#Fic: Visitors From Another World | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

parfaitblogs · 10 months ago

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fresh out the slammer ❀ s. reid x reader

in which spencer reid comes home from prison, and needs to fulfil everything he has missed about you.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: smut & comfort (18+ mdni) tags: post prison!reid. soft dom!spencer. teeth might rot i was cringing during some of this. established relationship. the briefest of breast play because what do i hate? the word nipple! fingering. p in v. no protection is mentioned but imagine what you will. casual nudity afterwards. spencer's got bruises from prison. i lowkey forgot about his thigh wound until the very end. word count: 5.7k a/n: there's a completely different version of me in a world where i didn't write this. i hope she's doing well. i feel like i've been reborn. this is stupidly long LOL my apologies. pleaseee tell me if you liked this! or if you didn't! i love feedback! here's my monthly smut fic see you all in october!

Three months wasn't a long time, in the grand scheme of things. A quarter of a year usually went by too quickly for anybody's liking, the year sprinting through seasons until all twelve months were complete, and you were repeating it all over again. Usually. Three months without Spencer Reid, however, went by achingly slowly. And you hadn't originally considered just how agonising they could be.

Each day was another painful mirror of the last, waking up and going to bed with the same sense of dread in your stomach, oftentimes swallowing you whole and leaving you unable to do just about anything at all.

Living life without Spencer Reid was hard.

You saw him — of course you did. Despite his original efforts to keep you off the approved visitors list, Penelope Garcia had seen one glimpse of your heart shattered expression upon being told, and marched her way to the prison to slap sense into him. You weren't sure if that was metaphoric or not.

However, seeing him once every other week and living with him were two very different situations. You hadn't realised just how much you had depended on him always being there when you woke up in the morning until you were waking up to cold bed sheets and a pillow clutched petulantly to your chest in hopes of recreating the warmth only Spencer could provide.

And then he was free.

From prison, that is. You hadn't heard it all — information about his time in prison had been kept from you in an attempt to protect your own peace of mind. But you knew from at least the bruises he was always sporting no matter when you went to visit him, that something awful had happened to him in there, and his own brain would keep him imprisoned for as long as it wished.

But he was free.

And he was here, and you were staring up at his face littered with unkempt facial hair and a head of untreated curls, and regardless of everything horrific he had endured brewing behind his eyes, he was staring at you with the same softness he had before any of this happened.

Despite the beginning of a protest when you wrapped your arms around his torso, you hugged him, and he hugged you, and even the faintest smell of grime and blood couldn't stop you from gripping onto him with so much force you thought your knuckles would break.

"You're real," you whispered into his chest, muffled by it, and it shook beneath your face as he laughed, quietly. Beautifully.

"I am," he answered, and you could feel him crushing his own facial features into the top of your head, no doubt inhaling your shampoo. "You're real."

"Yes," you confirmed with a nod.

Maybe hours passed, perhaps only minutes. Whichever it was, you were still reluctant to pull away from him until he did, your face stained with tear streaks you don't remember shedding, his own eyes glassy as your gazes met.

"You don't want to talk about it, do you?" you asked him, walking backwards as you led him out of the doorway you two had been finding solace in, and further into the apartment space you were ecstatic to share together again.

"Not particularly," he answered, strides catching up to you and encasing your waist between his hands, tugging your body closer to his own. "Is that okay?"

"As long as you promise not to keep it in," you replied, teeth chewing into your lower lip in a contemplative habit.

"I have counselling at work," he said, and you nodded, your facial features softening only a little — you knew him well enough to know he wouldn't enjoy said counselling sessions. Breath tickled your lips as he leaned in a little closer, inciting heat onto your cheeks. "Any other questions?"

"No," you replied, your own lips twitching in amusement. "That's it. Why?"

"Because I haven't kissed you in three months," he murmured, "and I want to."

"Maybe," you said with a hum, and he said your name chidingly, eliciting a laugh from you. "Yeah. Okay."

To be honest, you had spent a few too many nights allowing your thoughts to wander and end up dreaming about what it would be like to kiss him again. Whether or not either of you would have the patience to be gentle and kind to one another. In those nights, you had decided you would be. Your heart cracking every time you thought of Spencer alone in a concrete cell that it left you with a gaping hole in your chest. All you really wanted was to hold him and remind him how adored he was.

Right now, you learned you wouldn't be.

There was a tenderness in the way his hands found your cheeks to cup, and there was a softness in his fingertips against your skin. Yet, everything he kissed with was anything but. Feverish and quick, swallowing you whole and inspiring a spark in your chest that resulted in you kissing back just as hungry.

Just when you thought there was nothing left to trigger within him, a squeak left your lips as the result of him tugging you impossibly closer, and he was beginning to walk you backwards, even further into the apartment, his kiss growing all consuming.

"Spencer," you said, breathlessly, jerking your head back, staring at him, waiting for him to realise you weren't returning your lips to his, and his eyes opened.

"What?" he asked, almost irritatedly. When he watched the slight flicker of hurt flash on your face at the tone, his own expression became gentler. "I'm sorry. Is something wrong?"

Immediately, you shook your head. "No. I just wanted to check how far you wanted to go," your hands travelled up to his hair, fingers scratching gently against his scalp. "I know there's a lot going on up here."

"Actually, right now it's just you," he said, tilting a head to the side to lean into one of your palms. "It's mostly you all the time. But right now you're consuming it."

"I make such an impact on your life," you quipped.

"I know you're teasing, but you do," he replied, fingers tracing up and down either side of your jawline, eyes searching each small detail on your face he had no doubt already memorised. "I survived in there for you."

"Oh."

Probably not the most eloquent response for the things he had just confessed, but truly your brain had scrambled within an instant, and you weren't sure what to say.

"Sorry," he said, hands stilling on your face. "To answer your question, I don't know. I really missed you."

"I know," you said when a gaping silence followed his words. "We don't have to."

"I think I want to."

Your eyebrows furrowed. "You can't think, Spence. You've gotta know."

"I've definitely said that to you before," he chided, thinking for a moment, before, "yes. I did. First time we had sex."

"Sue me for repeating important sexual advice to you, Spencer Reid," you huffed. He laughed.

"No, I mean, I do. Want to," he finally replied. "I'm really scared of hurting you."

"Do you want to hurt me?"

"No."

"Then you won't," you reassured him, despite knowing whatever doubt he had in himself would not be resolved just like that, and it'll probably eat at his mind for a long while. "And even if you do, I won't be upset with you." When his face scrunched and his expression mirrored judgement, you stammered to clarify. "Not in a kinky way. Don't look at me like that, Spencer. Stop it. I just meant I'll understand. And I won't be mad."

"Didn't take you to be into masochism," he mumbled, and you groaned at his selective hearing, dropping your forehead to his shoulder, that shook with his laughter. "Kidding, honey. I know what you mean."

"Not funny."

"It was a little," he countered, a hand reaching up to entangle within your hair to pull your head back, gently, so he could look at you again.

"Hi," you said when your eyes locked once more.

"Hello," he answered, his lips pulling into a smile. "I'd like to kiss you again."

"You've used up your kiss for the day, actually," you replied, sweetly beaming up at him.

"Quiet," he shot back, leaning forwards and allowing his lips to brush hesitantly against yours, eyes searching your own with an added hint of desperation. "Please?"

You pretended to think for a moment too long, because he was already mumbling something that sounded a little like 'brat', and pressed his mouth to yours once more.

You couldn't complain.

It was the same intensity as earlier, and yet there was something in it that differentiated the homesickness of the kiss from then, and the desperation now. Large hands — that you would probably allow to encase you whole — pathetically held your face lightly, hips knocking with yours as he walked you backwards and up against the back of the couch.

"Spence," you whimpered embarrassingly, hands clawing at the sleeves of his suit jacket, trialling and failing at tugging it off his body.

"I got you, sweet girl," he mumbled against your lips, not breaking the kiss for even a second as he helped you, shrugging the jacket off and allowing it to fall to the floor — something he will certainly chastise himself for later.

"Bedroom," you said, in between heavy breaths and feverish kisses. A request he was more than happy to comply to, for he had nodded, and you were instantaneously tugging on one of his hands in the direction of the room, his eyes fixated on your body as he trailed behind.

"Missed you so much," he murmured as he tugged you back towards him the second he had kicked the door shut, lips finding the corner of your mouth, then your jawline, then your neck, as he kissed down you.

"So you've said," you breathed out, tilting your head to the side as he gently nipped at the skin.

"Do you get off on being mean to me?" he chided, lifting his head to look at you again, and your heart stuttered.

"No. Just that dominance act that it brings out," you murmured, attempting to keep the mood light. Successfully so, for air huffed out of his nose as his lips twitched, fingers that had dropped to your waist squeezing it gently. In unresolved doubt, you added, "I missed you too. Don't worry."

"I'm not," he replied, and the weight lifted off your shoulders. "Lie down."

"So demanding," you teased, though his tone was anything but firm.

You were met with an unimpressed look, and you merely grinned back as you climbed onto the bed, sitting cross legged atop it, staring up at him expectingly.

Instead of moving over you like you had expected, he crouched at the foot of the bed, holding his hands out on the mattress in front of you. Needing no more than the simple gesture, you untangled your legs and stretched them out in front of you, and he tugged you down towards the end of the bed, breath hitting the skin of your thighs deliciously.

"I'm supposed to be making you feel good," you argued when his fingers trailed up the sides of your legs, finding the waistband of your pyjama shorts.

"Why?" he questioned, halting his movements as he searched your face.

"Because you're the one who just got out of prison," his face scrunched at the verbal reminder. "Sorry. But... yeah. I have thought about making you come the day you got home like daily."

"Oh have you?" his eyebrows shot up, and it was then that your brain caught up to your running mouth, and your cheeks heated up.

"Nope. Forget I said anything."

"No," he pushed himself up from the floor, moving his body over yours on the bed, successfully forcing you to lie back. "Tell me those thoughts."

"Spencer," you moaned, shaking your head as you buried your face into your hands, that he was a little too quick to catch and pry away.

"I'm not going to judge you," he said, amused. "In fact, I aspire to know every single thought there is up in that pretty head of yours. Especially the ones about me. Please tell me."

"I just thought about making you come. There's nothing more exciting to it."

"Yes, but how?"

"My mouth, I guess," you mumbled, voice going impossibly quiet. "I don't know."

"You're acting like you have never given me oral," he said, catching your gaze within milliseconds of you averting it, thumb and forefinger straightening your head again.

"Nobody says oral, Spencer. Say head," your own face now scrunched up.

"Lots of people say oral," he defended.

"Yeah, old people. We are not old people."

"Fine, you're acting like you have never given me head."

Despite it being a jab at him to take the heat off of you, the phrase coming out from his lips sounded exceptionally vulgar for what it was, and it only resulted in your stomach flipping.

Finally, you regained some control over your own thoughts, and you found it in you to reply. "That's what I want to do. Because I want to make you feel good."

"You underestimate how much I gain from making you feel good," he countered, fingers lazily caressing the skin of your jaw as his eyes studied your face with an intensity that had your stomach flipping.

"It cannot be as good as an orgasm," you huffed, stubbornly so.

He nipped at your nose. "It is."

"Can we compromise?"

"So you don't want me to give you oral?" his eyebrows rose.

In every other situation, you would not be fighting him on this. In fact, he would probably have already gotten his foreplay of teasing and teetering you on the edge out of the way by now, and you'd be well and truly content. However, the forefront of your mind was still plagued by how little time Spencer had to take care of himself, and the last thing you needed him to be was at your service. Despite his protests.

"Head," you corrected. "And no."

He searched for remnants of a lie for a few beats longer, before he nodded his head, giving in. "What's your compromise, honey?"

"I don't think there's a sexy way to say to just put it in me," you said, and his lips curled up into an amused smile, followed by a huff of laughter.

"No, I don't think there is," he agreed. "I do think anything you say can be sexy, though."

You pulled a face, and you shook your head. "No. Don't say that ever again either."

"I can't compliment you, I can't give you ora—head," he rattled off. "Is there anything good I get out of this?"

"You get to fuck me?" you batted your eyelashes up at him.

"Such vulgar language," he chastised, ducking his head when a hand of yours rose to swat him.

