat was something low, deep, filthy— not even a real word, just a groan, guttural and needy, his lips parting, his tongue darting out, his whole fucking body reacting like he was a man who had been starving his whole goddamn life, and now?

Now he was looking at the best fucking meal he’d ever seen.

Because Jesus Christ.

Your tits?

They were perfect.

So fucking full and soft, high and round, plump little handfuls of heaven that he’d been imagining for weeks, and now? Now they were right there.

And your nipples—fuck.

They were already hard, tight little peaks sitting pretty, puckered and aching, begging for something—a touch, a mouth, something wet and warm.

They looked so fucking sweet, like they’d feel so soft, like they’d taste so good on his tongue.

Joel groaned.

A rough, heavy sound, his jaw clenching so fucking hard it was a miracle his teeth didn’t crack, his entire body tensing like it physically hurt him to just sit there and look and not touch.

And then, voice wrecked, strained, barely even a whisper—

“Best goddamn tits I’ve ever seen.”

You smirked, slow and teasing, shifting slightly, making them bounce just a little, the movement so subtle, but his whole body jerked.

“Yeah?”

Joel grunted, a deep, broken noise, his breath stuttering, his fingers flexing.

“Yeah.”

His lips parted slightly, his chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths.

His hips shifted.

And you noticed.

The way his jeans were tight.

The way a wet patch darkened the denim.

The way his entire body looked like it was straining under the weight of his own need.

And then, voice breaking, groaning—

“Thank you, Sweetheart.”

Your breath caught.

Because that?

That sounded filthy.

Low, wrecked, grateful.

Like just seeing you was some kind of mercy.

His thighs tensed. His hands twitched. His eyes stayed locked on you, burning, devouring, drowning.

You dragged your hands up your own stomach, slow and lazy, brushing your fingers over the soft curves of your breasts, rolling your thumbs over your hardened nipples, smirking when you heard his breath hitch.

“You wanna touch ‘em, Joel?” you murmured, soft and syrupy, voice dipped in honey.

Joel groaned, deep and guttural, like the question alone was enough to wreck him.

“Fuck yeah.”

He didn’t wait for permission.

Didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t fucking think.

His hands were on you before the words even fully left his mouth—grabbing, groping, squeezing like he was starving for it, like he’d been fantasizing about this for so long that the second he finally had them in his palms, he lost every ounce of restraint.

And Jesus fuck, his hands were big.

Rough.

Strong.

Decades of hard labor carved into every thick callus, every flex of his fingers, every hungry, greedy, desperate grab.

“Fuck, babygirl,” he muttered, voice wrecked, almost dazed as he kneaded your tits, rolling them in his palms, squeezing like he needed to memorize the way they felt—like he’d never get this chance again.

He groaned, deep and filthy, fingers digging in, rough fingertips brushing over your stiff nipples, making you suck in a sharp breath as heat licked through your veins.

“So fuckin’ soft,” he rasped, thumbing over the tight little peaks, watching the way your body reacted to him, your back arching, breath hitching.

Joel felt that.

“Feel good, baby?” he rasped, voice a low, guttural thing, dragging his calloused fingers over your nipples again, rubbing slow, deliberate circles, watching your reaction like a starving man watching a meal.

You swallowed hard, a shiver running through you, your thighs pressing together. Fuck.

Your nipples were so sensitive, tingling with every swipe, every flick, every dirty little touch of his rough fingers.

“Yeah,” you breathed, biting your lip, arching into his touch, letting him take what he wanted.

Joel groaned again, deep and needy, gripping your tits harder, pushing them together, squeezing, kneading, fucking obsessed.

His thumbs twisted your nipples, slow and deliberate, watching the way they hardened even further, standing up all soft and pink, looking so fucking suckable.

“Jesus,” he muttered again, voice dropping lower, rougher. “Look at these pretty tits.”

His fingers pinched, tugged, twisted just right—just enough to make you gasp, a soft little sound that sent a lightning bolt of pure fucking need straight to his cock.

He grinned.

A dark, hungry thing.

And then, voice gritted, thick with lust—

“Bet they taste even better.”

“Can I-”

Before he could even finish asking, you were already shushing him, already threading your fingers into his graying hair and pulling his face down, guiding him straight to where he belonged.

Joel went willingly.

Mouth first.

No hesitation. No second-guessing.

Joel yanked you into his lap, gripping you like you might disappear, like this was a dream he’d wake up from if he let go for even a second.

His knees ached against the floor, his back twinged in warning, but he didn’t give a fuck. Not when you were straddling him, warm and soft, tits in his face like some fucking gift from God.

His mouth sealed over your nipple, pulling at it with an obscene, wet suckle, tongue flattening before flicking, rolling, teasing the sensitive bud until it was aching, stiff, raw.

Just a wrecked, filthy groan, muffled against your soft, warm skin as he was sucking deep, sucking hard, sucking wet.

“Fuck yes,” he moaned into your skin, voice ragged, his breath hot and heavy against your breast.

He was loud.

Not in words—because words didn’t matter anymore.

But in the way he suckled, the way his lips sealed tight, how he groaned and slurped and moaned, every single sound of his mouth on you wet and obscene, filling the space around you.

His tongue swiped up, then down, then circled—slow at first, then faster, flicking against the stiff bud before pulling it into his mouth again, sealing his lips tight, sucking deep.

He couldn’t stop.

Didn’t even try.

His hands moved next, big, calloused fingers gripping your waist, dragging you closer, then sliding up to cup both tits in his palms, rough and desperate. 

“Oh—fuck, Joel—” your breath hitched, the sharp pull of his mouth sending a jolt straight between your thighs.

He groaned—deep, guttural, filthy.

“Goddamn, baby—”

Then, harder.

His fingers squeezed tighter, thumbs brushing over your nipples, pinching the one he wasn’t sucking on, rolling it between his fingertips, tugging just enough to make you gasp.

You felt his breath stutter—like he was about to lose it completely—before he pulled off with a wet, sucking pop, spit connecting his lips to your nipple, slick and shining.

He stared.

Breathing ragged. Eyes dark, starving.

And then he dived right back in.

Latching onto the other like a man possessed, groaning into it like he was trying to drink from you, ruin you, consume you.

His hands never stopped.

He hugged you closer, pulling you right into him, pressing your tits together, mashing them up against his face, smothering himself in them.

“So fuckin’ soft, baby—” he rasped, licking, suckling, tongue dragging slow circles around your nipple before he sealed his lips and sucked deep again.

“So fuckin’ sweet—”

He switched between them like he couldn’t pick a favorite, couldn’t decide, couldn’t stop.

His tongue flicked, his lips sucked, his teeth grazed, sending shocks of pleasure straight between your legs.

Your breath hitched.

Your back arched.

Because he wasn’t just playing around.

This wasn’t just teasing.

This wasn’t some guy mouthing at your tits before moving on.

No.

Joel was staying here.

Lingering.

Drowning in it.

Like he could suckle your tits for hours.

And then, voice low, gravelly, wrecked—

“Baby…”

You hummed, already smirking.

He swallowed thickly, his fingers tracing absent circles against your ribs, his voice barely above a whisper—

“Lemme see you.”

Your smirk widened.

“See what, Joel?”

He groaned, head dropping against your shoulder for half a second like he physically needed to collect himself. His nose brushed along your jaw, leaving small kisses, hot breath fanning against your skin, and then—

“Sweetheart, please,” he rasped. “Lemme see that pretty little pussy.”

Your stomach tightened, heat flaring low, but you didn’t let it show. Not yet.

Instead, you stretched, slow and indulgent, arching just slightly, your tits pushing up against his chest. “Hmmm,” you mused, tapping a manicured nail against your lip like you were actually considering it. “You worked so hard for me, didn't you, Joel?”

His jaw flexed. His hands slid down, gripping your thighs, squeezing.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he rasped. “Don’t tease me like this.”

