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stargirlygirl · 2 days ago

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first time with caleb (he's a sex worker)

sex worker/of model!caleb x virgin!fem!reader

summary: your fav of model is staying in your hometown for the next few months, so you book with him to have sex for the first time.

contains: nsfw, smut, protected sex, p-in-v, oral sex (both receiving), size difference (but reader isn't necessarily skinny), porn with plot (lots of it), religious metaphors, caleb's had a vasectomy, 15.8k words

heavily inspired by @heartyluv's camboy!caleb series

You’re a virgin. But you swear it’s not because you aren’t hot or something. You’re saving it, you know? Waiting for the right guy to come along. But that right guy is taking his sweet, sweet time.

Getting older, it’s quite frustrating to be a virgin when everyone around you (you swear) is at it non-stop. Your friends are constantly sharing their good and bad experiences, giving you a mixed bag of feelings on your abstinence. You’re not innocent, per se. Oh no. You’ve seen some things. And it’s because of those things that you’re having a crazy train of thought right now.

So, there’s this man. Of course, you don’t know him personally, but he’s such a catch. Charming, playful, and handsome, what more could a girl want? (I could name more, but let’s keep it here.)

You were first introduced to Caleb when he started OF a few years ago. It was his sweet features coupled with his fat cock that drew you to click on his first video. And you haven’t been able to stop clicking on them since. Even as his subscription price rose with his popularity, you’ve remained a loyal fan of his hard (😏) work.

You’re always one of the first fans on his lives, always donating extra money here and there to his righteous cause, and always leaving meaningful comments on his work. You’d like to think he knows you. Or at least, knows how lonely you are. I mean! How good his videos are. Yeah. Cause they’re reeeeaaaaaally good. Best orgasms you’ve ever had are while watching this man pump his thick length for thousands of fans.

His collabs are cool, too. Stunning co-stars, great banter, and hot sex. But, when you watch them, this pit in your tummy forms. You know that’s crazy talk, but you can’t help it. You’ve known him longer than they clearly have. But, you don’t know him.

And at this moment, you’re thinking of changing that. Someone seriously needs to restrain you as you scurry around your apartment for your phone, like an anxious dog. And you pant like one, drool dripping onto the screen as you tap open a certain app and head to Caleb’s profile.

He announced a few days ago he would be in your home city, living with friends for the next few months while his luxury apartment is renovated. Your heart races as you start typing out your message to him.

Hey Caleb, it’s Y/n. I’ve been a fan of yours for a while now and

Dear Caleb, it’s

Hey there, Ca

Hey Caleb, it’s Y/n. I’m a big fan of yours and I heard you were

Hey Caleb, it’s Y/n. I’m a long-time fan, and I saw that you’re staying in [your home town] for a few months. I was wondering if you were still taking bookings?

The cursor-line blinks back at you, waiting for your next move. An onslaught of thoughts hit you like a train. What’re you doing?!! He’s never going to respond. Should I attach some money to this? But what if he’s not doing bookings? Is this giving desperation?

Sighing, you do the only logical thing in this situation and delete your message press send. You squeal and throw your phone onto the couch, utterly petrified by what your yearning just drove you to do.

Standing up, you pace around the living room, contemplating whether to delete your message and pretend it never happened when your phone dings. You flinch at the ping. Could it be—No.

“It’s just LinkedIn or AliExpress or something, okay?” You tell yourself while retrieving your phone. Oh fuck. You click on the notification. It takes you back into the chat section of OF. Staring back at you is Caleb’s reply.

hey y/n. yeah, you’ve been following me since i first started. really appreciate it, pretty. i’m still taking bookings. do you have a day in mind?

Your fingers are trembling and palms sweaty as you type out your response.

I was thinking this Friday, if you’re not busy?

This Friday?! That’s too far away. Wait. That’s too soon! You’re gonna have to get waxed and buy lingerie and maybe stock up on your favourite perfume just in case and—

fuck, i’m busy this friday. how about next saturday?

Thank the Lord. You sigh as you reply:

Yeah, sounds great.

You’re about to bite your nails from how much you’re stressing.

I’ve never done this before, sorry. I’m like really nervous rn.

Just as you’re about to delete that last message, Caleb’s response pops up.

that’s okay, honey. we can do four hours saturday night? dinner and intimacy

You swear your face is on fire as you click send without even thinking.

Can we do more?

You groan and cover your face with one hand. Screaming into it frustratedly, you look back at your phone.

course, pretty. we can do overnight yeah?

Overnight?! You’re in shock. 1) Because you’re texting THE Caleb Xia. The man who you’ve been watching fuck his fist (for the most part) religiously for years. And 2) because he’s suggesting you spend a whole night together? Where do I sign up?

Yeah, I like that.

You hesitate, wondering whether you should spill the beans now on why you reached out in the first place. But you don’t have to wonder because he asks:

soooooo what do you wanna do with our time together?

You resign to take a shower as soon as everything’s sorted out because by the Heavens, you are sweating up a storm amid the blizzard your AC is unleashing upon your apartment.

Oh haha yeah so it’ll be my first time

Silence. Complete silence for the next two minutes from the OF model as you sit there, anxiously shaking your foot while waiting for his reply. Did you say something wrong? Did you just ruin everything? Your phone finally buzzes.

i see, honey. well, make sure you practise before saturday. you know what to expect, yeah?

Oh. The most important detail— his fat ass cock. You’re cooked.

Haha yeah I will, promise. So is there anything I need to know? Like, do I book a hotel room or something?

You two continue texting for the next ten minutes or so, working out all of the details of next Saturday night. You’re plan is to meet up at a classy restaurant before heading back to your place. To secure you’re booking, you transfer him a 30% deposit.

thanks, honey. i’ll see you next sat

You can’t stop the goofy grin on your face as you reply:

Sounds good! I’ll see you then

Smacking your phone down on the coffee table, you collapse on the couch cushions and squeal excitedly. You’re in disbelief that this is actually happening, but your suddenly poorer bank account provides evidence for the affirmative.

By the end of next week, you won’t be a virgin anymore. Your heart swells with elation at the thought, but tingling nerves puncture the sweet feeling.

Let me revise that: by the end of next week, you won’t be a virgin anymore, BUT on a scale of one to ten, how likely are you to manage taking Caleb’s massive cock? Your current rating isn’t looking so good.

The OF star’s text message replays in your mind. Make sure you practise before saturday. You know what to expect, yeah? Dear Lord, do you know what to expect. Maybe you should have went with someone a bit more… reasonable. The thought makes your heart pang.

If you’re going to do this with anyone, then Caleb is the right choice. He’s always yapping away in his videos, making his fans feel so comfortable yet flustered at the same time. You hope he’ll be somewhat similar in real life. You know he will be!

But you also hope he’s different. You hope you’ll get to see a new side of him, maybe one solely reserved for you. Someone call your therapist because the delulu is speaking again.

…˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚…

It’s 2pm when your phone buzzes. You smile and nod at the nail technician, silently requesting for permission to grab your phone. The nail tech nods back at you, and you fish it out of your bag with only nail extensions on. Your heart rate spikes.

It’s Caleb.

Clicking on his message, it reads:

[image attachments]

hey honey, here’s my test results. all clear for tonight. i’ll see you at 7

You grin stupidly, a warmth bubbling within as you text back:

Thanks! I’ll see you then

You tap on the documents Caleb sent you. They’re pathology results. HIV, Hepatitis B and C, Chlamydia, and so on as you swipe through. Your thumb freezes on the last test.

Semen analysis. Sperm count: 0. Sperm motility: 0. Sperm concentration: 0.

You stare at your screen, blinking dumbly as you read over the results again and again. Now, you’re no doctor. But you can read a sperm count. Caleb said he got the all clear. And damn it seems he really meant it. No STIs or sperm? You’re winning on all fronts tonight!

Locking your phone, you drop it into your bag and switch hands. You place your now gelled nails under the LEDs while the nail tech slathers more gel onto your other fingernails.

“Boyfriend?” The nail tech asks.

You laugh breathily, “Yeah.” A lie, but there was no way you were about to explain who you were seeing tonight.

When you tried explaining what you had signed up for to your friends, you got some very different reactions. Your long-time best friend was critical but supportive, while your other friends either thought you were crazy or wanted to throw a party for you because it’s about damn time you got laid.

It’s already past 3pm once you leave the nail salon, so you book it back home to start getting ready. You’re going all out tonight: shower, glowy body oil, special occasion makeup, and even styling your hair. You know he likes a bit of bush, so you trimmed yours in anticipation.

You sigh as you stare at your reflection in the mirror while your music blasts in the background. Smoothing your hands down your minidress, you turn to the side to admire yourself.

Your nerves spike at the thought of sharing your body with Caleb tonight. Sometimes, self-love is hard. But you’ve done everything you can to make yourself look good and feel good for your date, and that’s enough.

Snatching your phone from the vanity, you check the time. 6:22pm. You head to your dresser and pick out your jewellery. Some classy pieces, some unique ones. Finishing the look off, you slip on a pair of kitten heels and grab your bag.

It only takes 15 minutes to drive to the restaurant from your house. But for some reason unbeknownst to you, every man and his dog are on the roads at 6:30pm.

You groan in frustration as yet another beat up rust bucket cuts you off. What’s taking so long?! The red light flicks to green but there’s no movement. And when there finally is some, it’s this leisurely crawl across the intersection.

The beetles scurry as you blare your horn. Even the traffic light is intimidated by your sudden road rage. It can hear your screaming and cursing the very existence of driving as you make it past the stop line on orange.

Somehow, you manage not to rear end someone by the time you reach the restaurant. After parking, you race to the glass double doors, your heels clacking on the pavement. Throwing the door open, you stop at the host stand and fix your likely dishevelled appearance. Your heart races and you fan your face, eyes frantically drifting around the cosy restaurant.

Soon, the waiter greets you and you give your name. Leading you to the back, they inform you that your date has already arrived. And then you see him.

The smooth jazz and constant chatter melt into the periphery as your heart skips a beat from his beauty. Soft features, but you know what lurks beneath. An angelic trap. An incubus luring you in with his seductive ways. If his mere presence could be considered seduction (you’re certain it can).

He hasn’t even noticed. No, he’s occupying himself with rearranging the salt and pepper shakers on the table, seemingly out of boredom.

Once you draw closer, he gazes up. Those eyes lock on you; their depth is like the grape and chiffon sky as the sun is swallowed by the horizon. You smile reflexively, and so does he. Blood rushes in your ears. You swear you’re about to pass out from how ecstatic-anxious you are right now.

Stopping at your table, the waiter gestures to the empty side of the booth.

“Hey,” Caleb grins, a brightness in his eyes.

You giggle nervously, “Hi,” while sliding across the maroon cushions.

“I’ll get you some table water,” the waiter announces before leaving you two alone.

Shoving your clutch to the side, you start apologising profusely, “I’m so sorry I’m late. The traffic was actually insane like, I swear. I literally left at—” Caleb grabs the hand you were making gestures with and brings it to his lips. They’re incredibly soft. Your eyes widen. Pulling back, he swipes his thumb over the delicate skin he just kissed.

Caleb wears a gentle smile as he reassures you, “It’s okay, pipsqueak. Can I call you that? Pipsqueak?” You nod, a goofy grin on your face like you’re back in high school, talking to your crush for the first time.

The waiter returns and sets down two glasses. They pour water for you two before handing out the menu to look at. As they fade into the flurry of tables and other bustling waiters, you open the menu. The first thing you see is not the exquisite options they have to offer, but the bank-breaking prices you’re gonna have to pay for them.

“$68? For… for an entrée?” You mumble thoughtlessly, skimming through the other pages to see how much worse it gets. You’re already paying over $1k to sleep with Caleb tonight, you can’t afford over $100 for a meal.

Your date chuckles, “Don’t stress, pips. I’ll cover the bill.” Gazing up, you stare at him like he’s grown a second head. After a moment, you regain your composure.

“No, no, that’s okay. It’s chill or whatever,” you try to say nonchalantly.

He raises an eyebrow while echoing your words, “’It’s chill or whatever’?”

“I mean— Argh I’m just really nervous, sorry,” you blurt out.

“I’m just really excited to meet you and obviously like for later tonight. Like I’ve been following you for ages so like, this is really cool and—” Caleb’s chuckle cuts you off. He covers his mouth, attempting to cough it off, but it’s clear that he’s laughing at you.

“What?” You ask, your brows drawing together in confusion.

He shakes his head, a big grin on his face as he responds, “You’re really cute. And you look gorgeous tonight. You know that, right?” Your lips part, words dying on your tongue like flames doused by floods. The embers burn, thoughts tip-toeing around the edges of your mind as you forfeit coherence.

“I…” You start. Caleb returns to browsing his menu, comfortable to leave you sputtering and staring from across the table.

“Ooo, how about the coconut caviar oysters to start us off? You like seafood, yeah?” He asks cheerily. Looking at your own menu, you exhale a long breath.

“Yeah, I don’t mind seafood. But what about the wagyu?” You congratulate yourself mentally for not embarrassing yourself for ten seconds.

Your date suggests, “We can get the wagyu if you want, honey.”

“O-okay,” you say quietly. Your palms are positively perspiring with how warm it is inside. The low lighting and quiet atmosphere are almost too moody. And with this hottie sitting opposite you, you’re sure your cheeks are red right now.

The menu items are like a jumble of words, half of them are places before specific food items. Is this what fine dining is? Food from ‘exotic’ locations served in tiny portions at whopping prices? You guess so.

Oh shit!

You drop your menu on the table, your hands frantic as they feel up the booth cushions for your clutch. Your sudden movements attract Caleb’s inquisitive stare. His eyes flicker between you and his menu out of courtesy, though they don’t miss how you search around in your bag like you’re digging for gold. You retrieve a white envelope and hold it out to him. Your date lowers his menu.

“This is for you,” you breathe out. Eyeing you, Caleb slowly takes tonight’s payment from you.

Leaning forward, he murmurs, “You could have given this to me later, pips. I know you’re good girl.” Your soul leaves you body and travels skyward. That’s where you are, glimpsing this moment from the dark heavens above.

“Haha yeah, it’s—”

“Chill or whatever?” He interjects. Again, your mind goes blank. But that’s okay. All you want to do right now is carve the image of Caleb smirking at you into your memory. At you. Not at the camera, where his fans are watching him from as he mutters the filthiest praise from the sweetest lips.

No, he’s here with you, right now. And he’s teasing you.

You observe as he picks up his menu and appears to read it reverently. The glowy drop light overhead brings out the peach tones in his eyes, and catches on the light freckles dotting his face.

You feel like such a creep for staring at him, but you can’t help it! He’s just so attractive. His shoulders are even broader in real life, or maybe that’s the blazer’s doing. Either way, he looks HOT in his suit.

“Something on my face?” Your date asks, glancing up at you with that slight smirk still on his lips. You shake your head.

“No, you’re just really handsome. I’m sure you get that a lot, but like. Like obviously online, you look super hot. But like in real life, it’s actually insane,” you babble. You know you shouldn’t let your mouth run, but he deserves to be complimented. Or—

“Sorry, is that weird? Am I being weird, right now? I’m being weird, aren’t I? Literally forget I just said that—”

“I can’t. I have reeeaaally good memory,” Caleb interrupts you, again. But you don’t mind. It’s not that annoying kind of interruption where you can only get two words out before a man answers his own question.

You laugh quietly, feeling slightly more at ease as you notice the tips of your date’s ears turning red.

“Sorry,” you apologise, bringing your hand to your mouth, reminiscent of how he did minutes ago.

Caleb shakes his head and shrugs, “You don’t have to keep apologising, pipsqueak. You haven’t done anything wrong.” Wow, they really need to turn down the heater because it’s warming up in here.

A hushed “Oh” falls from your lips as the waiter returns.

“So, what can I get you started with?” They ask, readying their tablet. You gaze at Caleb expectantly.

Turning to the waiter, he rattles off your order, “We’ll get the wagyu for starters. My date would like the—” Caleb casts you a glance, waiting for you to fill in the blank.

Fumbling with your menu, you hold it up to the waiter and point at one of the main options.

“Whatever this is, please,” you say.

“I’ll get that, too. And the apple-macadamia tart for dessert,” Caleb continues.

The waiter taps away at the screen, asking habitually, “Anything to drink?”

“Water’s fine,” your date answers while collecting the menus. He hands them to the waiter, who then moves on to another table.

Shifting back to face you, Caleb grins, “Soooo, what made you reach out to me?” As if your cheeks couldn’t burn any brighter.

You shrug awkwardly, averting your eyes to the bar nearby, “Well, you know, you, uh… you’re staying here for a while, right? And I live here so…”

“I figured.” You can feel him undressing you with his captivating eyes. They notice the deepening shade of your blush, and how you fiddle with your necklace out of nervousness.

Not to mention, Caleb can feel the vibrations of your tapping foot. Oh, how wants to grab it and set it on his lap, maybe rub your ankle and sole while he’s at it to help with your anxiety.

Seeing your determination to stare at the shelves of spirits, he says, “I was really shocked, you know.” Your head whips back immediately, your gaze focusing on him.

“About what?” You ask, urgency lacing your tone.

Caleb grins, glad to have your full attention, “That you texted me. You’re my biggest fan, but you never asked for anything from me until now.”

You’re anxious as you clarify, “Was I supposed to? Or was I not supposed to? Or—”

“Jeez, pips. Relax,” your date exhales. You nod, crossing your legs to stop them from bouncing.

You open your mouth to speak, but he cuts you off, “And don’t apologise.”

Rolling your eyes, you groan, “Fine, fine, I won’t.”

“Good,” he says with a certain finality. It’s quiet between you two momentarily, the cosy jazz filling the space your conversation doesn’t.

Then, you pipe up, “Am I really your biggest fan?” Caleb nods, a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth.

You gaze away for a second as you mumble, “That’s kinda embarrassing, oh my god.”

“Why’s that embarrassing?” He asks, seemingly oblivious to how much of gooner you must be to be his biggest fan.

“Becaaauuuuse,” you drawl. “Think about the kinda content you make. Nothing says ‘I’m lonely’ like being a… corn star’s number one fan.” You lower your voice for that last part.

Caleb almost seems offended as he counters, “One, I’m not a corn star, I’m a model—”

“You’re a glorified prostitute, Caleb,” you reason. Horror twists his soft features, his jaw slack as he stares at you in disbelief.

“I am not a glorified prostitute,” he asserts, his eyebrows drawing together as his lips do.

You raise your hands by your sides, barely concealing your grin as you surrender, “Right, my bad.”

Caleb huffs, “I’m a model—”

“Sure, sweetie—”

“You,” he mutters, his gaze narrowing. You burst out into laughter at how he looks like a confused puppy. Clutching your stomach, you let out all of your joy and jitters.

There’s something so… disarming about Caleb. Yes, you’ve been incredibly nervous and tripping over your words since you sat down. But he makes you feel comfortable and safe.

You feel like you could tell him anything and he wouldn’t judge you for it. But judging and teasing are two different things, and you’re certain that he’s going to do much of the latter.

“My-my tummy hu-hurts,” you chortle, doubling over in a dull ache.

Your date sulks, “Serves you right, pipsqueak.”

“Ow!” You sniffle, reaching for a napkin. Instead, you knock over the carefully arranged salt and pepper shakers.

“Sorry,” you mumble. Caleb hands you a serviette, which you thank him for. As you pat your glassy eyes dry, he fixes the shakers and brushes off any stray seasonings that got on the table cloth. Placing your scrunched up napkin on the table, you fan your scorchingly hot face.

You grin, “That was really funny.”

“I can tell,” Caleb quips. Once you’ve calmed down, he continues, “What I was going to say before you interrupted me was that being my fan doesn’t mean you’re lonely. Of course, I don’t know you very well yet, but you’re a sweet girl. I’m sure you’ve got friends and loved ones in your life to keep you company.” Yet. Your heart beat turns erratic for a few moments.

“I guess,” you say more to yourself than him while glancing down at the table. You press your lips together, attempting to slow your heart rate with sheer willpower. Black dress shoes come into your line of sight; the waiter has returned.

Gazing up, they set a plate of wagyu in the table’s centre and refill your barely touched water before fluttering off.

“Looks good,” you offer, grabbing your fork and gesturing to the fragrant beef. It’s coated in a gravy with pistachios on top. Fine dining really is fucking weird. Caleb picks up one of the slices on his fork and moves it toward you.

“Open up,” he coos.

You sigh, “Caleb,” as you do just that. The wagyu tastes buttery and rich, yet there’s also a tang from the sauce and nuts.

“Mhmm,” you hum while chewing. Your date flashes you the most innocent grin, his eyes all round and soft as he watches you eat.

“It’s really nice. You should try some,” you suggest after swallowing. Poking your fork through another slice, you hold it up to Caleb the way he did to you.

Feeling playful, you swerve your fork from left to right, riding imaginary waves as you giggle, “Here comes the aeroplane.”

He exhales, seemingly exhausted, “Can’t believe I have to spend the whole night with you.”

“Hey!” You exclaim, retracting your fork. He grabs your hand and brings the utensil to mouth. A smirk splays on his lips as he captures your eyes, watching you watch him bite the wagyu off.

Sitting back, he nods in approval, “Really is good.” Your mind is malfunctioning, words scattered across your brain as you try to form some semblance of a reply.

You decide on, “Don’t chew with your mouth open.”

“Caleb!” You squeal as he opens his mouth and shows you how he masticates meat.

He grins, “What?”

“Are you always this weird with your clients?” You ask sassily while stabbing another tender slice of beef with your fork. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch his Adam’s apple bobbing as he gulps his first piece down.

“Nah. Just with you, pips,” he shrugs. Butterflies swirl in your tummy, adding to the copious amounts of sweating you’re 110% sure you’re involuntarily doing right now. He’s probably just saying that. But with how he takes your hand and makes you feed him once more, you really hope he means it.

Soon enough, you two have eaten your way through entrée and whatever the fuck your main was (some lime, duck, raddichio concoction that tasted pretty good), leaving only dessert left. You’re glad the portion sizes are tiny, because you don’t wanna bloat with your plans for tonight. But even if you do, you’re positive the physical activity will help with that.

The server leaves you two with a scrumptious apple and macadamia tart, complemented by honeycomb ice cream and custard. Caleb breaks into the tart first.

“Do you want ice cream, custard, or both?” He asks, gathering a small slice on his fork.

You murmur, “Both please.” He hums in acknowledgement, focusing intently as he slathers ice cream and then thick custard onto your slice. You lean over and your date eases the tart past your lips.

Hovering your fingers over your mouth, you say between bites, “Wow, this is seriously yummy.”

“Oh yeah? What makes it so yummy?” Caleb muses, already cutting himself a fat slice and heaping on the cold toppings.

You reply thoughtfully, “The apple is a little sour, and it pairs well with the sweetness of the ice cream and custard. And the macadamia gives it this expensive taste, you know?”

“This taste is expensive, honey,” Caleb remarks before shoving his slice in his mouth.

“How come you get a bigger slice? No! Don’t answer that,” you panic, seeing how he smirked at you with his cheeks full like a chipmunk. You can’t help but smile yourself, far too ecstatic for your well-being right now.

Gripping the edge of the plate, you slide it over to you and dig into the tart. By the time you’re both finished, nothing of it remains. The server promptly brings the cheque, and Caleb snatches it up before you can get a glimpse of the exorbitant price.

“Nuh-uh-uh,” he tuts, waving his finger from side to side.

“Caleb,” you groan.

“I’ve got it, pips,” he says resolutely, pulling out his wallet and slotting his card into the black folder before handing it back to the waiter.

As they walk away, you sigh, “Thanks.”

“Don’t worry, honey. It’s included with the service,” your date reassures you.

“What else is included with the service?” You ask flirtatiously. It slips out before you can stop it. Your eyes widen, and you stare at Caleb like it’s his fault you said something so raunchy.

He smirks, “Pipsqueeaaak.”

“Shut up!” You scold him just in time for the waiter’s return.

“All good, Sir. You two enjoy the rest of your evening,” they say in that customer service-polite kinda tone. Caleb takes his card while you nod and thank the waiter before they disappear amongst the tables.

Pivoting to face Caleb, you exhale, “Alright. Shall we get going?”

“Sounds good to me,” he chirps, already standing sliding out of the booth. Dear Lord—Was he always this tall?! And buff?! You clamber out of the booth and stumble on your heels, right into his solid chest.

“Sorry,” you inevitably apologise, grateful for his arm around your waist helping to steady you. Your bodies fit together seamlessly, like you were made to complete one another. Lucky coincidence, you suppose. Tipping your head back, you laugh nervously as he gazes at you with concern in his eyes.

Your date confirms, “You okay, pips?”

“Mhmm, I’m fine,” you nod, separating from him and beginning to walk forward. Caleb keeps his arm around your waist as you two make it out of the restaurant.

Slipping past those glass doors, you squeal as your date bends down and picks you up bridal style.

“So, which one’s your car?” He asks, glancing around the fairly full parking lot.

You squeak, “Caleb! Put me down!”

“No can do, baby. Now, answer my question: which one is your car?” You huff while adjusting your grasp on his neck, resigned to your fate.

“In the second row,” you inform him. With a little more guidance, Caleb plops you down in the driver’s seat. Crouching, he grabs your ankle and removes your shoe.

“What’re you doing?” You whine. Your date merely beams up at you, looking like the happiest man in the world as he takes off your other heel.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” He teases, holding your heels on his fingers and straightening up.

You pout, “Being annoying.”

He quips, “Not my fault you can’t walk in these.”

“Caleb!—” He slams the car door shut, and you grumble, waiting for him to walk around. Clicking in your seatbelt, the passenger door opens and Caleb sets your shoes down on the floor.

After grabbing your clutch from you and putting it on top of your heels, he declares, “From now on, you’re banned from wearing heels.”

“What?” You exclaim, shifting to look at him. His ridiculously long legs are bunched up before he slides the seat back, and his head nearly touches the roof. It’s like someone squished an attractive car sales blowup man in your vehicle. You notice the hint of a smile on his face.

He explains, “I don’t wanna see you fall over and break your precious ankles, honey.”

You roll your eyes and retort, “You sound like my dad.” Turning the key in the ignition, the engine roars to life.

“Ouch,” Caleb says, placing extra emphasis on the ‘ch’. The ghost of grin twitches on your lips as you pull out of the parking lot and start heading home; the traffic is much smoother now.

…˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚…

Ever the gentleman, Caleb carries you into your apartment building and holds you tight in the lift. He sets you down on his black dress shoes, not letting your soles touch the hallway’s brown carpet as you unlock the front door.

Pushing it open, you squeal as he loops his beefy arms around your mid-section and walks you inside. Your date releases you by the couch and placing a hand on his hip, sunset eyes roaming your cosy apartment.

You’ve spent the past few days tidying it up in anticipation for tonight. You could have booked a hotel room, but 1) that would have been even more money and 2) you’d like to have your first time somewhere comfortable, and with someone who makes you feel comfortable.

“D’you want some tea or?” You ask, fidgeting with your hands as Caleb comes to stare down at you.

He grins, “That’d be great, pips.” Nodding, you head over to the kitchen and start preparing the tea.

“Do you want peppermint, camomile, lemon balm, or ginger and turmeric tea?” You shout over the screeching kettle from where you’re standing at the kitchen bench.

Caleb calls back, “Any.” Sighing, you pick lemon balm for the both of you. It helps with reducing anxiety and boosts digestion, exactly what you need right now.

You walk slowly into the living room with two steaming mugs in hand. Your date abandons the fashion magazine you had sitting on the coffee table to take the tea from you. Thanking him, you plop down on the couch and take your mug from his large hands.

After you two get comfy, it’s quiet for a little. You don’t know where to go from here. Do you suggest a movie? Get changed? Chat for a while until things head in that direction?

Caleb breaks the silence with, “Let’s set some boundaries, how does that sound, honey?” You hum in agreement, perking up at the topic.

He wears an easy grin as he says, “It’ll be your first time, right?” You nod.

“And you’ve been practising like I told you to?” Again, you nod, feeling a very familiar heat rising up to your cheeks.

He continues, “I assume you don’t want to do anything too crazy, is that right?”

“Mhmm,” you hum.

“Then I’m happy to do whatever you want tonight.” Your date sets his half-drunk mug down on the low table and slings one arm over the back of the lounge. His muscles bulge out of his white button-up, and your gaze lingers on them a little too long for modesty. Your heart rate picks back up.

He prompts you, “So, what do you want to do, pipsqueak? What are you okay with me doing to you?” You gnaw on the side of your lip, your hands trembling slightly around your tea.

“Um,” you start. You rehearsed this how many times?!

You try again, “Yeah, so like… uh—”

“How about I start you off?” Caleb suggests while reaching over and plucking your mug from you by the rim. It clunks on the coffee table before he takes your shaking hands and squeezes them firmly.

His eyes search yours momentarily, decoding the swirling emotions there for a sign to continue. You nod slightly, your voice rendered useless.

Caleb goes on, “We can make out and see where things go from there, yeah?”

“Okay,” you whisper. Your heart is thumping in your ears so loudly, it almost drowns out your date’s sweet voice.

“Or do you wanna cuddle first?” He asks, rubbing his thumb over the backs of your hands soothingly.

You lean in closer, your voice small as you ramble, “Honestly, I just feel fucking nervous right now. And like I’m really sweaty, and I’ve like never talked to anyone about this kinda thing before. I just wanna keep it… like, romantic? If that makes sense?”

He nods, “Makes perfect sense, pips.”

Your shoulders slump as you sigh in relief, “Okay good.” His smirk has you melting into a puddle of goop. You just wanna squish his cheeks. But your bravery isn’t there yet.

Caleb shifts his grasp on you, now holding both of your hands with one of his as the other comes up and tucks a stray strand behind your ear. His fingertips brush the shell of your ear and rest against your ear lobe before his hand returns to gripping yours.

“Caleb,” you say abruptly. He nods, urging you to continue.

“Is it okay if I go shower before we… do other stuff?” You ask anxiously.

He lets go of your hands while encouraging you with, “’Course, go for it, pips.”

Getting off the couch, you say excitedly, “Okay cool.” You dash off to your bedroom, thinking about much water you’ll be wasting as this’ll be your second shower of the day when you halt.

Whirling around, you dart back to the living room. Your frantic entrance draws Caleb’s eyes. He stares at you like he’s assessing a threat, but upon realising it’s you, his frame visibly relaxes.

“What is it, honey?” He asks, confused.

You blurt out, “Doyouwannacomeshowerwithme?” He gazes at you with a faint knot his brow.

“What?”

Taking a deep breath, you exhale, “Do you wanna join me? So like, we can bond. Or like not. It’s totally cool if you don’t want to, yeah like—” You don’t get to finish before Caleb’s rising from the couch and pulling you into his side.

“Well, what’re we waiting for, pipsqueak? Let’s get showering,” he says enthusiastically. Caleb drags you along the hallway, and you steer him into your bedroom. Once you’re inside, he releases you. Fluttering over to your dresser, you pull out a pair of underwear and a lacy bralette.

You don’t notice your date behind you until he muses, “I don’t think you’ll be needing those.” You flinch, somehow shocked about the presence of man you literally invited into your most sacred space, being in your most sacred space.

You sputter, “Are you sure like—”

“Oh, I’m sure, honey,” he grins cheekily. You swear your super hot face just got even redder and hotter from that seductive look he’s giving you.

You stutter, “O-okay,” as you put your panties and bra back in your drawer.

Whilst you do so, Caleb palms your shoulders. His touch sends shivers dancing along your spine and down your arms.

His chest touches your back lightly, as does he lips as he asks lowly, “Why don’t you show me where the bathroom is and I’ll get the water running?” It requires all of your strength not to collapse then and there from his raspy voice.

The things his voice does to you… Liquid heat pools in the pit of your tummy, arousal leaking from your cunt as you point to the only other door leading out of your bedroom. Your finger shakes a little; a testament to your nerves.

Caleb squeezes your shoulders before heading into the bathroom, fully dressed. Were you also supposed to join him, fully dressed? That can’t be right, right? Or—argh!

You scamper off to the linen cupboard and grab a few towels: one for Caleb, one for Caleb fucking you, one for Caleb cleaning you up, and one just in case Caleb ruins either of the previous three towels.

Standing outside the bathroom door, you bite your lip in nervousness. Preparing all week felt pretty real, dinner felt pretty real, but it dawns upon you just how real all of this was. As soon as you cross the threshold, the man you’ve gotten off to more times than you can remember is going to see and come to know you in the most intimate of ways.

The door swings open and Caleb gazes down at you cockily.

“You’re not backing out on me, are you, pips?” He smirks. You shake your head and hold out his towel.

“For you,” you mumble. He chuckles and grabs it from you, ushering you inside. Immediately, you notice that the water isn’t running. What has he been doing all of this time?

As if hearing your thoughts, Caleb answers, “You were taking a while so I thought I’d save you some water.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, slowly pivoting to face him. He’s taken his blazer off and undone a couple of his shirt’s buttons.

Stepping closer, he asks playfully, “Soooo, d’you wanna help me get undressed? Or should I help you first?” You glance down at your feet and notice that his are bare, too. Caleb’s fingers trail down your arm, his body dusting yours. You inhale deeply and then exhale.

Gathering up your confidence, you look up and place your hands on his chest. Beneath your palm, you can feel his heart beat. It’s stable, like he’s done this a dozen times.

Oh wait! He has!

You hold his gaze for a few seconds, feeling the weight of this moment as his hands rest on your hips. Breaking eye contact, you start unbuttoning his shirt. As each one pops out, you get a glimpse of the body you’ve seen so many times on your screen. But it’s not the same. In person, he’s so warm and huge. His chest is so toned, and those pecs boobs are bigger than yours.

Your fingertips graze his smooth skin as you pull his dress shirt out of his trousers and undo the last few buttons. He grabs one of your hands and places it on his abs.

You hum softly, fingers feeling the ridges of his hard muscles. Giving his tummy an experimental poke, you find that he’s still squishy. Just a solid kind of squishy.

He yelps, “Ah, pips, what’re you doin’?” You giggle, the melodic sound slipping past your lips with little resistance.

“Sorrrryyy,” you smile, glancing up at his beautiful face.

You compliment him, “You’re way hotter in person, you know?”

“So I’ve been told,” he responds, kneading your love handles through your short dress.

“Do I live up to your expectations?” Caleb asks, his tone suddenly sincere. You nod energetically.

Feeling bold, you tug at his shirt, and he helps you pull it off his broad shoulders. You start folding it up, but he yanks the shirt out of your hands and tosses it on the floor with a muttered, “Don’t worry about it.”

You rest your hands on his low waistband, fingers curling beneath the edge as you wait. For what, you’re not entirely sure. But it doesn’t feel right to keep going yet. Your date draws you in, your hips flush against his thighs.

“You alright?” He murmurs, leaning down so his lips brush your forehead. You hum gently in agreement as he kisses along your hairline.

You warn him, “Careful or you’ll be eating my setting powder.” His laugh rumbles in his chest, nice n’ close to you so you can feel the vibrations.

“Really, honey?” He teases, pecking your cheekbone affectionately.

“What am I eating now? Your highlight?”

You roll your eyes and sass back, “That’s my blush, actually.”

“Oh, right. My bad,” he says sarcastically, kissing your gelled brows and made-up eyelids.

“Good try, though,” you say quietly. Caleb hums low as his lips wander dangerously closer to yours. His nose tip nuzzles against yours, and you sigh as your head falls back. Your eyes meet, his seeking permission while yours are half-lidded in anticipation.

He asks, “Can I kiss you?”

“Mhmm, yes,” you reply, your hands snaking up to wrap around his neck. You pull him down with surprising courage, moaning as his plump lips press against yours.

Heaven is not a place in the sky, built upon fluffy white clouds and filled with beings of light. It’s a state of existence only acquired after life’s tribulations. But you swear you can taste it’s sweetness on your tongue, a warmth swelling within as your fingers thread through Caleb’s silky locks.

His large hands paw at your hips, pulling you snug against his body. Heat seeps through the fabric of your dress into your bones, and not necessarily the temperature-related kind.

Your yelp is muffled by your date’s wet tongue sliding across your lower lip. You must be hallucinating, because there’s no way in hell the man you’re kissing right now is getting turned on by you. It’s just impossible. You’re the observer of his lust, not the active participant. But isn’t that what you signed up for? What this entire night has been leading you toward?

Still, your knees buckle and your body falls further into Caleb’s as your tongues intertwine. That sweetness is real, a hint of apple and custard poking at your memories. He keeps you sturdy as you lose yourself in him, and his fists bunch up your dress to your waist.

Separating from you, his lips glisten with spit.

Caleb pants, “Let me help you out of this.” You barely nod before he’s hiking your dress up and over your head. He casts it on the floor, murmuring a half-assed apology as he closes the gap between you two once more. His muscular arm circles your waist, and he trails sloppy kisses down the side of your neck.

Your date mumbles into your perfumed skin, “Can I leave marks?”

“Mhmm,” you hum softly while squeezing his shoulders. His tongue is hot and wet as it licks up the column of your neck.

He instructs you to, “Say yes.”

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation. Those long fingers tangle in your roots and tug gently. You moan quietly, the sound just slipping out as your head tips back, Caleb’s lips now just beneath your jaw.

“This okay, too?” He rasps in your ear. You wish the slick dripping from your core could reply for you, but alas, it can’t.

“Yeah,” you breathe out. His grip on your hair tightens as he sucks a bruising hickey on the side of your neck.

Your back arches, the moan spewing from your lips enough to have Caleb on his knees. But he remains strong yet desperate, his growing erection rocking into your lower tummy.

The self-proclaimed ‘model’ leaves hickeys and bites across your neck like it’s a blank canvas, while his expert hands latch onto your bra and unhook it at the back.

“Caleb,” you pant, pushing slightly at his heaving chest. He steps back immediately, your bra dangling from your shoulders.

His eyes are wide as he asks panically, “Everything okay? Did I go too far?” You shake your head while licking your lips.

You try to explain, “No, I just… um.” Your nerves return, causing you to gaze down. Inevitably, you notice what Caleb’s black pants fight to conceal: his hard on.

“Uhhh.” You gulp and glance back up, but that makes it worse. He’s unravelling you with his eyes like you ate the skin off Maccas chicken nuggies as a kid😔.

“Is it making you uncomfortable?” Caleb asks, his eyes dropping slightly to signal to what’s got extra pink blooming across your cheeks.

“NO! No, I mean, like, it definitely leaves an impression. No, wait! I mean—” His hearty laugh cuts you off, shoulders shaking as he inches closer and takes your hands.

With his signature grin on his face, he says, “Just take a deep breath, yeah? And tell me what’s on your mind.” You nod and inhale as he squeezes your hands.

You exhale, “I just like can’t believe this is happening, you know? Like it’s all so sudden. I never thought you could want me like this.” Caleb pushes you against him, his hands splaying on your bare back while his chin rests atop your head.

Your cheek rests on his heart as he admits, “It’s hard not to, pipsqueak.” You hum in acknowledgement, your hands settling on his waistband again.

His breath hitches slightly as he chuckles, “I was gonna say we can take it slower, but I’m guessing you don’t mind.” You lean back in his grasp and tilt your head to look up at him. His cheeks are tinted red, as are the tops of his ears.

You smirk, “I wanna take it slow, yeah. Wanna take my make-up off, too, if that’s okay?”

Allow me to clarify, you DON’T want Caleb to see you bare-faced, but you equally DON’T want to shower in a full beat or have sex in one.

“Mhmm, take it off now, honey. I’ll actually get the water going this time,” he says playfully. The model tugs your hands off of his pants and starts unbuckling them himself. You turn away, pushing your flimsy bra straps up your arms as you reach the sink top.

After taking off your makeup, Caleb’s already in the shower, presumably setting it to cold asf lukewarm. You sigh as you yank off your bra and step out of your panties, tossing them into the clothing heap on the floor.

Staring at yourself in the mirror, you analyse your subdued complexion. Some times it’s hard to feel beautiful in your own skin, especially when an absolute hottie is waiting for you a metre away. But it’s the knowledge that said hottie’s dick is hard from YOU that has you shuffling over to the shower door and opening it.

Steam rushes out as you lock eyes with Caleb momentarily. Momentarily because he shamelessly checks you out, gnawing on his lip all seductively as he does so. Your thighs clench and you hope he doesn’t notice (bad luck, he does).

Your gaze runs down his body as the water does, seeking purchase in the most intimate crevices of such a man. You let your eyes dip and oh shit—You have to avert them immediately.

It’s not that you’ve never seen him like this before. You have. You’ve seen everything he’s ever filmed, but it’s different, looking at him while he looks at you.

Closing the shower door behind you, Caleb’s on you in an instant. He tugs you into his body, groaning as your soft curves collide with his hardness.

Your gasp is caught between his teeth as he pulls you into another breathtaking kiss. He whimpers into your mouth, his tongue slipping between your lips without invitation. Those strong hands push and pull at your delicate flesh, making your back arch and pussy throb.

Your hands cup his nape, his dark strands already damp from the runing water behind him. And you cling to him like your life depends on it, tilting your head and following his pace. He overpowers you, his hunger almost as intense as his hard on.

It’s dawning upon you how severely fucked you’re gonna get be tonight. You hate to be like “It’s so big” but dear Lord… You’re questioning how that is gonna fit in you as Caleb draws you impossibly closer. It’s like he’s trying to tear off your skin and climb into the cavities of your heart. Even worse? You’d let him if he asked.

“Fuck,” Caleb murmurs, drunk on your taste and how goddamn perfect you feel against him. The way you mould to his body; this must have been divined. His hands glide over your moist skin and squeeze your ass. You yelp, his mouth claiming yours again.

When he finally pulls away, you’re both panting for air. Your laboured breaths intermingle, foreheads connected as you swallow his saliva. The rushing water patters against the tiles, droplets bouncing onto your bodies.

You exhale, “Are you gonna help me get cleaned up or?”

He chuckles huskily, “’Course, baby. C’mere.” Caleb holds you by the hips and shuffles back, positioning you beneath the shower-head. You sigh and close your eyes, the streaming, warm water carrying away your worries and nerves ephemerally. His heat disappears for a second, the popping of a cap echoing throughout the bathroom.

“What’re you doing?” You ask, your eyes still closed. Caleb’s body brushes against yours once again, and you assume his hands are rubbing together from the slimy, lathering sounds emanating in front of you.

You crack an eyelid open but shut it quickly as he order you to, “Keep your eyes closed.” A mischievous smirk spreads across your lips.

“Whhhhyyyyy?” His hands grasp your shoulders, the familiar sensation of body wash covering them. He starts rubbing the gel into your shoulders and down your arms.

He grins, “I’m cleaning you up, just like you wanted, pips.” You imagine Caleb behind your eyelids, puppy ears atop his head and tail wagging like he’s waiting for you to scratch his chin and tell him he’s a good boy. Your giggle fades into a deep breath out as his skilful hands work the body wash up your arms and on your chest.

“Can I touch here?” His fingertips ghost the fat of your breast, and his voice is gentle, like he could wait years for your answer. You nod, but think better of it at the last second.

You voice your consent with a simple, “Yes.” Squeezing some more wash onto his hands, you date slathers it onto your breasts. You nibble at your lower lip, enjoying the sensation of him squishing your tits in his strong hands. Those slender fingers fleet across your nipples, testing the waters. You can feel his intense eyes on you, reading every micro expression dancing across your features.

Grabbing his wrists, you shift his hands back to cover your breasts, your eyes finally opening. He stares at you, his violets slightly wide and brows raised.

With a nod, you urge him on, “You can do more if you want.” He shakes his head, averting his gaze to the side for a few seconds as he contemplates.

Glancing back at you, Caleb says earnestly, “This is your night. You’re in charge, so tell me what you want me to do, Miss L/n.” Hearing your last name tumble from his mouth does something utterly unholy to you and your pussy. You press your legs together, fresh slick oozing out against your will. Your grip on his wrists tighten as you watch each other, fascinated and patient.

“Why don’t we keep going?” You suggest, sliding his glistening hands down to your tummy. As much as you’d like for him to play with your nipples and make you ten times wetter, you’re in the shower to prepare for that.

“Ah—Caleb!” You whine as he pokes your soft midsection, just like how you poked his comparably harder one earlier. He chuckles and palms your waist, already head over heels for how doughy you are.

He hums low, “Mhmm. So fuckin’ beautiful, baby. You sure you don’t have a boyfriend?” It’s your turn to laugh, your frame shaking as you chortle at the thought—

“Oh, I’m sure,” you say confidently. “But thank you. I appreciate it,” you add. Caleb rubs body wash in circles over your tummy before spinning you around leisurely by the hips.

From behind you, he pries, “Any special reason?” He begins massaging your shoulders, his hands pressing firmly into the calcifications strewn throughout your muscles.

His plump lips touch your ear as he continues, “You’re smart, funny, sweet, sexy. There has to be some suitors, no?” His palm digs into a particularly painful knot. You yelp and he immediately eases off.

“Sorry, pipsqueak. Didn’t mean to, I swear—”

“No, it’s fine! It’s fine! It feels kinda nice actually. I’m really tight,” you assure him. His hot breath fans your neck as he laughs, his hands returning to your shoulders.

He murmurs, “If you insist.” All is quiet between you two as you enjoy his tender massage, even though you have to grit your teeth every ten seconds from his thumbs poking at your knots. His question hangs in the air, perhaps pinned up like the stars as you think it over.

You sigh, “I don’t know. Just haven’t found anyone worthy yet, I guess.” Caleb hums as his fingers map out your back muscles.

“Like, for some reason, most men find respecting women really hard. Like, I’m not asking for much, you know? Just a decent guy who takes care of himself and has some life goals,” you explain.

You date replies, “Mhmm, pop off, girlie.” Immediately you whip around and ‘playfully’ slap his chest.

It reverberates off the shower walls and Caleb covers his pecs and yelps, “The fuck was that for?!”

“Do not give me the ‘pop off, girlie’ when we’re in the shower, Caleb! At least save it for when I’m painting your nails or something,” you scold him. Your arms fold beneath your cheat, accentuating your breasts. His eyes dip momentarily but you catch it anyway.

Slap!

“Ow! Ow! I’m sorry, alright! Fuckin’ hell, pipsqueak,” he exclaims. Your cheeks grow hotter as you realise what the fuck you just did.

“Sorry! sorry,” you murmur, stepping closer and rubbing his reddening chest. In the model’s eyes, the cutest pout splays on your lips as you sooth the spots he’s not really hurting in. Buuuuuuuut, you don’t need to know that just yet.

“As you should be, pips. I was just trying to support you and look what you’ve done to me,” he says, his voice laced with fake raw emotion.

You reply earnestly, “I know. I know, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. You’ve been so good to me and all I’ve done is hurt you.”

“Huh? Wait, pips—”

“I don’t deserve you, Caleb—”

“Hold on a damn minute, pipsqueak. I didn’t say that—”

“But it’s true! You’re so… so kind and patient with me. And—” Your self-deprecation is cut short my your date cupping your cheeks and shutting you up with his lips.

Your head tilts back, deepening the kiss while his slick hands (from the body wash) slide down your back and rub in the gel. They slip to your ass and squish it, making you gasp into Caleb’s mouth. He smirks against your lips, your tongues lapping at each other’s taste buds and cheeks again.

Breaking apart, he peppers kisses at the corners of your mouth and on your eyebrows and finally, your forehead.

Grabbing two handfuls of your ass, Caleb murmurs into your damp skin, “It didn’t even hurt, honey. So don’t give me that ‘I don’t deserve you’ bullshit, yeah?” You hum softly while chewing on your bottom lip.

Caleb continues on his quest to clean you up. You swear he goes through half of your body wash as he lathers you up. And my oh my is it awkward when he gets down on his knees to coat your legs in the smooth gel. Your pussy is right in his face, but he seems unfazed. Seems is the key word here.

You squeak, “Sorryyyyy,” as his hands work up your inner thigh.

He gazes up at you and grins, “For what? There’s no place I’d rather be, baby. And didn’t I tell you not to apologise, angel?”

“Mhmm, maybe,” you sigh, your fingers running through his soaked locks.

“Then don’t make me tell you again,” he says low.

You nod, “Mhmm, I won’t,” while keeping your eyes on his.

“Good,” he breathes out, leaning forward and chastely kissing a patch of body wash-free skin on your thigh. His fingers come so close to your cunt, you swear he can feel the arousal that’s probably dripped down them. Maybe that’s the point.

A weight comes off your shoulders as Caleb stands back up and you guides you under the streaming water. His hands run all over your body to clear off the body wash, filling you with a tender warmth.

The kind you’d always hoped you’d feel when in love. But that’s crazy talk! You literally just met! Well, technically, you’ve known him for a few years. But that’s besides the point.

This isn’t love. This is paid intimacy. Don’t forget that, you tell yourself.

Caleb’s hands come to rest on your hips as he leans down and whispers in your ear, “So, are you gonna help me clean up, too?” Your eyes snap open, your hands grasping the back of his neck to keep him close so he can’t see how you’re freaking out. Wash him off?! Oh, how you’ve dreamed of this moment. I mean! Ew, boys, cooties, gross. Wash a man? Ugh if I have to, you ‘suppose’.

“’Course,” you say sweetly, releasing him and grabbing your body wash. And just as you suspected—

“Caleb, what the fuck? You literally used all of it!” You exclaim.

He smirks all handsome (like he knows it, too), “Shall I reimburse you, Miss L/n?” For fuck’s sake, he just cleaned down there. What’s he gonna think when you get out of the shower with slick sliding down your thighs?

“Just… shut up,” you say, shaking your head slightly and the bottle violently. It makes those squelching sounds as you flip the cap and attempt to squeeze out what remains onto your palms. It would seem that this mammoth of a man left just enough for himself. You rub your hands together before starting with his arms.

For you, it’s a nice change to give rather than receive. You enjoy receiving, and Caleb is damn good at giving. But it feels fulfilling to soothe your body wash into his skin, to show him the affection he’s an expert at showing others.

You’ve seen it in his videos, how when he does collabs, he always prioritises his co-stars needs. On countless occasions, you’ve dreamed of that being you. Of basking in his loving lustful touch. And now that it is you, it feels incredible beyond belief. But you hunger for more. You’re greedy to return the favour.

“Okay, I have a question for you,” you grin, glancing up at your date.

He nods, “Ask away.”

You hold his gaze as you ask, “When you sent me your test results, you had a sperm count of zero. Why?”

“Oh, that,” he chuckles breathily. Your palms glide across his chest, fingers brushing his sensitive nipples (you swear, all of his fans know this, okay?).

He shudders slightly, “Uh, well, in my line of work, it just seemed to be the most convenient.”

“A vasectomy,” you clarify.

Caleb nods and explains, “It’s not 100% effective in preventing pregnancy, but it’s damn close enough.” Your hands move across his ribs and abs before you pump out some more body wash onto your palms.

You return to lathering up his muscles while asking curiously, “Why do you do bookings? Like, your OF is pretty popular, and most models don’t. With your, uh, quality of content, you probably don’t need to be doing this kinda thing.”

He grins, “If I wasn’t taking bookings, then I wouldn’t have met you, honey.” Your heart flutters as your eyes lock on his. And all you find there is sincerity. Your hands on his low abs still.

“Oh, yeah?” You mumble, averting your gaze to somewhere more reasonable, like his painful looking erection.

Up until this point, you had been avoiding his thick cock like the plague. But you’ve gotta face it (and feel it) at some point tonight, so it might as well be now. His tip is leaking pre-cum, and you almost feel bad with how red his dick looks.

Feeling bold, you ask, “Should I wash your back first, or get on my knees already?” It requires every last piece of your strength to not stutter. And it requires every last piece of Caleb’s strength to not cum right then and there. Your presence does something to him. It’s otherworldly, how comfortable he feels with you, and how fucking hard you make him.

The model is putty in your hands, waiting to be moulded to whatever shape you see fit. Or was it the other way round? Sources suggest it’s a mutual yearning (stargirlygirl, 2025).

“Whatever you like, baby—”

“I’m asking what you would like,” you interject. More pre-cum seeps out, and Caleb would be normally be embarrassed but he just can’t seem to find a fuck to give.

Clearing his throat, he requests, “On your knees, please.” You hum in agreement and do just that, coming eye-to-cock—Coming eye-to-eye with his cock! My bad.

Your fingertips trace the curves of his quads under the guise of soothing body wash into his wet skin. You gaze at his hard-on, a little drool running down the side of your mouth as you take a good look. Doing so only serves to reaffirm your earlier sentiment: that you are completely fucked (or you will be anyway😏).