Despite himself, his head had dropped to the crook of your neck, and he had begun placing feather like kisses along the skin that distracted you just enough to drop your hand back to the mattress beneath you.

Any other day, and you'd probably still be bickering with him until the minute he made you come. However, three months without even the faintest of touches from him left you overwhelmed with everything he did to you, and so the gentle kisses trailing down to the collar of your shirt were enough to destroy any coherent thoughts you could have.

Cautiously, and with a touch so delicate, Spencer lifted your — his — shirt up your abdomen, fingertips leaving behind the warmest of trails as they skimmed along your skin. One quiet whine from you was all it took for him to hurry his teasing along, and soon enough your shirt was discarded.

A quiet, sharp inhale of air was the other sound aside from your quickened breathing, and you felt tears sting your vision as another kiss was placed just below your now exposed collarbone.

The time without you seemed to weigh nothing in his mind as he took every inch of you in separately, lips mapping out your body like it was the first time all over again, though still knowing exactly when to pause and pay attention to for the sweetest of sounds to be ripped from your throat.

He liked to hear you.

Fingers found your waist as his lips kissed down your sternum, then back up and over until they reached your nipple. He spent time on each breast, ignoring your impatient whining as he neglected the rest of you for a few minutes too long (in your opinion).

"Spencer," you scolded, and it was all it took for him to accept you were not in the mood to wait, and for him to decide he wasn't either.

"Sorry, honey," he replied, voice impossibly soft as he returned his lips to your face, a kiss pressed to the corner of your mouth as his fingers found your shorts again. "Can I take these off?"

"I think we're incredibly out of balance," you replied. And though there wasn't really anything wrong with the sentence — you had certainly said it before — he still pulled back, an unrecognisable grey clouding his eyes. "What?"

"I want to keep my shirt on," was his response, the words inciting confusion to your face.

"What? Why?"

"Do I need a reason?"

You wanted to scream that yes, he did. But did he? Wordlessly, you shook your head, but it didn't help the pang of worry in your chest.

"Unless there's something like an embarrassing tattoo, I'm not going to judge you," you decided to say instead. "Did you get an embarrassing tattoo in prison?"

"No," he shook his head, and you were comforted by the amusement in his tone. "I didn't have the best time in prison."

"I know," you replied.

"And I wasn't very liked. By the men in there."

You knew that too, to an extent. You knew the bruises on his face weren't self inflicted. "You're liked by me."

"I know, sweet girl," a heart shatteringly sad smile stretched across his face as a hand lifted to your cheek. "It just isn't very pretty. And I don't want you to worry."

Well, now you were. Regardless, you nodded your head, turning your head to the side so you could kiss the palm of the hand on your face. "I won't worry, then."

"I want to keep my shirt on. Can that please be okay with you?"

Silently, and after a debate inside your brain, you nodded your head. Gratefully, he pecked your lips once more, before his focus shifted back to you and your body.

"Shorts. Can I take them off?" he asked, again.

"Yes."

"Thank you."

His fingers collected the fabric of your shorts' waistband, and gently pulled them down your legs, cool air washing over you despite the final leftover article of clothing on your body. You shivered, and you could hear him mumbling nearly incoherent apologies as he kissed your stomach.

"These too?" he then asked, eyes flickering between your face for confirmation, and the pair of underwear you still had residing on your body. You nodded your head, and he pulled them down too.

You do not remember a time ever fearing being naked beneath Spencer Reid's gaze, and that did not change even now, as an arguably different man drank in your entire body, the love he had for you not having wavered despite the passing of time.

And you certainly did not fear the way one of his hands slid up your leg, seemingly soothingly, until it teetered on the edge of too far up the limb to be innocent, and he was intensely watching your face for every reaction you could possibly make.

Achingly gently, his middle finger ran up the centre, collecting arousal you hadn't realised was there and knuckle gently bumping your clit, eliciting a quiet mewl from you. You watched him smile at the sound, dragging his finger back down, gathering more of your arousal until he was pushing the finger in.

Your eyes fluttered shut, the feeling oh so familiar, and yet seemingly foreign all at once. Too long, you decided then. Three months is too long.

Leaning back down, his lips brushed your jawline, the otherwise odd sensation of there being something — someone — inside of you balancing out with the pleasure that came from the comfort of it being him. And of course the delicate circles his thumb had begun to draw on your clit.

"Did you do this while I was in prison?" he asked you, lips moving against your skin.

"Touch myself?"

"Mhm."

"Yeah," you said, voice breathless. "Was never good, though."

"No?" he asked, curling his finger inside of you and tugging a louder moan from your throat. "Why not?"

"Just never felt as nice. Not like you."

"Oh. I'm sorry, angel," he murmured, pulling his lips away so he could look at you again. Though, your eyes were still planted shut. "I'll make up for it then, yeah?"

You feverishly nodded your head, and he laughed. Fulfilling his promise, he sped up the motions of his finger and thumb, your hands grabbing ahold of fistfuls of the sheets, in hopes that it will provide some comfort from the overwhelming feeling of Spencer touching you again.

"Can I add another finger?" he asked, and though slightly hesitant, you nodded your head.

He waited a beat longer before fulfilling your request, and there was something obscene about how easily another finger entered you. Though, Spencer thought it was pretty, and your back arching was pretty, and yes, he had missed this and he had missed you and he was biting his tongue from telling you that all over again.

"Spencer," a delicately breathy whine left your lips when the heel of his palm collided with your clit — thumb long forgotten once he had gotten distracted with thrusting fingers in and out of you.

"Hm?"

Your eyes fluttered open to meet his, the kindest smile on his face reminding you just how much he adored you, and your heart sporadically beat in your chest. When you didn't say anything else, he quickened his ministrations, eliciting more whines and moans.

"Is two orgasms too much for tonight?" he asked you, the question seemingly innocent regardless of both it's undertones, and what he was currently doing to you.

In hindsight you should've probably said yes. It most certainly would've hurried things along to something he would enjoy as much as you. However, if Spencer Reid fingering you was a religion, you were an eternally loyal follower, and you would do anything to keep him there for as long as you could.

So you shook your head, murmuring a quiet, "No. I can do two," and allowing him to fasten his fingers once more.

Fingers found and massaged that spot inside of you he had probably engrained into his brain, and he was leaning down to swallow the loud moan that followed from the feeling. Practiced motions tore the same sounds from your throat as he repeatedly brushed up against it, until your eyes were forced to squeeze shut once more, and hands that were once seeking solace in the sheets, found his wrist and wrapped around it.

"I can't move if you're going to keep my arm locked up, angel," he said when your nails dug into his wrist, lips smiling against your skin.

A few short jerks of his hand convinced you to let go of the death grip you had on him, instead returning them to the mattress.

Then he was doing that motion again, and again, and you were silently praying he would never stop. Although, if your moans were any indication to where you were at — and they were — Spencer wouldn't.

Your hips bucking told him more than he needed to know, and the absence of his body above you when he lay down on the bed next to you was long forgotten when a splayed hand on your abdomen pushed you back down into the mattress, your heart stuttering at the feeling.

Gentle whines of his name, and a repeated mantra of 'please, please, please' was the only thing your otherwise dismantled brain could come up with, and Spencer was relishing in the knowledge that he was doing this to you. And though it is something he knows he's done before, it had been far too long since and the reminder was always welcome.

"I know, sweet girl," he said against you when your eyes came open and searched his desperately, walls fluttering around his fingers indicating just how close you were.

"Please don't stop."

"I won't," he confirmed, punctuating the promise with his thumb returning to your clit. He had your best interest in mind — you knew that. He now wouldn't stop even if you begged him to.

Overwhelming seemed too insignificant of a word to describe what you felt like when you came, nerve endings all over your body sparking, instead of just the ones he was stimulating.

His thumb rubbing circles and his fingers thrusting in and out of you didn't falter until your shaking body had stilled and your strings of moans had diminished, slowly coming to a stop and leaving your body — seemingly — as fast as they had entered.

The content smile on your face was interrupted with Spencer's hand lifting to your lips, and instinctively you parted them, already knowing exactly what he was after.

His middle and ring fingers entered your mouth, and your face scrunched up despite yourself as you tasted yourself on them. He laughed at that — of course he did — and pulled them out soon after.

"You do that every time," he murmured, hair tickling your skin as he placed open mouthed kisses over your shoulder, up towards your neck.

"It tastes weird," you argued, and his teeth nipping your skin told you he disagreed. Though, he wasn't in the mood to argue, for he didn't say anything else on the matter.

"Still got it in you for one more?" he asked you, pulling his head back so he could see you once again.

"Yes."

"Good."

Your eyes watched him even as he rolled back to take his pants off, and the awkward smile he gave you provided the inkling of comfort that there was still the man from three months prior in there.

"I really missed you, you know?" This time it was you saying it, piercing the air as his hand came down between your thighs to part them. The head of his cock nudged against you, brushing delicately through your folds and eliciting a quiet whimper from your lips.

"I know," he answered, pressing kisses on your shoulder once more. "Are you okay?"

"Me? Yeah. I'm fine," you confirmed with a nod, confusion crossing your features all up until you learned why he was asking.

A broken moan, choked and caught in your throat, left you when he painstakingly slowly pushed inside of you. There's not a lot going on inside your mind when he stops, your entire body aflame and equally desperate for more, as you were for him to take a moment here.

"I love you," he breathed out, the words hurried and encouraging your heart to speed up, and your mind to melt even more.

"I love you too," you said back, voice just as quiet, gently nudging hips ushering for him to move.

"Impatient girl," he muttered, but you smiled nonetheless because he did (move).

His thrusts were slow, and gentle, but you never truly minded how much time he took with you once you two were here. Even more so now, for you were on the same page as him, and you wanted to savour every single moment of this down to the second.

A whimper left your lips, followed closely by the desperate whisper of his name, and lips that were still resting against your shoulder smiled.

"I thought about this a lot," he said to you, his hand that was holding your thighs slightly open sliding up to find your clit. "I definitely shouldn't have."

"Why?" You knew why, but the thought of hearing him answer it aloud excited you a little.

Unfortunately, he knew you better than that. "Don't play coy. You know why, honey."

"You're cruel," you huffed, and he laughed, rolling his hips to meet yours, earning another moan. "Maybe I don't."

"Use that wonderful imagination of yours, then," he answered, rubbing your clit at the same time as he moved his hips once more, effortlessly rendering you unable to respond to him again.

A teenage boy probably could've lasted longer than the both of you, but you decided to blame it all on your already sensitive nerves from a prior orgasm, and the fact that Spencer Reid had not had you like this for over 2190 hours (not that he was counting).

Whimpers escaped your throat as he kept his hips thrusting into you at an achingly slow pace, while his fingers working on your clit did anything but. It was an aching juxtaposition that left you reeling for more, and Spencer was now the one shutting his eyes so he could hold onto some semblance of composure.

"Spencer," you pleaded, and it was a quiet moan from behind you that told you he was exactly where you were.

"I know, honey," he replied, the desperation in his voice jumpstarting your heart. "Need to come, yeah?"

"Mmhm," you nodded your head quickly, breathlessly moaning. "Please."

"You're going to. Don't worry. Don't need to beg, sweet girl."

Commingled moans and obscenely wet noises filled the air, and your hips stuttered as your stomach twisted into knots.

Chanting his name like a prayer, you meet him wherever your two souls go in that moment, and it's a shuddering feeling as you come at the same time as him. For the first time in forever.

His hand drops back to your thigh and he massages the muscles there gently, willing himself to stop before he crossed the line of overstimulation — not that you think you'd complain about that.

There was an emptiness when he pulled out, but then he was kissing you again to make up for it, and you were smiling against his lips as you kissed him back. This time, without the fever.

"How're you feeling?" he asked you, quietly.

"Happy," you answered, forcing your heavy eyelids open when he pulled back. "How are you feeling?"

"Also happy," he agreed, and your heart soared.

"Good."

"You need to go pee," he said, placing another kiss on your cheek, before he leaned his body away entirely.

"Help?"

Arguably, you could do it yourself. Your limbs were tired, yes, and your mind was melting, but you were coherent enough to brave it alone.

Thankfully, you didn't have to.

He carried you to the bathroom, running the bath water after you had silently begged him for it with your eyes (looking between him and the empty bath with wide eyes and a jutted lip worked wonders), and leaving you to pee.