You tilted your head, tapping your chin, dragging it out just a little longer—watching the way his fingers twitched, watching the way his pupils were blown black with hunger, watching the way his hips barely resisted the urge to rut up against you like he needed something, anything.

Then, finally, you sighed.

“Alright, old man,” you murmured, shifting in his lap, the movement making him groan. “Take me to the couch.”

Joel nearly fucking growled.

His arms came around you instantly, strong, needy, hands gripping your thighs as he lifted you. Not struggling, not even hesitating—because fuck if you thought he was too old for this, fuck if you thought he wouldn’t show you exactly what he could do.

He laid you down like you were something delicate, something precious, his hands sliding over your body, down your sides, gripping your thighs, spreading you open just enough.

And then—his fingers curled into the fabric of your skirt.

Not pulling it down.

Just flipping it up.

Joel wasn’t breathing.

At least, it felt that way.

He couldn’t. Not with the way you were spread out in front of him, thighs parted, panties soaked, looking like the filthiest, prettiest fucking thing he’d ever seen in his goddamn life.

And the worst part?

You knew exactly what you were doing to him.

The way you stretched lazily, arching just a little, making your tits push forward. The way your lips curled in that slow, knowing smirk when you caught him staring, like you were indulging him, letting him look, letting him take in every fucking inch of you.

And Joel—Joel was gone.

His hands slid up your thighs, slow, reverent, rough fingertips dragging against soft skin, feeling the heat radiating off you.

“Jesus fuck,” he muttered, his voice low, dark, almost reverent.

Joel dragged his tongue over his bottom lip, gaze locked on the damp spot between your legs, so fucking dark, so fucking pretty.

His thumbs traced along the edges of your panties, brushing just barely over the damp patch at the center, groaning when he felt the way it stuck to you.

“So goddamn wet,” he murmured, almost to himself, shaking his head, his fingers flexing against your skin. “Been like this all night, little girl?”

You moaned, shifting slightly, watching the way his jaw clenched at the movement.

“Maybe,” you teased. “Not my fault you’ve been looking at me like that all day.”

Joel exhaled sharply, a low, ragged sound, his grip tightening.

Poor old man.

He was completely fucking gone.

“See something you like?” you teased, voice sweet, syrupy, making his jaw clench.

Joel exhaled through his nose, hands tightening where they rested on your thighs, fingers pressing in deep, like he needed to hold onto something, ground himself before he completely lost control.

“Baby,” he muttered, shaking his head, voice low and rough, thick with something desperate. “You’re fuckin’ evil.”

You laughed, slow and taunting, your nails dragging up the couch, watching the way his entire body tensed, like he was on the verge of snapping, like he was barely holding himself together.

“Am I?” you mused, tilting your head, watching him watch you.

Joel groaned, deep and guttural, his grip bruising now, his breath shuddering, his hips twitching like just the words alone were enough to ruin him.

And then—

He leaned in.

Pressed his face against your covered cunt, breathing deep, dragging his nose over the soaked fabric, his entire body shuddering, shaking, gripping you like you might disappear if he let go.

And fuck.

He moaned.

You smirked. Moaned.

Because you knew.

Knew exactly what kind of power you had over him. Knew that Joel Miller—this gruff, brooding old man who barely spoke to anyone, who’d spent his life working, fixing, existing—was utterly wrecked over you.

And right now, he was on his knees, rubbing his face against your soaked panties, inhaling like the scent of your cunt was the only thing keeping him alive.

You loved it.

“Mm, you really like it down there, huh?” You moaned dragging your nails through his hair, watching the way his whole body twitched, the way he groaned against you, his nose pressing harder into the damp fabric covering your pussy.

Joel barely lifted his head, just enough to look at you, eyes so dark they were nearly black, lips slick with his own spit. His fingers flexed against your thighs like he was fighting himself—like he wanted to tear those panties off and bury himself in you, but he was holding back.

Barely.

“Like?” he rasped, voice wrecked. His tongue darted out, swiping over his bottom lip, like he was tasting the scent of you in the air.

He groaned.

“Pretty girl, I’m fuckin’ obsessed.”

You moaned. Tilting your hips just slightly, pressing up into his face, watching the way his eyes fluttered, the way his breath stuttered like just feeling your heat against his lips was too much.

“Oh yeah?” Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging. “Then show me.”

Joel didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t think.

Didn’t breathe.

He just acted.

His hands shot up, gripping the waistband of your panties, and for a second, you thought he was going to rip them off you. But no—Joel was feeling something nastier.

Instead, he grabbed the soaked fabric, pulled it tight against your cunt, wedging it between your slick folds, pressing the thin material right into your aching clit.

You gasped.

“Ohhh, fuck—”

Joel groaned, a deep, filthy sound from the pit of his chest as he rubbed the fabric against you, slow at first, then harder, pressing it between your lips, letting the damp, sticky material drag over your throbbing clit.

His nose dragged over the outline of your swollen pussy, mouth parted, tongue slipping out to taste the wet spot directly over your entrance, groaning like it was the best thing he’d ever fucking put in his mouth.

“Jesus fuck,” he growled. “S’soaked, girl. Look at this fuckin’ mess. You see this?” He rubbed the fabric in deeper, groaning at the way it stuck to your folds, the way your slick smeared against it, making it wetter, stickier.

You moaned, hips rolling, pushing against his mouth, chasing the friction.

“Joel—”

He growled again, gripping your thighs tight, keeping you spread as he bit down gently on the covered part of your clit, tugging with his teeth, rolling it between them through the fabric.

You gasped.

Your back arched, hands flying to the couch, gripping the cushions for some kind of grounding because—holy fuck.

Joel chuckled. Chuckled. A deep, perverse sound.

“Ohh, you like that, hm?”

He pressed his tongue flat against your clit through your panties, sucking at the damp fabric, like he was trying to drink you through it, humming like he could taste you, even with the barrier in the way.

Then—

His teeth latched onto the thin cotton, gripping the wet spot over your entrance, and he pulled.

A sharp, precise tug.

Dragging the panties against your cunt, making them slide against your soaked folds, pressing them deeper, wedging them between your swollen lips, rubbing everything.

You fucking whimpered.

Joel moaned against you, rutting his hips against the couch, pressing his nose right against your slit, inhaling, sucking, rubbing his face all over your cunt like a man starved.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, nuzzling you, his voice dripping with filth. “Pussy’s so fuckin’ warm, baby. So fuckin’ messy. Leakin’ all over these little panties—bet they’re ruined, huh?”

Your thighs shook. Your breath stuttered.

Your fingers curled tight in his hair, tugging, and he moaned again, loud, tongue slipping out to drag slow, wet strokes over the damp fabric, gathering everything before pressing it back against your cunt, making you feel how fucking messy you were.

His hands—those big, rough, work-worn hands—slid up your thighs, spreading you wider, holding you open, thumbs pressing into your soft skin as he finally, finally hooked his fingers into your panties and peeled them off.

He groaned when they stuck.

When your slick clung to the fabric.

When he had to drag them down your legs because they were soaked.

And then—

You were bare.

Wet.

Dripping.

All for him.

Joel sat back on his heels, staring.

His fingers flexed, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head, voice deep and wrecked.

Then, dark eyes flicking up to yours, a slow, filthy grin stretching across his face—

“Oh, baby…” He groaned.

“I’m gonna ruin you.”

His voice was a wreck, almost a whisper, full of awe, full of filth, full of something desperate and hungry.

Because you were fucking perfect.

Your pussy was obscene.

Pink and swollen and glistening, folds spread, sticky and slick, so wet you were practically dripping onto the couch. 

Your clit—puffy, throbbing—begging for attention, twitching every time Joel’s hot breath ghosted over you. 

The dim light caught on the shine of your arousal, making everything look impossibly wet, messy, fucking ruined.

And Joel?

Joel was losing his goddamn mind.