“Was it always this big?” You ask suddenly, glimpsing up at Caleb’s rosy cheeks and dilated eyes.

“Y-yeah,” he stutters as your fingers draw nearer to his twitching cock. You rinse off your hands under the water before turning back to him.

Your heart is about to burst out of your chest like a baby xenomorph (that one’s for you, @tragicvictoriantears) as you point and ask, “Can I touch?”

He groans, “Not here.” Caleb bends down and hauls you up by the underarms like you’re a misbehaving cat. You’ve never seen someone wash off so fast before he’s dragging you out of the shower, drying you off on 4x speed, and throwing you over his broad shoulder.

Next thing you know, your back hits the springy mattress and you bounce a little. Caleb’s already climbing on top of you, bare and wet. His teeth attack every inch of your skin, ravenous, while his lips soothe your reddening. Your back arches as he takes your nipple into his swelteringly hot mouth.

His fingers trail across your body, his touch hot like a branding iron, marking every part of you as his. Then, they skim up and pinch your breasts, eliciting a yelp from you. You’ve never felt anything like this before.

Pleasure jolts through you as he sucks on your stiff peak, tongue rolling around and over it. Pulling off, his saliva glints in the overhead light, as do his eyes with an insatiability.

“Caleb,” you mewl, pressing your tits up to his grinning lips.

He checks in on you with, “This alright, pips?” You nod energetically, desperate to feel his mouth on you once more.

“You okay if I keep going? Or do you want something different?” He pants, his slender fingers tracing the skin beneath your breasts.

“No, I-I want you to keep going. Feels good,” you reassure him. Caleb moans quietly as his head dips and his tongue roves over your areola again. Your hips buck, in dire need of some friction. Your bare cunt catches on his abs, tearing a raspy moan from you.

“Fuck sake,” your date groans in the space between your tits. His hands travel down to your hips and push them into the bed, drawing out a broken whine from you.

You cry out, “Please! Please. ‘M sorry. Just really sensitive, you know?”

“I know,” he rasps out while gazing up at you. Dear God, you hope you don’t have double chins right now or that would be embarrassing. Lowering your head to your pillow, you stare at the ceiling while trying to wiggle out of Caleb’s firm grip. It’s almost like he’s controlling gravity with how he’s got you pinned.

“Ah! Caleb!” You gasp as he nibbles gently on your tit. Just enough pain to grab your attention, and just enough pleasure to have you craving for him to do it again. You can feel his smirk against your flesh.

“So-rry,” he mumbles insincerely. Your heart accelerates as you watch him shift down your body, his lips worshipping every inch of your skin. Like you’re a swig from the holy grail with how he drinks you in.

Those puppy eyes latch onto yours as his nose brushes the crevices of your inner thigh. You’re positive the tip (of his nose, you freaks; I am freaks) must be wet with how your pussy has been dripping for him.

Shame burns bright red and feels like leaving your hand on a hot plate as he spreads your legs wider. Your arousal glistens and clit twitches under his interrogative gaze. You attempt to close your legs but to no avail.

“Caleb—”

“Stop fighting me, pretty girl,” he moans, his breath fanning over your pussy. Your head falls back as he slides his fingertips up your soaked slit, the sweetest moans escaping from your lips.

The sensation is familiar, yet foreign. Something you must have done a million times when masturbating to his videos. But now that the man himself is between your thighs, simply running his fingers through your folds, you can barely breathe from the pleasure.

And when the pads of his fingers start circling your clit, you’re certain you’ve ascended.

“Fuck!” You moan, high enough to thread your fingers through the clouds and clutch onto them to stabilise yourself. Or maybe you’re clinging to Caleb’s dark roots. You can’t tell.

Something transient; a liminal space. The beginning of your descent into the depths for your sins. But how can something to heavenly lead you to the fiery chambers of Hell?

You almost scream as the model’s tongue laps at your cunt. Your juices spill over his lips in his pursuit of quenching his thirst. But such a trial is doomed for failure.

He’s like a beast, slurping up your slick like it’s his sustenance. It’s messy, and obscenely loud. You’re neighbours are probably going to file a noise complaint, but you couldn’t care less.

Caleb’s fingers and tongue guide you to the edges of the universe and make you count the stars. Galaxy glitter sticks to your cheeks as you float amongst the light. It can’t get better than this, can it?

Clitoral stimulation IS the orgasm game-changer, so probably not. But you remain hopeful as you rock your hips, seeking every last long swipe of his tongue. He leans back, plump lips brushing your soaked ones as he stares at you drunkenly.

“You always this loud, pips? Or is it because I’m here?” Caleb teases.

“Because [of] you,” you whisper, your voice hoarse from your endless moans and pleas.

“Oh, yeah?” He grins cockily, licking his lips and groaning at your taste.

He proposes, “Tell me what you want, pipsqueak. More, or something else?”

Your voice is strained as you reply, “Choose f’me.” He chuckles, his thumbs rolling over your inner thighs tenderly. For a moment, you two stay like that, panting and pondering what will happen next. You suck in a sharp breath as Caleb’s tongue glides up your sloppy folds again.

This time, he eats you out with some consideration for your bedsheets and poor neighbours. But he still has you trembling beneath his hot mouth and expert fingers. Your thighs clench around his head, unintentionally but fuck, it makes him rut into the bed like a horny teenage boy who saw a woman’s ankles for the first time.

Caleb draws you closer to your climax, flicking his tongue just right and plunging his fingers into your gummy walls the way you need him to. It doesn’t take much more before you’re slipping into ecstasy-induced oblivion.

Your body shakes and thighs clamp tight, but the model welcomes it with a needy suck of your clit. You pull at his locks, attempting to push his head away as you make a mess all over his mouth and hand.

Your arousal drips down his wrist once he finally eases his fingers out of you. His tongue, though, is unrelenting.

It stings as he circles your clit until you’re crying out, “Caleb! Caleb, I can’t! I can’t, baby, please!” His laugh rumbles in his chest as he sits back and wipes his damp chin and lips with his veiny forearm. Moving to hover over you, he notes your bitten lips and the daze in your eyes.

“Good?” He asks, his voice thick with admiration for his sweet girl—client. Caleb meant client. You nod, panting and exhausted. But you haven’t even done anything yet! To him, you mean. You haven’t sucked his fat cock, or even rode it yet and you could already doze off.

“Can-can we take a break?” You exhale. The model nods and sinks on top of you.

“Caleb!” You groan, shoving him by the shoulders. But he just won’t budge.

He plants loving kisses all over your face and praises you, “You did so good, pipsqueak. Yeah? I’m really proud of you.”

“Caleb,” you murmur. He draws you into a reassuring kiss; your tang is on his lips. The slow pace he moves at blesses you with an inkling of strength.

“Thanks,” you mumble into his mouth.

Separating, he grins, “Don’t thank me yet, pips. We’re only getting started.”

“But—”

“You know better than to give me that, mhmm?” He interrupts you.

Those violets stare at you intensely, waiting for your little nod before he proceeds with, “Now, what shall we do next? Get straight into the heavy stuff? Or do you wanna play for a little longer?”

“I… wanna touch you,” you say, your lazy hand reaching up and cupping his freckled cheek. He gulps, eyes flicking between yours and your lips.

He clarifies, “Are you sure, pips? You don’t have to—”

“I want to. I want to make you feel good,” you breathe out, your heart beat steadying. Caleb sighs, his arms squeezing you tightly before he carefully rolls you two over so he’s on his back and you’re on top of him.

He leans in and lightly kisses from your cheekbone to your ear, whispering, “Then go ahead. You can do whatever you want to me.” Shivers run up your spine as his fingers do, and your thighs seize up at his words.

“O-okay,” you say nervously, your flush that never really left returning tenfold. He laughs warmly, his breath battering your skin. Turning your head, you grab his jaw with your hand and squish his cheeks, making his eyes widen.

“What’re you doin’, pipsqueak?” He asks, muffled. You giggle before closing the distance between you and kissing him. Your hand on his jaw softens and slides down to his neck, resting at the base like you’re going to choke him. His breath catches, waiting for you to squeeze. But you change to holding his shoulders, your fingers pressing into his muscles and your elbows propping you up on his chest.

The kiss is deep and intimate. There’s something raw in the way you lick at his cheeks and sample his flavour. Maybe it’s the post-nut haze, but you feel vulnerable.

You feel like your soul is pouring out of your body and only Caleb can bear it. Only he can keep you whole through this life-changing experience. And maybe, he can share a part of himself with you to create something new. Your delusions must have awakened.

You leave kisses on his jaw and down his neck, slithering to his pecs and pinching his nipples.

The OF model yelps, “Hah—guess you know all of my weakness, huh? I’d hardly call that fair.”

“You have the advantage of experience, Mr Xia. I’d call this fair,” you sass back. Oh, Caleb almost busts then and there at hearing his name, so formally, pass through your lips. It sounds so natural. He bites his lower lip and moans as you lick a stripe up his chest.

This is another one of those moments you’ve been waiting for. The chance to suck on Caleb’s pink nipples. And you do, ardently, and staring up at him with doe eyes.

You’re positive that he’s wetting your bedsheets with how dewy his skin still is from the shower. And your date is positive he’s soaking your bedsheets for an entirely different reason. His hips rock, his creamy cock hitting your tummy and making you moan around his sensitive nub.

It slips from your mouth, a string of spit connecting your lips and his nipple. You grin wide, ecstatic as you glimpse down at the pre-cum staining your skin.

Fuck, that’s gotta hurt. His cock is so red and messy. You’ve never seen him get like this before. You gaze back up at Caleb to see him shaking his head.

“Take your time. I can wait,” he whimpers.

You muse, “Maybe you can, but I don’t think little solider can.”

“My solider isn’t little,” he bites back. “And don’t call it a solider.”

“Why not?” You ask, failing to conceal your smirk.

He huffs, “It’s kills the mood.”

“I don’t know, Mr Xia. The mood doesn’t seem killed to me, or him,” you tease. Caleb groans, more pre seeping out of his flushed tip.

“Don’t call me that. And don’t call my cock a ‘he’.”

“Don’t like being objectified, pretty boy? Welcome to a woman’s world,” you retort. Grunting, the model tugs you up and snatches the air in your lungs with his lips.

You moan into his mouth as he squeezes your ass, “You don’t like it when I call you Mr Xia?” He sighs into you, large hands squishing your plush flesh before sliding up and gripping your waist.

“Too formal,” he rasps between nipping at your bottom lip and sucking on your tongue. You mewl softly, enjoying how he ravishes you like he’s been starved for days on end.

But that can’t be right, a famished Caleb. You chalk it up to the act. But he must be a damn good actor because you could swear this is real right now. His desperate, sloppy kisses and how tight he holds you, like some entity could pry you from his hands at any moment.

“Caleb—”

“Shush, pips. ‘M not done yet,” he whispers while pulling your hair out of the bun it was in and brushing your locks with his fingers. You cling to his chest, trying to keep yourself afloat in the midst of his hungry kisses. A whimper bleeds between your mouths; you think it’s yours but you can’t tell with the wet patch growing on your hip.

At last, Caleb draws back, his forehead pressing against yours as you both catch your breaths.

“Can I…. please?” You pant. His glinting lips stretch into a grin.

“Can you what, honey? What exactly do you want to do?” He teases. Your hand settles over his heart, and you find it to be beating as fast as yours.

Inhaling deeply, you mumble, “Can I suck your cock?” Mockingly, Caleb turns his head and presses your lips down to his ears by your nape.

“What was that, pipsqueak?” He asks egotistically.

You repeat your question even quieter, “Can I suck your cock?” Your date chuckles as he faces you once more. You stare at one another, your faces both red and burning hot.

“I told you, baby,” he drawls, rubbing his nose against yours fondly.

“You can do whatever you want to me,” Caleb murmurs breathily. You whine a little, that lustful look in his eyes setting your entire being alight.

“M’kay,” you nod. And before you know it, you’re positioned between the model’s legs, delicate hands wrapped around his fat cock. Light bounces off your acrylics, and your spit dribbles down his shaft. You smear it with his pre-cum to stroke him better.

“Am I doing okay?” You ask, eyes flicking between his erection and that hopelessly needy expression on his face. Flushed cheeks, lips swollen, and low-lidded eyes.

Caleb groans, “So good, pipsqueak. Doin’ amazing.” You nod, your hair tickling his thigh as you gaze down and focus on jerking him off.

Your hands are all sticky and make the most lewd squelching sounds as you pleasure him. You know he’d never ask for you to go further, but curiosity gets the better of you. It drives you to lean down and dart your tongue across his tip.

Pre-cum lingers on your taste buds, unbearably creamy and hot and salty.

You cringe, “Ew. Why’s it so thick? Isn’t it supposed to be less thick since there’s no sperm?”

“Ah!—No,” Caleb moans. “Sperm doesn’t a-affect the consistency.” Staring up at him, you have another hesitant lick of his cock. This time, your tongue glides up the underside of his head, right on the bulging vein.

“Fuck! Don’t-you don’t need to do that,” he whimpers.

You shake your head and insist, “I want to. Promise.” Enclosing your mouth around the tip of his cock, Caleb moans loudly, completely unashamed of how good your lips and tongue feel around him.

You suck, the back of your mind screaming at you to start bobbing your head and twisting your hands. You don’t go to far down. If you did, you’re certain you’d choke on him instantly. And that’s something you’d like to avoid.

You’ve gone over this far too many times in the past week. That is, how to give a good blowjob. But all of your study flees from your mind as you’re presented with the final exam.

Pulling off, you remark, “Swear I’m getting my daily dose of sodium right now.” Caleb chuckles while shaking his head.

“You can spit it out if you want. Here.” He brings his palm close to your face. Leaning over, you gather his pre-cum on the edge of your tongue and spit it onto his palm.

“Thanks,” you say quietly.

He nods, “S’alright,” while grabbing one of the towels you placed on the bed earlier and wiping his hand on it. You two continue this routine: you bob your head a few times until you can’t take the thick brine and cough it out into his waiting hand, and then Caleb cleans his hand and the cycle begins again.

Sucking dick really isn’t as cool as all of those porn videos make it out to be.

Soon enough, you draw him out past your lips and whine, “Can I stop now? My jaw hurts.”

“You can stop whenever you like, pipsqueak,” Caleb reassures you. Nodding, you spit the last of his pre-cum into his palm and straighten up.

“Did you bring a condom?” You ask, already hopping off the bed while your date wipes up his hand. He nods to the bathroom.

“Whole box, baby. In the pocket of my blazer,” he informs you. His arm folds beneath his head as he watches you walk to the bathroom. A cocky grin spreads across his lips as your ass jiggles, and he uses this moment alone to pump his hard length a few times.

From the bathroom, you ask, “Can I have your wallet, too?!”

Caleb laughs, hand still wrapped from around his dick as he calls back, “Go for it!” He’s grinning contently as you step out, condoms in your grasp. Making your way over to him, you plop down and shimmy over to his spread legs.

“Off,” you command while tapping his now pre-cum-covered fingers. Immediately, he lets go and cleans off his hand while you tear into the fresh box of condoms and retrieve one.

“Okay, so teach me. How do I put one of these on?” You chirp.

Caleb instructs you, “Well, first you open the packet—” The red foil is no match for your prying fingers.

“Then, you put it on the tip. Yep, just like that. And then you pinch the tip of the condom. Uh-huh. And now roll it down.” You start rolling it down, but he grabs your wrist.

“No, don’t let go of the tip,” he says, while pulling the condom off and grabbing another foil.

Handing it to you, he murmurs, “Try again.” This time, you struggle to get the condom to roll down.

“Grab all the way around. NO. Okay, let me hold the tip and you use both hands to roll it down.” Caleb yanks the condom off and fetches another unopened packet.

You hold up the barely used one and ask, “Can’t we just reuse this one?”

“No,” he shakes his head firmly. “There’s a method to it, okay? Let’s try again, pipsqueak.” While you’re rolling this one down, you accidentally fumble the latex and it curls all the way back up.

“Are you sure this is the right size?” You ask, staring at him then his thick cock in disbelief.

Caleb jokes, “Are you sure you’re not just bad at this?”

You grumble, “Hey! It’s not funny, okay? Your condom is the problem, not me.”

“Sure, sure,” he grins, fishing for yet another condom. You reach out to help, but he shakes your hands off.

“Let me handle this, okay? You can put the next one on.” You hum in agreement, watching as he slips it on with ease. Placing the box off to the side, you climb on top of Caleb and straddle him.

But before you can grind on him, he confirms, “You’ve got lube, right, pips?”

“Oh,” you mumble, staring at him wide-eyed. Lube… lube? Lube! You remember you bought some in prep for tonight. But where you put it is the real question. Getting off him, you stumble to your drawers and start pulling out everything in sight, until finally, you hit the jack pot.

The bed bounces as you scramble onto it and open the lid. Clear liquid pools into your hands, the stream too steady. It spills onto Caleb’s shin, and you apologise while closing the cap.

Sitting up, he takes the bottle from you and pours some out onto his palms. You lube up his latex-clad cock, even squeezing his balls and spreading it through his neatly trimmed pubes. Your date caresses your folds and inner thighs, making them all shiny before guiding you to straddle him again.

“You want it like this, pips?” He asks while circling your waist with his beefy arms. You nod and lift your hips. Your hands fly to his shoulders to stabilise yourself as he runs the head of his cock through your slit.

A jagged moan escapes your lips, some sensitivity lingering from your first orgasm of the night. He prods at your entrance, about to press in.

Caleb murmurs, “You ready?”

“Mhmm, I’m ready,” you breathe out. With your affirmative, he pushes in. Your breath hitches, the feeling of his fat cock strange. As you slowly slide down on his length, you think of all the dildos you’ve ever played with, including the ones you were using last night to help with right now.

But no sex toy could have prepared you for having Caleb Xia’s dick inside of your cunt. It’s so warm and thick, and it keeps twitching. Not to mention the accompanying squeezes to your hips and breathy moans slipping from his lips. Once your hips kiss, you gaze up at the model.

“You alright?” He asks gently, his large hands coming to your jaw and holding it firmly. His thumbs swipe across your cheeks soothingly.

Leaning forward, you prop your forehead against his and answer, “Feels weird. Like, it has a mind of it’s own.” Caleb chuckles softly, your sweetness endearing. But it’s cut short when you clench tight around him.

“Gonna be the death of me, pips,” he groans. You chortle while raising your head and shuffling your legs.

“Help me,” you whine, staring at the model expectantly. He smiles and kisses your brow before gripping your hips and lifting them.

“Up we go.” He focuses on the lewd sight of his cock drawing out of your snug cunt. As he lowers you back down, you both moan. It feels weird, but you grow to like it with each drop of your hips.

Caleb rests his head in the crook of your neck, moaning and whimpering so loudly the whole building must know what you’re doing. You’re squeezing the life out of him, making it ridiculously difficult not to nut within the first few minutes.

The model swears he’s better than this! He can last. He can fuck for hours on end. But here you are, ruining his stamina and pride. You lift up too high, his cock slipping out.

You whisper, “Sorry.”

“Ngh—s’okay,” Caleb rasps out while jerking himself a couple of times. He positions himself at your hole again, but you’re tensing up.

“Just relax, honey,” he coos. You nod fervently and try to, but you can’t stop clenching. Sighing, he pushes you into his chest and embraces you tenderly.

In your ear, he reminds you, “It’s okay to be nervous. Just take your time, pipsqueak. We’ve got all night and more.” You hum quietly, grateful for Caleb’s patience.

You two stay like that for a bit in comfortable silence, until he severs it with, “You feeling better now?”

“Mhmm.”

“D’you wanna try another position, baby?” He asks affectionately.

“Mhmm, yes please,” you respond, shifting in his lap to place a saccharine kiss on his lips. Caleb maneuvers you underneath him.

Leaning back, he grabs a pillow and slides it beneath your hips before caging you in with his meaty arms on either side of your head. Carefully, he eases into you, watching for any signs of discomfort as his hips meet yours. Your heels dig into the dips of his ass, and your arms loop around his neck for support.

“Alright, I’m gonna start moving now, okay?” He mumbles against your forehead, planting loving kisses there.

You hum, “M’kay.” Slowly, he thrusts in and out, whimpering pathetically as he does so. You don’t squeeze as hard this time, prioritising comfort while you navigate this new experience with him. This experience where your bodies connect and souls intertwine, fusing into something divine as your moans ricochet off the bedroom walls.

Caleb catches you in a passionate kiss, his emotions spewing past your lips and down your throat. He tugs off your arms from his neck and interlaces your fingers, pressing your hands into the mattress and palms together.

He breathes out, “This alright?”

You mewl, “Mhmm!—Really good, Caleb. But—ah!” Your head falls back as he hits a delicious spot nestled deep inside of you.

“But what, pips?” He pants, gazing at you with concern.

“Wish—hah!” His thrust knocks the air out of your lungs. Your back curves, breasts pressing into his chest as you clamp your legs around his hips.

You moan, “Ah!—wish we had some bgm or something.” His pace falters as a low chuckle rips through him.

“Your kidding me, right? We’re finally fucking and all you can think about is background music?” His tone is torn between playfulness and exasperation. You shake your head.

“I-think of other things, too,” you defend yourself.

He prompts, “Like what?”

“Like—mhmm!” Your lower lip catches between your teeth as Caleb presses against that spot again, eliciting guttural moans from you.

He repeats his question, “Like what, pipsqueak?” There’s an edge to his tone, but it’s lost in the breathiness of his voice.

You babble, “Think ‘bout how good this feels. Want it to last forever. Want you forever.” You’re helpless to stop the confession from escaping your lips as you cry out in pleasure. Your head lolls to the side, hazy eyes focusing on your joint hands while Caleb breathes on your neck.

You can’t bear to look at him, heat spreading across your body. The sweat he worked so hard to scrub off your body now returns in bucket loads.

His smile is etched into your temple as he presses a tender kiss there.

“Forever, huh? That’s a long time, pips. Won’t you—ah!—get sick of me?” Your head turns back as you gaze at him. His eyes are soft around the edges, but they burn bright with devotion need.

You shake your head and whimper, “Never get sick of you, Ca-leb.” Leaning up, you seize his soft lips in another kiss. This one is broken by resolve-shattering moans and sentimental whimpers. His thrusts become sloppier as the sounds of your sex grow louder.

In the space between breathy groans are the wet popping sounds of his cock drawing out of you. His clammy forehead glints in the cosy light and his cheeks are pink, and you’re positive you look the exact same.

You tug your hands free from his with little resistance and grab his jaw. Holding his face like it’s your anchor, ecstasy courses through your body, buzzing in every little nook and cranny.

Tides of pleasure rise and threaten to overflow as his hips stutter.

He moans, “Fuck, pips! Gonna cum. That okay?” You nod frenziedly, desiring nothing more than for him to finish inside of you–inside of his condom, of course.

With a few more rolls into you, he’s sputtering out fucked out moans and cumming like it’s his first time and not yours. You wrap your arms around his defined back and squeeze him as he releases it all.

Your date murmurs, “Thank you,” over and over like it’s a prayer. You’ve heard his orgasmic, breathy whimpers before, but they sound different in real life. Delusional, you tell yourself it’s because of how good you’ve made him feel. Logically, you recall that microphones can distort people’s voices.

And then you squeal, “Oh my god, Caleb!” He lifts off you immediately, sunset eyes searching yours panically.

“What is it, pips? You okay? Did I hurt you?” He asks, concerned. His fingers encircle your upper arms and squish them reassuringly.

Your voice drops to a whisper, “You’re going soft!” He blinks at you perplexed for a few seconds before he erupts into his usual hearty laughter.

“’Course I’m going soft, pretty girl. What did you expect?” Your lips purse and brows pinch together as you stare at him moodily.

With his signature smirk, Caleb slowly pulls out of you and gets up to discard the used condom. When he returns, he embraces you in a lazy hug. You relax into his body, this feeling of being a new woman settling in.

No longer are you some inexperienced dweeb. But now, you are an experienced dweeb. Much the same, yet changed slightly.

“Caleb,” you say softly, nuzzling your face into his neck.

He pats your head lovingly while murmuring, “Yeah?”

“I really liked that. When you’re feeling better, can we keep going?” You kiss his neck gently, his sweat sticking to your lips.

He rubs your shoulder and replies, “Sure, honey. You got something in mind?” You shake your head slightly, which is met by another deep chuckle from the model.

Minutes pass as you two find solace in one another before picking things back up. Caleb takes good care of you by checking in on you at various points and adjusting where need be.

When your bodies are aching and slimy with a mixture of fluids, he kisses your forehead and carries you to the bathroom to shower again.

After freshening yourselves up, he helps you with your skincare and even let’s you lather his face and body up in moisturiser (the Lord knows he needs it). While you change into some comfy pj’s, he takes the dirty sheets off the mattress and puts new ones on.

Settling into your freshly made bed, you two cuddle and whisper sweet nothings.

You had always hoped your first time would be with the man you love. And you drift off into sleep with the satisfaction that it was.

masterlist

star girl's final words: EVERYONE GIVE JAY (@heartyluv) THE BIGGEST THANK YOU for 1) providing such spell-binding inspiration, and 2) letting me yap about my ideas. SECOND, let's also thank nat (@tragicvictoriantears) for listening to my rambles and giving me even more ideas for this whopper. THE FINAL THANK YOU goes to my physio friend who (inspired my zayne fic here and) will probably never read this. thanks pookie for reading my intro n' also listening to my rambles about this fic.

lmk if you'd like a part two!

you can find my thoughts on virginity here. i feel pretty much the same since i wrote this post in april. there will be no infantilised virgins in my fics, i can assure you!

additional reading on vasectomies and sex work:

ABC ⟶ 'what sex work is like as a side hustle' ABC ⟶ 'sex work clients are increasingly women' ABC ⟶ 'so you want to book a sex worker' deseretnews ⟶ 'OF prostitution is ruining lives in real time' vasectomy australia ⟶ FAQs betterhealth victoria ⟶ 'contraception - vasectomy'

taglist - @calebs-apple, @mcdepressed290, @thirstblogforaparchedgirl, @ssushi, @asiatic-apple, @gunningformeow, @calebsbabyapple, @hilliserose

#★’s works #love and deepspace #caleb smut #caleb xia #caleb x reader #xia yizhou smut #lads caleb #lnds caleb #xia yizhou x reader #caleb love and deepspace

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all-my-love-for-harry · 2 days ago

Text

The Pilot’s Private Song.

pairing; Jake Seresin x wife!reader

summary; How each member of the Dagger Squad found out Jake's been married for over a decade.

word count; 3.6k

warnings: nothing. established relationship, secret/private marriage, found family, fluff, all good stuff.

a/n; i am a SUCKER for a secret relationship trope. this concept is so cute i want to write a hundred different pieces about it. also, if you're reading my jake series, next part should be up tomorrow :))

masterlist

A year after the Uranium mission, the aviators once known as the Dagger Squad were summoned back to Miramar. Expecting another top-secret assignment, they were instead offered something unexpected: a chance to stay on at Top Gun indefinitely. Their answer was almost immediate—a resounding yes, with an enthusiastic "hell yes" from Fanboy.