"Are you getting in with me?" you asked him as wobbly legs akin to a fawn carried you over to the now full and steaming bathtub.

"Do you want me to?"

Hesitantly, you nodded your head, fidgeting with your fingers in front of you. "But you'd have to take your shirt off. So you don't have to."

He studied your face for a moment longer, before he nodded, and fingers expertly worked at unbuttoning down the shirt.

"I'm okay now. That's the important thing you have to remember, okay?" his words provided little comfort, but you nodded your head regardless.

You had a suspicion already of what sight you were going to be met with, but it didn't stop the guilt settling into your chest when the shirt fell to the floor anyways.

"Spence," you murmured, taking a hesitant step forwards, heart falling to your stomach.

Bruises littered the skin, some fresh and still purple, others nearly healed and yellowing. But there were so many, and it was then that you were swallowing the rest of him in with your eyes, catching the bandage on his thigh.

"What is that?" you nodded towards the covered wound, and when your eyes returned to his face again, he was staring at you with an unreadable expression.

"A lot happened," he answered, quietly, before repeating, "I'm okay now."

You nodded your head, tears stinging your vision for nothing more than your ridiculous amount of empathy. "Can you tell me about it?"

"I will," he promised. "Eventually. Just not now, okay? I haven't processed it all yet."

"Okay," you replied, and his heart shattered at the sight of a tear slipping down your face.

"Hey," he took ahold of your hand and tugged you closer to him, fingers running through your hair and resting at the base of your scalp. "I promise, honey. I'm not going to disintegrate from a few bruises."

"It isn't just a few," you answered, voice wavering. "There's so many."

"You have a heart too big for your chest," he decided to say instead, leaning down to rest his forehead against yours. "Most of them don't even hurt now. Please believe me when I say I'm okay."

"I'm trying," your voice is thick with a sob caught in your throat. "I think I'm just really tired."

"Yeah," he crooned, agreeing. "Your body's released a lot of prolactin, which encourages sleep. Alongside the endorphins and dopamine that you're crashing from upon seeing this."

Wordlessly, you nodded your head, and he kissed the tip of your nose in an attempt to comfort.

"Bath, then we can sleep, and we can talk more in the morning," he listed off, and you merely nodded your head once more, sniffling and wiping your eyes.

"Okay."

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spaceyaemonds · 2 months ago

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pairing: evan buckley x reader

sum.: in the aftermath of your traumatic birth, buck struggles to bond with your baby.

warnings: angsty, buck really struggling with his feelings and thoughts here, traumatic birth but no details aside from she almost died, implied that the reader has ppd, buck is a very very good husband, he is just really struggling, so is reader, good friend hen, buck and readers baby girl has a name (lowen), possible ooc!buck??? minors DNI

note: elaborated on this thought, but it’s more buck centered than a traditional x reader fic, i guess?? i do have a kind of part two, that will read as a standalone, of buck and reader talking more in depth on their feelings on the birth, their struggles, and the aftermath. unedited. and as always, any feedback is extremely appreciated, it helps keep me motivated. especially reblogs/comments/asks!

wc: roughly 1k

Evan loves your daughter. More than anything.

She’s nearly three months old and he already knows he would die for her.

But he can’t hold her most days, can’t even look at her some days.

All he can think about is the fact that you almost lost your life bringing her into this world.

Currently, he’s standing across from Hen in the station at the kitchen, lost in thought as she, unbeknownst to him, looks at him concerned.

Chim had mentioned to her that Maddie told him Evan has been struggling, but wouldn’t talk to anyone about it. It had you nervous, nervous enough to call your sister-in-law crying in the middle of the night when Evan picked up another overtime shift.

Trying to balance an infant, a semi-distant husband, recovering from an awful birth, and what you are fairly certain is PPD was beginning to take a toll on you, and in a moment of desperation you call Maddie.

Maddie, bless her, tried to talk to Evan, but he refused to tell her what was wrong and just promised to stop working overtime and be home with you more.

Hen clears her throat awkwardly, noticing Buck’s mind is clearly elsewhere, “So, how’s the baby doing?”

Evan has to bite back a sigh. The baby. All everyone does is ask about the baby.

“Uh, good. She’s good,”

Hen cocks an eyebrow at him, “Just good?”

Her tone is what catches Evan’s attention the most, and it causes him to be defensive, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Hen holds her hands up in mock surrender, “I just mean, all you could talk about for months was this baby, how excited you were for her to be here, all the plans you guys had. And now that she’s here…” Hen trails off lightly, not sure how to approach this conversation now that she’s started it.

Buck is quiet for a long minute, before he sighs and lets out a whisper of your name.

This catches Hen’s attention, “What about her?”

When he looks back up at her, his eyes look so sad, and it makes her chest hurt.

“She almost died and,” He takes a deep breath to try to calm himself down before he gets too worked up.

“I don’t know what I would have done if something happened to her,”

Hen nods, brows still furrowed in slight confusion.

She, hell everyone, knew that Lowen’s birth had been extremely difficult.

Buck had gotten a call from Maddie in the middle of a 9-1-1 call that you had gone into early labor and he really needed to be there.

By the time they had finished the call, Maddie had called Chim and told him things had taken a rough turn, but everyone was okay, you guys just didn’t want visitors at the moment.

She put her hand on his, squeezing, “But everything turned out okay. She and the baby are both perfect,”

Buck nodded, but bit his lip, “I had this fear, this awful feeling when they rushed her away from me to that OR, that if she died I would resent the baby- that I would resent Lowen.”

His words take Hen, and himself, by surprise. It’s his first time admitting out loud, and there’s no taking it back.

It was true, though. For a split moment, as they wheeled you away and took you to have the emergency c-section, all he could do was beg God not to take you from him, and in that split moment, he didn’t even think about his baby.

There had been blood everywhere when he came in, he didn’t know what was happening, why you had looked so pale, why Maddie had tears in her eyes as she tried to explain everything to Evan.

His ears rang the whole time. He didn’t even react when they came and told him all was well with the baby. All he could think about was you.

Later, when he sat in your room with you as you held her for the first time, crying at how perfect she was, felt extremely guilty. She was-is perfect. The most beautiful baby he’s ever seen.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling of you almost dying to get her here, and he couldn’t ever tell you that.

So, at home he did absolutely everything you needed, every small thing you asked- except for when it came to the baby unless absolutely necessary.

Every time he held her, all he could see was your pale face when they wheeled you to surgery.

He tried, he really fucking tried. But she could sense his unease, his fear, and she would cry and cry until you took her. And you would cry and cry, not able to understand. And Evan would cry too, for causing it all.

Hen looked at him, sympathy in her dark eyes, “Buck, have you talked to her about this?”

He shook his head, unease in his eyes, “No, no. She, uh, she would hate me,”

Hen frowned, “I’ve known that girl a long time. I don’t think she could ever hate you. Especially not for feeling like this.”

Buck looked at her like she’d grown a second head, “She loves the baby more than anything. She would hate me if she knew how I felt.”

Hen laughed lightly, “You love that baby more than anything, too. I know you do. You just need to talk to your wife. I’m sure this isn’t easy for her either,”

Buck frowned at that. You hadn’t talked about it, at all. And he didn’t bring it up, because he didn’t think he could either.

He mulled over his talk with Hen for the rest of their shift, deciding that talking to you was for the best.

When he got home, he cautiously took the baby from you, holding her close and pulled you into his opposite side, finally feeling a weight lift off his shoulders.

#evan buckley x reader #911 x reader #9 1 1 x reader #evan buckley angst #911 angst #🐝 writes: 9 1 1 #🐝 writes

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sceletaflores · 2 months ago

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GOT YOUR HEART IN A HEADLOCK…

꩜ masterlists ꩜ update blog ꩜ requests ꩜ taglist ꩜

ೃ⁀➷ pair: bruce wayne x vigilante!fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ wc: 3.6k

ೃ⁀➷ contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, nat can’t stop making oc reader characters, somewhat angsty cause i need it to function, bruce's pov, p in v, not rough sex and not love making but another third thing, unprotected sex (do as sex ed teaches, not as i write), slight pain kink, biting, finger sucking RAAAHHH, one tiny mention of blood, bruce wayne experiences feelings, ending is basically the “fucked in missionary and got emotional about it” meme, porn with a little too much plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ nat’s note: oh em gee...baby's first dc fic...i'm so terrified to post this LMAO but i need to because this man just makes me want to write all the sad, angsty, pining/longing filled fics in the world. it’s his beautiful tortured eyes, they’ve transfixed me. title is ofc from imogen heap's 'headlock' cause i'm clearly too obsessed with that album i've named like three fics after it's tracks AND it's just such a bruce song i had to. hope you love it, kisses!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

bruce wayne gets an unexpected visitor…

Rain pelts at the spotless windows of Bruce's office. Sharp and impossible to ignore in the deep silence shrouding the room.

The overhead lights are dimmed, leaving the only glow in the room the flickering monitors lining the top of his desk. Bruce is hunched over them, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar undone, tired eyes fleeting over grainy security footage and recent police reports.

A tension lives in his shoulders as his hands fly over the expanse of his keyboard. The kind that never leaves. He’s chasing patterns again—strings of mob movement, scattered drug shipments, whispers of reemerging cartels.

It’s not often that he brings his, nightly work, to the tower—but something about the cave felt too heavy. Too suffocating, too soaked in grief and memory for him to get any real work done. Wayne tower, with its sleek sterility, gives him just enough distance to pretend silence is solacing instead of crushing.

Bruce needed that silence. Or maybe he needed the illusion of it—the unostentatious stillness of glass and steel, high enough above the rot of Gotham’s underbelly to try and escape the weight in his chest.

He exhales through his nose, slow and quiet, forearms tensing as he rewinds the surveillance footage for a third time. The storm is growing merciless—thunder cracking like bones, lightning throwing brief, jagged shadows across the gleaming floor. Bruce doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. He just leans further into the static buzz of his monitor, the comfort of control.

Until he feels it.

That shift.

That slow coil in his gut. The cold drag of something other licking at the edge of the air. A chill snakes its way up his spine and stirs the hair on the back of his neck, pressing against his senses in a way he’s become all too familiar with.

He cuts his eyes to the wall of windows before his desk. At first, he sees nothing but a dark sky. The rain clouds so thick and imposing they mute the shine of the stars, leaving behind a sea of pitch black.

A bolt of lighting rips across the sky—and for half a heartbeat, you’re there.

Seventy eight stories up, floating just outside the glass, shimmering with an ethereal glow. Your form is only half-phased, half solid. Raindrops slip right through you, never landing, never soaking. You press a hand to the glass, head tilted slightly as though amused.

Bruce doesn’t speak, but his eyes never leave yours.

You don’t knock. You never do.

You phase through the glass like it’s water, it doesn’t creak. It hums—a low rumble of energy. When your boots touch the polished floor, your form sharpens into full opacity, but the essence still clings to your skin. He can smell the ozone.

You don’t speak, not at first. You just stand there, dripping with power instead of rain, head tilting the other way now as you study him like you always do—like you’re looking straight through the flesh and bone, into whatever broken thing is holding it all together.

Bruce forces down the unease curling in the pit of his stomach, he turns his eyes back to the monitors. “You’re late.” His voice is low, sandpaper dry from disuse.

You hum, gliding a few slow steps toward his desk. He can feel the shift in the room—colder, tighter, like the air itself is shrinking away from your presence.

“I didn’t know we had a date.”

“We didn’t.”

“Then I’m on time.”

Files appear out of thin air, materializing right in front of his eyes. They simply hover for a moment, bathed in a flickering white hue and edged in smoke—until they fall onto his desk with a muted thump. The pages glide their way in front of him with delicate flutter—chilled only by the cold that clings to them from your plane.

“Where did you get these?” he mutters, scanning the top page. Intelligence. Photos. Notes scrawled in your familiar handwriting. It’s a roster—names he recognizes, faces he’s seen before in police reports and coroner files. All connected to the Falcone remnants.

“You’re welcome” you say dryly, turning to lean against the edge of his desk. You cross one leg over the other, arms folding over your chest. “Or do I only get a ‘thank you’ if I come gift-wrapped in latex and a chipper attitude?”