His breath hitched, a low, wrecked groan ripping from his chest, his fingers flexing hard against your thighs, like he was physically restraining himself from lunging forward and devouring you whole.

“Fuck me.” His voice came out rough, strangled, barely even a whisper. “Look at that messy little pussy. S’so fuckin’ wet for me, baby.”

You hummed, stretching out against the couch like you had all the time in the world, arching just slightly making your tits look so good, making yourself even softer, even easier, even more of a temptation.

“Yeah?” Your voice was all gasped, all teasing, your hips rolling up just a little, just enough to make the slick between your thighs glisten in the low light. “You like her, Joel?”

His tongue darted out to wet his lips, jaw clenching, nostrils flaring, eyes blown dark and wide, locked on your cunt like it was hypnotizing him, pulling him under.

He let out a rough, humorless laugh, shaking his head, squeezing your thighs just a little tighter. “Baby, I’ll never let go of her.”

That smirk stretched slow across your lips, your thighs parting just a little more, an open invitation, a silent dare.

Joel groaned—deep, guttural, painful.

And then he snapped.

His big, rough hands grabbed you, dragging you down the couch with no warning, tugging you toward him until your ass was hanging off the edge, his broad shoulders wedged between your thighs, his face—his mouth—right where he wanted it.

And then—

A long, wet, messy lick.

Tongue flat, broad, dragging over your slit, catching every drop of slick, lapping it up, his nose bumping against your mound, his groan muffled as he tasted you.

And Jesus fuck—he growled.

“Goddamn, baby… this sloppy little pussy.” His voice was hot against your skin, his tongue flicking out to catch another drop of arousal, swallowing it down, his thumbs spreading you open even wider. “Fuckin’ drippin’ all over my face.”

You whined, hips bucking, but Joel’s grip slammed you back down.

“Uh-uh,” he rasped, dragging his tongue up again, circling your clit, teasing, groaning loud like he was tasting something sinful, something addictive, something he was never gonna get enough of.

His lips wrapped around the swollen bud, pulling it into his mouth, sucking, his tongue flicking, his nose buried against your mound, his face pressed so deep in your pussy he was fucking drowning.

And he loved it.

You were soaked.

Dripping.

And Joel wanted it.

Wanted every drop.

His tongue licked into you, fucking inside, groaning loud when he felt your walls clench, sucking your juices from his own tongue like he was drinking you, like you were feeding him.

And fuck—

His hips rutted against the couch, grinding, his cock straining against his jeans, so fucking wet, his pre-cum soaking through, his whole body wound tight like he could come just like this, just from eating you, from tasting you, from hearing the little broken whimpers spilling from your lips.

His fingers dug in deeper, pressing into the softness of your thighs, spreading you wider, pulling you closer, burying his tongue so deep inside you it made your eyes roll back.

And then—

A rough, growled, wrecked—

“Goddamn, baby. Gonna fuckin’ stay down here.”

Joel was gone.

Buried between your thighs, tongue fucking into you like a starving man, like this was what he was made to do.

And fuck, maybe he was.

Because he was too good at it.

You moaned, dragging a hand through his hair, pulling, loving the way he groaned, the way his hips rutted harder against the couch, the way he needed this.

“Fuck, Joel,” you panted, voice thick with pleasure.

Joel growled.

He actually fucking growled, pulling you closer, spreading you wider, licking into you deeper, his tongue flicking, curling, sucking, his whole body shaking with the effort of holding himself back from humping the fucking couch like some desperate, pathetic thing.

And then—

Joel spat on it.

A wet, messy, lewd spit, right over your swollen clit.

And then?

He rubbed his face into it.

Like some depraved old pervert, moaning as he smothered himself with your slick, nuzzling into it, smearing his own spit and your arousal all over his lips, his chin, his nose .. damn nearly up to his forehead. 

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, breath hot, words slurred against your swollen folds. “Smell so fuckin’ good, baby. Taste even fuckin’ better.”

His tongue swiped over your clit, broad and firm, lapping at it like he was fucking thirsty, groaning when he felt you pulse, when he felt your thighs tremble.

He spat on it again.

And smeared it in.

Dragged his tongue through the mess, licking his own spit off your cunt like he was cleaning you up.

And fuck.

It sent a shock of pleasure straight through your body, a sharp, hot jolt that made your back arch, your mouth dropping open in a broken moan.

“Fuck, Joel,” you gasped, fingers tightening in his hair. “I—I’m gonna—”

Joel knew.

Knew you were close, knew he had you teetering, knew you were about to fucking snap.

So he latched onto your clit, sucking, moaning, filthy and loud, his fingers bruising into your thighs, holding you open, keeping you still, forcing you to take it.

And when you came—

Oh, fuck, when you came.

Your body jerked, legs trembling, the orgasm hitting you so hard it stole the breath from your lungs, your vision going white, your whole body clenching around the pleasure, drowning in it.

And Joel?

Joel groaned.

Like he felt it.

Like your orgasm belonged to him.

Like he had just come from tasting you, from making you come, from hearing you cry out his name.

And he didn’t stop.

Didn’t fucking stop.

Kept licking. Kept sucking. Kept fucking devouring, his tongue flicking over your oversensitive clit, dragging out every last aftershock, keeping you on the edge, keeping you throbbing.

And you—

You were shaking.

Body weak, legs useless, cunt aching for something more.

“Joel,” you gasped, breathless, still trembling. “I—I want your cock.”

And Joel?

He didn’t hear you.

Didn’t process it.

Because he was lost.

Lost in your pussy, lost in the taste, lost in the way you fucking shook for him.

His tongue dragged through the mess, lapping up every drop, swallowing you down like you were something precious, something he couldn’t afford to waste.

So you tried again.

“Joel,” you panted, tugging at his hair, trying to get his attention. “I want your—”

And he still didn’t listen.

Just kept licking. Kept sucking. Kept moaning against your cunt like he was starved.

So you had to rip his face away.

Fisting your hands in his hair, pulling him back, making him look up at you—

And fuck.

His face.

Wet. Slick. Lips swollen, chin shining, pupils blown.

And his mouth—

His mouth was fucking open, his tongue still flicking like he was trying to find you, like he was looking for your pussy, like he was about to dive right back in.

He was panting, breath heavy, wrecked, like he had just fucked you, like he was the one who had just come.

And then—

A low, desperate, ruined—

“Baby, please.”

Like he needed it.

Like he needed to go back.

Like he wasn’t done yet.

The smell of you. The taste of you. The way you squirmed and moaned, your fingers sinking into his hair, giving the softest little tugs that made his cock throb.

You hummed, dragging your nails lightly against his scalp. “You gonna stay down there all night, handsome?”

Joel groaned against your thigh, his fingers tightening where they gripped your hips.

“Would if you’d let me,” he muttered, voice rough and muffled.

You laughed, breathy and teasing. “Well…” You tugged gently at his hair, tilting his head back slightly, forcing him to look up at you. “Maybe I want something else tonight.”

Joel’s head spun.

His stomach clenched, heat coiling low, thick and heavy in his gut.

Because you couldn’t possibly mean—

“Maybe,” you mused, trailing your fingers down his face, smirking. “You should fuck me instead.”

Joel went completely fucking still.

A full-body freeze.

Because, holy shit.

He hadn’t even considered it.

He hadn’t dared to.

Had been so caught up in this—this ritual, this worship, this sick fucking devotion of getting to lose himself between your thighs, mouth greedy and desperate, tongue messy and unrelenting—he hadn’t let himself imagine it going further.

Hadn’t even let himself hope for it.

But now?

Now, you were looking at him with those big, bright eyes, your lips curled in something teasing and wicked, your fingers trailing down his chest, and fuck.

It hit him.

Like a fucking freight train.

He was gonna fuck you.

Joel groaned, his head falling forward against your stomach, breath heavy, body shaking as his hands gripped your thighs, squeezing so tight it bordered on bruising.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, more to himself than you. “Fuck. Baby.”