But when they arrived, one thing was clear: Jake hadn't accepted the offer yet.

"Can't believe Hangman's playing hard to get with Admiral Simpson," Phoenix muttered, eyeing the empty spot where he should’ve been.

"Bet that promotion to Lieutenant Commander already went to his head," Rooster quipped.

"If you’re talking about Jake, he’s coming," Maverick said. "He just asked to report in on Monday."

He left the room without another word. The Daggers exchanged looks, then shrugged. It was Jake, after all—he probably just wanted to make an entrance, with nothing but his damn ego walking through the door first.

When Monday rolled around, he strolled in with that trademark smirk and a swagger only he could pull off. Annoying? Absolutely. Eye-roll inducing? Without question. Missed? More than anyone was willing to admit.

“Be honest—did you tear up a little when you thought I wasn’t coming back?”

Bob and Phoenix.

Bob had a thing for those absurdly healthy smoothies from a place called Erewhon. Overpriced, organic, and influencer-approved—it was his guilty pleasure. Naturally, it wasn’t long before he dragged his favorite front-seater into it.

“What the hell is a Hailey Bieber Strawberry Glaze Skin Smoothie, and why does it cost twenty bucks?”

The line was a nightmare—packed with people who all looked like they drove Teslas, had just come from Pilates, or were on their way to pitch a startup to their fiancée’s hedge fund bros.

Phoenix couldn’t quite figure out what Bob saw in these overpriced green sludge drinks, but she was usually down to try something new, even if her wallet cried a little every time.

“I don’t really get the hype either, but my husband’s obsessed,” You said with a shrug. “If it’s your first time, I’d go with something simple—maybe the pitaya, or the post-workout one is solid too. You look like you work out.”

They startled slightly when you turned around, smiling and introducing yourself after your unsolicited smoothie rant.

“I’ll take your advice—I’m Natasha,” Phoenix said, shaking your hand. It was only then that you noticed the massive emerald-cut ring on her finger, catching the light like it knew it was expensive. Bob followed with a shy introduction, a soft blush creeping into his cheeks.

Sticking to your word, you went ahead and ordered the absurdly named Hailey Bieber Strawberry Glaze Skin Smoothie, along with a few other things. Once you paid, you turned back to them with a grin.

“If you’re free, my husband’s just parking the car—want to sit and chat for a bit?”

“Oh, we’d love to,” Phoenix said, “but we’re running late for a few apartment showings—this line took forever. But we should exchange numbers, maybe grab lunch sometime?”

“I’d love that! We actually just moved here, so it’d be nice to make some friends.” Your smile didn’t waver; wide, bright, and straight out of a movie scene.

After saying your goodbyes, you grabbed your order and stepped out of the line, letting them move forward. With one last wave—bright, effortless—you pushed through the door and disappeared into the sunlight.

Phoenix turned back to the cashier, halfway through her order, when her gaze drifted to the large front window—and froze.

"Holy shit."

Bob instinctively looked where she was staring, and his brows shot up so high they nearly vanished into his hairline.

Jake Seresin was outside, casually leaning against a matte black Jeep Wrangler like he belonged in a magazine ad. Arms crossed, aviators in place, his flight jacket unzipped just enough to hint at the crisp white tee underneath. That usual cocky smirk was on his face—or at least, they thought it was.

But it wasn’t a smirk.

It was a smile—wide, open, and so bright it looked like it had cracked straight through his usual armor. Jake Seresin was glowing. Radiant. Practically lit from within.

And then they saw why.

You stepped out into the sunlight, heading straight for him, holding that ridiculous Hailey Bieber smoothie like it was a gold medal. Jake’s face lit up even more. He threw his head back and laughed, his whole body moving with it—unrestrained, joyful, real.

Then he reached for you, pulling you into his arms with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times. One hand at your waist, the other settling on the small of your back, fitting you against him like you belonged there.

Phoenix’s jaw dropped slightly. Bob just stared.

Jake lifted his sunglasses, pushing them up onto his head, and looked down at you like you hung the stars. The softest expression they had ever seen on his face—like the man didn’t know how to look away. You said something that made him laugh again, and you handed him the smoothie like it was some inside joke.

They must have been staring too long. Jake’s head turned slightly—just enough to catch them in the reflection.

His eyes found theirs through the glass. For a split second, something flickered across his face.

Surprise. Panic. Maybe even guilt. Just enough to register—before he shoved it back down and straightened up, as if nothing had happened.

He opened your door and helped you in, careful not to jostle the armful of overpriced smoothies and whatever else you’d picked up. Then he turned back toward the window, his eyes meeting theirs once more.

A subtle nod. Barely there. But it carried weight—an unspoken request.

Not for secrecy exactly, but something quieter. A plea to let it be. To pretend they hadn’t just seen past Hangman… and caught a glimpse of Jake.

Phoenix and Bob exchanged a long look, sipping their drinks in stunned silence as they tried to process what they’d just witnessed. It was easy to box Jake in as the poster boy for cockiness—the walking embodiment of swagger and ego—but deep down, they’d always suspected there was more.

More to him than the sharp one-liners and smug grins. More than the call sign.

And now, they’d seen it.

Guess this was it.

The next day, Jake showed up with his usual swagger, every step as self-assured as ever. But his eyes—sharp, watchful—carried a flicker of guardedness. It was subtle, the kind of thing only Phoenix and Bob would pick up on.

“Hey, Strawberry Glaze,” Phoenix said casually.

She could’ve let it slide—pretended like nothing had happened—but she couldn’t resist poking at him just a little. Jake shot her a look sharp enough to make most people flinch.

She just laughed.

The words had been soft, low enough that no one else could hear. And the smile she gave him—amused, knowing, a little smug—said it all:

Your secret’s safe with me.

2. Bradley.

Bradley hated shopping. He wasn’t good at it—never had been. He took forever to decide what he liked, forgot to write down what he actually needed, and always left the store with random things and none of the essentials.

This time, though, he had a mission: crockery. At the moment, he owned exactly two plates and three mismatched forks. And if he was serious about settling down here, it was probably time to get his shit together.

Normally, he’d drag Nat along—not because she was a woman and supposedly knew about this stuff, but because she was mean enough to keep him on task. She had no patience for his two-hour deep dives in the mug aisle, where he’d examine every single one before deciding he didn’t like any of them.

But Nat had bailed on him, leaving him to fend for himself. Now he was aimlessly wandering the store, eyeing every dinnerware set like it might reveal the meaning of life, tossing random items into the trolley with no real plan—just vibes and mild confusion.

Ever the gossip, Bradley’s ears perked up at the sound of a laugh he knew far too well.

Hangman.

“Darlin’, if you put one more candle in the cart, I’m gonna start thinking you’re trying to burn the house down.”

“But Jake, smell this one—it’s amazing. And it says limited edition, so they won’t have it next time,” you replied, dropping not one, but two candles into the cart.

Bradley watched, stunned, as Jake didn’t even argue. He just shook his head with a helpless smile and kept pushing the cart like a man who knew resistance was pointless.

“I also saw this gorgeous botanical garden plate set online—we have to get it.”

“Whatever you want, doll,” Jake said, voice low and warm as he pressed a kiss to your temple and gave your hip a casual, affectionate tap.

Bradley was pretty sure his jaw hit the floor. He wasn’t stupid—and he definitely wasn’t blind. He saw the massive rock on your finger and the way Jake looked at you like you hung the stars.

Hangman, married?

The motherfucker was married.

He could hardly believe what he was seeing.

Bradley had always assumed Jake Seresin was the type who’d never settle down—too cocky, too stubborn, too Hangman. Honestly, he’d half-expected the guy to grow old alone, flirting with waitresses and arguing with air traffic control until the bitter end. Harsh? Maybe. But Jake had never given them any reason to believe otherwise.

Yet here he was—married, domesticated, and currently letting his wife toss candles and dinner plates into the cart like she owned the place. And judging by the look on his face, she did.

The man Bradley was low-key stalking from behind a shelf of overpriced wine glasses wasn’t the Hangman he knew from the skies. This wasn’t the ruthless, lone-wolf aviator who treated teamwork like a contagious disease and would rather eat glass than back down in a briefing.

No—this Jake looked… soft. Happy. In love.

And it was messing with everything Bradley thought he knew.

He ducked behind the endcap as you turned down the next aisle, nearly knocking over a pyramid of mason jars in the process. This wasn’t eavesdropping, he told himself—it was reconnaissance. For team cohesion. For morale. For… reasons.

Jake Seresin, hopeless romantic and candle mule, was not something Bradley had mentally prepared for.

He peeked around the corner again just in time to see Jake reach for a throw blanket you were eyeing. Without hesitation, he tossed it into the cart. “Matches the couch, right?” he said.

“Exactly,” you beamed, and Bradley swore the corners of Jake’s mouth lifted in something dangerously close to a fond sigh.

Who was this man?

Bradley had spent years knowing Jake as a walking testosterone complex with aviators and a call sign, someone who’d charm the hell out of a bartender and then ghost her before the first date. The idea that this man—this patient, domesticated, grocery-hauling version of Jake—existed at all was blowing his mind.

And worse? He looked good at it. Like he’d been waiting his whole life to play husband in a West Elm ad.

Bradley finally backed away from the aisle, muttering to himself, “I need to go look at forks before I lose my grip on reality.”

Still, as he wandered toward the kitchen section, a weird feeling settled in his chest—part disbelief, part amusement… and maybe a little bit of envy. Not the kind that stings, exactly, but the kind that pokes at something you didn’t realize was hollow.

Because despite all his jokes, all his gripes about shopping and settling down, maybe there was a tiny part of him that wouldn’t mind someone tossing limited-edition candles in his cart, either.

But first, he really needed more than three forks.

3. Payback and Fanboy.

It was just past 7 a.m. when Fanboy and Payback jogged down the beach trail, sneakers thudding lightly against the packed sand. The sun had barely risen, casting a warm, golden glow over the shoreline, and the waves rolled in slow and steady, their rhythm soft and soothing beneath the buzz of gulls overhead.

It was the kind of morning that made you forget how exhausting the week had been.

“If Mav makes us watch one more hour of grainy debrief footage, I’m walking into the ocean,” Fanboy grumbled between breaths, arms swinging loose at his sides.

“You say that, but last time he caught you checking your phone, he added another hour to the session,” Payback replied, grinning.

“I’m just saying—death by drowning would be less painful than another slideshow.”

They rounded a gentle bend in the trail, where the dunes opened up to a more secluded stretch of beach. The tide had pulled back, leaving wide, smooth patches of sand dotted with seashells and a few early footprints.

Payback slowed, frowning. “Wait. Who’s already out here?”

A large cream-colored blanket had been spread beneath a sun-bleached lifeguard stand. A wicker picnic basket sat off to one side, its lid open and lined with fabric. There were iced coffees, a brown paper bag, a small vase of wildflowers—wildflowers, at the beach—and two people.

One of them crouched near the cooler, pulling out what looked like a container of fruit. The other approached barefoot, holding two drinks, sleeves of a linen shirt rolled up to his elbows, light catching in his sandy hair.

Fanboy’s eyes narrowed. “Hold on a second…”

The barefoot man looked up—and grinned.

Jake Seresin.

Hangman.

Golden-boy aviator, squadroom shit-talker, human ego parade.

Except… something was different.

He stepped forward, took one of the iced coffees from your hand with a quiet thank-you, then leaned in and kissed your temple with the kind of easy, familiar affection that made both Fanboy and Payback freeze mid-stride.

Jake said something with a lazy smile and you laughed, the kind of laugh that came from your belly—bright, genuine, totally unfiltered. Then you plopped down on the blanket, legs curled underneath you, pulling a croissant from the paper bag as if you’d done this a hundred times.

And maybe you had.

Because Jake didn’t hesitate. He shrugged out of his jacket and laid it behind you, just in case the blanket wasn’t enough cushion. Then he sank down beside you, stretching his legs long across the sand and casually slipping one arm around your waist.

Payback immediately ducked behind a nearby dune like he’d just witnessed a war crime. “Tell me I’m not seeing this.”

Fanboy crouched next to him, equally stunned. “What the hell is happening right now?”

Jake leaned back slightly, watching you unwrap something else—probably another baked good—and tilted his head, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder. You fed him a bite without even looking, and he accepted it like it was second nature. Then he reached up and tucked a loose strand of your hair behind your ear.

“I’m in shock,” Fanboy whispered. “He just tucked her hair behind her ear. That’s a boyfriend move.”

“That’s not a boyfriend move,” Payback muttered. “That’s a married guy move.”

Fanboy squinted. “Wait—zoom in. Look at her hand.”

A glint of metal caught the sunlight as you reached for your coffee. Simple but elegant. An emerald-cut diamond, gold band. The kind of ring that said permanence. The kind of ring that didn’t come off easily.

“Oh my God,” Payback breathed. “He’s married.”

Jake leaned back again, one hand lazily tracing circles along your knee while you showed him something on your phone. Whatever it was made him chuckle low in his chest, and he leaned in to kiss your cheek before setting the coffee down in the sand.

Fanboy was frozen, processing. “So Hangman—Hangman—sneaks off on weekends for romantic beach picnics… with his wife.”

“And we never knew.”

“I thought he lived off protein bars and sheer arrogance.”

“Same.”

You pulled something else from the basket—what looked like a floral plate set, one of those whimsical ones you’d find in a lifestyle magazine. Jake took it from you with care, set it between you, then reached for the wildflowers, adjusting the little vase so it wouldn’t tip over.

Fanboy stared. “He brought flowers.”

Payback shook his head. “He packed a goddamn centerpiece.”

They both crouched lower behind the dune, as if Jake might sense them. The only thing louder than the waves at that moment was the sound of their worldviews shattering.

Fanboy finally whispered, “Okay, but like… how dare he be this soft and not tell us?”

“We’re his squadmates. This is betrayal.”

“We were supposed to know before the blanket picnics started. There’s an order to these things.”

“I mean—what’s next? He gets a dog and starts doing couples yoga?”

Fanboy paused. “He would be good at couples yoga.”

Jake leaned back, hands behind his head, face turned up to the morning sun as you laid your head on his chest, sipping your drink and humming along to some song playing quietly from a speaker. You looked perfectly at ease, like this was your favorite part of the week.

Like he was.

“Okay,” Payback muttered. “We can’t tell anyone.”

“Agreed.”

“But also,” Fanboy added, eyes still wide, “we are absolutely never letting him live this down.”

“Obviously.”

They finally stood, dusting off their legs, still stunned but grinning. One last glance over their shoulders showed Jake pressing a kiss to the top of your head, like you were the only person on earth that mattered.

Hangman hadn’t just settled down.

He’d crash-landed into love, and apparently? He was thriving.

4. Javy (ten years ago)

The bar was thick with smoke and the smell of spilled beer, its low-ceilinged walls pulsating with neon light and the steady beat of a bass-heavy pop song. The air was warm and sticky, full of laughter, shouting, and the occasional off-key karaoke warble daring to take the stage. Jake leaned casually against the back wall, arms crossed, eyes never leaving the corner where you and your friends were holding court.

You were the heart of the group—laughing without restraint, glass in hand, your voice rising clear and confident above the din. Your friends egged each other on to the microphone, but you owned the room like it was yours, moving effortlessly through the crowd, radiating that kind of joy that was impossible not to notice. Jake’s gaze softened as he watched you—like you were a secret he had stumbled upon, the kind of thing you didn’t want to shout about but couldn’t stop looking at.

Javy, never one to let an opportunity for teasing pass, nudged Jake sharply. “You been staring at her all night, man. You planning to say something or just get a reputation as the creepy aviator?”

Jake barely glanced at him. “I’m just… watching.”

Javy smirked, shifting on his feet. “Right. Watching. She’s having fun—seems like she owns this place. You gonna sing or what? Or just keep mooning over her?”

Jake’s jaw tightened, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “I don’t sing.”

“Everyone sings at karaoke night. Even you.”

Before Jake could respond, you stood with your friend, grabbing the microphone like it was a lifeline. The opening notes of a popular pop song spilled through the speakers, and suddenly, the bar seemed to hush just enough to let your voice soar.

You sang with an easy confidence, playful yet sincere, the kind of performance that made people stop talking and just listen. Jake felt his breath hitch—the way you smiled at the crowd, the way you closed your eyes briefly on the high notes—it was like watching sunlight break through storm clouds.

Javy elbowed him hard. “Dude, you look like you’re about to pop the question right here, right now.”

Jake shot him a sharp look. “I just met my wife.”

The words slipped out quieter than intended, but Javy caught them all the same and grinned wider, clearly not buying it.

After your song ended, the room erupted into applause. You laughed, cheeks flushed, and caught Jake’s eyes from across the room. It was a brief glance, but electric—like a door quietly opening.

Jake made his way over, weaving through the small crowd until he was standing right beside you. “Hey,” he said, voice low and just above the music.

You smiled, a little breathless. “Hey.”

Jake nodded toward the microphone stand. “That was… impressive.”

You shrugged, flicking your hair back. “Well, I had a good duet partner.” You glanced at your friend and winked. “But it’s nice to have an audience.”

Jake laughed softly, eyes never leaving yours. “So, what’s your name?” You offered it to him, along with your hand to shake. “Jake,” he replied, taking it. His grip was firm but gentle, like he was trying to make sure you felt it. “And I’m supposed to be focused on training missions, but I can’t stop watching you.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Is that so? What’s more distracting—the music or me?”

He smiled, just a little crooked. “Definitely you.”

You laughed, and the sound was like a spark in the dim bar light. For a moment, it was just the two of you—no crowd, no noise, just the hum of a song fading out and the start of something new.

Javy sidled up, grinning. “I’ll leave you lovebirds to it. But remember, Jake, if you break her heart, I’m coming for you.”

Jake’s grin turned serious. “I don’t plan on breaking anything.”

You looked up at him, feeling a flutter you hadn’t expected. “Good.”

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hatsbuckets · 1 day ago

Text

He does NOT like to talk about it.

The weeks—months—spent between pain meds and recovery after he came back from the dead.

Barely lucid for the first few weeks, and a hollowed-out man after he finally switched to lower-dose pain meds.

He remembers when they told him he was “lucky to be alive.”

Except Simon Riley has never been lucky.

Luck would’ve given him a home. Luck would’ve given him a father. Luck would’ve given him a face that doesn’t remind him every damn day of the man he loathes. Luck wouldn’t have had him crawling out of his own fucking grave and dragging himself back to life.

Luck would’ve been fantasy.

Simon Riley does not live in a fantasy.

He lives in a body that barely made it back. Knife wounds down his ribs, healing jagged. A shattered radius. Dislocated shoulder. Crushed digits. Stitches up his thigh. Two cracked vertebrae. An eye that still doesn’t always focus right in fluorescent light.

The worst part? The ache in his jaw. Not from injury—though there was that too—but from grinding his teeth night after night, just to keep the screams in.

Price had visited. Simon was never sure if it was real, or if the drugs were still puppeteering his grief into hallucination. He remembers a warm hand on his shoulder. That was real.

He remembers not crying. Only because he’d already run dry.

The anger came later. When the fog lifted. When the pain stopped being an abstract thing and started screaming in every nerve. When he realized he couldn’t tie his boots.

Couldn’t hold a fork.

Couldn’t even sign the discharge forms without his hand seizing up.

He nearly threw a chair at the wall when his pen slipped again. The physical therapist just handed him another sheet of paper. Told him to try again.

Like it was that fucking simple.

But he did. Again and again. Because the fury needed somewhere to go.

And repetition was safer than silence. His body healed, but his hands were the worst.

He started tracing letters. First his name. Then lines from books. Then nothing at all—just letters, shapes, lines.

Somewhere along the way, it got… good. Neat. Sharp. Clean block print, easy to read. And if he really focused, if he took his time—

It became beautiful.

A steady hand in ink. A small act of control in a world that had stolen everything else.

Simon Riley doesn’t like to talk about what it took to come back. He doesn’t talk about the way rage nearly drowned him. Or the way he still checks every lock twice. Or how he sometimes wakes up clutching at fingers that no longer hurt, just to make sure they’re still there.

But the handwriting stays.

On gear manifests. On margin notes. Initials. Coordinates.

Sometimes letters.

He’d written them to Price as practice, as part of the therapy—physical and mental, he now realizes.

He still writes them today. Habitual. Short notes, mostly.

Mostly—always—to Price.

But eventually he slides one under Johnny’s door. He couldn’t tell you what he wrote. Doesn’t remember. Something gentler than he'd have ever said out loud at the time, probably.

And soon after, Kyle gets them too. Appreciation. Praise. Anything Simon can give, even if he might never speak the words into the air.

There exists a note to his family—to his mum and Tommy. It sits at the bottom of his desk drawer, forever sealed.

He does NOT like to talk about it. Those months spent in agony.

He probably won’t ever talk about them now.

But maybe he’ll write something.

a/n: I just think he would have pretty handwriting and I could write a whole essay on why. like wdym this tortured man wouldn't come back and find that this is something he has the max amount of control over (other than when he realizes how much control he has over himself (see: non-existent essay on Simon having the MOST control over himself out of the 141 because discipline, trauma, and dog-motif.)) started at this headcanon post if you care

#I literally could not sleep without getting this thing out of my brain so now I'm writing it in a haze and giving it to my queue #when I tell you that this was a frenzy I mean it. I totally forgot what Tommy's name was until I remembered *after* I had already written i #simon ghost riley #cod #call of duty #n e way I hope y'all enjoyed?????????? lmao #I love to babygirl-ify and other things to him too y'all I promise but sometimes canon simon riley without any assumptions and then you jus #add like one tiny thing (ie handwriting)... just makes me so so so soft #idk if I'm making sense it's late and I'm tired and idkidk #adding to the queue and I'm not looking back or changing it #queque #ghost cod #tf 141 #cod fic #cod headcanons #task force 141 #I got a little poetic about it apparently oop

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thatonegrimm · 1 day ago

Note

Hello! I would like to request something! So do you know that one trend where you would hold out your hand to your partner just see what they would do with it? Can do something along those line please! Thank you so much! - the donut wizard 🍩

Hi 🍩 anon! That trend is so cute and yes—I know exactly the one you mean! 😭💖 Here you go!💌

🌙Saja Boys x Reader – “What Happens When You Hold Out Your Hand?”

No explanation. Just your hand, extended toward them. How they react says more than words ever could.

----------------------------

🧿 Jinu

You were standing in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil when you turned and quietly extended your hand to him.

Jinu blinked.

“…Do you need help up?”

You stayed silent.

“…Did you… drop something?”

Still nothing.

He started to sweat. “Are we… are we doing a handshake? A pact? A blood ritual?”

You just tilted your head, palm still out.

Carefully—so carefully—he took your hand in his, fingers curling warm and tentative.

A beat.

“…Do I win?” he asked softly.

You gave his hand a light squeeze and smiled.

He looked stunned.

You could practically see the internal monologue: Physical affection unlocked. Achievement: Holding Hands Without Dying.

Later, he wrote it in his journal.

“7:42 a.m. – Hand was offered. I did not mess up. They smiled. Possibly magic?”

----------------------------

💪 Abby

You were both sprawled on the floor after stretching. You casually rolled over and held your hand out toward him, palm open.

No words. No cues.

He took it immediately.

No questions asked.

Just bam—your hand engulfed in his warm, calloused one like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You blinked. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

He shrugged, bringing your hand up to rest on his chest. “You held it out. You don’t gotta say anything.”

You stayed like that for several long, peaceful seconds.

“…Okay, I need it back now.”

He clutched it tighter. “Nope.”

“Abby.”

“You gave it. It’s mine now.”

You tried tugging.

He pouted. “But it’s so soft.”

----------------------------

📚 Mystery

You were curled up in the corner of the couch when you casually reached over, palm up, toward Mystery as he passed by.

He stopped mid-step.

Stared.

You didn’t say a word.

He stared some more.

Then—without warning—he dipped down and rested the side of his head against your hand.

No words. No emotion. Just… plop.

Your fingers instinctively threaded through his hair.

He made a sound like a low sigh. You think it might have been a purr.

You didn't say anything, and neither did he.

But he stayed there for a long time.

(And later, when you tried it again, he came over immediately. Like you’d pressed a button.)

----------------------------

💋 Romance

You held your hand out while he was brushing his hair.

He turned, saw it—and gasped.

“You dare offer your hand to me?”

You nodded solemnly.

He practically glided across the room and dropped to one knee like a Shakespearean ghost, cradling your fingers in both of his.

“My love,” he whispered, brushing a kiss to your knuckles. “My muse. My unspoken poem.”

You bit back a laugh.

Then he flipped your hand over and kissed the center of your palm.

“You know I can’t resist this kind of thing, right?”

You shrugged. “Just wanted to see what you’d do.”

“Dangerous game, sweetheart,” he said, eyes smoldering. “Next time, I might not stop at the hand.”

You yanked your hand back.

“Temptress,” he muttered, dramatically wounded.

----------------------------

🔥 Baby

You held out your hand while sitting across from Baby on the floor during game night.

He looked at it.

Then at you.

Then back at it.

“…What?” he asked, suspicious. “Is this a trick?”

You shook your head.

He narrowed his eyes. “Am I supposed to do something? Bite it?”

You raised an eyebrow.

“…Fine.” He took it cautiously, then mumbled, “Feels kinda nice, I guess.”

Then three seconds later, he laid down and dragged your arm with him, pressing your hand to his cheek like a little space heater.

“I didn’t agree to this part,” you said, amused.

“You started it,” he grumbled, already sleepy.

“Are you… cuddling my hand?”

“I’m not answering questions.”