Bruce bites back a scoff, brows drawing together the more he reads over the pages. He knows this isn’t a friendly transaction, that it’s the furthest thing from you simply helping him from the kindness of your still heart. You come bearing gifts because you need something.

Bruce doesn’t rise from his chair. He just leans back slowly, eyes dragging up to meet yours. “What do you want, Spectress.”

Your head tilts, he can’t help but let his eyes run along the smooth column of your throat. “You.”

A beat. Bruce’s jaw ticks.

Then you add, “Well not you, you. Not yet.” Your lips curl around the words like they’re a dare. “Your eyes on something for me. There’s been a shift in the Veil, someone’s poking holes again. Thought some of your fancy tech might catch the bleed.”

Bruce stares, hard. He hopes you can still feel the weight of it—like the point of a blade pressed to skin. It’s his default, the way he carves answers out of people who fear the Bat. But you’re not some masked rookie wannabe he can intimidate into compliance with a look. If anything, the pressure only makes your smirk deepen.

“A shift in the Veil,” he repeats, voice low and quiet. Not mocking. Not doubting. Just…curious.

You nod, leaning a little closer, your body an elegant portrait of muscle and menace draped across his desk. “Someone’s not just brushing against it, Bruce. They’re trying to punch through. It’s not subtle.” You inhale a breath you don’t need. “The air is wrong. I can’t reach them. Dead things don’t stay quiet.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, almost a scoff, though there’s no humor in it. “And you think I can track the metaphysical footprint of a ghost hacker.”

Your smile blooms, sharp and lovely like a blade catching the moonlight. “I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t a priority. The last thing I want to admit is that I need your help. But it’s like something’s…tugging. Someone reaching across, but they’re messy. Clumsy. They don’t know what they’re doing, just that they have the power to do it.”

Bruce’s fingers twitch over the papers, they crinkle softly under his palm. The only sign that your words have sunk teeth into him. This isn’t some abstract ghost story you’re using to toy with him. This is intel. This is you saying something’s coming.

And The Batman doesn't deal well with what he can’t predict.

“Black Mask?”

“I think Black Mask wouldn’t have it in him to stay quiet if it was.”

Your voice is softer now, the flirtatious edge dulled to something more dangerous. The lights of the monitors cast a faint, blue halo over your face, catching in the slight glow that never leaves your eyes. Bruce notices the way your hand flexes on the desk, your nails dragging faint lines into the polished surface, like you’re grounding yourself—fighting the urge to phase away.

He sits forward slowly, reading the movement for what it is. “You’re scared.”

That makes your smile twitch. Not gone—never gone—but something in your face flickers. Like a candle too close to the wind.

“I don’t scare when it comes to the dead, Bruce.” A pause. “I’m what they whisper too.”

Bruce says nothing. His throat works around a swallow. Your presence has always rattled him. Not because you’re terrifying. He’s faced terrifying. It’s because you see him.

You see the pulses of emotion he tries his hardest to keep buried, all haloed around him in a hazy smoke of aura and vulnerability. You don’t only test the limits of his control, you blow right through them with all the ease in the world.

It grates on every inch of his nerves.

And still—still—he can’t help the way his eyes drop. The subtle arc of your hip against his desk. The glow of your power against the dark fabric of your suit. You shouldn’t look this soft, not with the weight you carry. Not with the death you wear like a second skin.

But you do. And it kills him.

Bruce swallows hard, dragging his gaze back to your face. You’re watching him with something like amusement, like you know exactly where his thoughts just wandered.

“You came all this way just for a file drop and a metaphysical theory?”

You don’t answer, letting the silence swell between you until it starts to choke. The room hums with it—something unspoken and aching. That same tension that’s always been there between the two of you, taut as wire. Neither of you ever acknowledge it directly. You dance around it like a live current, but tonight—tonight it feels closer to snapping.

You finally speak. “I saw the Gazette.” You look out to the skyline, eyes shining. “Wayne tower, only the second best view in Gotham, doesn't that just drive you crazy?”

Bruce doesn't take his gaze off you. “Not particularly.”

“What’s the first?”

“I’ll let you know when I find it.”

The unexplainable feeling between you both is pulsing now, alive and unbearable in a way that makes Bruce’s chest tighten. He leans back in his chair, watching you, not sure if he’s challenging you or waiting for you to make the next move. Your gaze flickers between his eyes, his lips, his posture—always studying, always probing.

“Are we done here?”

You hum absentmindedly, pushing off the desk in a fluid motion. The air shifts again as you move. The room feels too small all of a sudden. The rain outside intensifies, and with it, the tension in the air thickens. Bruce can almost taste it—something sharp, eclectic, but also heavy and unwilling to settle.

You walk closer, slow, like you're testing how close you can get before he tenses.

He doesn’t.

That’s the game you always play.

Your tone is velvet stretched over teeth. “I’ve seen inside you, Bruce,” you whisper, the sound pressing against his ribs. “The regret, the rage. The rot. The want. You keep it locked down in suits and silence, but I see it. And it calls to me.”

You circle the desk slowly, not bothering to hide the way your fingers trail across the back of his chair as you pass. Shadows twist and turn around your boots, clinging to the shape of you like they miss you when you're gone. The storm throws another bolt of light against the glass, and your shadow cuts across the floor, long and spindled. Almost wrong.

Bruce doesn’t move, doesn’t even shiver when your fingers drift to his collar and toy with the loose button near his throat. Your touch is cool, just wrong enough to raise goosebumps in its wake. A phantom’s touch.

“You always want what you can’t have, Bruce.”

Your words hit like a jolt of electricity, sharp and raw, and before he can stop himself, he’s standing. The chair scraping against the floor feels like a bomb going off in the silence. But it’s not the anger that drives him. Not entirely.

No, it’s the undeniable attraction. The way your presence disrupts everything he’s spent decades building. The way your very being forces him to question everything he knew about control, power, desire.

“You should leave.” It’s not a command. It’s not a suggestion. It’s…a warning, maybe. He couldn’t tell if you’d heed it. You both know you never do.

“I won’t ask twice,” you whisper, spectral power curling from your skin in soft tendrils that graze his chest. “Help me find who’s bleeding into the Veil , and I’ll make it worth your while.”

Bruce doesn’t need to ask what you mean.

Your hand flattens against his chest, his heartbeat loud and strong beneath your palm. The only warmth in the room.

His hand shoots up fast—too fast—and grabs your wrist. Not rough, but not soft either. Just enough force to anchor, to test the reality of you. His grip burns against your chill.

“I don’t need incentive.”

Your smile curls dangerously, and you phase. Right through his grasp. His fingers snap closed around air, and you’re behind him now, voice purring against the back of his neck. “Liar.”

Bruce rounds his desk with an almost inhuman amount of speed, caging you against the windows. You let him.

“This isn’t a game, Spectress,” he snarls, eyes burning. His face is close to yours now, too close. Your noses nearly brush. He should pull back.

“So serious, Bruce,” you murmur, eyes flicking to his lips, then back to his eyes. “Always so fucking serious. All that control, all that rage, and you’ve never even let it out the fun way.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “You think that this is fun for me?” he asks, voice like gravel.

“I think you don’t even know how badly you need to come undone.”

Your words hang there. Heavy. Weighted. Inescapable.

And then your mouth is right there—sinful lips brushing against his ear. “Let me show you.”

It’s laughably desperate when your mouths finally meet. Fire and ice coming together in a blaze of teeth and tension and unsaid things. A war between two people who don’t know how to surrender without blood. Neither of you gentle. Neither of you soft. His hands grip your hips roughly, your back hits the glass with more force he’d use on any other woman.

You bite his lip as he lifts you off the floor like you weigh nothing—like the world could end beneath his feet and he wouldn’t notice as long as your lips stay on his. Your legs wrap around his waist, strong as they drag him further into you.

You meet him with all the power in your bones, your body flickering with that unearthly light as your hands fist the collar of his shirt and pull him impossibly closer. You taste like the dead. Like smoke. Like something Bruce shouldn’t want, and can’t stop needing.

His hips slot against yours, and he’s hard. The heavy weight of his cock pushing against the front of his slacks. You moan low into his mouth, and it’s not ghostly—it’s human. Raw. And that’s what undoes him more than anything. The reminder that beneath all your power, your secrets, your cold—

You’re real.

"You’re soaked in death," he mutters against your mouth, voice raw. "And I still—"

“Still want to fuck me,” you finish, breathless, smirking against his lips. “I can feel it. You think I don’t know what your need tastes like?”

Your hand slides down between your bodies, cupping the thick heat straining against the front of his pants. Bruce hisses through his teeth, hips jerking into your touch, and you laugh—low and lovely and full of wicked delight.

“Look at you,” you murmur, voice thick with sin as you stare down to take in the way his cock strains against your stomach. “So fucking hard for the dead girl.”

It’s more than he can stomach, and Bruce snaps.

He uses a single hand to rip his belt open, the other bracing your thigh against the window so hard the glass groans. Your suit splits open at the hips with a flick of your fingers, the obsidian fabric shifting and slithering like something alive, giving way to skin that’s too perfect, too cold, and he groans—low, rough, helpless. Your suit gone, his shirt shoved up, his pants shoved down just enough for skin to meet skin—desperate and unfiltered.

There’s no ceremony. No slow lead-in. Just the stretch, the pressure, the way your body clenches around him like you’ve been waiting for this—aching for it.

The whole damn building seems to shudder, and your laugh comes out breathless, thrilled. Gotham burns beneath you in the stormlight, streaks of red and gold and shadow, a perfect backdrop to something that was never meant to be soft.

You gasp, sharp nails raking welts down the muscle of his back at the sting of his thick cock forcing a place for itself inside of you. He can feel the way the walls of your cunt flutter around him, gentle caresses that have something dark and consuming blooming in the pit of his stomach.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters against the hollow of your throat, dragging his mouth down the glowing seam of your collarbone, sucking a mark where the light pulses the brightest. “You like this.”

You don’t answer, locking your ankles behind him, digging your nails into his shoulders hard enough to make him snarl. “Harder, Bruce. I can take it.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Every thrust is deep and mean, hips slapping against the cradle of your thighs mercilessly. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, wet and obscene. You clench around him, and he groans, fingers digging into your hips so hard they’ll bruise if you let them.

You meet every thrust with a vicious grind of your hips, moaning his name like a prayer and a curse all at once—hand reaching back blindly to slap the glass, leaving a foggy print behind. The groan that rips its way from his chest is filthy, guttural, primal.

You’re impossibly wet, impossibly tight, and the angle—Christ, the angle—lets him grind so deep it feels like he’s trying to carve himself into your spine. Bruce’s eyes fall to where your bodies are joined, he watches the way his cock punches in and out of your swollen cunt. His skin is coated in your messy wetness, glistening in the moonlight each time he pulls out before disappearing back into your addictive warmth.

Your power lashes around you both, the lights flickering, the storm outside growing louder. Somewhere, the shadows moan.

“You love it,” he growls, voice like thunder against your ear. “Getting fucked like this. Against the glass. Knowing anyone could look up and see—”

“Bruce.” Your voice is the deepest form of sin, soaked in gasoline and waiting to be ignited by the match that only he has the ability of sparking.

Bruce can hardly stand it. The nasty, possessive feeling beats against his ribcage almost as hard as his heart. Scratching and clawing and demanding to be set free. His cock throbs inside of you. He’s close, and the incoherent gurgle of his name passing through your lips only spurs him on.

He’s moving before his brain can process it, his hand loosening its unrelenting grip on the muscle of your thigh to cradle your cheek. It’s heartbreakingly tender, in such a way that he’d never use even when he’s playing up the soft, faux-sentimental fucks of Brucie Wayne.

His thumb swipes across your slick bottom lip before he can think better of it. Your mouth falls open with a pleased moan, devilish tongue sweeping out to brush against his skin teasingly. For a heartstopping moment, Bruce wonders what it would be like to sink between those plush lips.

The cool kiss of them, or the sweet caress of your tongue, on the scorching tip of his cock. Just the thought has him shuddering, a bitten off curse falling from his lips as he pushes his thumb into your wanting mouth. Your eyes flutter closed, lashes fanning over your cheeks as you hollow them and suck.