You grinned, delighted. “Yeah?”

Joel swallowed, lifting his head, his gaze burning as he looked up at you.

“Yeah.”

His voice was rough, wrecked.

“Then get up here, old man,” you purred, tugging at his shoulders. “Come fuck me.”

And, fuck, he was gonna.

Somehow, he managed to kneel between your legs, looming over you, broad and heavy and burning with something filthy and desperate.

Somehow, he managed to unbuckle his belt, yank his zipper down, pull himself free—

You hadn’t expected this.

Hadn’t expected him to be this thick.

Because, fuck me.

Joel Miller was fucking big.

The way his cock twitched the second the cool air hit it, sending a slow, heavy bead of precome dripping down—hot and sticky, landing right on your stomach.

God.

Your breath hitched, your thighs twitching where they were still spread open for him, aching.

And Joel?

He was just watching.

Watching that glistening drop smear against your skin, dragging his fist slow along his length, squeezing at the base, like he was trying to calm himself down.

Not that it was working.

Because he was dripping.

Leaking all over you, precum slick and thick, dribbling down the fat head of his cock, smearing over the tip as he worked himself, his jaw clenched tight, breathing heavy.

His cock was—fuck.

Thick. So fucking thick.

Broad, heavy in his palm, his shaft veined and throbbing, dark with need, his swollen head gleaming wet under the dim light.

A thick trail of silver and black hair led down from his stomach, curling around the base—graying just like the rest of him, salt-and-pepper in a way that made your stomach tighten.

And his balls.

Heavy and full, hanging low, tight and aching with neglect, pulled up just slightly, like his body was already fighting to hold off the inevitable.

And Joel—Joel was losing his fucking mind.

Because fuck.

Your soft, pretty body sprawled out beneath him, tits still sticky from his mouth, your stomach slick with the mess he was dripping all over you, your thighs spread open, that sweet, soaked pussy waiting for him—his cock.

He groaned, low and ruined, watching another thick bead of precum slip from the head, drooling down his shaft, slicking up his fingers.

He couldn’t stop leaking.

Couldn’t stop fucking twitching, pulsing in his own grip, so hard it was almost painful.

His body was betraying him.

Decades of needing, decades of nothing, and now?

Now he was about to lose it over just this.

Just you, looking up at him like that.

Smiling sweetly like you fucking knew.

Like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

Joel groaned, watching your expression shift, watching your eyes flick down to where he was gripping himself, your lips parting just slightly, breath hitching.

And fuck, if that wasn’t the hottest fucking thing he’d ever seen.

He smirked. Just a little.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he rasped. “Ain’t gettin’ shy on me now, are ya?”

You dragged your gaze back up to his, grinning lazily, voice smooth and teasing. “Nah, just thinking.”

Joel raised a brow, cocking his head. “Yeah? ’Bout what?”

Your lips curled.

“How the hell this thing’s gonna fit inside me.”

Joel growled.

A deep, guttural, feral fucking sound, his grip tightening around his cock, his other hand gripping your thigh, yanking you closer.

You giggled, delighted, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, pulling him down, his body pressing heavy against yours, his cock resting hot and thick against your belly, pulsing.

He was panting.

You could feel it, the heat of his breath against your cheek, the slight tremble in his arms, the pure need radiating off him.

“You’ll take it,” he murmured, voice rough and low, dangerous in a way that made your stomach clench. “You’ll take all of it, baby. Ain’t no way I’m not givin’ you every goddamn inch.”

Fuck.

You whimpered.

And Joel—he fucking felt it.

Felt the way you clenched around nothing, the way your thighs trembled, the way your nails dug into his shoulders.

Felt the way your body was begging for it.

“Joel…” Your voice was thinner now, breathless.

He smirked.

“What, baby?” He pressed against your entrance, just barely, the thick head of his cock stretching you the tiniest bit before he pulled away again, teasing, watching the way your body tensed, the way your breath hitched. “You were talkin’ so much before. What happened?”

You whined.

Louder this time.

And Joel groaned, dropping his forehead against yours, shaking his head.

“Jesus,” he murmured. “You’re so fuckin’ spoiled, baby.”

Then—

Joel pressed forward.

Slow.

Heavy.

Thick.

The swollen head of his cock pushed against your slick entrance, parting your folds, stretching you open inch by agonizing inch. Your body clenched around him instinctively, the burn sweet and deep, making you gasp, your fingers digging harder into his shoulders.

“Fuck—” Joel groaned, long and drawn out, his forehead dropping against yours as he fought to hold himself back, his hands gripping your waist so tightly you knew there’d be bruises come morning. “Goddamn, baby… s’fuckin’ tight—”

You moaned at the stretch, the way your cunt swallowed him up, the way he felt inside you—thick and throbbing, pulsing against your walls, filling you more than you ever thought possible.

And fuck, he wasn’t even all the way in yet.

Joel was shaking.

Every muscle in his body drawn tight, his cock twitching as he struggled to keep himself together, to not just slam in all at once and lose himself in the hot, wet grip of you.

He was too old for this shit.

Too fucking old to be trembling like some desperate goddamn virgin, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt, his breath coming in ragged pants as he forced himself to go slow.

But Jesus Christ—

You were so small.

So fucking tiny compared to him, your cunt squeezing around his cock like it was trying to keep him out, like you weren’t built to take something this fucking big.

But you would.

You had to.

Joel wasn’t stopping.

“Take it,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, voice wrecked, low and strained. “You’ll fuckin’ take all of it, little girl. Gonna stretch you out real nice, make you mine.”

You whimpered, legs trembling as you tried to relax, tried to take him deeper.

“Good job, sweet girl,” Joel groaned, voice rough, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs, spreading them wider, pressing his weight against you. “That’s it. That’s a good fuckin’ girl.”

You clenched around him at that, and Joel felt it—felt the way your body squeezed him, the way your breath hitched, the way your back arched just slightly, like your body was instinctively trying to get more.

And fuck, that just about broke him.

His hips twitched, and suddenly, he was sinking deeper, forcing more of his cock inside your tight little cunt, and you gasped, nails raking down his arms as he stretched you even further, the feeling almost too much, too full—

But fuck, it felt so good.

“Joel—”

He groaned at the sound of his name falling from your lips, dark eyes snapping up to meet yours, pupils blown wide, his lips parted as he panted against your mouth.

“Yeah, baby?” he rasped, voice dripping with heat.

You couldn’t even form words. Couldn’t think past the way he felt inside you, past the way he was holding you open, filling you up, stretching you out in a way you’d never felt before.

“More,” you whispered, breath hitching, thighs trembling. “Please.”

Joel growled.

Deep and low, something primal and wrecked, and before you could process it—

He thrust forward.

Burying himself to the fucking hilt.

You choked on a gasp, your whole body jerking at the sheer force of it, the sudden fullness, the way he bottomed out inside you, his cock nestled so deep it felt like he was fucking splitting you in half.

Joel snapped.

The last thread of his restraint fucking gone.

“Fuck—” He groaned, hips jerking, grinding himself deeper, reveling in the way you squirmed, the way you moaned, the way your body clenched around him like you never wanted to let go.

“Goddamn, sweetheart—” His voice was all rough edges, his head dropping to your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin. “You feel that? How deep I am?”

You could barely think, barely breathe, barely function beyond the overwhelming stretch of him inside you, the way he filled every inch of you, every nerve ending fucking screaming in pleasure.

Joel didn’t wait for an answer.

Didn’t need one.

Because he knew.

Knew you felt it.

Knew you loved it.

“Look at you,” he groaned, his lips dragging over your throat, his fingers digging into your thighs. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. Made for this. Made to take my cock, weren’t you? You were askin' for this, huh? Teasin' me all these weeks?”

You moaned.

Loud and wrecked, your head tilting back, exposing more of your throat, and Joel fucking ate it up.

“Fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ me so goddamn tight,” he rasped, voice strained, his hips pulling back just slightly before pressing forward again, grinding against that soft, spongy spot inside you. “Like this little pussy don’t wanna let me go.”

You whimpered.

Because it didn’t.

Didn’t want him to go.

Didn’t want anything except more—more of him, more of this, more of the way he was stretching you open, fucking ruining you for anyone else.

And Joel knew it.

Could feel it.

Could see it in the way your body arched, in the way your nails dug into his skin, in the way you moaned his name like a prayer.

And fuck—

That did something to him.

Something dark.

Something needy.

Something possessive.

His hips snapped forward, harder this time, and you cried out, hands flying up to grip his shoulders, and fuck, he loved that sound.

“Oh, god—i - you feel so good,” you cry, eyes fluttering shut, pleasure rolling over you in hot, heavy waves.

“Yeah, baby?” he rasped, voice full of filthy heat. “That what you want? Want me to fuck this sweet little pussy with my cock? Want me to ruin you?”

You gasped, back arching, nails dragging down his back.

“Yes—”

And that was all he needed.

All he needed to let go, to give in, to let the raw, aching need consume him.

Joel’s grip on your hips tightened, and then—Joel growled.

A deep, wrecked, guttural thing that ripped through his chest, and suddenly—he was moving.

Thrusting.

Fucking you.

“Oh—oh god—” Your back arched, breath hitching, body jolting with each sharp thrust, each desperate snap of his hips.

Joel fucking grinned.

“That what it takes, huh?” he rasped, voice dripping with filthy satisfaction. “A big cock to shut you up, baby? Hm?”

You moaned, head lolling back against the cushions, unable to form words, pleasure slamming into you so hard your mind went blank.

And Joel? He ate it up.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he gritted out, gripping your hips tighter, dragging you down onto him, forcing you to take every inch. “Too busy takin’ my cock to be a smug little brat now, huh?”

You whimpered.

And Joel groaned, eyes rolling back slightly as his pace faltered, his cock twitching inside you.

Fuck—he wasn’t gonna last.

Not with this.

Not with the way you were tightening around him, squeezing him like you wanted him to cum, like you wanted him to break apart inside you, wanted to milk every drop from his aching cock.

His breath turned ragged, hips stuttering, muscles tensing, and—

“Oh, baby—shit, I—I won’t—”

His voice broke.

He gritted his teeth, fighting it, holding on as long as he could, but you were so fucking tight, so fucking wet, so fucking perfect—

And then—

You clenched around him again, dragging him deeper, pressing your lips to his ear, voice all soft and sweet—

“Cum for me, Joel.”

And that was it.

Joel snapped.

His body locked up, cock throbbing as a strangled groan tore from his throat, his hips pressing flush against you as he spilled deep inside you, pumping you full, burying himself as deep as he could while pleasure crashed over him in heavy, burning waves.

His breath stuttered, his whole body trembling, nails digging into your skin.

Your body was still trembling, sweat slicking your skin, the heat between your legs thick and wet with the mess Joel had already left inside you. Your mind was still spinning, your breath uneven, but Joel wasn’t done.

Not even close.

He held you close, his big body still caging you in, his thick arms wrapped around you like he needed to keep you there, to pin you down, to claim you.

His lips moved against your damp skin, pressing soft, wet kisses against your shoulder, up your throat, nuzzling against the sensitive skin behind your ear as he let out a deep, satisfied groan.

But then—

Another pulse.

Another deep, warm spurt of cum filling you up, coating your walls even though you swore he had already given you everything he had.

Your breath hitched, your body twitching slightly as you felt it—felt him still throbbing, still leaking, still making sure every single drop stayed buried inside you.

“Joel,” you gasped, tilting your head back against the couch, your fingers curling weakly into his sweaty back. “You’re still cumming?”

Joel grunted against your neck, his hips giving a slow, almost involuntary push forward, like he was trying to press himself even deeper, to make sure it stuck. His lips dragged up to your jaw, warm and slightly open, his breath ragged, his voice wrecked when he finally muttered,

“Still got more for you, baby.”

Fuck.

Your stomach tightened, another wave of heat rolling through you at the sheer desperation in his tone, the filth in his words. You felt his mouth on you again, felt the rough scratch of his beard against your sensitive skin, and then—

Joel groaned, his lips finally finding yours, capturing them in a slow, wet kiss. The second you moaned into it—

Another slow pulse inside you.

Another spurt.

Hot, deep, filling you up all over again.

Joel shuddered against you, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, swallowing your soft whimpers as he rocked into you, his cock still buried deep, still throbbing, still giving you everything.

You broke the kiss first, tilting your head back against the couch, a dazed, smug little smile curling on your lips. “You really are an old pervert,” you murmured, voice teasing, breathless.

Joel’s hand came up to cup your jaw, tilting your face back toward his. His dark eyes were hooded, heavy with lust, filled with something possessive and raw as his fingers flexed slightly, keeping you in place.

“And you,” he rasped, his voice low, dangerous, “are a fuckin’ menace.”

His hips rocked again, and you let out a choked little gasp as you felt just how deep he was still buried inside you, still stretching you, still keeping you full. He groaned at the sound, dipping his head to bite softly at your bottom lip before licking over it, tasting you, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, lazy tease.

You melted into it, humming softly as you curled your fingers into the damp hair at the nape of his neck, pulling slightly.

Joel growled.

His breath was heavy against your lips, warm and ragged, his body shuddering slightly as the last waves of pleasure pulsed through him. He pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your jaw, then another just beneath your ear, his lips soft and warm and so different from the way he’d just fucked you—filthy and desperate and rough.

Now, he was gentle.

Now, he was melting against you.

His weight pressing you down, his hands smoothing over your hips, his fingers curling possessively around the softness of your thighs. Keeping you close. Keeping you his.

You sighed, shifting just slightly, feeling the thick heat of him settle inside you, the stretch easing, leaving behind a deep, satisfied ache. You were so full.

So stuffed with him.

And god, you could feel it—the way he was still throbbing deep inside, the way the sticky warmth of his spend was already beginning to leak out, thick and hot, slicking your thighs where you were still stretched wide around him.

You smirked.

“Hm,” you mused, tilting your head back against the couch, letting your fingers drag lazily down his back. “I really got forty-year-old cum inside me right now, huh?”

Joel groaned, shifting slightly, dragging his lips down the curve of your throat, nipping softly. “Baby, don’t—”

“What?” You grinned, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you rolled your hips slightly, making him hiss. “Just stating facts.”

Joel exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing where they gripped your waist, holding you still. “Not forty,” he muttered, his voice a low, grumbled thing against your skin.

You hummed, tilting your head slightly. “Oh? My bad. Forty-something-year-old cum.”

Joel groaned again, his forehead dropping against your shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

You laughed softly, your fingers threading through his damp hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. “And yet,” you purred, voice sweet and teasing, “you still came so deep inside me.”

His hips flexed, pushing deeper, and you gasped, arching slightly beneath him. Joel lifted his head then, dark eyes meeting yours, something warm and hungry and satisfied settling there.

“Damn right, I did.”

You shivered.

His lips curled slightly, his hand dragging down to rest against your lower belly, pressing there—right over the place where you were still stuffed full of him.

“Know how long I been thinkin’ about that?” he murmured, fingers flexing slightly. “Fillin’ you up like this?”

Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering as he rolled his hips again, slow, lazy, letting you feel every inch of him inside you. “Joel…”

His lips found yours again, slow and deep and lingering, his tongue sliding against yours in a soft, lazy tease. You melted into it, letting him kiss you slow, letting him take his time, letting him savor the taste of you, the feel of you, the warmth of you still wrapped around him.

When he finally pulled back, he looked at you for a long moment, his hand smoothing up your side, curling around your ribs, tracing absentminded circles into your skin.

“You okay, sweet girl?” he murmured, voice softer now, rough around the edges but warm.