By the time the others came in, he was fully curled around your arm like it was a favorite plushie.

Nobody dared to interrupt.

----------------------------

M-List

#kpdh x reader #saja boys x reader #kpdh #baby x reader #kpop demon hunters #abby x reader #romance x reader #jinu x reader #mystery x reader

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kittyburger · 16 hours ago

Text

I 100% second this and it's helped me lots. My favorite sport is only accessible to me in the summer and I hate starting from ground 0 ever year-- so I started doing exactly this and suddenly it's so much easier to pick it up again every year! Also, when it comes to wellness, consistent daily (or near-daily) exercise is much more valuable for your health overall than extreme fitness challenges or sudden all-or-nothing fitness goals. I'd like to add some other options for anyone lacking ideas:

Run up and down some stairs a few times in a row. This one's great when you've been sitting for a few hours, get the restless nyoomies before bedtime (you know when you lay down exhausted to go to sleep and then suddenly feel like you can run a mile? Not if your legs are jelly!), or even just need to make a trip to a different floor of your home/school/work. Take multiple trips to do a task if you don't want to feel awkward about it.

A lighter version of this is just hopping in place.

OP already mentioned jogging in place but you can also do knee raises or butt kicks if you'd like to change it up a little bit!

Ankle/calf raises. I cannot stress enough how beautifully amazing this simple exercise is. You can do this one anywhere you need to stand up for a bit, not just at home but even waiting in line at a store or at a bus/train stop. Sure, you'll look a little restless but nobody's going to think twice about it or remember it for more than 30 seconds. Bonus points if you have a raised floor somewhere at home (like a stair or chess board or footstool) that lets you bring your ankle lower than your toes, but either way this one's gonna help you build killer ankles that are way less prone to injury AND strengthening these muscles will make days where you spend more time on your feet much, MUCH less exhausting.

Drop and hold a deep squat while you're doing something simple with your hands (like taping something together, sorting through mail, folding laundry, etc.)

Wall and/or bench pushups. There's walls everywhere. They're great as exercise equipment! There's also sturdy furniture and/or fixtures everywhere. They're also great as exercise equipment! And they're conveniently available nearby when you've got to stand around and wait for something (like toast to pop) or someone (like that one person you're waiting to finish getting ready so you can go out). And if you can do a full set of the regular kind of pushups no problem, I have some great news for you: there is floor. Everywhere. So much floor!! :D

Same wall accessibility applies to wall sits. Also if you have bad knees and regular squats hurt, wall squats are a lighter variation of those.

Other floor (or couch, or bed) exercises you can do at the drop of a hat include (in order of easiest to hardest in my own experience but everyone's will be different) leg raises, mountain climbers, hip raises, bicycle crunches, crunches, starfish crunches, starfish planks (no idea if that's what they're actually called but it's pretty much a plank but only one side of your body at a time with your body turned so your other hand can point straight up in the air), sit ups, and burpees.

Go for a walk. It doesn't have to be a long walk; you don't even have to even leave your house. Just walk around for a little while. Smell the roses. Go check out the pretty sunset. Count how many steps it take you to get from one room to the next.

This one goes along with walking but doing many household chores involves moving around. Dust the surfaces. Vacuum. Sweep. Offer the dead window fly to your friendly bathroom spider. Water the plants. Teach the dog some tricks. If you need a movement break or a reason to stop doomscrolling for lack of something better to do, these are all great options!

At the end of the day, something is almost always better than nothing and you can adjust what exercises you do (and how often/for how long) to your own goals (such as mental wellness, decreasing joint pain, and injury prevention vs. building muscle). You can choose to do any of these until your muscles burn or just until the pot of pasta on the stove is done boiling. Just listen to your body (stop or do a lighter variation if it's too painful/gives the wrong kind of pain, keep going if it feels good), use common sense (i.e. the deep squat one is probably a bad idea for someone with low iron or POTS), and learn to enjoy moving just for the sake of moving again. <3 And if you're reading this and haven't stood up in the past two or more hours, this is your sign to get up, go get a drink of water, and pick one of these to do along the way.

a secret they dont tell you is that you dont need to have a set time and place for exercise. sure going to the gym is gonna give you a more dedicated workout but like if you're physically able to you can just jog on the spot while your food is cooking. brushing your teeth? do a couple of squats. sometimes i drop to the floor and plank until my arms hurt and then go on with my day. if you live a sedentary lifestyle its better than nothing.

#wellness #health and wellness #take care of yoself #self care post #self care #spider mention

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baigepueckers · 1 day ago

Text

Paige Bueckers X Reader

Overtime

The front door barely shuts behind her before Paige’s long stride makes it to the living room.

You don’t even look up from the couch. Arms crossed, hoodie drowning your figure, jaw tight. You’d stopped texting her two days ago…tired of late replies and tired apologies. Tired of missing her while the rest of the world got to have her.

You could feel her eyes on you. She’s standing there in her travel fit… Wings warm up sweats, baggy and low on her hips, her blonde hair tied back in a low bun, tired eyes that spark the second she sees you, really sees you.

“Hi,” she says softly.

You don’t answer.

Paige swallows.

And then she moves.

Fast.

She crosses the room like she’s on a fast break, dropping to her knees in front of you, pulling your hoodie up to your waist.

“P…Paige…”

“No,” she says, voice low and rough, too calm. “You don’t talk right now.”

You blink as her hands spread your thighs. Your breath hitches. No underwear. She sees. And she smiles….slow, devilish, possessive.

“Oh,” she murmurs, thumb running along your slick folds. “This is what I’ve been missing?”

Your back hits the couch. “You’ve been gone, Paige.”

“I know,” she says, kissing the inside of your thigh. “And I’m gonna ruin you for making me feel that.”

“Y…you left me,” you whisper. “Didn’t even FaceTime last night. I fucking needed you.”

That’s when her fingers slide in. Two at once. Deep.

You choke on a moan.

“I know, baby,” she breathes, curling them just right. “And now you’re gonna take everything I give you. Just like that. Keep those legs open.”

You do. You can’t not.

Her mouth is on you before you can think…tongue flattening against your clit, fingers fucking into you deep, curling up and dragging out that exact sound she’s missed hearing in hotel rooms at night with her hand between her thighs.

“Oh my…fuck, Paige…”

She pulls back just long enough to meet your eyes, lips shiny. “That’s it. Moan louder. You’re not quiet anymore. I want the neighbors to know who you belong to.”

And then she devours you.

There’s no teasing, no warmup…just raw, messy, consuming hunger. You’re gasping, writhing, begging for something and nothing and everything. Paige fucks you with her fingers like she’s trying to etch herself into your body. Like she knows she’s been gone too long and she’s pissed at herself for it.

Your hand clutches her hair. Your thighs twitch. She doesn’t slow down. She doubles down.

When she feels you tighten, she moans into your pussy…deep, filthy, turned on as hell. “Cum for me. Now.”

And you do.

Explosively. Shaking. Loud.

She doesn’t stop.

You whimper. “Paige…fuck…it’s too much”

“Shhh,” she whispers, licking a stripe up your center. “You wanted me to come home, right?”

You nod, dizzy, overstimulated.

“I am home,” she growls.

And she throws you over her shoulder.

You’re still panting, flushed, but she hauls you to the bedroom and slams you onto the bed like you’re weightless. Her sweats are gone in seconds. Her shirt hits the floor. She pulls something from the drawer…oh fuck.

Strap on. Black. Thick. Already buckled.

Your eyes go wide.

“I’ve been thinking about fucking you with this every night,” she says, voice velvet, leaning over you, kissing your jaw. “Thinking about how tight you are. How loud you scream. How you shake when I hit that spot..right here…”

She runs her fingers through your folds again and pushes three in this time.

You cry out.

Paige grins. “Right there.”

And then she lines herself up.

You grab her hips. “Wait…wait…please, just”

She leans in and kisses your neck, your cheek, your lips. “I got you,” she whispers, all soft and honeyed. “But you’re taking all of it. Every inch. You owe me that.”

And then she thrusts.

Hard.

You arch off the bed, gasping, nails digging into her biceps. She starts fucking you like she owns you. Like she’s been holding this in for weeks. Deep, fast strokes. Hips snapping against yours. Hands grabbing your wrists, pinning them above your head.

“You’re mine,” she pants. “You understand me?”

“Yes…fuck yes, Paige”

“This pussy is mine.”

“Yes.”

She slows. Rolls her hips. Drags the strap out until only the tip is in…then slams back in hard.

You scream.

“That’s what I thought.”

You’re a mess. Sweat soaked. Hair stuck to your forehead. Her name on your tongue like a prayer.

She fucks you harder. Meaner. But always watching your face. Always checking your breath. Rough, but reverent.

Then she flips you over.

Face down, ass up. She slides in from behind and grabs your hair in one hand, your hip in the other.

“You feel so good, baby,” she groans. “You gonna cum again for me?”

You whimper. “I…I can’t”

“You will. You’ll do what I say.”

And you do.

You cum again, face pressed into the pillow, body trembling. She fucks you through it, then slows, still deep inside, pulling your back to her chest.

Kissing your shoulder. Your neck. Whispering, “I missed you….I love you….You’re everything to me.”

You turn to kiss her, sloppy and breathless and raw.

You don’t even remember falling asleep.

Just Paige’s heartbeat against your back, her arm heavy over your waist, the strap on discarded somewhere on the floor, your body wrecked in the best way. You’d passed out wrapped in her warmth, sore and used and fucked out beyond belief.

But now…now something’s shifting.

You stir when you feel fingers lightly dragging down your spine. Paige’s breath is hot against your neck. She’s still behind you. Still pressed against you.

And she’s horny again.

Your thighs are already sticky. Your body’s still trembling, still oversensitive. But the ache’s back. The need, low in your belly.

“Paige,” you murmur, voice hoarse.

“Mmm,” she hums. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You roll onto your back. She’s looking down at you now…half lidded eyes, messy hair, flushed cheeks. That post sex daze makes her look unfairly good.

Her fingers trail down your stomach. “You’re still so fucking wet.”

You shift, gasping when her fingers slip through your folds again. “I just…Paige, I can’t already..”

She kisses your jaw, then your lips. Slow. Sweet. But you can feel her smirking against your mouth.

“Yes you can.”

Her fingers slide in again. Gentle this time. Slower. But so deep.

Your breath catches in your throat.

“Thought you said you missed me,” she whispers. “Didn’t think this was already enough.”

“It’s not,” you breathe, already grinding down into her hand. “It’s not..please.”

“Good girl,” she murmurs.

Her mouth finds your nipple, tongue flicking, sucking it soft while her fingers work inside you…wet, easy, unhurried. She shifts slightly, tugging the strap on back on, but doesn’t stop fucking you with her fingers.

You’re panting already.

She kisses your neck, smiling into your skin. “Wanna feel me again?”

You nod fast.

“Use your words, baby.”

“Please,” you whisper. “I want you again, Paige. I want all of it.”

That’s all she needs.

She pulls her fingers out slow, gives your clit a filthy little tap…then slides her strap in again from above. You’re on your back, legs spread, hair splayed across the pillow, and she sinks into you so slow it burns.

You whimper.

“Shhh,” she coos, hips rocking. “I know you’re sensitive, I’ll take care of you.”

But she doesn’t really slow down.

Because even in this sleepy haze, Paige is still chasing something…making up for every night she couldn’t be inside you. Her strokes get harder. Deeper. But her hands are cradling your jaw, brushing hair out of your face, holding you like you’re glass.

“You feel that?” she whispers, grinding in. “Feel how deep I am?”

“Yes…fuck, yes”

“Made for me,” she groans. “This pussy was fucking made for me.”

She shifts your leg up over her shoulder, folding you open, and hits that same spot that had you screaming earlier. You throw your head back.

“P, oh my god”

“That’s right. That’s it. Cum for me again, baby. Cum with me inside you.”

Your body obeys before your brain does.

You shatter under her. Hips jerking, walls clenching around nothing and everything. Paige curses and keeps fucking you through it, giving you everything until your body goes limp beneath her, twitching with aftershocks.

She leans down and kisses your mouth…messy, sweet and filthy with how wet everything is between you.

And then she finally stills.

Still inside. Still breathing hard.

Her forehead rests against yours.

You both lie there for a minute. Sweaty. Sore. Glowing.

Then Paige whispers, “Still mad at me?”

You roll your eyes and pull her back into a kiss.

“Ask me again when I can walk.”

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tizzydew · 2 days ago

Text

Red Parent Hood

I love the AU's where Red Hood adopts a (for some reason or the other) de-aged Danny and slowly starts to get his shit together with the help of a baby Danny calming his pit rage so I wager you this.

Tonight something was off in Lady Gotham- shadows stretched out abnormally longer and seemed to sway along to the sharp whistle of the wind, lights would flicker while alleyways seemed to distort and stretch on forever, despite the sound of wind the air was stagnant and the biting cold sent a shiver down the spine of even the most seasoned of gothamites.

It was one of those nights where even the cruelest of the rogue gallery; those who had managed to escape Arkham ofcourse, had seemed to think better of causing trouble. Henchmen and salary workers alike too had taken the hint that Lady Gotham was not in the mood and they surely were not trying to press what little luck they had in this god forsaken city.

The GIW however had not gotten the memo, their tires screeching against the asphalt as they drove down the narrows. They had finally done it. Phantom- Amity Park's greatest menace, was just within their grasp. He had gone down hard with their newest ecto-destabilizer; courtesy of Doctors Maddie and Jack Fenton.

The Menace in question was rapidly de-aging as he fled, managing all the way from Illinois only to be cornered in Gotham, New Jersey. The two day chase called for a code black, all major hands on deck and finally their victory was in sight. Sam Manson, Tucker Foley and Jazz Fenton, all in custody and questioning for harbouring this fiend are no longer able to delay the inevitable.

Danny for the life of him couldn't remember why he was running yet every time he started to slow down something pushed him forward, whispering 'not yet', telling him 'it was not the right time'. But.. He was tired, he wanted to curl up in his dad's arms and sleep. His dad's arms were always safe right? Surely they were less scary than whatever this.. was.

Rounding another corner he finally stopped, not knowing when he had gone from flying to sprinting. Vision blurred with tears he couldn't remember crying but that was not important to him at the moment as he had more pressing worries. Why couldn't he remember his Dad's face?

He knew.. He knew that his Dad was big and strong. His dad was the coolest and had black hair like his- but his hair was white? No no, focus Danny.. Big, strong, black hair and.. Kind. His dad was kind. But where was his dad? He wanted his dad!

"Kid? You good?" A heavy jerseyed accent cut through his panicked thoughts, the now toddler having not noticed his own sobbing and unstable breathing as he desperately wished for his dad. His dad who.. black hair, big, strong looking and kind, was right here. It couldn't be helped when the child barrelled into his father, hiding his face as he sobbed into his dad's leg in utter distraught. He wanted to go home now.

Jason for the life of him had no clue how to react when he had landed down in one of the many concrete back alleys of Crime Alley only to be met with some meta child sobbing their eyes out, scared out of his mind. It was his first night back in Gotham, his plans ready to come to fruition with minimal work left to be done before they could be put into action and clearly this shit was not what he was expecting tonight.

It wasn't that he didn't have the time to react when the kid ran over to clutch onto him but rather it was that he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to when the child looked so relieved to see him… not when the child was gripping onto him like he was their last life line.

Jason didn't even really think about it before propping the tiny toddler up in his arms and gently patting their head and soothing him as if a wounded animal he was trying to not scare away. Although evidently it wasn't needed when the child immediately hid their teary face in his shoulder, sobs slowly starting to quiet down.

Out of the corner of his eyes he could see the shadows flicker as darkness converged for a moment yet as soon as he turned his attention to it- it was gone. Nothing but a quiet 'thank you' in the breeze letting him know he hadn't imagined it.

Tonight, Mother Gotham had some cleansing to do on her streets, after-all it had been so long since she had heard from her dearest, Clockwork. May the Infinite have mercy on those who drove him and his ward to such a desperate state, since she surely wouldn't.

#danny fenton #jason todd #dcxdp #dc x dp #dc x dp crossover #dp x dc #dpxdc #Todd is a parent now #What do you mean Bruce he always had a kid

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m-robinavitch · 3 days ago

Note

#26? For Pope or Robby?

<3 <3 <3

Pairing: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader

Trope: Marriage of convenience

Warning: Some medical procedures and mentions of wounds.

Thanks to @velvetmel0n because she put my ideas into words and helped me with this 😭💕

“Okay, lunch is in here and please try to eat more than a few bites Robby,” smiling as you had him the lunch bag of leftovers from the dinner you made last night. “But just in case you can’t sit down for lunch I threw in a sandwich and some protein bars.” This time Robby smiled, throwing his bags over his shoulder before leaning down to your level.

“Thank you sweetheart,” a kiss to your cheek- chaste, soft, but so much love he’s forcing back. “I’ll be home at six but if not I’ll call you okay?” His hand was light at your waist, ghosting against you really but it’s the only thing he allows himself to touch. Because the sweet smile you give him isn’t real. The gentle way you kiss his cheek before bed or before he leaves for work isn’t real. But the way he looks at you with so much adoration and affection? That’s real. Because six months ago you weren’t married, you only knew each other by name and few words when Robby would come in to the diner for breakfast before his shift. Six months ago you just had a little crush on the tall, handsome, older man, because he smiled at you with something akin to affection and listened to you speak about your interests and left you more than necessary for a tip. Six months ago you burned your hand at work and came into his ED with tears.

“Hey, hey don’t cry, this is nothing okay?” Robby tried to console you, holding your hand gently before rubbing the ointment along the raw skin. “I’ll get you patched up and you’ll be back to making those pies that made me gain 10 pounds in a week.” You laughed between the tears, hiccuping a bit but- it wasn’t the pain that made you cry. No, it was the thought of the hefty hospital bill and days off you’ll have to take for your idiotic injury that made you blubber in front of the attractive doctor you only knew for a few weeks at this point. You were struggling, making less than enough for paycheck to paycheck. Student debt was crippling you, you had no insurance and didn’t even have a car because you couldn’t afford the gas to take you from place to place. Maybe it was the pain meds but you started to unload all of this onto Robby. He doesn’t know what came over him. Maybe it was the pretty girl he’s started to think about more than appropriate, crying in front of him and maybe begging for help even if she didn’t outright ask.

“I- I have good insurance. It goes to waste usually anyway and-“ his face was red, burning as he stuttered out more selling points and words and- was he saying what you think he said? Was he?

“What?” Was all you asked, tear stained face and wet eyes looking up at him through those pretty lashes that made him melt. Was he really saying-

“Just, think about it kid. I know you’re struggling. And- this can be just on paper, in name only.” The weight of what he said finally came down on him, he refused to look at you while he started to wrap your hand. And maybe it was the pain meds again, but marrying Robby for the benefits of insurance and financial stability? Not the worst idea you’ve had. He told you to think about it. To call him if you decided but if not- then this conversation never happened and you can go back to being whatever it was you were before. You sat on the idea for three days before you called him. Within the week you were both at the courthouse exchanging words and vows.

And after you send him off this morning with his lunch and a smile- a few hours later you find yourself standing in line at the ER your husband works at.

“It’s nothing, I sliced myself with a knife making lunch,” you told the triage nurse who smiled, handing you off to Whitaker and Mel for sutures. Only while being sat- Dana went to go ask Robby about the stray Robinavitch on her list. He strides over to you quickly with his large gait, throwing back the curtain and rolling Whitaker away from you while he asks what happened- taking the bloodied dish towel from your hand to inspect the wound. “Robby it’s nothing. I promise. You know I’m just- clumsy.” Honestly the attention made you flush, flustered because of all the medical professionals in the tiny curtained off room and clearly everyone is aware that you must mean something to Robby.

“We need to watch for infection, nerve damage, muscle weakness-“ Mel was spouting off about potential issues with your wound but stopped when you started to tear up. Anxiety starts filling your gut and you’re so stupid and-

“Hey, hey- it’s okay- I’m gonna watch you okay?” He takes your face in his, making you look up into his eyes so you can relax. “No tears- don’t cry. It’s going to be fine- I promise.” He kisses your forehead- ignoring the looks of everyone in the room because his wife you were crying and needed him at this moment. Dana absolutely will be asking him about this later. Because not once has he mentioned anything about you and he didn’t answer her when she asked how you were related but that doesn’t look like a kiss that you give to a relative. Especially when he takes the suture kit from Whitaker and all but begs Dana to sew you up because he loves his kids but like hell he’s having them suture you. The only other one he trusts would be Jack since Robby legally can’t do it himself- he’s already playing jump rope with insurance fraud. “Let Dana stitch you up, I’ll be right back sweetheart.”

“So how do you know Robby?” She asks, cleaning the blood before she starts working on the gash and-

“We’ve been married for 6 months.” You say as if that wasn’t the biggest plot twist she had ever heard. And she’s so good with her poker face that she nods- continuing to work on you hand and thinking if a million questions she has. There will be an interrogation as soon as you leave.

#trope tuesday #lexi answers life’s questions #my random typings #michael robinavitch #michael robby robinavitch #robby robinavitch #michael robby robinavitch x reader #michael robby robinavitch x you #Michael Robinavitch x reader #Michael Robinavitch x you #robby robinavitch x reader #robby robinavitch x you #dr robby #dr robby x reader #dr robby x you

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himbodruid · 3 days ago

Text

A Perfect Tease

Rafayel x Reader

Buying that perfect dress for an event turned into.. much more

INTENDED FOR 18+ READERS. MINORS DNI

⋆.ೃ࿔*:𓇼⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆ ೃ࿔*:𓇼⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆

As much as you hated shopping, you had to admit that it had its perks.

Sending teasing photos to Rafayel happened to be the biggest one. It was his fault, anyway, seeing as he sprung the gallery invitation on you last minute. As a result, you were determined to find the most risqué dress you could get away with.

And at your very last stop, you found just the one.

The hue was such a deep shade of red that it almost appeared black in certain lighting. It hugged every curve enough to leave very little to the imagination. The sweetheart neckline clung to the swell of your breasts, but the center plunged half way down to your navel. The edges of that deep v-line were woven together by a sheer fabric that became near invisible against your skin. But what drew you to the dress wasn’t so much the plunging neckline, nor the bare back. Instead, it was the slit in the floor-length skirt that came to a daring end along the top curve of your hip. The moment the lustrous fabric slid along your skin and settled in place, you knew it was The One.

Of course, you couldn’t help but to send one last teasing message to Rafayel.

You turned your back to the mirror in the dressing room, popping your hip up so that the slit in the skirt was exaggerated even more. The swell of your ass peeked around the hem just enough in that position to be scandalous, and that was what you framed in the quick snapshot. With the photo, you sent a text caption.

Don’t think I’ll be able to wear panties with this one lol x3

Rafayel’s response was immediate; a string of emojis ranging from the heart eyes to the red-faced sweating emote. That solidified the decision to purchase it, despite the hefty price tag, and you couldn’t wait until the gala in two days. You couldn’t help the grin on your face, even as you were pulling up to Rafayel’s villa. This lunch date was going to be a fun one, you could feel it.

After setting the lunch ingredients on the counter, you set out to find where Rafayel’s hidden himself in his home. The studio was the first place you checked, but you were surprised to find that he wasn’t there. His materials were set up as if he were going to begin work, but they appeared to have been abandoned. The idea made you uneasy, because there wasn’t a lot that could rip him away from painting.

But it didn’t take too long for you to realize where he was. With a sly smile, you made your way to the bathroom, where you heard soft splashing sounds. Nudging the door open a crack, you could see him in the bath. His back was to you, but his face was turned to the side and cupped in his palm. A heavy groan from him sent a spike of worry through you, and you pushed into the room.

“Rafayel?” You questioned, approaching the tub.

And then you saw the source of his…affliction.

The pretty blush spread on his face should have been a hint, but it was something you’d conveniently missed when you first entered the room. He acknowledged your presence by watching your approach through a half-lidded gaze, still stroking himself beneath the surface of the water. You stood beside the tub and forced your eyes away from where his hand was occupied under the water, dragging them up to meet his. A lazy smile spread on his face and he tipped his head to the side.

“Cutie,” he said playfully, his voice husky. “You’re here early.”

Some part of you had hoped to have some sort of effect on Rafayel with those pictures you sent him, but this was even more than you expected. You didn’t trust your voice so you said nothing, instead reaching for the zipper of your jacket and slowly pulling it down. His eyes tracked the movement then flicked back to yours once the fabric separated. You let your jacket fall from your shoulders, hands immediately moving to untuck your shirt and lift it over your head. This slow tease continued until you stood bare before him. His eyes raked down your form, continuing back up until those heated blues settled on your face once again.

You kept your gaze locked to his as you took the two steps to the tub. There was no graceful way of climbing into the tub with him, but that didn’t matter once you were settled in the water, kneeling over him. You leaned into him, crushing your mouth to his. The deep guttural groan was a sound you’d never heard from him before, and it sent a thrill through you that settled heavily in your core. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you down firmly over him. Hands explored your body as eagerly as your tongue explored his mouth. You could feel his cock pressed against your belly, the length all but digging into you. Rafayel broke the kiss to drag his mouth down the column of your throat, the scraping of his teeth against your skin breaking up the heat of his lips at random intervals.

“R-Rafayel,” you whimper, reveling in the feel of his body beneath yours. Every inch of you was pressed to him, his heat pouring into you.

“Fuck, cutie,” he moans into your neck. “It’s been torture all day, seeing those sexy pictures of you and not being able to touch you.”

“Well, you have me now,” you say, biting into the slope of his neck. He threw back is head, a harsh sound between a growl and a moan erupting from him. His fingers dug into the underside of your thighs, lifting you so that his cock was notched against your folds. It didn’t take much prompting for you to sink down and impale yourself on him. Rafayel bit back a curse, hips jerking up into you so he was sheathed fully in you.

You smiled sweetly down to him, sitting upright so he could get full view of you. With your hands braced against his chest and his hands roaming your body, you began rocking against him. The movements were slow and calculated, meant to tease just as much as meant to pleasure- and Rafayel was very vocal in the pleasure he took from you. His head rolled against the rim of the tub, his eyes fluttering closed, his heavy intakes of breath coming out as deep, guttural moans. The pretty blush that dusted his cheeks traveled further, spreading to his chest as he exerted effort to maintain control.