“Fuck.” Bruce sets a brutal rhythm, hips pistoning into you with a desperation that belies the calm mask he wears for everyone else. But not for you. Never for you. You get the real thing—unfiltered, cracked open, all ugly need and unbearable weight. You take it, welcoming it with a tilt of your hips and a hiss of pleasure through your teeth as they bite down on his thumb roughly.

You try to phase, instinctively—too much, too fast—but he grabs you harder, pins you down, keeps you there in your body. “No,” he growls, lips against your skin. “You’re not going anywhere. Not till I’m done.”

The coarse, dark hair dusted along his abs grinds over your sensitive clit with every thrust, the blunt head of his cock hammering against the sweet spot inside of you. His heavy balls slap the bruised, raw skin of your ass.

Bruce tilts his hips just so, and you howl.

Your orgasm hits like a supernatural event, your body clenching around him, pulsing with energy that sinks into him, through him, like it’s marking him from the inside out. He chokes on your name—your real name—and it sends another shock through your system.

Bruce spills into you with a growl that rattles through his chest, buried so deep he forgets what it feels like to be hollow. The pulse of his cock is in time with the pounding beat of his heart.

And he watches, eyes rapt, as you come back down. The heave of your chest as you suck in greedy lungfuls of air you haven’t needed in decades, the glowing satisfaction swirling through your cloudy eyes, your swollen lips slick and parted around the soft pants of pleasure—stained with his blood.

He watches the power only barely contained beneath your skin. The shining white of it swimming through your body languidly, like pure white ink spilled along the surface of a lake, pulsing with life. So fucking alive.

Bruce realizes then that he’s found it.

The best view in Gotham.

mini nat’s note: tagging some lovelies that showed interest in this mess @ebodebo @ovaryacted @lordlottie @wlwloverwrites @dixie-isnt-cool! i love you all...bad! bruce wayne isn't on my taglist, but i might add him later! i do possibly want to write more for him in the future, so yell at me to add him if you want! thank you for reading! mwah <3

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himbodruid · 6 months ago

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Desperation in Yearning

Taking a break from Sylus fics to give yall some Zayne!

Zayne x Reader

Intended for 18+ readers. MINORS DNI.

Desperate -:- clothed sex -:- angst -:- possessive Zayne (kinda) -:- Zayne loses control (but not of his evol)

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There was a certain excitement that came with danger, an addictive rush of adrenaline. Maybe that was why you kept throwing yourself into missions that could end in your death. Or maybe it was some sort of misguided sense of survivor’s guilt, seeing as you’d been quite literally throwing yourself into your work for the last 14 years. Since the explosion. Since your world came raining down in a rain of ash and embers.

Your bags were almost packed, even though the shuttle wasn’t leaving for another several days. Captain Jenna had given you and the rest of the deployment team a few days off in order to prepare for the arduous journey, but you felt unsettled. You needed to move. To do something other than hurry up and wait.

Cooking was a nice way to distract yourself, even if you weren’t very good at it. What you made was edible at least, if not very creative.

A hurried knock on your door returned you to reality on that first night, and you looked up with brows drawn down. You weren’t expecting any visitors, and the stirfry you’d been disassociating over was almost done (note: probably burnt actually). Shaking your head, you removed the pan from the heat and killed the stove so you wouldn’t start a fire in your distraction.

Zayne was there on the other side of the door. He was out of breath, as if he’d run straight from Akso Hospital. He also looked…angry, and you ushered him inside.

“Doctor Zayne? What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

He took a moment to compose himself. It was almost disturbing to see the usually unflappable Doctor Zayne in such a state, and you feared the worst.

“When were you going to tell me,” he demanded. His usually even voice held the slightest of tremors, and you didn’t understand why. His eyes held an intensity to them that made you look anywhere but his face.

“What do you mean? Tell you about what?” He sat heavily in a stool at your breakfast bar and you put a hand on his shoulder. He stiffened under your touch.

“When were you going to tell me that you’re leaving?”

“Oh. That.” You still didn’t understand why it was such a big deal to him. It was just like any other away mission before. You always texted him when you were heading out and he wished you a safe return. And then when you returned, the two of you would go out to dinner together. You always celebrated your wins with him, mourned the losses with him.

“Were you just going to send me some off-hand text again? Letting me know you’d be leaving and then leave me in radio silence for weeks on end? Leave me wondering if everything was going okay, if you were safe- alive, even?”

He stood and punctuated his words by crowding you against the counter. His hazel eyes held a predatory glint to them, a look you were so unused to in his regularly smooth expression. He wasn’t one to wear his emotions easily, and you always struggled to read him. Even now, when he had you pinned at your counter, you couldn’t figure out what he was so upset over.

“Doctor Zayne, it’s fine. I do stuff like this all the time, it’s part of my job.”

His hand slammed down on the counter, making you jump. “Purposefully throwing yourself in harm’s way is not part of the job, not when you constantly do it to the point of self-destruction!”

You stared up at him, eyes wide in wonder. His face was flush and you thought you could read despair in his expression. This was a man that was always calm, cool, and collected, and yet here he was losing his temper at you.

“I…didn’t think of it that way. I’m sorry,” you say to him, trying to appease him so he would relax. But your words only seemed to fuel his frustration even more.

“That’s the problem. You never seem to think,” he whispered, the tremble in his voice more prominent now.

“Zayne,” you say, dropping his title in favour of your friendship. “What’s all this about? I don’t understand why you’re so upset about this. Please, help me understand.”

He blew out a shaky breath and let his head drop to your shoulder. You froze. It’s not that you didn’t see Zayne as a man, it’s that you always thought he never saw you as a woman. You thought maybe he only ever saw you as a trouble-making younger sibling, seeing as you had been friends with him since childhood. But here he was, face buried in your neck while he struggled to maintain his composure.

“I’m tired of watching the woman I love run head-long into danger,” he said quietly. “And not knowing if you’re safe is a special kind of torture I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”

You felt your heart shudder at his admission. Oh how you’ve been so stupid, so blind to his true feelings. The only credit you could give yourself is that Zayne wasn’t the best at portraying what he felt, and you were even worse at picking up social cues.

Your mind dug through all of your memories with him. How he would always seem to hug you a little longer than necessary when you came home. How he would always use one excuse or another to call and check up on you. How his demeanor went from cold and distant to warm and welcoming as time passed. The clues were there all along, you just never picked up on them. Or you assumed they were just a natural progression of friendship.

“Zayne, I-“ you didn’t know what to say. How to finish that sentence. You felt like you were in shock and you didn’t know what to do. He lifted his head from your shoulder slowly, bringing those damnably beautiful eyes up to bore into your very soul.

“I hate not knowing if you’ll survive the next mission that takes you away from me. I hate not being able to clear my schedule fast enough to go alongside you as a medic. And I hate the very idea of losing you to your own stubbornness.”

With that, he leaned forward and his lips captured yours. It was hesitant at first, testing, but the last remnants of his control snapped when you returned the kiss in equal measure. He coaxed your mouth open with ease and plunged his tongue in to tangle with yours. He poured all his desperation into you in that single point of contact, his hand coming up to grasp the back of your head to hold you in place.

When he finally broke away to let you have some air, his face was flush with all that was left unsaid. His eyes pleaded with you, his breath mingled with yours. He searched you for the same kind of yearning he bore to you. And when your gaze flicked to his mouth and back to his eyes with a soft sigh, he knew he had his answer.

He hauled you up against him, holding you as close as he possibly could as if that act alone could prevent you from leaving him. As if that alone would keep you by his side and out of danger forever. But it was that threat of danger that made desperation all the more prominent, all the more sweeter.

Zayne carried you to your bedroom without hesitation and without trouble, as though you weighed nothing more than the pen he carried in his lab coat every day at work. Your legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his broad shoulders on instinct, hiking up the skirt you wore and exposing yourself to his chill touch. He plopped down on the corner of your mattress with you straddling his lap, not even taking a moment to break the kiss. You rocked your hips against him, lost to his every touch that drove you deeper into a needy mess.

You hated admitting it, but you knew that this is what you’ve been craving for so long. The realization that you were waiting for him to make a move so that your passion wouldn’t scare the normally reserved doctor away. Zayne was letting go of all those reservations and it was the single most attractive thing you ever experienced.

He devoured you. Touched you. The noises he made shot right to your core and your own noises rose to respond to him. The chill of his hands sent shivers dancing through you. You could feel the length of him hardening beneath you, responding resolutely to the grind of your core against him. One of his large hands found your thigh, smoothing along your skin until he was at your hip and his thumb ran along the edge of your underwear. You were subconsciously glad you wore lace, but it didn’t really matter when you were lost to him. And, gods, the cold metal of his watch pressing into your hot skin did something unspeakable to you.

The pad of his thumb pressed against your clit, making lazy circles as his tongue continued to battle with yours. You couldn’t stop the moan you released into his mouth, but the noise only seemed to goad him further. He absorbed the sounds you made and became drunk off you.

And then you were suddenly pinned underneath him. One hand held your wrists above your head while those elegant fingers of the other dipped into your slicked folds. When he found you wet and wanting, he groaned into your neck. He curled those fingers inside you, eliciting a gasp as he put pressure in the perfect place. You bucked your hips against his hand, chasing the release he was so graciously gifting you.

And when you fell over the edge, you breathed his name into the air like a chanting prayer. Your body arched into him involuntarily and your hands grasped at whatever they could while still restrained.

But Zayne wasn’t done with you. He was far from it.

He removed his fingers from you, bringing them up to inspect the result of your climax still slicked between them. And then he looked you in the eye, muttering ‘beautiful’ before he stuck those fingers in his mouth and savored the taste of you with a moan. And something about that damn watch on his wrist while he did it.

And, fuck, he still wasn’t done torturing you.

The buckle of his belt was loosened and his cock freed from his pants with hardly an effort. He did it all with one hand while still pinning your wrists together above your head. You wanted so badly to touch him, but all you could do was wrap your legs around his hips as his narrow hips nestled between your thighs. And then your underwear was brushed aside and his cock slicked against your folds, a gentle, testing nudge at first. Then pushing further at your moaned pleas.

You all but begged him to fuck you roughly like you wanted, and still he took the time to make sure your petite body could accommodate his size without hurting you. And, oh how he filled you. It was more than you could have ever dreamed, and still he remained infuriatingly still inside you while his mouth worked at yours with promises of what was to come.

You flexed your walls on him in silent revenge, and he hissed a moan into your mouth with an involuntary forward jerk of his hips. And that’s all it took for the dam to break on his control.

Before you knew it, he was slamming into you with reckless abandon, so hard you swore you could feel yourself being moved across your bed. His hand finally released yours and all you could do was cling to him while he basically folded you in half, trying to somehow get even deeper than he already was. His grunts, moans, whimpers were diffused by him burying his face in your neck. You chanted his name into the open air, punctuating it by kisses and bites against whatever skin of his neck and chest you could access.

He hooked his arms underneath your knees, giving himself the most access he could while he pistoned in and out of you like a madman. Every thrust slammed against that sweet spot in your core and you came undone around him more times than you could count before he’d even gotten close to his end. Each climax that swept through you was more intense than the last until you were all but screaming his name.

“So damn…good,” he grunted, his pace increasing as his own orgasm finally neared. His sounds were no longer muffled by your neck or mouth. He let his own pleasured cries rise with yours as he continued making a mess of the both of you. His words became incoherent as he lost himself to the rapture.

Zayne slammed so, so impossibly deep into you with a sound that came out like a mix between a shout and a moan. His climax steamrolled through him so thoroughly that all he could do was jerk his hips while trembling in your hold. Your walls quivered around his cock once more, milking him as he flooded you with his cum.

Zayne collapsed atop you, a sweating panting mess. You realized that the both of you were still fully clothed, so caught up in your frenzied coupling that you didn’t even take time to undress. You couldn’t even find it in yourself to be embarrassed at the madness that’d taken over the both of you. Especially when he was still shifting his hips in micro-thrusts that made you realize that he was still hard inside you.

Everything about this encounter sent a thrill through you, and it was something you would never forget. Though, your mind went blank when he suddenly rode you through overstimulation only to jolt you both through an unexpected mutual orgasm. His cock twitched and pulsed inside you as another deluge of cum filled you. And your body was all too eager to take him in. If it weren’t the sensations of his cock inside you, you were almost certain the sounds he was making would have sent you over the edge again. Or even the contrast of his cold hands on your heated skin.