You exhaled, stretching slightly, feeling the way his body fit against yours, warm and solid and safe. You felt good.

Better than good.

A slow, satisfied smile curled on your lips. “More than okay.”

Joel grunted, pressing one last kiss to your jaw before finally shifting, pulling out slowly, carefully, a deep groan rumbling from his chest as he felt just how soaked you were.

He sat back, dark eyes dragging over the sight of you—legs spread, pussy messy and glistening, his cum already beginning to leak out onto the couch. His jaw clenched, his fingers twitching like he wanted to reach out and push it back inside.

Your smirk deepened. “Like what you see?”

Joel exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “You’re gonna be the death of me, girl.”

You stretched your arms over your head, arching slightly, your grin widening. “Well,” you mused, voice lazy and satisfied, “if you die, at least you’ll die a very happy pervert.”

Joel rolled his eyes, reaching for you, tugging you onto his lap effortlessly, his arms wrapping around your waist, holding you close.

You sighed, melting into him, pressing your forehead against his, your fingers dragging up the back of his neck.

Joel exhaled, his breath warm against your lips, his fingers flexing slightly where they gripped your hips.

Then, voice low, murmured against your mouth—

“Yeah, baby. Happiest I’ve ever been.”

· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··

...Hey y'all im back. Opinions and comments are greatly appreciated please PLEASE (please)

[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

send this to all your favourite moots and grow a garden! KEEP THE GARDEN GROWING!🌼💚🌱💚🌻 🌳🪻🌼🍒🌹

🥰

[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

𝐎𝐟 𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐬

summary: after facing embarrassment from Aegon’s intrusive visit, Sylvi helps Aemond find attraction with someone closer to his own age. [aemond x fem!reader] [wc: 5.0k]

warnings: 18+ minors dni, smut, p in v, oral (m receiving), hand job, fingering, voyeurism/exhibitionism, aemond’s abuse by her is not tolerated here 🙂‍↔️, HotD themes.

quick links: masterlist | gif credit: @seaside-storm

The sounds of the Silk Streets in the early hours of morning were not for the faint of heart.

You had grown accustomed to them over the years of your residency—the noises, the people, the actions and wants of those who seek the services of an establishment like the one Sylvi ran.

It was not your proudest achievement; not one you’d shout from the rooftops but one that kept the food on the table.

It wasn’t hard. It was sex. And you learned to enjoy it with what little freedom was left when the coins were tossed and your body was aching.

Between your fingers one of those coins twirled absentmindedly as the curtains of your bedding swished at the retreat of your latest payer. There were seldom benefits from the occupation you took up yet the pay, after years of understanding and learning, had grown exponentially.

And the coin that tossed between your fingertips was enough to put food on the table for a few days; enough to buy a dress or to get passage to another town.

It was a reward for service you did not mind.

Sylvi had taught you what you needed to know. How to move, how to pleasure. She helped you determine what felt good and what would feel unpleasant to both you and a partner.

But she had her transgressions far beyond the positive.

One of them stalked the building in a fume.

The laughter that had propagated such anger left an hour ago but the remnants of the jesters stuck heavy in the air. They opened curtains and made spectacles of the givers and the receivers; they stared too long at you in the nude to make you feel at ease.

In the distance, you heard your name called yet you continued to flip the coin.

Aegon, the King as he was now, was no friend to the servants of pleasure. You consider yourself fortunate that he never sought you—as desirable, as insatiable, as you were.

It saved you from a world of hurt from a man as fickle as he was.

Although his reputation preceded him and the ire that still held itself like a cloud over the house was from his head, his brother, Aemond, was a welcome guest.

Though he too was someone you had not laid with either.

He had never lingered far from the woman of the house.

“Y/N.”

Said woman pulled back the curtain of your bed roughly. Against the pillows and covered in a robe the color of a midnight black, you lazily gazed at her.

“Did you not hear me call?” Sylvi asked impatiently. Her irritation was stinging.

“I was busy, Madame,” you responded loosely.

You arched your back and with it came cracks of relaxation. It felt good after being holed up in your bed for two hours.

“You know how Dornish men are,” you informed her. “That one was quite… spirited at this late hour.”

“What happy news for you,” she panned before nodding her head in the direction of her usual hideaway. “I seek a favor.”

“A favor?” You questioned with a mewl.

“It is for the one we do not speak of.”

Sylvi’s eyes gave you a warning. Aemond Targaryen… the one who fumed.

She had never asked for a favor regarding the Prince before and it intrigued you. It would fall a lie if you spoke of never having imagined what a man like him would be like in your bed.

He was a magnificent creature.

Tall and carved from the marble of a great sculptor, Prince Aemond was no stranger to the gazes of the pleasure folk. The way their eyes shined and pupils grew large, you were surely one of them.

It did not hurt that he was no more than the age you were now and had not yet taken a wife.

It was silly, however, to imagine a whore being the wife of a Prince. He had barely sparred you glances when he visited.

Dreams. That is all that it would remain.

“And you seek me?” You questioned, dropping the coin on your clothed stomach.

“I have a proposition for you,” she clarified. “One that will pay you well for your service.”

“The receiver is willing?”

“Yes.”

Her alcove was far nicer than yours.

Lavish with silken pillows and warm candlelight, it was near romantic if you forgot the circumstances of her actions. It smelt of lavender and oils; the kind she wanted throughout the establishment but could only create the corner she wanted here.

It was the first time you had been invited into the space.

Sylvi walked around you as you stood just inside of the curtains. She held the tassel of her robe between her fingertips, swinging it gently.

“We do not speak on what happens here, understood?” She asked you.

“I understand, Madame.” She nodded her head in approval.

“Good,” Sylvi affirmed.

On a ledge behind the bed, she grabbed a small sack of coins and tossed them to you. It landed with a jingle at the edge of the bed.

With delicate hands you grasped the strings and pulled open the bag to see coins worth the entire building. You dropped it, looking at Sylvi with wide eyes.

“T-This… this is far too much,” you scoffed.

“It is what the Prince offered,” she spoke as if the currency was nothing more than what the common folk paid.

There had to have been 10 gold dragons inside of the pouch.

The total jostled you.

You had long understood that the job you took on was ill-inspired. The money you had made was reasonable and never made you feel ashamed to take it.

But this… the currency enough to buy twenty horses; enough to buy a home or sail to Essos with no intention of returning… it did bring shame.

“And for such a currency what does the Prince expect of me? I will not be humiliated—“

“I have no intention of humiliating you.”

The voice cut through glass.

Behind you, with the curtains of Sylvi’s bedding swaying to a gentle close the man of her proposition appeared. You turned around with your mouth agape from the inability to finish your thoughts and as many mortals had before, your mind ceased its thoughts.

He was ethereal, otherworldly.

And he was fully nude.

You stuttered stupidly to greet him.

“P-Prince Aemond,” you managed. “I apologize. I did not intend to speak out of turn.”

He hummed, observing you as you did him. You straightened your back at the sensation. His eye piercing and cold—in a room basked in warmth he was not the bringer of it. Aemond let his mind roam the faults and perfections of your body and needn’t say what it was aloud.

He trusted Sylvi in a twisted way. If she said you were right for the job, surely she would not steer him wrong.

“So,” Aemond’s eye flicked to Sylvi. You took the opportunity to observe the blue gleam of the sapphire that filled the vacancy of his other.

“This is she?”

She introduced your name to him and his eye met yours.

“And the terms have been accepted?”

“They have, My Prince,” you spoke without hesitation.

“Aemond,” he clarified. “You are to call me Aemond.”

You tried his name on your lips and it was breathless. As his eye stalked your body, he took the initiative to take the step forward. The understanding of your willingness emboldened him to bury his brother’s words.

He was seldom humiliated but the reasons he flocked to Sylvi were different from the ones he sought from a willing companion: to release and forget.