You decided to take it a step further once he was thoroughly squirming beneath you. Lifting from him, you tease the tip of him just inside you. One, two, three times you popped the crown of him in and out of you before slamming back down onto him fully. His fingers dug into your hips, desperately trying to keep you from lifting and repeating the action again- without success. He trembled beneath you, whines commingling with his moans. You leaned forward to devour his sounds, slanting your mouth over his and coaxing him open. You drank in his every sound, offering your own to him in return.

The last threads of Rafayel’s composure threatened to snap. His arms circled your waist, holding you in place as he thrust into you. His mouth traveled down your neck before latching onto the slope of your shoulder. You tilted your head away, giving him more access while your hands threaded into his hair, tugging the strands gently.

“Raf…ayel,” you moan breathily, barely able to murmur the rest of his name. His arms tightened around you.

“Fuck, cutie, say my name like that again,” he moaned against the purpling spot he made on your neck. His thrusts became chaotic, slamming into you almost violently while water from the bath sloshed over the edge of the tub. You quickly lost any semblance of control, relinquishing it to Rafayel’s fraying composure.

“R-Rafayel,” you moaned again, clinging to him. Every strike of his cock deep inside you sent you spiraling closer and closer to the edge.

“Fuck, say it again,” he begged. His fingers dug into your skin, his grip on you harsh, but it served to heighten your pleasure. The frantic way that he drove into you told you that he was nearing the edge himself.

“Rafayel,” you cry, throwing your had back. Your voice echoed off the tile, his rising to join yours.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his thrusts stuttering as he buried his face in your chest. “Fuck!”

“Come with me,” you command, gripping your fingers in his hair. “Come with me, Rafayel.”

He obeyed almost instantly at your breathy words. A string of curses erupted from him, your name joining them every so often as he threw his head back and arched beneath you. The twitching pulse of him met with the cascading flutters of your own release, your body milking his for everything it had to offer. His body jerked beneath you as pleasure continued to steamroll him, and you continued to ride him through your shared climax. He whimpered, hips chasing yours each time you lifted from him.

“You feel so good,” you whine, still riding him even as you both returned from the high of the release. Rafayel’s head still rested against the rim of the tub, his eyes clenched closed as you continue to wring pleasure from him. Hands dig into your hips, his back arched, his moans breathless. You can’t help but take in the sight of him writhing beneath you, locking it away in your memory to savour indefinitely.

“Cutie…please,” he whimpers, trying his best to bury himself in you as deep as he could. His face scrunches up adorably, ecstasy being ripped from him with every grinding crush of your core against him. You leaned back, bracing your arms against the tub to entice him to open his eyes. And when he did, his gaze locked onto the way your tits bounced and swayed with every plunge.

“F-fuck, I-I’m,” he moaned, dropping his head back against the tub once more. He trembled beneath you, another orgasm rising rapidly in him. You increased the pace of your plunges and he bucked wildly beneath you to meet you half way. The water churned around you, though there wasn’t enough left in the tub to slosh over the edge like earlier.

With a guttural cry that rang out in the room, Rafayel reached out and crushed you to him. His cock dug into you as deep as your body could accommodate, flooding you before your own shuddering climax ripped through you.

Spent, you just rested against him while the both of you tried to calm your breathing. Your ardor cooled with the water, and now all you wanted was to curl up against Rafayel. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back while he hummed his pleasure in your ear. Nuzzling against his neck you placed a gentle kiss there.

“Cutie, this was a pleasant surprise, but I think I’m late for my lunch date now,” Rafayel rumbled. You laughed and pulled away from him, placing your forehead against his.

“How will you ever make it up to her?” You ask playfully.

“I can think of a few ways,” he said with a smirk, hauling you out of the water and carrying you from the bathroom. Assembling your meal was a challenge with the way he insisted on crowding you against the counter, with the way neither of you could keep your hands to yourselves.

After finally finishing a very heated lunch, he stole you away and showed you every single one of those ways he would make it up to you for being late.

#lads rafayel #love and deepspace rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #l&ds rafayel #rafayel fic #rafayel x you #rafayel smut #lads smut #lads x reader #l&ds fic #l&ds smut

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ddejavvu · 24 hours ago

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hi there! i’m on my top gun maverick era, and i’ve been seeing the tiktok trend where brides have their bridesmaids give the groom spicy polaroids before the ceremony and i was wondering if you could possible write something along those lines for bradley bradshaw!

You're not permitted to see Bradley before the wedding- well, he's not permitted to see you, but you've sent your faithful bridesmaids on an important mission to pass him an envelope of pictures.

Very scandalous pictures. Call it an early wedding present, call it a honeymoon preview- whatever it is, you've sent it to Bradley's dressing room a mere twenty minutes before your ceremony begins.

The ladies return in a heap of giggles, nearly knocking their dresses askew from the way they're pushing and shoving at each other.

"Did you do it?" You ask, like it isn't obvious.

"Yes!" They squeal, and more giggling ensues, your voice among the chorus.

"What did he say?"

"We ran off before he opened it," One of your girlfriends admits, "We wanted to give him privacy."

"But we told the groomsmen not to look," Another informs you, her brows pinched into a stern frown, "I'll kick Javy's ass if he sees any of them."

"He won't look." You hum, knowing Javy respects you too much to behave so poorly, at your wedding of all places, "Oh, girls, I'm nervous."

"Are you kidding? You looked so good." One of your friends gushes, and you flush slightly at the memory that they've all seen the photos you'd taken. They'd done the boudoir shoot for you, and they'd put their stamp of approval on all of the shots.

You can't muster up an answer, but your phone buzzes and provides a distraction so that you don't have to.

Bradley: You know you shouldn't have done that, right?

All of a sudden, you fear for the worst. Maybe one of the groomsmen saw, maybe this is supposed to be tender and you've made it crass, maybe Bradley hadn't liked the color of the lingerie you'd been wearing- and then had promptly taken off in front of the camera.

Y/N: I'm sorry!

Bradley: You should be. These pants have no wiggle room. They're gonna be tight all night.

#bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw oneshot #bradley bradshaw fluff #bradley bradshaw x you #rooster x reader #rooster imagine #rooster fanfiction #rooster oneshot #rooster fluff #rooster x you #rooster smut #bradley bradshaw smut

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writing-for-life · 20 hours ago

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Oh I think you’re totally right (I never truly saw hatred as the opposite, as I wrote; I only ran with it because that’s what the comics at least seem to prescribe to poke around in the misunderstanding of “they are their opposite” a bit). Apart from all the things you’ve outlined, and I agree with those wholeheartedly, Desire is also survival instinct, self-preservation etc. Which becomes conceptually interesting later in the story (I believe I even have a meta about that flying around somewhere called “When Desire stops being the villain”, or something along those lines). Desire isn’t bad if looked at completely objectively (although it obviously has the potential to be maladjusted, but so do dreams).

It’s also interesting to me though that once the proverbial really hits the fan for Dream, Desire sort of actively removes themselves from Dream’s further arc (e.g. they tried to warn Dream in the comics not to seek Destruction when really, they should have rubbed their hands). So I think narratively, it’s a bit more complicated than just being set up as the villain. They are partly that, but we also get quite a few hints that their character has layers. The story is mostly told from Dream’s pov, and whenever we get a glimpse of breaking that pov, it gets a slightly different flavour (Overture, for example, or the end of Brief Lives). The creator even said this himself (something along the lines of, “If Desire told the story, it would look very different.”).

And yes to Dream hating Desire also being part of why his relationships fail. It is the fodder for many a fanfic, and I think quite a few people share that idea.

And yes, Desire is also wanting for the ones you love, and wanting what’s best for them. And it could be argued that if we stopped focusing on romantic love for a minute, Morpheus is eventually capable of that, because the unconditional love for his son, giving him what he needs at great cost to himself, is what ultimately changes him and paves the way for a Dream that’s less of an edgelord and kinder (and that would be Daniel).

So as usual, I think it’s a bit of a “both and…”

The Endless Are Not Their Opposite--They Only Define It

I read quite often, on here and elsewhere, that the Endless are also their opposite (@tickldpnk8 and I were just talking about an interesting thread on Reddit), so I just decided to speed-complete this one and get it out of my drafts before it dies in there (so not as much in-depth as originally planned, but sometimes, you just need to run with it 🤣).

The Endless are not their opposite. They define it. It’s a (in my mind, and I’d love to hear what you think) massive difference. And they define their opposite by their absence. If they truly were their opposite, it would give very different meaning to canon, and if we were to do so, a lot of it wouldn't make sense in my view.

Dream is not also reality. He defines it. He is, and forever will be, unreality. It is his absence that defines reality. A dream that becomes real isn't a dream anymore--it's real. That’s the main reason why pulling the ship into reality in Overture weakens him. If he were reality, he could have just snapped his fingers and make it happen. If he were reality, a lot of his problems wouldn't be... well, problems. The fact he is (a) D/dream is pretty much why all his relationships are doomed to fail. Dreams don't last. Dreams are forever strange and can't be truly known.

Delirium is not also sanity/clarity. She defines it through her absence. And when she pulls herself together like in Brief Lives, it hurts her "muchly". It is immeasurable pain for her because it is what she is not and cannot be for any extended period of time without hurting herself.

Despair is not also hope. She defines it via her absence. As long as you hope, you don’t despair. If Despair were also hope, we would not have 6 issues of Overture very clearly showing us who and what H/hope is. If Despair were also hope, we wouldn't need a little girl called Hope reach out her hand and touch Dream—he would have a sister who could do it. But the only time Despair shows up for him, so to speak, is after he killed Orpheus—make of that what you will.

Death is not also life. She defines it. The fact that she is there at your beginning does not mean she is the one who gives you life. She is there so you will remember her, always (and especially when she takes your hand), hence you will cherish life. She does not directly give life to immortals either--they are immortal because of her absence, because she withholds her gift, like she does with Orpheus and Hob (the Eblis-situation has nothing to do with anything in my mind and is linked to a funeral rite, and we are clearly told it is not something she usually does [“it’s been so long”], or is remotely comfortable doing. It is just that she is the Endless that is most life-adjacent and hence the one who will have to do it. Just like Dream is the most reality-adjacent and hence the one who has to pull the ship).

Destruction is not also creation. He defines it. He is what gives us the blank slate, he is what makes creation possible, he is what starts the cycle and ends it, but he is not creation himself. Keeping on destroying makes creation impossible. There needs to be a pause, a break for creation to come to fruition—the absence of destruction. If he were also creation, he wouldn't create so badly (to the extent that it is canonically turned into a running gag), and being around him and seeking him out wouldn't be an issue. But it is.

Desire is not also hatred (I’m still not sure if hatred is really the opposite of desire, but I’ll run with it because that’s what Gaiman chose). They define it via their absence. You know how Dream doesn’t want Desire in his life anymore after one major spat (whether he had reason to or overreacted isn’t really the issue). And what feelings are often left in the absence of Desire? And what does Desire feel and gets themselves tangled up in because they are pushed away and are basically not acknowledged/desired by their own sibling despite constantly trying to show him they are important (desire is not just a sexual thing, people, get your mind out of the gutter 🤣)? Yeah, about that one… There is definitely a different type of enmeshment here which sometimes seems a bit plot-hole-y to me, but I think that might be down to the fact that Desire is the chosen antagonist (and even that, only to a degree until they aren’t). Even so, it still makes sense.

Destiny is not also freedom. He is the absence of it. All paths lead to the same end. Or a decision you make was the decision you were going to make all along, and what looks like a different ending was the ending that would have happened anyway. And even if you choose, the book will start to make that choice destiny again. Only Delirium knows what’s not in his book, and in this universe, the only true freedom is not bound by any rules, logic or sanity…

#additions about the true nature of desire #the sandman #sandman #dream of the endless #desire of the endless #morpheus #daniel hall #sandman meta

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xxsyluslittlecrowxx · 2 days ago

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Bride of the Last Dragon.

Chapter One — The Hundred and Tenth Bride

[ dragon!sylus x f!reader ]

They say a dragon’s fury is born of hunger, but I have seen the truth: rage takes root in the fractures of a heart that once dared to hope. The kingdom calls him a monster, striving to quiet his wrath with tributes of gold and the bodies of trembling brides. I was meant to be the latest sacrifice—just another lamb led to sate a legend. Yet in the mountain’s shadow, I discovered a creature who despises the fear that sustains him, who watches me with eyes older than the sun. We are bound by something deeper than duty, more dangerous than love. And as the world begins to burn, only I can choose what price mercy demands. Some stories are forged in fire; others, in quiet ruin. This is a tale of both. “Where love dares to bloom, destruction follows.”

ABOUT | 2.6k words. slow burn. doomed yearning. moral ambiguity. impossible choices. ancient grief. quiet moments before the storm. a sword raised in mercy.

TAGS | dark romantasy. monster x maiden. political decay. psychological tension. cursed love. final betrayal. moral ruin. fire and ash.

MUSIC : overcome // skott

INDEX : prologue ✧

Chapter One — The Hundred and Tenth Bride

I HAVE WORN MANY...

...dresses in my twenty years: silks cut for courtly dances, mourning blacks steeped in incense, linens stiff with the starch of duty. But never one like this. Never one that draped over my shoulders like an executioner’s hood.

The bridal chamber stood colder than the corridors outside, though braziers glowed with restless coals. Shadows gathered thick in the corners, silent witnesses to the fate prepared for me. Frost laced the leaded glass of the window, casting pale bars across the stone floor. Outside, dawn strained against a sky the color of slate—but here, within these walls, morning dared not enter.

I stood before the mirror, sleeves cascading past my wrists in drifting white silk. My hair lay pinned in perfect loops at my nape, not a strand astray. Every line of the dress declared purity, submission—my role as the kingdom’s final offering. Yet if they looked closer, they would see the defiance I stitched into each seam.

Silver thread wove along the cuffs, catching what meager light slipped through the fog. A mother’s superstition claimed it would ward off a dragon’s fire. Tiny charms nestled among embroidered lilies, each etched with sigils older than the castle walls—charms my grandmother pressed into my palms with eyes that refused to meet mine.

I smoothed the skirt, my fingers steady only because I forced them to be. A blade rested against my thigh, strapped in a sheath soft as a lover’s sigh. Its weight was a promise, cold and sure as the steel I prayed I would have the courage to wield.

The eyes staring back from the mirror looked like a stranger’s: wide, dark, alive with a mind careening between horror and resolve. I recalled every lesson, every threat dressed as wisdom. A bride must not cry, lest he taste the salt and know her fear. A bride must not scream, or he will hear her voice as a challenge. A bride must step from her horse with a spine of tempered iron.

But I was not a bride. I was a blade. And I would not forget.

Still, tracing the lines of my reflection, doubt wormed through the fortress of my resolve. I had memorized the maps of his mountain. I had studied his patterns, the legends, the words left by those who glimpsed him before vanishing into ash. Yet no tale taught how to stand before a god of flame and scales without trembling.

They said he devoured every bride. But if that were true, why did the kingdom still stand?

The candlelight shifted, glinting off the thin circlet waiting on the table—a symbol of royal blood, its metal glowing like the last flare of a dying star. My hands hovered over it, reluctant. The circlet was a cage, and wearing it would seal a vow I had yet to voice aloud.

I thought of children sleeping in their beds, of mothers who deserved mornings unbroken by screams. My purpose was not mine alone, but theirs—for every heart that beat in terror of wings blotting out the sun.

The final knot of my sash cinched tight against my ribs, squeezing the breath from my lungs until I remembered I still needed to draw it. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, counting down to the moment I would step into a fate written before my first breath.

A knock came at the door, soft as falling ash. It was time.

I lifted my chin, meeting my own gaze in the mirror one last time. A bride dressed in white stared back. A girl trained to kill. A storm waiting to break.

I would end him, or die trying. Either way, dawn would come for someone.

The door creaked open, and a colder breath swept through the chamber. The palace waited beyond, hushed and heavy, quiet as a crypt.

I stepped into the corridor. My footsteps echoed softly across the stone, each fall swallowed by the cavernous stillness. Silver thread at my cuffs caught pale glints of torchlight, but no eyes rose to meet mine. Guards stared fixedly at the ground, hands locked around spears polished smooth by generations of fear. A servant pressed herself against the wall, murmuring a blessing too faint to catch.

I kept walking.

The halls stretched ahead, longer than I had ever known them. Once, these corridors rang with life: boots striking marble, voices lifted in song or argument, my own laughter as I raced toward the stables. Now silence reigned. Dust dulled the mosaics underfoot, banners hung limp and faded to pale ghosts of their colors.

The great doors loomed ahead, carved with our house crest: a sun rising over jagged peaks. Beyond them, the world waited.

They swung open at my approach, hinges groaning under ancient weight. The courtyard lay cold and gray, wrapped in a morning fog that clung to the stones like a shroud. Beyond the walls, village rooftops peeked through the mist, thin spirals of smoke curling from distant hearths. Bells tolled faintly, soft as a memory dying with the dawn.

And there he stood.

My father—the king—wrapped in a heavy cloak, crown absent, forgotten somewhere in the hollow halls behind him. His face looked thinner, the frost in his beard more pronounced. But his eyes… they were as I remembered: the eyes that watched me learn to ride, that glimmered with pride when I dared the higher jump, that softened when I fell.

I stopped before him. For a long moment, we simply stood in silence.

He lifted his hand, as if to brush my cheek, but let it fall. His voice, when it came, was rough and raw. “You do not have to go.”

I met his gaze. “We both know I do.”

His shoulders tensed. The wind caught the edge of his cloak, snapping it like a banner above a battlefield. “If you turned from this path now, no man would name you coward.”

I thought of the bells, of the children sleeping beyond those rooftops, of the mothers who deserved mornings free from terror. “And if I did? Who would pay the price in my place?”

His eyes closed. When they opened again, they shone too bright. “I dreamed, once, of being the king who ended this curse. Instead, I am the one sending my daughter to face it.”

I remembered nights curled beside him under summer stars as he read stories of heroes, his arm warm around me, his voice low, the scent of leather and pine thick in the air. I had believed then the world was full of men like those heroes. I know now that heroes do not always come with shining swords or noble hearts. Sometimes they carry regret heavy as crowns. Sometimes they send their daughters where they wish they could go themselves.

“You taught me how to stand,” I said softly. “Now let me prove I learned.”

He swallowed hard. Then he stepped aside, clearing the path.

I crossed to the waiting horse—dark, silent, breath misting in the frigid air. I swung into the saddle, the weight of my blade against my thigh a quiet, familiar promise.

Then—his hand on the reins. A whisper, rough but steady. “Strike well. Strike true.”

My fingers brushed his. He let go.

I rode for the mountain. Behind me, the bells tolled, each note a mourning wail swallowed by the rising fog.

The road twisted from the palace gates like a pale scar across dark fields. My horse’s hooves fell in a steady, muffled rhythm—the only sound in a world hushed by mist. Frost edged every blade of grass, every crooked fence post, every bare branch reaching like a supplicant toward the wan sky. Fog curled thick and white at the edges of my vision, swallowing milestones and markers until only a ribbon of cold, unbroken earth stretched beneath me.

They once called the last dragon a god in the oldest songs—before fear soured worship into dread, before offerings of silk and coin gave way to the price of flesh. Some whispered he was a guardian betrayed by mortals, cursed to wrath until the last lie was buried. Others claimed he was born of storms to punish a world grown soft. My nursemaid used to hush me with tales of wings eclipsing the moon, claws tearing mountains from the earth, brides vanishing without screams, taken so swiftly they never felt the flame.

I had grown up tracing the names of one hundred and nine firstborn daughters in the margins of musty books. My father’s sister among them—her portrait still hung in the west wing, eyes bright and unbowed even in fading paint, veil brushed with silver thread. The hush that fell when her name slipped into conversation was louder than any answer. No one spoke of what happened after the storm bore her from the palace. Did he devour them, as the stories claimed? Or did the truth rot in shadows too deep for the living to find?

Charred beams jutted from ruined farmsteads on either side of the road, black scars where green fields once fed villages now emptied by fear. Lean-tos and hayricks slumped half-burnt and abandoned, brittle as old bones.

I thought of the children hidden beneath distant rooftops, of mothers singing lullabies that quavered with dread. I thought of my father’s sister’s portrait, and how every breath I drew carried the weight of her silence—and the silence of every bride before me.

My hand slipped beneath the folds of my skirt, closing around the hilt of the blade strapped tight to my thigh. Its cool steel poured resolve into my veins. A line from my father’s stories rose unbidden: True steel asks only the courage to wield it.

For a fleeting moment, I imagined turning west, riding until the mountain shrank to rumor, until dawn broke over fields untouched by a dragon’s shadow. The thought flared—and died like a spark in the dark.

If he was truly a god, could I kill him? Or would my blade shatter like glass against old divinity?

I straightened in the saddle, pressing my heels to the horse’s flanks. The fog parted ahead in thin, reluctant veils, revealing the jagged silhouette of the mountain—black and eternal against a bruised sky.

I chose the mountain. I chose this path.

A crack split the silence overhead, sharp as a whip. Pebbles rattled down cliffs, skittering across the path before vanishing into fog-choked chasms. The horse shied beneath me, muscles bunching in fear as if it, too, sensed we had crossed the threshold of the world of men.

I dismounted before he could bolt, boots slipping on loose shale. My hands slapped the ground, stone burning cold even through my gloves. When I rose, the horse had retreated several paces down the path, eyes rolling white. I left him there.

Each step on foot was a battle. I climbed switchbacks that twisted like a serpent’s spine, knees aching, lungs raw. The wind sliced between rock spires, carrying scraps of sound that skittered across my ears—half-sobs, broken prayers, a word I dared not trust as real: mercy.

For a breathless moment, the fog lifted, revealing black cairns hunched at every bend of the path, their stones slick with rime. Among them lay relics dulled by time: a child’s ribbon knotted tight, a shoe crushed beneath fallen rock, a scrap of white cloth fluttering like a ghost.

I pressed onward, pulse pounding in my temples, breath shallow and sharp. Clouds churned overhead, their underbellies lit by silent lightning. The scent of storm swept down the slopes—ozone, smoke, and something older, like the breath of deep, unlit caverns.

A distant roar shuddered through the stone—not thunder, but something deeper, more deliberate. The mountain exhaled a gust tinged with scorched iron.

I ducked beneath an overhang, pressed to the cold wall as pebbles hissed down from above. One clipped my shoulder, tearing silk, blood welling hot against freezing air—a reminder I still lived.

The rockfall eased. Ahead, the path ended at a sheer drop—until I saw it: a dark arch carved into the cliff face, black as obsidian, wide enough to swallow an army. Warm, fetid air rolled from its depths, thick with old smoke and something that made my hair prickle.

Lightning flickered, illuminating the cavern’s mouth—a ragged wound splitting the mountain’s face. Shadows shifted within, as if something enormous stirred.

I wiped blood from my arm onto my skirt, hand hovering near my blade. The mountain groaned low and knowing, as if it recognized the beat of my heart.

I stepped forward, knowing there was no turning back.

The air inside the cavern closed around me, thick and damp, clinging to my skin like a living thing. Each step echoed sharply off stone slick with ancient damp. The light behind me died within a few paces, swallowed by the dark.

The ground sloped inward, pulling me deeper. My fingers brushed the walls, tracing furrows too deliberate to be the work of water or time. Claw marks, deep and ragged—as if something monstrous had once tried to tear its way free.

The path widened into a hollow chamber so vast the far wall dissolved into blackness. Shapes littered the ground, catching stray glints of stormlight seeping through cracks overhead: a circlet dulled with rust, a shoe half-buried in gravel, a strip of silk stiff with old blood. The remnants of those who had come before me.

I stepped around them carefully, each relic a quiet accusation. Silence thickened with every breath, dense as fog, until even the sound of my heartbeat felt muted.

I stopped where the path ended at a pool of darkness deeper than night. The weight of it settled on my chest, heavy as a hand, each breath coming shallow and ragged.

I hesitated.

The resolve I had worn like armor cracked beneath the mountain’s ancient gaze. My blade, once a promise, now felt small.

I thought of the stories they told: of a dragon twisted by rage, hunger demanding sacrifice. But there were other stories—ones whispered late at night—of dragons who once loved humans, who taught them to shape fire, who guarded them as gods until betrayal turned devotion to ash.

What if the creature waiting in the dark had once been that protector? What if all that remained now was ruin wearing the shape of wrath?

My knees struck stone as I dropped, the impact rattling through bone. Cold seeped into my flesh, cruel and absolute, a reminder of how fragile I truly was. My breath fogged before me, trembling with every exhale.

I bowed my head, though no eyes watched. Though the gesture meant nothing to the dark. But the vow I whispered into that silence was mine alone.

Let this end with me.

Let this mountain take no more daughters. Let my blade strike true—not only at the beast, but at the curse binding us both.

A scrape like claws dragging across stone stirred beyond the black. Shadows shifted, faint and deliberate, as something enormous began to uncoil. The cavern exhaled, breath rolling over me—hot, fetid, thick with scorched iron and ancient smoke.

A single thought pierced the fog of my fear: If he spares me, will I still have the courage to end him?

I drew a slow, careful breath and whispered into the dark: “If he is the monster they claim, I will end him. But if he is not… I pray I am strong enough to do what must be done.”

The darkness pulsed, like the mountain itself drawing breath—as if it had been waiting for me all along.

to be continued...

♡ brides of the last dragon : @blessdunrest @otome-house @kestrelmando @cms399 @cutestnursingstudent @wakeupr41 @orcawholikeskrakans @crimsonlittlecrow @emowitchwithatwist @crowroses13 @typhloticassent

♡ Taglist is open.

If you wish to walk with me through this ruin—if you wish to witness each fragment as it falls—simply reply or send an ask, and I’ll add you to the list.

[ cover template : miisuki on x ]

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #l&ds sylus #lnds sylus #sylus #lads sylus #sylus qin #sylus love and deepspace #dragon!sylus #sylus dragon #dragon sylus #lads #sylus fanfiction #sylus fanfic #sylus x mc #sylus x reader #sylus x f!reader #sylus x f!mc #sylus x you

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plasticflowersinahistorycemetery · 8 hours ago

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sitting pretty

content warning/s & wordcount: 18+!!!, NSFW, subby!sammy, basically porn without plot, minor fluff at the end, smut (kissing, drooling, face sitting, masturbation, oral/cunnilingus, p in v, biting, manhandling, dirty talk, begging, whining, edging, coming inside), seriously there's so much. 3k

let's all thank @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth because i wouldn't have been able to do this with a certain ask being sent to me. i actually adore you, with a gross little cherry on the top. <3

Sam’s always been used to getting what he wants from you.