It felt all too soon, but he pulled from you with a long moan. He kissed you and put his forehead against yours in an action so tender that it nearly brought tears to your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured to you with an embarrassed smile. “That’s not exactly how I imagined that would go.”

“Yeah?” You chuckled. “How was it supposed to go?”

“Slow and sweet. Definitely not horny and wild while clothed,” he grumbled. You couldn't help but look down and grinned when you saw the mess the both of you had made against his nice black trousers.

“Why not show me how it was meant to be?” You ventured. That soft smile of his played across his face as he leaned in and kissed you.

He proceeded to demonstrate what his first idea had been. Soft, slow, and sweet, bringing the both of you to climax over and over. He worshipped your body in a multitude of ways and you were grateful, then, for the days off that Jenna had given you. Because, aside from going home for a change of clothes and picking up some take out, Zayne hardly left your bed until it was time for you to go.

He walked you to the shuttle while trying to stoically hide the devastation in his eyes. Other hunters were already boarding the vehicle, but you turned to face him while your luggage was loaded, drawing him into a tight hug.

“I promise to be more mindful of missions in the future,” you say to him. You lean up in his embrace and kiss him in full view of anyone that cared to look. You knew there would be relentless teasing from Tara, but you didn’t care.

“After all, I have someone at home to look forward to now.”

#zayne smut #zayne x you #doctor zayne #lnds zayne #l&ds zayne #lads zayne #dr zayne #zayne love and deepspace #zayne x reader #lads fic #lads #lads smut #lads x reader #love and deepspace fic #love and deepspace

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muffinpink02 · 1 year ago

Text

You Taste Like Vanilla

Okay, so this story went all over the place, it hasn’t really got a plot, it's just a lot of smut tbh. This is also my first Jenni fic and breeding kink fic, so good luck with that. I tried to make the strap sound as much like a strap and not an actual penis as I could.

ALSO! @lucyandalexiafan thank you for reading this 10x over! You are literally my co-editor at this point. Thank you always! You always have the best ideas and genuinely save me from throwing the whole story away. Thank you girly pop ❤️

Warnings - Smut 18 plus, strap, fingering, orgasm denial, breeding kink, strap ejaculation.

“Amor! Come on!” Jenni threw her keys in the bowl next to the door as you rushed in front.

“No! You never listen, Jenni!”

You heard your girlfriend huff in annoyance as she shut the front door. You were arguing, like any normal couple did. Could you remember exactly what you were arguing about? No… kind of, but it didn't make you any less annoyed.

You stormed into your shared bedroom. You knew Jenni would follow you in, she always did. She hated arguing with you, she was the calmer one in the relationship, always the one to try and put an end to any arguments you had, even if sometimes you were blatantly in the wrong.

“I do listen! You just go crazy, and then you don’t listen!” The Spaniard chuckled.

That's when you remembered why you had started arguing in the first place.

You had been out for dinner with Mapi and Ingrid. It had been a really nice evening, but of course right at the end Jenni had to ruin it. You and Ingrid were talking, while Jenni and Mapi were laughing about something, your ears pricked when you heard Jenni say your name and ‘pillow princess’ in the same sentence. Did you hear the full conversation? No. But you heard enough for it to aggravate you.

Would it annoy you if you were a ‘pillow princess'? No, of course not, but you wasn't one, you fucked Jenni just as much as she fucked you, and you didnt want people to think otherwise.

You came to a sudden halt, facing the tall brunette. “Maybe instead of trying to be a class clown you should just shut up!”

Jenni stopped in her tracks, now facing you.

“Clown? But you love it when I make you laugh cariño.” She purred.

Another talent of Jenni’s was to turn most arguments you had into heated sex. Not that you ever complained, she was very good at it. She’d fuck you sensless making you forget whatever it was you was ever arguing about. But right now you were angry. It would take more than her stupidly beautiful smile to have her way with you.

“I fake those laughs.” Your tone was laced with bitchiness.

Jenni threw her head back laughing. It made you shiver.

“You fake those laughs? I don’t believe you, babita. I always make you laugh, until tears are running down those cute cheeks.”

She cupped your chin, emphasizing her words, you pushed her off, but she didn't care, she only chuckled at your actions. It annoyed you that a simple laugh of hers could rile you up so easily. So of course you had to take it further. You took a step closer to the raven haired girl. Her eyes following you.

“Yeah, it's not the only thing I fake.” You smirked wickedly at the tattooed girl.

It was a complete lie, but you knew it would hit a nerve. Jenni was very confident in the bedroom and she had all the right to be. She was a goddess when it came to sex.

You had bedded your fair share of women in your time. You weren't a newbie to how their bodies worked, or how your own body worked, you were no stranger to self pleasure, your hand and other toys were a frequent visitor between your legs.

You wouldn't have said you were vanilla in the bedroom, you were open to many things, but it never really came up in conversation with your past lovers. The most adventures you had got was a blindfold here and there, or handcuffs now and again, but it never felt special, nothing that was out of this world. Until you met Jenni.

You had thought you knew your body, you thought you knew what you liked, and you thought you could only have 2 orgasm per night, but Jenni threw that idea completely out the window. She had finely tuned your body like her own personal instrument, bending and breaking it to new heights of pleasure. She introduced you to new things constantly, you had never truly known the word ‘satisfied’ until Jenni.

The atmosphere changed instantly. Jenni’s playful smile dropped, she stepped closer to you, her height giving her the advantage to look down on you, making you feel small. She gently laced her fingers around the back of your neck, holding you firmly in place. Though this time you didn't push her away. Her green eyes scanned your face, making you squirm under her stare.

“Is that so? You fake other things?” Her voice was low.

You swallowed on nothing, it vexed you that she was already making your body react. You had to at least try and act like she wasn’t affecting you. You needed to get some kind of control over the situation, you didn't want her to think she had all the power, even if she actually did. You kept your eye contact with her, and smirked.

“Y-yeah.” Fuck. So much for ‘taking control’.

Your voice was already shaky, and of course she heard it. Her wolfish grin creeped on her gorgeous face, it made your knees weak. The girl was like a bloodhound, she could read your body and mind like it was her own. The grip she had on the back of your neck tightened.

“I think you’re lying, bebita. I think you’re just trying to hurt me.” She licked her lips.

Ergh, it was a blessing and a curse that Jenni could have you swooning so easily. The grip on your neck moved to your throat, she gave you a gentle squeeze, wanting an answer from you but it earned her a small gasp instead. She raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow at you, waiting for a response.

“I’m not lying, you’re just not as great as you think you are.” You stated.

You were pushing it, but you knew if you did it would hopefully result in Jenni fucking you until you were begging her to stop. It was a typical cat and mouse game you both liked to play, but right now you were the mouse that was slowly losing control.

“I think you just want to be fucked? Hmm?”

And like the bloodhound she was, she caught you red handed.

Your face said it all, you stuttered as you tried to come up with a comeback, but you knew it, she knew it, you clearly weren't as angry or subtle as you thought you were.

I mean, if you thought deep enough about it you were probably never that annoyed in the first place. Yeah, maybe it pissed you off that Jenni was basically saying you were something you weren't, but you had already forgotten why you were annoyed before you got to your front door. You just wanted a reason to be pissed at Jenni so you could have angry make up sex.

“I see you have nothing to say? Cat got your tongue? Maybe that loud mouth of yours should be making it up to me.” Her lips curled into a devilish smirk.

Even though you could already feel your underwear becoming uncomfortably wet, you still wanted to be stubborn. Yeah, maybe she wore the strap a little more than you, and maybe she took more of the control during sex, but ...what were you angry about again?

Oh, right.

You rolled your eyes in disbelief. “Why would I do that? I’m a ‘pillow princess’ after all.”

Jenni looked confused for a second, then began to laugh loudly. It irked you.

“That is why you are angry? That was just stupid chat between me and Mapi. You know what she's like.”

That annoyed you even more, Jenni was clearly trying to look like the big ‘I am’ with Mapi. You didn't care that Jenni spoke about your bedroom antics, you both were very open and so was Mapi, but you did care if she was trying to make out that you didn't put in the work like she did.

“But I'm not a pillow princess.” You whined. Your eyes fell on the Spaniard's lips. “I don’t want people to think I don’t fuck you.”

She tutted, her stupid sexy grin widened, her voice was low. “Amor, come on. You love it when I take control and you don’t have to think about anything.” Her other hand pulled you by your hip, slotting your bodies together. “Even now, I know what you want. I know for a fact you are wet for me.”

Bloodhound.

Your mouth gaped open, you could feel the blush creeping up your neck, right under Jenni’s palm. She pulled her thumb over your bottom lip, she watched as your plump flesh stretched under her movements. She had you where she wanted you, she was the cat and you were the mouse between her teeth. And like the feeble mouse that you were, you nodded, giving in so easily. She continued.

“That's what I thought.” She purred as she finally brought her lips to yours.

She tenderly cupped your face, her lips pressed gently against your own. Jenni’s kisses always took your breath away, she kissed you like it was the first time everytime, soft and sweet. The taste of her mouth made your own tongue salivate, you always felt hungry for the girl, even if she did piss you off every now and again.

Her talented tongue danced across your lips, wanting entry, you opened your mouth willingly, giving her what she wanted, like you always did. You groaned as she stroked your tongue with her own, caressing your mouth with ease.

The taller girl pulled back, a playful smile spread across her face as she watched you needily chase her mouth.

“Would you like that? For me to take control?”

“Yes.” You nodded your head. Clearly all of your anger and self control had gone out the window, along with some self respect.

“Good.”

She brought her hot mouth back to yours, as she slowly unbuttoned your jeans and unzipped the clothing, distracted by her kisses you nearly missed the way she pushed her hand past the band of your underwear and into your now very wet fabric. You gasped as her long fingers cupped your sex, slipping her pointer finger in between your wet lips.

It was then her turn to gasp.

“Fuck.” She pressed her forehead against your own. “I haven't even touched you and this is how wet you are?”

You weren't sure if she actually wanted you to answer her. The girl only had to give you a certain look and you were putty in her hands, or wet in her hands…

Suddenly the hand around your neck snaked into your hair at the base of your neck, forcing your head backwards. You felt her warm hand leave your sex, as she abruptly pulled her hand from your underwear and pushed her wet finger into your open mouth.

“Tell me. Does this taste like someone who doesn't come?” Her tone was dangerous.

Your earlier comment definitely pissed her off.

You felt your cheeks blush from Jenni’s accusational tone. But it didn't stop the moan creeping from your throat as you tasted yourself on her fingers, your tongue instinctively lapped at her digits, cleaning her fingers of your essence.

“So eager.” She smirked as she felt your tongue glide along her fingers.

She delicately pulled her finger from your mouth, as she guided you backwards with her hand still holding your hair, your back gently meeting the wall. She didn't bother undressing you as her hand snaked back down into your underwear, pressing two of her fingers against your already swollen clit. Your hips jumped at her touch, your hands landed on her shoulders for support. You didn't want to get used to her godly touch, you knew she would move away eventually, especially when you got close to coming.

She kept her fingers between your legs, stroking your clit perfectly. The other hand in your hair, holding your face inches from her own, her mischievous eyes stayed on yours.

“Please, don’t stop.” Your voice was shaky.

The raven haired girl's smirk was dangerous. “Oh don’t worry baby, I'm not going to stop.”

It almost sounded like a threat, her tone was calm, yet also laced with something more than just lust, but with her fingers caressing you the way they were, you weren't in the right mindset to think about it. You just hoped she meant it, Jenni had a long history of edging you until you were begging, sometimes even crying to let you come.

Your moaning became loud as she picked up her pace, pushing you closer to your climax, your hips thrusted as you felt your body giving in to her. You couldn't stop the small gasps tumbling from your lips as her talented fingers were building you up with precise touches. It was actually embarrassing how close you already were, your body had become so accustomed to Jennis touches, she had you falling from your peak at a dangerously quick rate.

“J-Jenni.”

Your legs began to shake, your hands held her tighter.

“Sí, baby?”

“Kiss me.”

“No.”

You whined. But she only ignored your complaints, gripping your hair instead. You were scared to tell her you were close, scared that she would stop completely and pull her fingers away.