Aemond approached you with soft steps and it was suddenly difficult to remember how to breathe. You held your breath, waiting, as his arm extended to you and his fingers brushed the fabric of your robe along your collarbones. He traced the skin with his fingers, along the edges of your robe as the delicate lacing became rough under his fingertips.

He was testing the waters.

You remained focused on his face as your heart rate began to increase. Every thump faster aligned with the draws of his fingers; long and nimble, softer than the men you were used to on days as long as these.

He was fluid and natural. There was no scared boy inside of him, but the hardened man he wanted the world to see.

Sylvi rounded her bed and you were reminded that she was still there as she looked at you.

“Touch her, Aemond. Touch her as you do in your dreams.”

At her command, his hand stilled. You half-thought her demands had sent him into a spiral of regret. Perhaps he would apologize for his lustful responses, scurrying away and back into the pit of dragon’s he came from.

Instead of listening to her in haste, he asked you a question.

“Where are you from?”

You were taken aback but remained stoic. Your job was to put on a performance no matter how surprising his words felt. No patron had ever asked you about, well, you.

You were nothing more than an orifice for their wanton needs.

“Honeyholt,” you responded quietly.

“Not far from Oldtown,” he commented, tracing the lace but never touching your skin. His hand grazed it until he reached the knot of your robe.

You shook your head, “no.”

“Did you enjoy it there?”

“It was far less exciting than King’s Landing.”

“May I?”

You had never had a patron ask permission before either.

You felt like a girl being dotted on. It was a strange feeling, one that had turned so drastically from a mere thirty minutes before—being treated like a doll to be thrown from one to be pampered… it was not what you were expecting.

“You may, Aemond.”

His finite hands worked the knot swiftly to let the robe fall open. When it did, he let it sit there for a moment as he took in the shape of your breasts underneath the fabric, he could see the mound of your pussy, and the way you stood completely still in wait.

He felt powerful when he normally felt meek.

Sylvi had been right. He did need this.

Aemond could feel the woman’s eyes behind him and whether they were on himself or you he would not know, but he felt them heavy.

He took his hands and pushed the fabric from your shoulders. It pooled around your feet in one push.

You breathed in deeply, nipples pebbling at the coolness now meeting you.

It was obvious, however, that your mere body was not enough to rouse him to hardness. If you spent anymore time watching him as he watched you, the sun would be up and his duties would call him away.

“Touch him,” Sylvi instructed you. “Do not be afraid.”

“I am not afraid,” you responded to her but did not look at her. She took a seat on her bed as you moved to stand toe to toe with Aemond.

“May I touch you?” You asked in the same voice of permission he had given you.

“You may,” and he said your name with a weight hearty on his tongue.

With his permission you reached for his right hand and placed it on your breast. His timidness was beginning to show through the hesitancy of his actions. The slow grip on your breast slowly became more comforting the more time he took.

“It’s alright,” you whispered as though Sylvi was not there and you were alone with the Prince. “You can touch me.”

You felt more pressure from his palm. Drawing your own hand to his chest, you began to feel the outlines of his muscles. Aemond was lean and fit, skinny but not sickly.

Each muscle was tense under your touch. He shuttered a breath through his nose and your hand recoiled in the slightest.

“I apologize,” he spoke as lowly as you had before. “I have not been with another in a long time.”

He had not been with another other than Sylvie in a long time, he meant.

“I can be slow, My Prince.”

“Aemond,” he corrected you.

“Aemond,” you said sheepishly in your forgetfulness.

“I do not need you to be slow.”

You nodded in reply and placed your hand back on his chest. You followed it down until you began to broach the zone in which your talents needed to please not only him, but Sylvi also.

If you were a disappointment, there would be no clothes nor food nor horses nor castles in your future.

“Then I will not go slow, Aemond.”

He hummed, intaking a breath as your fingers gently, kindly, fluttered over his cock. You looked up at him with your eyes hooded, eyelashes batting and he thought for an instance that no woman had ever looked at him that way.

Sylvi hadn’t and it awoke something with him.

You began to work him with your hand as he let his hand fall from your breast and brought it up to the back of your neck. He massaged the space briefly before holding onto you with a tighter grip.

In your hand he began to show himself to you. Growing in length, you licked your lips in anticipation and swallowed the bug that formed in your throat.

“Aemond,” you questioned as you stepped closer. You parted your legs to stand between one of his and he stopped you only by moving his other hand to grip your chin.

He could feel his heart beating out of his chest.

The feel of your hand on his cock was enthralling. So smooth and soft, gripping him in hardness at the right moments but never suffocating and never hurting.

“Yes?” He was near breathless.

You took his response with no words but a shifting of your hand. You left his shaft and snaked your hand to his balls, cupping them the best you could. His staggered breath brought a small, sly smile to your lips as he gripped your chin tighter and his eye narrowed.

“Would—“ in his grip, you could barely get words out. He changed his positioning to hold both sides of your neck. “Would you like to see what I can do with my mouth?”

“It would be a waste to not,” he grunted when your hand put pressure on his balls.

He released your neck and watched as you sank to your knees obediently. In your position, he was reminded of the good and pious that prayed to the Seven. Your eyes were so innocent but your mind wicked; your hands were pleasurable and your words soothing.

It was a change and it was working for him.

You sat with your knees apart, feet against your backside and heels digging into the flesh. You ran your hands down your body as he watched you delicately before running your hands up his legs and resting on his upper thighs.

Placing a soft kiss on one of his thighs, you worked yourself toward his member as it beckoned you. You grasped the base of his cock with your hand, placing a sweet kiss on his ever-swollen head.

You let saliva gather at the front of your mouth and let it dribble out and onto his cock before taking him with your mouth.

Aemond was heavy on your tongue. His warmth was sending electricity from your mouth to your core; you felt the throb of want begin to pool at your center. He took both of his hands and placed them at the top of your head but did not push. He did not force and he allowed you to escape when you needed to breathe.

But he was in another world.

Never had he been taken in such a way but his mind liked playing tricks. It was not his first and when he thought back on the times he had been pleasured as such it was not as enjoyable.

Yet, he forgot her stares and focused on you. A woman closer to his own age and one that had a system of morality of questions and seeking answers in regards to pleasure.

You took his extended gratitude and kindness and returned it with your own.

With every pull of your mouth, you filled the space with what your mouth couldn’t take with your hand. You squeezed at his base and it made him see stars. In your vision you could see him watching if you looked up.

How his blue gem gleamed at you…

As you turned your head and used your salvia and some of his pre-cum that began to leak to wet his shaft, you moaned at the sensation. It sent you tingling, drawing a hand away from his thigh; you brought it between your legs and began to rub circles on your clit.

The wetness gathered quickly. You shut your eyes as the two parts of you, mouth and cunt, were being used to your own delight. As you opened them again, Sylvi caught the corner of your eye.

She rubbed herself over her clothes and you halted. Hand retreating from your body in an instant; the salvia that had gathered landed on your thigh with a splat and your hand loosened what held onto him. Aemond let one of his hands fall loosely beside him as he looked up and kept focus on the wall in front of him.

He needed to change. He had asked her for this change for his own sake and it was time for it to happen.

“Sylvi,” Aemond muttered absentmindedly.

“Yes?” She prompted as if he were to ask her to join the two of you. Her tone made you nervous but he never let his other hand fall from your head.

She went to remove her own robe but he stopped her with a turn of his head.

“Leave us,” he commanded.

Slyvi paused her hands against her body, dejected at Aemond while her eyes bounced between the two of you.

You, your hand still on his cock and your lips barely kissing it. Him, with his hand on your head and mind completely taken by you.

“Aem—“

“Do I have to repeat myself?” He asked her calmly. His heart beat so fast at his strength. Never did he believe he’d be able to breakaway.

“No,” she rose from the bed and made for the entrance.

Your breath was hot on his dick when she stopped again. For one moment Sylvi waited for Aemond to call her back but she was met with silence; a heavy weight of agony as she stood there and received no reply.