Big, beautiful thing like him—broad-shouldered, warm-eyed, polite to strangers and devastating in bed—he usually doesn’t even have to ask. Most nights, one look from under those long lashes is enough to get you on your knees. And you’re happy to do it. You love him. Love that mouth, that size, that sweetness. Love the way he always gets so soft and grateful when you touch him.

But tonight?

Tonight, you’ve decided he’s going to learn how it feels when you decide.

When you set the pace.

When he is the one left whining, begging, losing himself a little more each time your fingers ghost just shy of where he needs you most.

He doesn’t know that yet, of course.

Not when he walks through the motel room door, bloodied and scuffed and brimming with adrenaline, pupils blown wide. He’s already unbuckling his belt like it’s a given. Like it’s inevitable that he’ll press you up against the wall, mutter some slick little line about how much he needs to be inside you, and you’ll just melt for it.

And oh, you could. You could let him. It would be good. It always is.

But then where’s the fun in that?

“You look smug,” you say, slow and sweet, from your place on the edge of the bed. “Didn’t know killing a wendigo meant you got to act like a brat.”

That makes him pause, eyebrows flicking up.

“I’m not a brat,” he says, voice already shifting toward something lower, that slow velvet he uses when he wants to coax you under him. “I’ll do that thing with my tongue, remember?”

Oh.

You smile.

Poor, stupid Sammy. He thinks he’s in control.

He doesn’t catch on—not right away. Not when you part your thighs slow, deliberate, like a promise. Not even when you pat the floor in front of you with a lazy flick of your fingers and say, “On your knees, baby.”

He just tilts his head, eyes dragging up your bare legs like he’s trying to decide if he wants to play along. Like this is cute. Like you’re the one about to fall apart.

But he drops anyway. Of course he does. Six-four, two hundred pounds of muscle, kneeling obediently between your legs with his hands on your thighs like that’s where they belong.

Because it is.

“You gonna be good for me tonight?” You murmur, carding your fingers through his hair, nails grazing his scalp just hard enough to make him shiver.

He hums. Nods. Leans forward to kiss your inner thigh. “Always good. Just—” another kiss, higher now—“need you.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” you coo, dragging his hair back so he has to look up at you. His mouth falls open just slightly. His breath catches. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s already slipping. “You’ve been running around all night killing things. Did you think you’d come back and get whatever you wanted?”

“I thought I’d come back and fuck you until we both passed out,” he says, grinning.

You laugh. It’s almost cruel.

“You’re not fucking me tonight.”

That wipes the smirk clean off his face.

“What?”

You lean down, grip his jaw, and press your mouth to his in a kiss so slow it makes his thighs tense. You bite his bottom lip, pull back, and smile against his mouth.

“You’re gonna sit there like a good little thing,” you murmur, lips brushing his, “and wait for me to decide what I want to do with you.”

He makes a sound at that. Like he’s been struck. His hips twitch involuntarily—because yeah, he’s already hard in his jeans. Already leaking for it. You can smell it, see the way he’s trying to stay composed while every part of him is coiling tight with want.

You reach down. Undo his belt. Pull him out.

God, he’s fucking huge like this. Hard and flushed and pretty. The kind of cock that makes your mouth water, even when you’ve had it a hundred times before.

But tonight?

Tonight, your plan is to just stroke him. Gentle. Barely anything at all. Just enough to make him ache. Thumb brushing over the head, then down the shaft, then off again. Every time his hips buck, you’ll stop.

“Ah—fuck,” he hisses, eyes fluttering shut.

You slap his cheek—light, but firm. “Eyes on me.”

His eyes snap open.

“That’s better,” you purr, cupping his jaw. “So pretty when you listen.”

He whimpers. Actually whimpers.

And you smile like you’ve just been handed the fucking moon.

“Don’t you dare come,” you say. “Don’t even think about it.”

He’s trembling already. Chest rising quick. Jaw clenched so tight it looks like it hurts.

You drag your nails down his stomach, kiss his flushed cheek, and whisper, “Good boy. My good, sweet boy.”

And that’s it. That’s when you feel it break. That little snap in his brain. That moment when all that post-hunt bravado slips down his spine and turns to submission.

He pants, choked, “please—please, just—touch me—”

You tilt your head. Smile.

“Oh, Sammy,” you murmur, stroking his cock once and watching his whole body jolt. “You don’t even know what begging looks like yet.”

He’s squirming now. That smart, smug hunter who walked in the door twenty minutes ago? Gone. Left in a puddle somewhere between your thighs and his pride. He’s flushed from his chest to his ears, and his lips are pink and slick from where you made him sit still and watch you suck your own fingers. The taste of yourself dripping down your knuckles while he whimpered for a turn.

You’d kissed his temple, his cheek, his throat. You’d kissed all around his mouth—not on it—because that would’ve been too kind. And then you’d pulled your panties aside and sat in his lap like a fucking throne. Not to fuck him. No. Just to grind. Just enough to let him feel how wet you were. How hot and swollen your cunt was, dragging against his cock—but never letting him inside.

Now?

Now you’re on your knees between his, and he’s already shaking.

“Please,” he pants, staring down at you like he’s dying. “Please, I can’t—I need it—”

You give him a slow blink. Drag your tongue up his cock in one, lazy stroke that makes his whole body jolt.

Then you stop. Let him twitch against your cheek, throbbing and dripping and flushed dark red. Let his own desperation paint him.

“You’re not even trying,” you murmur, tongue peeking out to lap at the precome slicking his tip. “That’s not begging, baby. That’s just whining.”

“F-fuck, I—please, I’m—been good, been so good for you—”

You wrap your lips around the head of his cock—just the head—and suck.

Hard.

You hollow your cheeks and look up at him, and he cries out. Hands gripping the edge of the mattress. Eyes rolling back. Body spasming like he might actually come—

So you pull off.

“No, no—fuck—don’t stop—”

You laugh. Cruel and sweet and devastating.

“Don’t stop?” You echo, rising up onto your knees and straddling his lap again. You run your slick cunt along his length, coating him in the mess you made just from watching him fall apart. “Sam, sweetheart, you don’t get to tell me what to do. Not when you’re this hard. This red. This close.”

You drag your nails down his chest. Watch him twitch. Whimper.

“God,” you murmur, rocking your hips slowly, “you’re so big. Can’t believe I ever let you fuck me without making you earn it.”

He’s crying now. You feel it before you see it—his chest hitching, his hands flexing, like he wants to grab you and can’t. Tears streaking down his flushed cheeks as he moans, broken: “please—I’ll do anything—I just—I wanna come, wanna be inside, wanna—you, please, just let me—”

You reach down. Grip his cock in your fist. Stroke it once. Twice.

His whole body bows like a prayer.

Then you stop again.

He sobs.

You smile.

“My poor thing,” you whisper, leaning in close enough to bite at his jaw. “You don’t know how to think anymore, do you?”

He shakes his head. Fast. Pathetic.

You kiss him. Filthy and messy and wet. Tongues tangling, his breath shuddering in your mouth as you press him down and let your cunt glide against the length of him again, again, again.

“You’re gonna be good,” you whisper into his mouth, “and wait. You’re gonna sit here and take it. Every little tease. Every stroke. Every second of me ruining you. And you’re gonna thank me.”

He nods, desperate, lips trembling. “T-thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

You hum, grinding harder. “Good boy.”

He whines like you’ve said something holy.

Your thighs are soaked. Dripping slick down his cock, your skin, his lap, like you’ve already come—but you haven’t. Not yet.

You’ve just been grinding. Just sliding your pretty little cunt up and down the length of him, teasing both of you with every pass. Your arms looped around his neck. Your lips on his. Sloppy, wet, desperate kisses. Teeth and tongue and spit and neither of you caring where one of you ends and the other begins.

“Fuck,” he gasps, rutting up into you again, his thighs twitching like he’s trying not to flip you over and fuck you into the mattress. “Can’t—can’t take much more, I—”

“I know, baby,” you breathe into his mouth. “You’ve been so good for me.”

You kiss him again—wet and open and filthy—until he whines.

And then, still rocking against him, you murmur: “Wanna ride your pretty face, Sammy.”

He gasps. Chokes on it. Eyes flutter wide like he can’t believe what you just said.

“Yeah?” You coo, biting at his bottom lip. “Wanna feel me on your tongue? Want me to drip all over that dumb, gorgeous face while you beg for it?”

His hips buck so hard it almost knocks you off balance. He nods—fast, frantic. His voice is a wreck: “Please—please, want it, wanna taste you, wanna make you come, I’ll be so good, I swear—”

You grind down on him in response, dragging your soaked slit along his cock until he whimpers, and then you slow again. Deliberate. Tormenting.

“Such a good boy,” you whisper, letting your lips brush his. “So big, so smart, but look at you now. Just a needy little mess.”

He moans at that. Like you’ve fed him ambrosia.

“Want your tongue,” you whisper, licking into his mouth. “Want your whole face wet with it. Want you to make me come until I forget my name.”

He nods, practically vibrating. “Yes, yes, please, I—fuck, please, just let me, please—”

You kiss him. Soft this time. Gentle. Sweet.

Then you climb off his lap.

He whines in protest, cock bouncing against his stomach, twitching like he might come just from that. But you hush him.

“Lie down,” you murmur. “Arms at your sides. Don’t move.”

He obeys like a man possessed.

And you? You crawl up his body, slow as sin. Kiss your way up his ribs. His chest. His throat. And then you straddle his face like it’s your fucking throne.

His mouth opens before you even touch him.

His tongue is pressed flat against you, slow and deep and trembling. You’ve got your thighs clamped around his head and your hands in his hair, rocking gently against his mouth while the first orgasm rolls through you like a drug.

You cry out—soft, broken—hips twitching, cunt clenching around nothing as you ride the high. And Sam? Sam’s moaning into it. Like he’s grateful. Like this is all he’s ever wanted.

“Good boy,” you pant, breathless, still grinding against his mouth. “God, you’re so good for me, Sam—so good—don’t stop, don’t you dare stop—”

He doesn’t. He can’t. His tongue is soaked. His lips are swollen. His eyes are fluttering shut beneath you and he’s still licking like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

You’re already climbing again.

“Fuck—fuck—baby, gonna come again—”

That’s when you feel it. His mouth stutters. He moans—high, almost pained—and starts to mumble something against your cunt.

You blink, dazed, panting as you lift just enough to hear him speak.

He’s wrecked. Face red and soaked, pupils blown, lips glistening with spit and your slick. He looks like he’s been crying—has been crying—and when he speaks, his voice is shaking:

“I—fuck—you need to stop, or I’m gonna—I’m gonna come, I’m gonna waste it, I can’t—I’m gonna fucking blow just from tasting you—”

You gasp. Actually gasp. Eyes wide, spine arching, pussy clenching around nothing because fuck. That’s the hottest thing you’ve ever heard. You glance down your body—past your glistening thighs, past the wreck of Sam’s face, to where his cock is twitching against his stomach. Leaking, flushed, aching.

He’s barely been touched. You haven’t let him fuck anything—not your mouth, not your hand, not your cunt—and he’s so close he’s begging for mercy.

You shift your hips slowly, letting the slick from your pussy drip onto his chest.

“Oh, Sammy,” you purr, voice all syrup and sin. “You gonna come without being inside me?”

He whines. Tries to say something—fails.

“You poor thing. You’ve been so good.” You lean forward, kiss the tip of his nose, then whisper—wet and filthy—into his mouth:

“Wanna come in my mouth?” A pause. A tremble. “In my pussy?”

His chest heaves. He’s twitching now, hips jerking involuntarily.

“Wanna paint my face?”

That one makes him shiver—full body.

You smile. Cruel. Sweet. Devastating. “Or maybe…” you breathe, grinding your slick cunt against his chest while he groans, “you wanna come in my ass, pretty boy.”

He growls. Actually fucking growls.

Next thing you know?

You’re on your back. Spun like a ragdoll. Sam’s hands are under your thighs, pushing your legs up, spreading you open while he kneels between them and lines his cock up to your dripping cunt.

“I let you get away with too much,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You fucking torture me. You know that?”

You’re giggling. Breathless. Blissed out.

“And you love it,” you purr, just as he slides in. Slow. Thick. Stretching you open with every agonising inch.

You both moan. Loud. Broken. Your head falls back against the pillow, and Sam’s forehead drops to your shoulder as he sinks in all the way, shaking like a man on the edge of ruin.

“Fuck,” he pants. “Fuck, you feel so good—been dreaming about this, been going fucking insane—”

“You earned it,” you breathe, nails dragging down his back. “Such a good boy, Sammy. Such a sweet, patient, obedient thing—”

He thrusts.

Hard. Deep. You cry out, legs wrapping around him instinctively as he starts to fuck you like he’s trying to crawl inside your body and live there.

“You—ngh—you get away with fucking everything,” he grits, hips slamming into yours. “Say the filthiest shit—ride my face like it’s yours—edge me for hours—and I let you. I let you. I fucking let you—”

You’re laughing again. Wrecked and full and gasping.

“Because you love me,” you manage to whisper, mouth at his ear.

And he groans—deep and guttural—because you’re right. He does. And he’s going to prove it by fucking you until your legs shake and your cunt milks every drop from his cock.

He’s fucking you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Like if he stops, the world might end.

You’re both slick with it—sweat and spit and everything he’s begged for tonight. His hands are under your thighs, keeping you open and tilted just right so he can slide in deep, grind against that spot that makes your breath hitch and your nails bite into his back.

He’s trying to talk. Trying to say something filthy. Something about how you drive him insane. About how you ruined him. But the words keep falling apart between clenched teeth and groans.

His rhythm is frenzied. The control he always fights so hard to keep? Gone. He slams into you again and again, chasing the aftershocks of your second orgasm while chasing his own. Your body’s limp beneath him, boneless with pleasure, and still—still—you want more.

He groans into your mouth, kissing you like he’s drowning.

And you?

You whisper it right into that open, panting mouth.

“You’re mine.” A breath. A grind of your hips. “You’re so sweet when you behave.”

That does it.

He grunts. Bites your shoulder. And spills into you with a broken, choked sound that barely qualifies as your name.

You feel every pulse of it—deep, hot, possessive.

His whole body trembles. Thighs shaking. Arms locked tight around you like you might slip away if he loosens his grip even a little.

You moan at the sensation—wet and full and spent—hips twitching in lazy, overstimulated waves beneath him.

Then, with a groan, he collapses onto his side—bringing you with him. One arm stays around your back. The other cradles your thigh. He keeps himself buried inside you as you both catch your breath, your leg slung over his hip.

The first thing you manage to say—between heavy exhales and laughter—is, “God, you’re so sweaty.”

He grumbles against your collarbone. “Yeah? Wonder who’s responsible for that.”

You grin, nuzzling into the heat of his chest, ready to answer—but he cuts you off with a kiss, slow and sticky and smug.

“Don’t say it,” he mutters. “You’ll only incriminate yourself.”

You hum. “You gonna punish me for it?”

“Not right now.” His voice is raspy and worn-out, and it makes your heart flutter. “Right now, you’re just gonna lie here and deal with it.”

You huff a breathy laugh. “Bossy.”

“Damn right.”

But his arms tighten. His lips brush your neck, then your shoulder, then your jaw. He’s not letting go. Not for a second.

“Shower in a minute,” he mumbles. “Just wanna stay like this for a bit.”

You’re about to tease him again when he leans in—presses his nose to your damp throat—and murmurs against your skin:

“You’re perfect.” A kiss. “You’re fucking perfect.”

You go quiet. Let him hold you. Let him stay inside you. Let him love you like this—sweaty and breathless and owned.

And you think, if this is how the world ends, you’ll die happy.

author note/s: mindless filth. that's all i have to say. i hope y'all liked it. i know i did. all the love.

sam taglist: @deansbeer @sacr1ficialang3l @angelicjackles @tinas111 @ccainesideboob @anxiety-prime-max @vmiina @deanspookiebear @bejeweledinterludes @love2liz @lunaleah @angelically-yours @kblognar @angrydragon90 @mj-102009 @ohangeleyes @sunnyfuffly @prettyboy56 @mostlymarvelgirl @n3lly-h3artz @deangirlsstuff67 @angellust333 @sunnyteume @fandomchik @0ccvltism @insensiblelimerence @podiumackles @acklesarchives @itshellfire @livya99 <3

#pfiahc writes #my writing #sam winchester fic #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester smut #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x fem!reader #sam winchester x female reader #spn x you #spn x reader #spn smut #spn fanfic #spn x fem!reader #supernatural x reader #supernatural fic #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural x you #supernatural x female reader

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sebystann · 2 days ago

Text

Unmasked Hearts

Synopsis - Two reluctant partners. Sharp banter and shared battles. As Gotham’s darkness closes in, Red Hood and you go from enemies to something more—discovering that sometimes love is the most dangerous fight of all.

Tags? - banter, fluffy, just over all cute. Enemies to lovers.

Word Count - 7,600 (Got carried away!! I'm sorry!)

The night was a typical Gotham cocktail of fog, cold rain, and the distant wail of sirens. Rooftops loomed like dark teeth over alleys slick with oil. You crouched on the edge of one of those roofs, eyes narrowed behind your mask, tracking a van crawling along the street below. It was the same van you’d tailed for three nights, and tonight felt like it might finally lead you to the source of the latest shipment of high-grade weapons flooding the East End.

But then a shadow dropped from above—heavier, faster, almost soundless. You tensed, blade halfway drawn, as a figure clad in red and black armor landed beside you with a thud that vibrated through the rooftop. The Red Hood. Just your luck. He rose to full height, gaze flicking to you, and you stared each other down like two alley cats over the same scrap.

“You planning to keep playing dress-up or are you actually going to do something?” he said after a beat, voice low, edged with disdain.

You let out a soft snort. “You mean besides cleaning up your mess? Because I counted six of your spent casings littering the street two blocks back.”

His eyes narrowed behind his helmet’s lenses. The corner of your mouth quirked—maybe provoking the notorious Red Hood wasn’t wise, but you’d never been one to back down from a challenge. And there was something in his posture, the way he rolled his shoulders like he was already spoiling for a fight, that made your pulse quicken with the thrill of it.

You both turned back to the van. It slowed at a warehouse gate, two men hopping out to unlock the doors. Without a word, you rose as one and sprinted across the roofline, boots pounding wet concrete in a sync neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You reached the ledge first, diving into the shadows of a loading crane as the goons rolled the van inside. Red Hood landed beside you a split second later. You almost stabbed him when he brushed your shoulder.

“Do you mind?” you hissed, jerking your elbow away.

“Do you always get in the way?” he shot back, eyes never leaving the men below.

You almost laughed—if only because it was either that or lose your mind. “I’ve been on this case for days. You’re the one who showed up uninvited.”

He didn’t dignify that with an answer, but the tense silence that followed was loud enough to rattle your bones. Down below, the smugglers began unloading crates stamped with Russian letters. You raised your crossbow, lining up a shot at one of the lookouts.

But just as you released the bolt, Red Hood’s gloved hand shot out, pushing your aim an inch off. The bolt thunked harmlessly into a wooden crate. You whipped around, furious. “What the hell was that for?”

“You’d have blown our cover,” he snapped. “They would’ve called in reinforcements.”

You jabbed a finger into his chest plate. “Or I could’ve taken one out before they knew what hit them.”

He leaned in, close enough you could see the faint scratches on his red helmet. “Your way is sloppy.”

You sucked in a breath, bristling, before a sudden shout from below cut the argument short. One of the guards pointed up—he’d spotted you. Swearing under your breath, you vaulted the railing, dropping like a stone and rolling as you hit the ground. Bullets started flying immediately, muzzle flashes lighting up the dark. Red Hood dropped beside you, guns blazing. The two of you moved through the warehouse like twin storms: you weaving between crates with liquid speed, him following behind, his heavier frame unstoppable, brutal.

You slashed the thigh of a thug who tried to flank you, feeling the heat of a bullet whiz past your ear. Red Hood took down two more with precision headshots. Somewhere between ducking behind a forklift and covering each other’s backs, the chaos shifted—turned almost graceful. Each time you dodged right, he covered the left. When you leapt up to swing from a rusted chain and kick a gunman square in the chest, he was there when you landed, dragging you out of the line of fire.

You cleared the last of them with ragged breathing, blood splattered across the concrete. You looked at him, chest heaving, the electric thrill of battle still coursing through you. His helmet turned to you, silent. For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then the shriek of police sirens in the distance broke the spell. You gave him a wry smile. “You know, for a brooding vigilante with the social skills of a brick, you’re not the worst backup I’ve ever had.”

A grunt echoed in his helmet’s modulator—almost a laugh, if you were generous. “And you’re not as incompetent as you look.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Wow. Be still my heart.”

He stepped forward until you were nearly toe to toe. Rain sheeted down around you, pattering on metal and broken glass. His voice dropped, the rasp softened. “Stay out of my way next time.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically. “Sure, Hood. But only if you promise not to shoot me.”

Your banter lingered even as you ducked into the shadows to avoid the approaching patrol cars. For all your snarls and barbs, it was impossible to ignore the unspoken understanding already forming between you. You might hate each other’s methods, but you both wanted the same thing: Gotham safer than it was yesterday.

You slipped into an alley, heart still pounding with adrenaline and something dangerously close to excitement. There was a wild energy in the way he moved, a ruthless determination that matched your own. You hated how it made your stomach flutter. Hated it almost as much as you already craved the next time your paths would cross.

Because whether you admitted it or not, the first sparks had already caught fire.

Two days later, you stormed into the Batcave with your mask still dripping from the evening rain, rage pulsing in your chest. You didn’t even get a word out before Batman’s voice, deep and tired, rolled across the cavernous space.

“You and Red Hood are working the same case. I’m making it official,” he said. His tone brokered no argument. “Effective immediately.”

You snapped your head up, eyes wide. “You’re forcing me to work with that walking trauma response?”

A dark chuckle echoed behind you. Red Hood stepped out of the shadows, his helmet gleaming under the Batcave lights. “Nice to see you too, princess.”

You rounded on him with your fists clenched. “Don’t call me that.”

“Then don’t make it so easy,” he shot back, voice laced with that infuriating smugness you already knew too well.

Batman’s cape shifted slightly as he looked between you. “You both want to take down the Jackal cartel. You both need the leads the other has. Figure it out.”

He turned and walked away, leaving you glowering at each other. The air crackled with unspoken threats. You hated how tall he was up close, how his presence filled the room and pressed against your fraying patience. He leaned down slightly, as if to get right in your face. “You got something to say?” he asked, voice low, dark amusement glinting in every syllable.

You arched a brow. “Yeah: I’ve seen friendlier rattlesnakes.”

That got a huff out of him—maybe a laugh, maybe a scoff. Hard to tell. Either way, it felt like a victory.

The first mission as partners was a disaster.

You tried to scale a fire escape outside a suspected weapons depot, but he beat you to the top, nearly knocking you off the ladder. When you reached the roof, he was already scanning the windows with a thermal scope. “You always this slow?” he asked without looking back.

You wanted to throw him off the roof.

The two of you bickered over every plan—whether to storm the building head-on or go in stealthy; whether to interrogate a thug or let him scurry back to his boss with false intel. Every conversation felt like a tug-of-war. Even worse, you both knew you were right, every single time.

By the time you dropped into the warehouse rafters together, you were vibrating with anger. A patrol strolled below, flashlights sweeping the shadows. You leaned into his ear, voice a harsh whisper. “Left or right?”

“Right,” he said.

You went left.

Moments later, you had to drag each other out of the path of a guard who nearly spotted you, tumbling across the catwalk in a tangle of limbs. You landed on your back with a grunt, his chest pressed against yours, breath harsh inside his helmet. Even through your armor, you felt the heat radiating off him, heard the low growl of his breath.

“Left?” he demanded, eyes blazing behind his lenses.

Your lips twisted into a grin despite the adrenaline. “I like to keep you on your toes.”

He let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “You’re going to get us both killed.”

You pushed him off you with a huff. “Not if you keep up.”

After barely escaping the warehouse with a stolen ledger in hand, you holed up together in a safehouse. It was the first time you had to share space without punching each other or dodging bullets. You patched a graze on his arm in tense silence, your hands trembling with adrenaline and frustration.

He broke the quiet first. “You don’t have to do that.”

You shot him a glare as you dabbed antiseptic on his wound. “Yeah, well, if you bleed out, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

His lips twitched under the edge of his helmet. “So you do care.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “I care about finishing this case, Hood. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

But the truth was harder to ignore when your hands brushed his bare skin, or when your eyes caught on the thick scar that snaked across his bicep. There was a story there, you realized. A story you suddenly wanted to know.

You forced yourself to look away.

The next night, you were ambushed in an alley by cartel enforcers. You moved together by instinct now: when you ducked, he stepped in front of you to block a blow; when he stumbled, you were there to hook your arm under his and haul him upright. The two of you tore through the attackers in a vicious dance, and when the last one fell, you both stood panting, adrenaline crackling in the narrow space.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough.

You nodded, trying to slow your heartbeat. Rain dripped down his helmet, catching in the faint glow of the streetlights. His eyes bored into yours, dark and unreadable.

The silence stretched. Then he huffed and stepped back, muttering, “Try not to die next time.”

You smirked, despite the chaos. “You first.”

Days passed. The tension between you shifted, changing from something jagged and hateful to something sharp but charged with heat. You still bickered—over tactics, over details, over who made worse coffee—but now there was a rhythm to it, almost a comfort.

One night, as you both sprawled in a safehouse living room, poring over maps, he looked up from his notes. “You’re… good at this,” he said gruffly.

You blinked. The compliment startled you more than any ambush. “What?”

He shifted uncomfortably, like the words tasted foreign. “This. The work. You’re… good.”

You couldn’t help the small, stupid smile that tugged at your lips. “Thanks, Hood.”

You threw a pillow at him to hide how warm his words made you feel. He caught it easily, tossed it back with a smirk that set your pulse racing.

You knew something had changed irrevocably when you were staking out a cartel meeting from a rooftop. He shifted his weight beside you, the leather of his jacket brushing yours. “You know,” he drawled, voice low, “your aim’s still terrible.”

You shot him a sideways glance. “And you still smell like cheap gun oil.”