You thought if she kissed you, she might have gotten lost in it all and maybe just give you what you wanted. But she wasn't stupid, she knew your body, she could tell from every gasp and every moan that you were getting closer to the edge.

You gritted your teeth as you felt the heat rise up your spine, you could feel her green eyes watching you, she had a knowing smile on her face. You waited for her fingers to leave you, you were ready to beg for her, ready to be edged all night. Your eyes closed as you felt the start of your orgasm about to hit you, you couldn't stop your movements as you grabbed her wrist, so scared she was going to pull away.

But she didn’t.

She must have felt bad, as her lips were on your neck kissing you with a surprisingly gentle touch.

“Don’t worry, cariño. I’m right here.” Her laugh was soft, but teasing.

You were mumbling as you kept begging her not to leave you, begging to not to move her hand away. She was bringing you so much pleasure just from her fingers alone. You probably sounded so desperate, but you didn't care, you needed her.

And she did, she stayed with you.

She kept her fingers on you, stroking your bundle of nerves, you could feel your wetness coating her long fingers. Her lips traced your hot skin, her tongue exploring your neck like it was the first time. The whimpers you let out as she pulled on your hair was loud, Jenni knew how to work your body even with the simplest of touches.

You was so close, so fucking close, you tried to keep your moaning down to a minumum, biting your lip until it hurt. But she stayed.

You gasped as she brought you to your climax, your hips rutting hard as you came in Jenni’s hand. Your orgasm washed over your body, slumping you forwards. Your head laid against her chest, as her long fingers stayed on you, slowly caressing your folds as you came down from your high.

Your blissed out state was interrupted with a deep chuckle rumbling in your ears. You couldn't help but feel a little pathetic at how desperate you must have looked. How pathetically quick you were to let her have her way with you. How you came in her hand like a horny teenager being touched for the first time. Jenni’s free hand grabbed the back of your neck and slowly pulled you close to her face.

“Did you come baby? That was a little quick.” She faked a pout at you.

You nodded, not able to bring yourself to speak.

Her fingers stayed on your clit, stroking you gently, you tried to move away but she had you pinned against the wall, her tall body pressing up against your own, you were still sensitive, but she followed your movements.

“Jen, I-I can’t.”

She tutted “What's wrong baby? You told me to not stop.” Her tone was alarmingly calm,

She was clearly trying to prove a point. You could have kicked yourself for the way you begged her to not stop, you had no self control when it came to the 5 foot 9 Spaniard.

And you still didn't, even though you were sensitive you didn't want her to leave you. She had trained your body to take more, and she knew you would.

Her face was so close to yours, her breath tickled your lips as she kept her fingers circling your bundle of nerves. She was beaming at you, she looked so happy with herself, so pleased with how quickly she made you come, how you begged her not to stop.

Her hand was still between your legs stroking your wet folds, you couldn't stop the way your hips began to follow her hand, the overstimulated feeling melting into a need for the girl.

“Oh, so you do want more?”

You nodded, almost like you were defeated.

“But I thought you wanted me to stop?”

The teasing in her tone made you want to roll your eyes, but you didn’t, you weren't sure what Jennis' plan was, you were still shocked she allowed you to have your first orgasm, you weren't about to ruin it if there was a chance she would give you another one.

“You want more?”

“Yes.” You groaned

“Where's your manners, baby?”

This time you couldn't hold the eye roll.

“Please.” You tried to hold the attitude back, but it still came out in your tone.

“Hmm, not good enough.” She softly chuckled in your ear, her fingers began to slow down.

Your hips desperately bucked as you lost the friction. You had to give in to what she wanted. The girl was like a dog with a bone. So, you tried again.

“Please, Jenni.”

“Sorry, I couldnt hear you. Say it again.”

You gritted your teeth, your pride slowly dwindling.

“Please, Jenni. I need more.”

Her fingers picked up to a faster pace but was still agonizingly slow. She was so calm with her touches, her mannerisms were controlled to a T, meanwhile she had you melting into her hand, desperately grinding into her digits, begging her again for more of her. The girl literally had you in the palm of her hands.

Her lips began to kiss your neck again, making your whole body shiver. “Say it again.”

You let out a sigh of frustration. “Jenni. Fuck, please, just give me mor-”

You were cut off when two long fingers easily entered you.

“Fuck!” You gasped at the sudden intrusion.

You felt her lips smile against your skin. “You’re so easy.”

You wanted to argue that you weren't easy, that you could freely push her away and get on with your evening and not think about the way she made you beg for her, but that would be a lie. All you could do was moan and beg her once again to not stop, as she fucked you hard against the wall.

You whimpered as her teeth sunk into your neck, her tongue gently swiping over the already red mark. She littered your neck with wet kisses while her fingers plunged into your core, pulling the desperate moans from your lips, your hips meeting her deep thrusts.

You closed your eyes as Jenni built your pleasure back up, her fingers pushing on your walls as she coaxed that beautiful feeling she did everytime she was inside you. You caught her green eyes staring at your mouth, scanning your face, she finally kissed you as her eyes met yours, making your insides jump.

You were close again, you felt the heat travel from your lower half through your body.

“You’re close. Should I let you?”

Of course she already knew.

“Please!” You cried.

“I don’t know.” She chuckled lightly against your cheek.

“No, please Jenni. Please.”

“Dios, you’re so cute when you beg.” She kissed your lips hard.

But you couldn't return it, not when her thumb started to circle on your sensitive clit, making you groan into her mouth. Your head fell against the wall, her hand still had a grip on the back of your neck. You didn't have time to enjoy her touches for long as your orgasm came crashing over you.

Jenni groaned as she felt your pussy squeeze around her fingers, shaking against her firm body. Her cocky smile returned as she grabbed your face, forcing you to look at her. She slowly removed her fingers from you, bringing her wet digits to her mouth, sucking on your juices.

“Another one?”

You heard what she said but your head was foggy. ‘Another one?’ Surely not? You could still feel the pressure of her fingers inside your empty pussy, your essence dripping down your thigh was evidence of that. You couldn't go another round, not so soon anyways.

“I can’t.”

“No?” She gently kissed your lips.

You shook your head, still trying to catch your breath. You fixed your eyes on her face, her wolfish smile made your heart flutter for many different reasons.

“Okay. I'll be nice, you get one break. Then we go again.” She whispered against your lips.

You shivered at her words, you were thankful for the break but her words made your stomach flutter.

“Come.”

Your shaky legs followed her as she moved you both to the bed in the middle of the room.

“You can have a break while you're between my legs.”

This was the Jenni that made you crumble, the Jenni that made you do and say whatever she wanted, no questions asked.

“Strip first.” She demanded.

You did what you were told, Jenni watched you like a hawk, you could feel her eyes roaming your body, she watched as you took each bit of clothing off, dropping it to the floor.

She licked her lips as she shamelessly eyed your naked body. She placed her hand on the top of your head, silently telling you to get on your knees, you slowly kneeled in front of the 5 foot 9 girl, never taking your eyes off of her.

“Buena niña.”

Jenni unbuckled her jeans inches from your face, dropping the clothing to her ankles, the sound of the metal on her belt made your core clench. You bit your lip as you noticed the dark damp spot in her boxers.

Jenni was in complete control. It made your head dizzy at how quick she switched up the dynamic. One minute you were arguing, the next she had you on your knees, about to eat her out. Her long fingers stroked into your hair, softly scraping against your scalp. It sent a shiver down your naked body, making you even more aware that she was still half dressed.

“Take them off.” She instructed.

You brought your hands up to her boxers and pulled the fabric down her strong thighs, to her ankles. Her slick essence glistened at her entrance, making her pussy look even more inviting.

She unbuttoned her shirt, revealing her abs, flexing them as you watched her. You couldn't even be annoyed, you loved it when she was cocky, it's what drew you to her in the first place.

“My eyes are up here.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

You scoffed but couldn't hold back the small giggle, she was right when she said she always made you laugh.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, leaning back on her elbows. Her shirt sat open, her tight stomach flexed, she looked like a frat boy, with her cheeky smile plastered on her face. It made you want her even more.

“Come on. Let's get that pretty bitch mouth to work.” She smiled wickedly at you.

The fingers in your hair brought you closer to her core, pushing your face until your lips met her lips. Jenni moaned softly when she felt your tongue finally glide through her velvety folds.

“There she is. There's that pretty mouth.”

You moaned against her, the Spaniard's hands gripped your hair tighter as you flicked your tongue over her clit. The girl had full control of your movements, her large hands held the back of your head as she bucked her hips into your mouth. You placed your hands on her thighs for something to hold on to as her movements became faster. You loved eating Jenni out, she always made the filthiest groans when you had your mouth on her.

“Put your tongue inside.”

You nodded, you stretched your tongue out as far as your could in the position you was in, you gently eased your tongue inside her walls and began to fuck her, with Jennis help.

“Mierda. That's it.” She grunted.

Jenni opened her long legs wider, giving you more room to explore her. She grinded her hips deeper into your mouth, fucking herself with your tongue, you could feel how wet she was, her juices began to cover your mouth and chin. You let out a deep groan, knowing it would vibrate perfectly against her walls, and you were proven right when you heard her whimper above you.

“Your mouth is so perfect. Suck now baby.”

You couldn't hold back the smile that crept on your face at Jennis words, you loved when the taller women praised you, and she knew you loved it too. You removed your tongue from her tight walls and laced your lips around her sensitive clit, sucking on the bundle of nerves.

“Sí, just like that.” She husked.

You watched as her eyes closed and her mouth gaped open, her hips rocked more gently this time, allowing you to work your mouth the way she liked. You were completely entranced by the woman above, your eyes followed her body as her abs flexed from each small roll of her hips, using your mouth for her own pleasure.

You stayed like this for a while, until you felt Jennis' strong legs start to shake under your touch. You could tell she was getting close, the grip in your hair became tight as she held your head in place. Her breathing began to pick up, you moaned as you felt a whole new gush of wetness flood your mouth.

The girl looked down at you upon hearing your moans, she smirked when she caught your eyes, sending a wave of heat between your legs, you knew you were going to be her fuck toy tonight just from her smile alone. She removed one of her hands from your hair and moved your head back slightly. She placed her hand between her own legs, pulling her wet lips apart with her long fingers, exposing her swollen pink clit.

“Make it up to me. You know how I like it.” She whispered.

You were pushed back between her legs before you could say anything. You gently nibbled at her exposed clit, as your lips stayed around her flesh, giving her pussy the perfect suction. Jenni groaned as she began to fuck your face, you could hear her panting harder as you flicked fast strokes on her clit.

“Don't stop, don't stop.”

Her legs shook and her muscles flexed under your palms. Your eyes squeezed shut as she held your hair painfully tight. Your head was pushed right into her core, you struggled to breath as the girl came quietly in your mouth. Your tongue was flooded with her essence, you swallowed all that you could. You went to move your head back but her grip stayed on your hair.

“No, baby, Don’t move. Stay.”

You stayed liked she asked, keeping your tongue on her, gently kissing and sucking on her velvet lips. Her body jolted from your gentle touches. You stayed like that for a little while, your neck began to ache but as long as Jenni felt good you didn’t care.

She let out a long raspy sigh with your name falling from her lips. Her hand released your hair, she gently smoothed her hand over the area she pulled, knowing she probably hurt you in her height of her pleasure.

“So good, baby.” She sat forward, her face inches from yours.

You panted up at her, your lips and chin soaked with her juices. She cupped your face kissing you, sucking her own juices from your swollen lips.

The raven hair girl gave you one last deep kiss before she moved away. She removed the rest of her clothing, making you both naked. Even though you had already came twice, your own pussy was throbbing to the point that it hurt. You needed Jenni to touch you again, you needed to feel any kind of contact from the girl.

“Stay like that. I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise? What surprise” You tilted your head.

“You'll see.” She winked.

‘A surprise?’ Excitement ran through your body at the prospect of a surprise, you tried to rattle through your brain with what it could be.

Jenni moved over to your special draw, looking for the new toy she brought without your knowledge. The girl always had something up her sleeve, she loved to surprise you with new things. You could see she was messing around with something, you spotted the plastic dick in her hand then you heard a squirting kind of noise.