It was her retreating footsteps that brought relief to your bones.

Aemond’s other hand returned to your head.

“I did not wish for her to watch us,” he informed you.

You looked up at him from your spot on the floor. Along your chin were remnants of spit or spent, he wasn’t certain. All the same, he took a thumb and gathered it from you. He brought the thumb to his mouth and sucked the gathering from it.

“I did not either.”

“Good,” he hummed. “Now get on the bed.”

You needn’t be asked twice.

Aemond refrained from touching you as you rose from the floor and sat on the bed. Once you were seated, he leaned down to grab your ankle and pushed back on your shoulder to lay down. The message was received quickly and you laid back and brought your other leg bent beside you.

You were completely at his mercy. Your walls clenched around nothing when he ran his hands over the skin of your legs. You extended your arms above your head; feeling the soft silk pillows and coolness of the sheets below your body. The sensations were overwhelming.

“I’ve never been with a woman like you before,” Aemond’s hands roamed further, pulling you down on the bed to meet his body but not entering you.

“And what kind of woman am I?” You sighed contently.

“A kind woman.”

“How do you know me to be kind?” You asked him.

One of his hands feathered the skin between your leg and lips. They grazed it again and this time, running his fingers through where you wanted him most. A selfless breath left your lips.

“Your eyes are kind,” he bent down to lay a kiss on your knee. “There are not many kind eyes here.”

He stuck one finger in, followed by another. Your hand reached for the pillows quickly, back arching at the sensation. You once thought his fingers to be long and nimble but they were much more. You felt them so clearly and cleanly.

They reached within your walls; touching the plushy skin as it grew in wetness and emitted slick sounds of pleasure.

Once he felt you were ready, he wanted to test his third finger.

“Gods,” you stuttered out as his third finger slipped in and it became so quick. He was running away with himself as the sight of your pleasure overtakes him.

“F-fuck.”

The words continued to fall from your lips as he picked up his pace. His fingers moved in and out, in and out, and then a rapid succession of moving them up and down. Your body trembled at the noises. The wet, squelching sound of a mess too far gone.

He may not have been as experienced as other men, but he had ruined you for all in the future.

“That’s it,” he whispered against your thigh again. He bent down to watch you writhe at his actions. “What do you need from me? Hm?” He asked.

“Nothing,” you panted. “Just you Aemond.”

“Just me?” He murmured. “What of my cock? Do you want to feel me inside of you? Finish inside of you?”

The idea sent you spiraling. You imagined how his cock would feel longer and thicker than his fingers. How it would plead against the spot to make you come undone.

“Yes,” you nodded. “I want to know what it feels like.”

He removed his fingers to grasp his length in his hands. Aemond pumped himself briefly before lining his head up with your entrance, gripping your hip as you stayed splayed before him.

And then he slid in.

Seldom could explain the moment but you had seen stars. You saw the galaxies spoken of by the Maester’s and worlds beyond your own. There was no feeling but him filling you so fully and totally.

He shut his eye. The blue sapphire still glittering in the light; Aemond saw peace grow with a gasp. Everything in his mind went blank with white noise. All he could hear was himself as he sheathed himself inside of your warmth with a simple push. He filled you until he could no longer.

It was sinful to feel so good.

He held himself there for a minute. You wanted to sit up, hold his body close to yours and feel his muscles contract under your touch but stay as pliant as possible.

Against your convictions, Aemond leaned forward and cupped your cheek with his hands. It was entirely intimate for a man you had just met.

But his touch lingered lifetimes. It was as if you knew him forever, and this singular moment was one of plenty.

Stilled inside of you, his thumb caressed your bottom lip.

“May I kiss you?” He asked promptly.

You moved your hips in a roll to urge him to move, wrapping your legs around his torso and arms around his shoulders. His lips brushed against yours.

He pulled his hips back and slowly slid himself back in.

You nodded your head the best you could against the sheets and he ticked at you. His nose nudged yours, your lips begging to be touched but he neglected them.

“No,” he cooed. “I need you to say it. Say you want me to kiss you.” Again, he slid out, back in and your hips met him there.

“Kiss me, Aemond. Kiss me, please.”

Pushing his cock deeper into you, your mouth fell agape and he used the opportunity to capture his lips with your own, swallowing your moan and losing himself in your intimacy.

He never thought a woman like you could make him feel so selfless.

Aemond knew nothing of you but felt everything. He needn’t understand the pieces of you to feel the rewards of lust and anger spilling out of him.

His mouth is so warm and wet. Aemond’s tongue danced with yours as your whimpers became gasps with the jacking of his hips into you. Your hands are bruising on his shoulders; grip tight and breaking had you been a stronger woman.

Aemond broke his kisses and moved his hand to your neck. His thumb put pressure on the bottom of your chin, pushing your head backwards and sending your spine arching.

If he took you any further, you’d split yourself in too. You mewled in pleasure and he let out a low chuckle, eyes low and observing as he pounded his cock in your pussy faster.

“Oh,” one of your arms shot up above your head and he took his other hand, the one not on your neck, and intertwined your hands together.

“Do the others fuck you like this?” He hummed.

“No,” you called into the air. “Not everyone is as good as you, My Prince.”

As your eyes met his, you felt your heart exploding. No one would ever hold you like this again. No one would know you in the secrets you shared here—so open and viewable yet shroud in the comfort of veils.

You like this. He knows you do. And fuck, he does too.

“You like being held like a worthy lady,” Aemond purred. “Like you’re not a whore.”

“You like being strong when they underestimate you.”

His hand around your throat tightened but didn’t suffocate you. Aemond’s fingers that intertwined with your own stayed together as he changed his speed. Slowing down and drawing his dick out to the tip and stuffing you again, he snickered.

“You are not weak.”

“No,” he narrowed his eye. “I’m not.”

“In here,” you groaned. “In here you can be anyone, Aemond.”

He knew it to be true.

Instead of responding with a smart retort or a scathing comment that would rival one of his brothers, he nodded his head and let it fall in the crook of your neck.

Within you, his solemn romanticism built a fire. It was aching; clenching your walls around him as your breaths became more heated and laced with a finish. His skin on yours glistened with sweat the more strenuous your meetings became.

You were holding onto a thin string when he lifted his head again and planted a kiss on your lips.

So personal, so intimate from what you were used to.

“I-“ you barely got a syllable out before your body shook with your orgasm hitting you like a brick through a glass window. Aemond removed his hand on your neck to grip your back as your body lifted from the sheets.

Your cunt had his cock in a vice. So tight and smooth with your wetness, he felt the stuttering sensation of his own building in a quick anticipation and as the shaking in your legs began to lessen, he pulled out of your pussy without warning and pumped himself before spilling his spent on your stomach.

Your eyes saw stars on the ceiling of the brothel. Aemond kissed between your breath as his fingers swiped through his cum. He drew a line from your stomach, between your breasts, and to your lips. You took his fingers covered in him into your mouth and licked him clean.

Once there was nothing left, his wet fingers palmed your breast with a sigh. You untangled your combined fingers and gingerly outlined the bottom of his scar.

He leaned into your touch absentmindedly before eagerly kissing you again.

Aemond would never confess why he did it.

It was an urge he had never felt; built in the emotions of his mind as he was wrapped in your kind embrace and away from the world that had created the cruelness that lived with him. You were not cruel. You were good and a sanctimonious creature at his alter of wavering faith.

You revived him.

And he barely knew you.

When he pulled away, you brushed a hand over his disheveled hair and smiled.

The feeling within him was foreign but it was hungry. He hungered for the bubbled nature of want that brewed in his bones. Aemond sought the feel of your hands on him and the way you settled in his motions without complaint or verbally assuring him what he was doing was “good for him,” when in reality, he knew it was not.

So in turn, when you smiled, so did he.

A/N: thanks for reading! As always comments, reblog, and likes are always appreciated. I love hearing from all of you.