For once, he laughed. A real, warm laugh that broke the brittle edge between you like shattering glass. The sound slipped into your chest, melted the ice there. He reached out, flicking your forehead with a gloved finger. “Keep talking like that, princess, and I might start to like you.”

You smacked his hand away, but your heart was pounding far too hard.

In that moment—under the stars, with his warm breath fogging in the cold night—you realized you were no longer two enemies forced together by circumstance. You were partners. Reluctant, stubborn, maybe even doomed—but partners all the same.

The city was quieter than usual the night you found yourselves perched on the roof of a crumbling apartment block, watching a suspected weapons deal unfold in the alley below. The moonlight glinted off puddles, and Gotham’s skyline loomed in grim silhouette. You shifted your weight, shoulder brushing Red Hood’s as you peered through binoculars.

He snorted softly. “You know you breathe loud enough to wake the dead, right?”

You lowered the binoculars just enough to shoot him a glare. “Says the guy who broods so hard I can practically hear your internal monologue.”

His helmet tilted slightly in your direction. “I don’t brood.”

You raised your eyebrows. “You literally have ‘brood’ as a hobby.”

A quiet huff of laughter escaped him, muffled by his helmet. It wasn’t the first time you’d caught glimpses of something softer beneath all that rage and armor, but it made your pulse jump every time. He shifted closer, shoulders brushing again, and for a moment the world shrank to just the two of you, balanced on a ledge above a city that wanted you both dead.

A light flicked on in a nearby window, cutting across the rooftop. You both dropped into a crouch instantly, weapons drawn, eyes meeting in a silent exchange. That unspoken coordination had begun to feel instinctual—like breathing. You couldn’t pinpoint when it had changed, but the hateful sharpness between you had dulled into something edged with excitement, even trust.

Once the window went dark again, you eased back onto your heels. He was still watching you. The city noise seemed distant, blurred by the thundering of your heartbeat.

“Why do you do this?” he asked suddenly, voice lower, quieter than you’d ever heard it.

You frowned. “What, vigilante work?”

He nodded.

You hesitated. The truth felt dangerous to voice, like saying it out loud would expose something too raw. “Because someone has to,” you said eventually, voice tight. “Because Gotham chews people up and spits them out, and if I can stop even one person from getting swallowed whole…”

You trailed off, embarrassed by how earnest it sounded.

He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, it was almost a whisper. “That’s a good reason.”

You blinked. “What about you?”

He shifted his gaze back to the alley below, but his hand brushed yours, just for a second. “Because Gotham chewed me up,” he murmured. “And I want to make sure it regrets it.”

Your chest ached. You wanted to reach for him, to trace the lines of the scars you knew he carried. Instead, you settled for a smirk. “That’s very dramatic, Hood. Did you rehearse that line?”

His helmet turned back to you, lenses reflecting city lights. “You’d know if I rehearsed it. I’d have included more explosions.”

That startled a laugh out of you—bright and sharp, echoing across the rooftop. His helmet dipped, and you thought he might be smiling underneath.

The next night, you were patching him up after a job gone sideways. His armor was dented, his shirt soaked through with blood. You were careful as you cleaned the wound on his side, trying to ignore how warm his skin felt under your gloved hands.

He hissed as you pressed gauze against the gash. “I’ve had worse,” he muttered.

You rolled your eyes. “That’s not the flex you think it is.”

His gaze dropped to your face, intense and unguarded. “You always do this?” he asked quietly.

“Do what?”

“Stay,” he said. “When it gets bad.”

You swallowed hard. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I don’t run.”

His breath stuttered. He reached up, hesitated, then brushed a strand of hair from your cheek. The touch was fleeting, but it felt like a spark. You both looked away at the same time, silence thick and heavy with everything neither of you knew how to say.

After that night, things shifted again. The banter came easier, lighter. You found yourself joking about his helmet—how it probably had a setting for “maximum scowl”—and he teased you about your “baby crossbow” that you swore was better than his handguns.

One morning, as you both crashed in a safehouse after a long mission, you woke up sprawled across his chest on the couch. His helmet was off, dark hair mussed, eyes soft in the early light. You tensed, but his arm around your waist tightened, holding you there.

“Go back to sleep,” he rasped, voice husky with exhaustion.

Your heart flipped. “Bossy,” you mumbled, but you didn’t move.

It became a pattern: the missions, the fights, the banter, the moments of quiet. You caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. He started bringing your favorite takeout after long nights, wordlessly dropping it in your lap with a grunt. You found excuses to patch him up, even when his injuries were minor. The tension that had once been edged with hatred now crackled with something else entirely.

One night, as you both sat on a rooftop eating cold noodles from a shared carton, he nudged your shoulder. “You know,” he said casually, “I don’t hate working with you.”

You nearly choked on your noodles. “Is that… supposed to be a compliment?”

His lips curved into a smirk, visible in the low glow of the streetlights. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

You bumped your shoulder against his. “Too late.”

He rolled his eyes, but his smile lingered.

The real shift happened when you were ambushed in a parking garage. A sniper took a shot, and you would’ve been dead if he hadn’t tackled you to the ground. You landed hard, breath knocked out of you, his body pinning yours. Bullets sparked off concrete overhead.

“You okay?” he demanded, voice ragged.

You gasped out, “I’ve been better.”

“Stay down,” he barked, rolling off you to return fire. You watched him move—efficient, furious, every line of his body radiating desperation. He wasn’t fighting for Gotham. He was fighting for you.

When the final gunman fell, he dropped his guns and rushed back, hands skimming over your limbs. “Where are you hit?” he demanded, voice cracking.

You grabbed his wrists, breathless. “I’m fine. You got me out of the way.”

His eyes burned into yours, furious and relieved all at once. “Don’t ever do that again,” he snapped.

“What, get shot at?” you retorted.

“Don’t scare me like that.”

You stared at him, heartbeat thunderous in your chest. His mask was still on, but his voice betrayed him. It was the first time you heard fear in it—real, raw fear. And it wasn’t for himself.

Something inside you crumbled. You reached up, curled your fingers into his collar, pulled him down just enough so your foreheads touched. Rain pattered around you, but you barely felt it.

“You’re not rid of me that easily,” you whispered.

He let out a shaky breath. “Good.”

In that moment, you realized the banter wasn’t just banter anymore. It was a lifeline—something sharp and bright that bound you together in a city that wanted to tear you both apart. The cracks in his armor were there, and they matched the ones in yours perfectly.

For the first time since meeting him, you let yourself hope that maybe—just maybe—you weren’t alone anymore.

It started with intel on the Jackal cartel’s main shipment—your chance to end the case once and for all. You and Red Hood geared up in tense silence. He checked your harness twice, fingers lingering on the straps across your shoulders. You batted him away with a glare, but your heart thundered at the way his hand trembled just slightly when it brushed your collarbone.

The warehouse was on the river docks, rusted and sprawling. You infiltrated from the shadows, moving in near-perfect sync. He cleared the catwalks while you slipped between crates below, your comms crackling with hushed updates. It was the kind of mission that should’ve ended with victory.

Until it all went to hell.

A stray guard spotted you, raising the alarm. Floodlights snapped on, blinding white beams sweeping across crates and scaffolding. Gunfire erupted, bullets sparking off metal. You dove for cover behind a steel container as chaos swallowed the night.

You shouted into your comm. “I’m pinned on the lower level!”

“Stay there,” he growled back, voice taut with a fury you’d never heard from him before. “I’m coming.”

But you didn’t stay. You never did. You dashed across open ground, crossbow bolts taking down two men before they could flank you. Another rose behind a stack of barrels, rifle already leveled. You were too slow.

The shot rang out like a thunderclap. Pain exploded across your ribs. You staggered, breath knocked from your lungs, knees threatening to buckle. Blood seeped hot and sticky through your suit.

Time seemed to slow. You looked up in a haze just in time to see Red Hood vault the second-floor railing, landing in a crouch beside you. His guns roared, deafening in the enclosed space. Every shot found its mark, precise and deadly. He moved with a fury you’d never witnessed, tearing through the cartel enforcers with surgical brutality.

You blinked blearily, mind swimming with shock. He caught you before you could hit the ground, hauling you upright, arm braced tight around your waist. His breath rasped against your ear as he dragged you behind cover.

“Don’t you dare close your eyes,” he snarled, voice breaking.

You tried to laugh but coughed instead, pain flaring through your side. “Bossy… even now…”

His helmet clicked back and forth as he scanned you, gloved hands pressing against your wound, trying to staunch the bleeding. His grip was almost frantic. “Stay with me,” he barked again. “Stay awake.”

Through the fog of pain, you registered the tremor in his voice. It wasn’t anger—it was fear.

The cartel’s reinforcements poured into the warehouse. Hood rose above you like a dark storm, unloading clip after clip, cutting down everyone who dared approach. You could only watch, propped against a crate, as he fought like a man possessed. Every time an enemy got close, he put himself between you and the danger, taking hits to his armor that would’ve ended you.

The last of the gunmen fell with a strangled cry. The silence that followed was deafening. He staggered back to you, breathing ragged inside his helmet. His hands hovered uncertainly before he pressed them to your cheeks, forcing your gaze to lock with his.

“You’re okay,” he panted, voice raw. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“I told you,” you whispered, voice weak but steady, “I don’t run.”

His chest heaved, and then he was tearing his helmet off, tossing it aside with a clatter. His hair was sweat-soaked, eyes blazing bright blue in the warehouse lights. His face was a map of desperation—jaw clenched, eyes wide with terror. He cupped your face with shaking hands.

“Don’t do that to me again,” he said, voice cracking on every word. “Don’t you dare scare me like that.”

You reached up, resting your bloody hand over his. “I’m right here.”

His eyes flicked to your lips, back to your eyes, and something in him snapped. He kissed you—fierce, desperate, like he was trying to pour every unspoken word into you all at once. You gasped, pain forgotten as your fingers tangled in his hair. The kiss was messy and raw, but it felt like life itself.

He broke away only when you both needed air, resting his forehead against yours, breath mingling in shallow, ragged puffs. “I thought I lost you,” he whispered.

You swallowed hard. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

He let out a broken laugh, somewhere between relief and disbelief. His thumb traced your cheekbone, smearing your blood across his skin. “Good,” he said hoarsely, pressing another quick, desperate kiss to your forehead.

He carried you out of the warehouse, refusing to let you walk despite your protests. His arms were strong and warm, cradling you to his chest like you weighed nothing. You rested your head against him, listening to the furious hammer of his heart. It matched your own.

At the safehouse, he laid you on the couch with a gentleness that made tears prick your eyes. He worked quickly, stripping away your ruined armor, cleaning and bandaging your wound with efficient hands that trembled every time they touched your skin. His eyes never left your face.

“You’re going to be okay,” he murmured, over and over, like a prayer.

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” you croaked, managing a shaky smile.

“Both,” he admitted, voice ragged.

When you were stable, he collapsed on the floor beside you, one hand still gripping yours like a lifeline. He stayed awake all night, eyes red and hollow, watching over you.

In the days that followed, you caught him staring at you with a haunted look when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Every time you moved, his hand would dart out to steady you, as though afraid you’d vanish if he looked away for even a moment.

The banter returned, but it was softer now—less barbed, more playful.

“You’re the worst patient,” he grumbled one morning when he caught you trying to sneak out of bed.

“And you’re the worst nurse,” you shot back with a grin. “Do you even know how to make soup?”

He leaned down, brushing his lips across your forehead. “No. But I know how to shoot anyone who tries to hurt you.”

You laughed, heart aching in a way that was almost sweet. He kissed you again—gentler this time, lingering, like he wanted to memorize the feel of your mouth. You kissed him back with everything you had.

It wasn’t just banter anymore. It wasn’t even just trust. It was something deeper—something terrifying and wonderful all at once.

And for the first time, you both let yourselves feel it.

The days after the warehouse ambush blurred together, each one quieter than the last. It was strange, almost unsettling, how peaceful things became. The Jackal cartel scattered in the wake of your victory, and the city itself seemed to exhale, giving you both a rare sliver of calm.

You spent most of your time in his safehouse, a spartan apartment tucked above an abandoned movie theater. It smelled faintly of gun oil and old books. Dusty movie posters still lined the hallway downstairs, their faded colors hinting at a time when this place had been full of laughter instead of shadows.

One morning, you woke sprawled on his couch, tangled in a blanket far softer than you expected him to own. You could feel him before you saw him—warmth radiating from where he sat at the edge of the couch, armor gone, dark t-shirt rumpled, hair tousled. He was reading your case notes, brow furrowed in concentration.

“Morning,” you croaked, voice scratchy with sleep.

His head jerked up, eyes softening when they landed on you. “You should still be resting,” he said, but there was no bite in his tone.

You stretched, wincing slightly at the pull of your healing wound. “I’ve rested enough. You know I hate sitting still.”

A wry smile ghosted across his lips. “That’s obvious.”

He reached out, fingers brushing your hair back from your face with a gentleness that made your chest ache. You leaned into his touch without thinking, craving it, needing it. He hesitated only a moment before letting his hand linger, thumb stroking your cheek.

He started showing up at your side with little things you never asked for but always needed: a mug of coffee exactly how you liked it, fresh bandages before you ran out, takeout from the Thai place you’d once mentioned loving. The first time, he set a container of pad thai in your lap without a word, then sat across from you with his helmet off, hair damp from the rain. He acted like it was nothing, but you caught the faint flush in his cheeks when you thanked him.

“Didn’t peg you for someone who takes dinner orders,” you teased, poking at your noodles.

His eyes flicked up, lips quirking. “Didn’t peg you for someone who snores.”

Your jaw dropped. “I do not snore.”

He leaned back, smirk wide and smug. “You absolutely do.”

You launched a throw pillow at his head. He caught it easily, tossing it back without breaking eye contact. Laughter bubbled up in your chest, bright and sharp. It echoed around the safehouse, filling it with something warm and alive.

The banter became a constant soundtrack: teasing each other over burned eggs when you tried to cook; bickering about the best Gotham dive bars; arguing about which of you looked cooler scaling rooftops. Sometimes the words came out sharp, but the edges were soft, cushioned with affection neither of you dared name.

One evening, he came home late, armor scuffed, eyes hollow. You were curled up on his couch with a book, but the moment the door opened, you knew something was wrong. You stood quickly, reaching for him.

“What happened?” you demanded.

He shook his head, dropping his helmet with a clatter. His hands trembled as he unfastened his chest plate, breath ragged. You helped him peel it away, heart pounding at the new bruises blooming across his ribs.

“It was a setup,” he ground out, voice hoarse. “Someone tipped them off. It was supposed to be a quick bust—”

“You’re okay,” you cut in firmly, pressing your palms against his chest to steady him. “You’re here. You’re okay.”

He let out a shuddering breath. “I… I thought I’d be too late to see you again.”

Your own breath caught. His eyes, dark and open, reflected your own fear back at you. Without thinking, you pulled him down into a fierce, desperate kiss. He melted into you instantly, arms wrapping tight around your waist, holding you like you were the only thing tethering him to the world.

When you finally pulled back, both of you gasping, you rested your forehead against his. “You’re not allowed to die,” you whispered fiercely.

A soft huff of laughter warmed your cheek. “Same goes for you.”

Nights blurred together. Some were spent curled up together on the couch watching old movies with the volume too low to hear, but neither of you cared. Others passed with you sprawled across his chest, tracing the scars along his arms while he told you where each one came from, voice hushed and raw.

“I got this one the first time I tried to do things my own way,” he murmured one night, guiding your fingers over a long, puckered line on his shoulder.

You swallowed hard. “Does it still hurt?”

“Only when it rains,” he admitted, smirking faintly. Then his expression softened. “It doesn’t hurt right now.”

You kissed him then, slow and gentle, savoring the quiet peace of the moment. The world outside the safehouse felt distant, like it couldn’t reach you here.

Sometimes you cooked together—if it could be called cooking when he mostly leaned against the counter watching you, arms crossed, eyes soft as he pretended not to hover. You burned the pancakes once and tried to hide the evidence by scraping them into the trash, but he caught you, arms wrapping around your waist from behind.

“Trying to poison me, princess?” he rumbled into your ear, breath sending shivers down your spine.

“Trying to spare you,” you retorted, but you couldn’t keep the laughter out of your voice.

He spun you around, kissing you breathless against the counter. When you pulled away, you were both smiling so hard it hurt.

Every day, the safehouse grew more like a home: your gear on the same hooks as his, your boots next to his heavy combat boots, your coffee mugs side by side on the kitchen counter. It terrified you how quickly you adjusted to sharing a space with him—but it felt right, like breathing.

The banter was still there, silly and constant, but now it made your heart ache with how easy it felt. It was no longer about one-upping each other or hiding vulnerability; it was your way of saying you were there, that you’d catch each other if you fell.

One quiet night, you lay together on the couch, his hand tracing idle patterns on your hip. Rain pattered softly against the window. He pressed a kiss to your temple, voice low.

“You know,” he murmured, lips brushing your hair, “I think I’d go insane without you.”

Your heart stuttered. You tilted your head up, catching his eyes. “Lucky for you,” you whispered back, “I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time, it felt like you both truly believed it.

The peace couldn’t last forever. Gotham had a way of reminding you that hope was a fragile thing. It started with a tip about a new player moving into the Jackal cartel’s old territory, a ruthless mercenary who’d already left bodies in their wake. You and Red Hood spent days tracking them across the city, sleep-deprived and tense, falling back into the frantic rhythm of missions.

You’d just finished a stakeout when you found yourselves arguing in the safehouse kitchen, tempers frayed and voices sharp. You were exhausted, scraped raw by the endless nights, and every word felt like a spark in dry tinder.

“You should’ve waited for me,” he snapped, hands braced on the table between you, eyes blazing. “You nearly got yourself killed—again.”

“I had a shot!” you shot back, throwing your hands up. “I wasn’t going to let him get away because you were ten blocks over—”

“I told you to wait!” His voice cracked, loud enough to make the walls vibrate.

You froze, breathing hard. His face was flushed with anger, but underneath it you saw the terror—the same look he’d worn in the warehouse when you were bleeding out. The realization hit you like a punch.

“Why do you even care so much?” you demanded, voice softer but trembling. “Why does it matter to you if I get hurt?”

He slammed his hands on the table, leaning closer until you were nose to nose. “Because I—” He broke off, chest heaving. His eyes searched yours desperately, words choking in his throat.

Your heart thundered, the silence stretching tight and fragile between you. “Because you what?” you whispered, voice barely audible.

He reached out, cupping your face so suddenly and fiercely that your breath caught. “Because I can’t lose you,” he rasped, voice raw and shaking. “Because every time you run into danger, I feel like I’m dying. Because—” His thumb brushed your cheek, smearing a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. “Because I love you.”

The words hit you harder than any blow you’d ever taken. For a moment, you couldn’t breathe. The city outside fell away, the roar of rain on the window a distant whisper. All you could hear was your heartbeat and the ragged sound of his breath.

“You… you love me?” you choked out.

His hand trembled against your skin. “I tried not to. God, I tried. But you—” His voice cracked again. “You got under my skin, and I can’t imagine this… any of this… without you.”

You stared at him, your chest tight, your world tilting. You’d known, of course—known in every lingering touch, every desperate kiss, every time he’d pulled you from the jaws of death. But hearing it out loud shattered something inside you, something you’d been holding together with stubborn pride.

“I love you too,” you whispered, tears spilling freely now. “I love you so much it scares me.”

He let out a strangled noise, half-laugh, half-sob, before surging forward to kiss you. It was different this time—no longer desperate, but fierce with relief, with all the words you’d both left unspoken for too long. His hands threaded through your hair, yours fisting in his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer.

When you finally pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, you were both gasping, eyes wet. He searched your face like he was memorizing every freckle, every scar, every crack in your armor.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered hoarsely.

You swallowed hard, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “You deserve everything, Hood. Especially this.”

His lips quirked faintly. “Call me Jason,” he murmured. “Please.”

The name fell from your mouth like a secret. “Jason.”

His eyes fluttered shut, like hearing it from you was a balm. When they opened again, they were softer than you’d ever seen them. “Say it again.”

“Jason,” you repeated, voice breaking on the word.

He kissed you again, slow and reverent, like he was savoring the taste of his own name on your lips. It was the kind of kiss that made promises without words — the kind that said you were his, and he was yours.

That night, you ended up curled together on his narrow bed, limbs tangled, your head tucked under his chin. Rain pattered softly outside, the city strangely quiet, as if it, too, was holding its breath.

“You know,” you murmured into the darkness, voice muffled by his shirt, “this doesn’t mean I’m going to start listening to you.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, warm and safe. “Wouldn’t have you any other way.”

His hand skimmed up and down your back, grounding you. You traced circles on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. It calmed you in a way nothing else ever had.

“You’re stuck with me now,” you whispered, half-teasing, half-terrified of how much you meant it.

“Good,” he replied softly, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Because I’m not letting you go.”

In the days that followed, everything felt different. Lighter, even in the darkness of Gotham. He still hovered protectively when you geared up for patrol, but now his touches lingered — a hand at the small of your back, a brush of his knuckles against your cheek. You found yourself watching him too, memorizing the rare curve of his smile, the way his eyes softened when they met yours.

The banter was still there, sharper than ever but now threaded with warmth.

“Try not to get yourself shot tonight,” he muttered as you checked your weapons.

You raised an eyebrow. “Only if you promise not to brood so hard you forget to duck.”

“Deal,” he said, smirking as he pulled you in for a quick, bruising kiss.

You both knew Gotham wouldn’t give you a fairy tale. But for the first time, you felt like you’d carved out something real in the cracks of the city — something worth fighting for.

And when you swung through the night together, side by side, you moved like two halves of the same whole: sharp, unstoppable, and utterly in love.

Gotham was a different place in the early hours before dawn. The streets were slick with rain, the neon signs still humming quietly. The city’s chaos seemed to hold its breath during those brief, hushed moments — and it was in those spaces you and Jason found your peace.

You sat together on a rooftop ledge high above the East End, legs dangling over the abyss, coffee cups steaming in your hands. The skyline stretched around you, jagged and dark, punctuated by the occasional flare of police sirens or distant gunfire. But it all felt far away now.

“You know,” you said softly, watching the first hint of sunrise burn the clouds orange, “this might be my favorite part of the day.”

Jason shifted beside you, his shoulder pressing warm against yours. “Because it’s quiet?”

“Because it’s ours,” you corrected, turning to catch his eyes. They reflected the dawn, pale blue and full of things you still couldn’t quite believe you were allowed to see.

A slow smile tugged at his lips. “Ours,” he echoed, like he was trying out the word for the first time.

You nudged him lightly with your shoulder. “What, surprised I can be sentimental?”

“I just thought you’d say your favorite part was blowing up a meth lab,” he teased, eyes glinting with mischief.

You huffed a laugh, rolling your eyes. “That’s a close second.”

In the weeks since your confession, you’d both learned how to exist in each other’s orbit without fighting every step of the way. The banter was still there, alive and well, but it had settled into something comforting instead of combative. Every word, every eye roll, every smirk felt like a reminder of how far you’d come.

You were still stubborn. He was still reckless. But now when you fought, it was followed by laughter, or a kiss, or the quiet comfort of lying together in the dark until the world made sense again.

You’d even started leaving things at his safehouse without realizing it: your spare grappling hook in the weapons rack, your toothbrush in the bathroom, your favorite sweatshirt draped over his couch. One night, you found a drawer in his dresser empty except for a note scrawled in his jagged handwriting: For your stuff. Stay.

You’d stared at the note so long you nearly missed him leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with a look so soft it took your breath away. “Told you you’re not getting rid of me,” you’d said.

“Wasn’t trying to,” he’d replied, pulling you into his chest.

One rainy night, you were ambushed again in an abandoned subway station. The two of you moved together like a single shadow: silent, deadly, unstoppable. But when one of the last attackers tried to flank you, Jason stepped in front of the blade meant for your throat, taking a shallow cut across his ribs.

You froze. The world shrank to the sight of his blood soaking into his suit.

“Jason!” you shouted, voice hoarse with terror.

“I’m fine,” he ground out, but his hand trembled as he held his side. You pressed yourself into him, scanning the darkness for more enemies, breathing hard.

“Stay behind me,” he snapped.

“Not happening,” you shot back, planting yourself at his side. “I’m not losing you either.”

The fight ended in seconds, but the fear lingered long after. Back in the safehouse, you patched him up in silence, your hands shaking. When you finished, you sat back on your heels, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“Hey,” he murmured, reaching for you. His fingers brushed your jaw, his touch gentle. “I’m okay.”

“You can’t keep doing that,” you whispered, voice cracking. “You can’t keep throwing yourself in front of me.”

He pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your hair. “I will every time,” he whispered fiercely. “Because I love you more than I love breathing.”

You clutched him tighter, like you could fuse your hearts together if you just held on hard enough. “Then we protect each other,” you said fiercely. “Deal?”

He pulled back, eyes blazing even through the haze of pain. “Deal.”

That night, you fell asleep curled against his side, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only thing that kept your nightmares at bay. You woke to find him watching you, eyes soft, thumb stroking your cheek.

“Morning, princess,” he rasped, voice low and warm.

“Morning, Hood,” you teased, smiling sleepily.

He dipped his head, kissing you slow and deep. “Jason,” he corrected when he pulled back, eyes bright. “Call me Jason.”

“Jason,” you whispered, and the way his face lit up made your heart ache.

Weeks turned into months. You fell into a rhythm: nights spent on rooftops, days spent tangled in sheets or arguing over bad takeout. You still bickered — over who got the last egg roll, or whether you should go in quiet or loud — but it always ended in laughter, or kisses that left you both breathless.

One quiet morning, you stood side by side brushing your teeth, bumping elbows in the cramped bathroom. You caught each other’s eyes in the mirror and burst out laughing at the toothpaste foam on your lips. He leaned down, kissing you minty and sweet.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t perfect.

But it was yours.

A month later, you found yourselves on that same rooftop where you’d first realized you were more than reluctant partners. The skyline was darker now, storm clouds gathering on the horizon. But Jason’s hand found yours, his gloved fingers slotting perfectly with yours.

“Scared?” he asked softly, eyes never leaving the storm.

“Terrified,” you admitted honestly.

He looked at you then, eyes bright with everything you knew he couldn’t always say out loud. “Good,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your temple. “Means we’re still alive.”

You smiled, leaning into him. “Means we’re still us.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Together, you stepped into the storm — unbreakable, unstoppable, and finally whole.

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