You watched as she pulled up her harness with a new strap attached, it was a little thicker than your usual ones, but your cunt only ached seeing the girthy strap between her long legs. She sauntered over to you, a very cocky smirk on her face.

“Open.”

You opened your mouth and looked up at the taller girl, her eyes were full of lust. Having you in this position was one of Jennis biggest turn ons. She loved having her strap in your mouth as she watched you obediently suck on the plastic. She held the bottom of the strap placing it on your awaiting tongue. Even though you weren't complaining with the set up, you were a little confused, you had done this countless times before, so it wasn't really a new, or a surprise.

Jenni watched your face as she slowly eased the strap into your mouth, then back out again.

“Do you know what this is?”

“A new strap.” You blinked at her.

Her smile widened. “Sí, but what kind?”

You looked at your girlfriend with confusion. Why was she asking you 21 questions when your brain was fogged with nothing but pure hornyness?

She stroked your cheek gently. “It's the one you told me you wanted. Remember?”

Then it hit you. It was around 2 weeks ago when you and Jenni were looking at sex toys online.

—--

“Oh this one you can ejaculate with.” You pointed at the screen.

Jenni smiled at your excitement. “You like that kind of thing?”

You suddenly felt a little embarrassed, Jenni’s words didn't hold any judgement, but it wasn't something you had spoken about. Not that kind of kink anyways.

The raven haired girl noticed your demeanour in a heartbeat.

“Nina, don't be shy. It's hot. I like it.” The taller women purred in your ear.

“You do?”

Jenni clicked on the toy looking over the information.

“Sí, I could get you pregnant.” She smiled playfully at you.

The words alone sent a shiver through your body, the thought of actually having Jennis children made you feel fuzzy.

“Would you like that? Me getting you pregnant?”

You nodded your head, your heart fluttered. “Y-yeah, I’d like that.”

“Hmm, of course you would.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

Before you could purchase the toy, you and Jenni had gotten distracted. The talk of getting you pregnant riled up the Spaniard more than you would have thought, so you ended up on your back with Jenni on top of you, three fingers deep. But you weren't aware she had purchased the new toy.

—--

“I didn't know you brought it.” You stared up at her.

“How could I deny you anything?” Jenni stroked your swollen lips.

You kissed her thumb, smiling against her skin at her soft words.

“Keep your tongue out for me.”

You stuck your tongue out like she asked. You noticed her fiddle with something on the side of the strap. You couldn't see what she was doing, but her face was brimming with excitement.

“Ready?”

You felt her hand tighten on your hair as you nodded. She pushed herself back inside your mouth, then slowly began to pull back out, you groaned feeling the strap drag leisurely across your tongue.

Then you felt it, your eyes closed from the shock but you didn't move away, not that you could with the grip Jenni had on your hair. You felt a squirt of liquid cover your tongue, your taste buds instantly made your mouth water at the sweet familiar taste of vanilla.

You looked up at Jenni, who looked at you in complete awe. Her mouth was gaping as she watched the white sugary substance coat your tongue. She dragged the strap to the tip of your tongue, watching the liquid drip into your mouth. You moaned as the edible lube took over your senses. Of course the girl went a step further to get the edible kind.

And you loved it.

“Swallow.” She husked.

Jenni moved the strap away from your mouth, just barely touching your lips, her hand still had a grip in your hair, the other hand gripping the strap. You kept your eyes locked with hers as you swallowed the sweet vanilla liquid.

“How lucky am I to have a girl like you.” She whispered.

Even when she had a strap inches from your face, the girl knew how to make you melt with her words.

She tilted your head back as she nudged the strap back to your swollen lips. Your eyes closed as you felt the plastic slide down your tongue and into your throat. You heard the taller girl groan as your mouth took her in. You relaxed your throat as best as you could, as the strap began to constrict your breathing.

Jenni wasn't rough, she was going slow as she pumped her hips into your mouth. Her fingers laced through your hair sweetly, just stroking it back as she watched you lovingly.

“You're so perfect.”

You groan as you look up at the 5 foot 9 woman. You loved the way she praised you, it was always sincere, and her tone was always soft. Her eyes roamed your face, looking at you like you with nothing but love, her smile alone made your head swell. Jenni could be a rough lover, and be dominating but there was something so soft and sweet that she possessed in her energy, like she would never hurt you. You trusted the girl to no end.

Her hands tugged gently at your hair, helping to guide your mouth up and down her thick strap. You choke a little as another small squirt of the vanilla liquid hits the back of your throat, she pulls your head back, letting you breathe. You take a few deep breaths before she's pushing herself back into your mouth.

“This mouth is all mine, isn't it baby?” Jenni whispers.

You nod as best as you can. Your eyes squeeze shut as her hips pick up a faster pace, you could feel your wetness sticking to the very top of your thighs. You hold on the her long legs to give you something to hold onto as she gently fucks your mouth.

Your spit mixes with the vanilla cream, as it starts to dribble out your mouth and down your chin. You can’t stop the whimpers as she caresses your head gently. Your cunt spasms at the contact. You want her to use the strap on your so fucking badly.

She may have read your mind as she gently pulls the strap out of your mouth. You both watched as your spit sticks to your swollen lips, breaking away from the tip of the plastic head.

The look Jennis gives you is like no other, her eyes are full of lust but also more, want? Adoration? Love?

“Come.”

She puts her hands out for you to take, helping you to your wobbly feet. She cups your head, bringing your ear to her lips.

“Your break is over.”

She gently bites at your lobe, making your breath hitch. You watch as the girl sits on the end of the bed, patting her thighs. You can already feel your cunt throbbing. Jenni leans back like she did before, that cocky smirk of hers creeping on her face.

“Sit.”

You didn’t need to be asked twice, you moved over to the raven haired girl, you straddled her hips, her new toy sat between you both.

“You’re going to ride me, sí?”

“Sí.��’ You nod your head, already feeling your clit strain at the view in front of you.

“Llevame.” She smacked your bare arse, biting her lip.

You hold back the gasp, not wanting to give into Jennis frat boy behaviour, but you would be lying through your teeth if you said it wasn't your favourite kind of Jenni.

You grabbed the base of the new toy, raising your hips to guide it to your core. You could feel Jennis gaze on you, watching your movements. She licked her lips as she watched the tip of the toy start to slowly press into you. You groaned as the strap started to stretch you in the most delicious way. A warm hand landed on your waist, helping you to move lower on the plastic.

You could feel Jennis' restraint, you could tell by the look on face that she so desperately wanted to push her hips up and make you take her completely, but she’s smooth with it, she meets your slow pace, your thighs touching hers, as you finally bottom out on top of her, biting your groan back.

Your hand lands on her abs for balance as you get used to the feeling of her inside, the size isn't what's taking your breath away but more with how Jennis watches you. She looks like she wants to fuck you into next week. A small roll of her hips brings you back to the present, the small groan you tried to hold back finally escapes your lips.

“Ready?”

Instead of verbally answering her question, you gave out a hard roll of your own hips, and by the sounds of it you must have hit the right spot on the Spaniard, as her head tilted back, letting out a small grunt. Both her hands grip at your waist wanting you to move again, and you did. You slowly began to move your hips, effortlessly rolling your waist against Jenni, as she watched you take her strap.

Riding Jenni was always a confidence booster. The Spaniard wasn't a loud lover, she was never theatrical or over the top, but whenever you got the chance to ride her, you took it, (with both legs spread). It was the only time the girl really let her noises come to life, she would moan, groan, and even make the cutest rough whimpers that made your cunt spasm. Not to mention the way her green eyes roamed your body as her mouth gaped open, mesmerised as you snaked your hips with ease. Just like she was doing right now.

Jenni’s hips rolled in time with yours, her strap stroking against your walls with her precise movements, her abs flexing hard under your palm. Having already had the two orgasms you were sensitive, but your need for Jenni was impossible to ignore.

“Mas rapida.” Jenni husked.

You did what she said and picked up your pace, flexing your hips faster against her, she let out a deep groan as you rubbed the base on her clit.

“Sí, just like that. Mierda.”

She slapped your arse, causing a small squeak to leave your mouth, she repeated the movement, making a cracking noise bounce off your cheek, you couldn’t hold back the gasp this time, your skin felt like it was on fire.

Jennis hips started to buck harder inside you, your head tilted back as you took her deep thrusts, fucking you from below. Her hands squeezed your arse cheeks, pushing you down as she drove up, making you moan out her name. Your eyes closed at feeling Jenni control the movements, even though you were on top she was still in charge.

“J-Jen, you’re so deep.”

“Sí, you take it so well, amor. You're so good at taking me.”

You nodded, your hips grinding desperately against her, chasing your orgasm.

Her hand on your waist moved to your stomach, sitting just above your mound, you jolted as you felt her thumb just barely start to stroke your clit. You tried to bite back the groan that erupted from your throat, but it only made the Spaniard chuckle.

She hummed as she looked between your bodies, watching you flex against her hand.

“You can hold it.”

Before you could ask what she meant you were being twisted, your back hitting the mattress below. You keened loudly as Jenni became deeper inside you, she settled between your legs, the new position forcing herself deeper in your already tight walls.

“Jesus. Jenni.” You groaned, her hips were already pumping in between your legs.

“You’re going to wait for me.” She grunted in your ear.

Jenni intertwined your fingers with her own, pushing your hand above your head. You whimpered at the new turn of events. You were already so close to your climax you weren't sure you would be able to hold on, especially when she uttered her next words.

“You want me to get you pregnant?”

Your mind was already turning to mush, trying to concentrate on not coming, now the love of your life was asking if you wanted her babies mid stroke. But somehow your brain formed the words.

“Yes.”

Her hips sped up.

“You want to be a Momia? Carry my children?”

Your body rocked into the mattress below as Jenni chased her orgasm, fucking your body like she was on a mission. Making it so hard to think of the words you wanted to say.

“Yes. So bad!” You groaned out, your legs wrapped around her waist, pulling her deeper. She groaned as her clit rubbed against the strap's base.

“Fuck! I want to put my baby in you. I would.”

Her words were soft as she kissed your neck, it felt so much more sensual then it did before, your heart fluttered as her breath ghosted your neck.

“I want your babies, Jen.”

“You want me to come inside you? You want to have me inside?” She grunted in your ear.

“Yes! I want that. I-I…fuck. I want your babies.”

“Say it again.” She kissed your neck.

“I want your babies.”

“Again.”

Your free hand scratched down her back, definitely leaving a mark.

“Please. G-Get me pregnant!” You cried out.

“Come with me, cariño.”

Finally, with Jennis' permission, you allowed your body to succumb to the pressure that was burning every nerve in your body. Your cunt clenched around her strap, as she drove her hips repeatedly into you. Your moaning broke out into a high pitched cry as your third orgasm of the night shook hard through your body, your free hand threaded through Jennis raven coloured hair, just needing to feel her as you tried to catch your breath.

Jenni was only a few thrust behind you, but it didn't stop you from gasping as her hips bucked hard, dragging out your orgasm. Her free hand fiddled with the strap. Then you felt it, the lube being squirted inside you as Jenni let out a guttural groan in your ear, rutting her hips between your thighs, her own orgasm taking over.

Jenni gently grinded her hips, rocking out her last bit of pleasure against you, coming to a slow stop, her hot breath making your neck wet. You knew you weren't pregnant, you understood that this was just role play and it was just a flavoured lube running down your lips, but the overwhelming dreams of actually getting pregnant by the Spaniard took over your brain, wishing you could hold her baby. She kissed you gently, your eyes closed on feeling her, bringing you back to reality.

“You’re perfect.” She ghosted your lips, closing the gap, nearly taking your already struggling breath away. She pulled back, taking in your fucked out blissful state, smiling at you with the biggest grin you had ever seen.

“So you are my baby mother?” She wiggled her eyes and kissed your lips.

You laughed breathlessly, even in the height of pleasure like the earth rattling orgasm she just gave you, the girl was always ready to be the clown that you adored.

“I guess I am.” You ran your fingers through her hair.

She gave you one last kiss before she gently pulled out. Jenni couldn't help but watch as the sugary liquid dripped from your core, dribbling down the bottom of your lips and onto the sheets. Her mouth instantly watered at the sight before her, she bent down over your body, her lips ghosting your stomach, your skin prickled with goosebumps at her touch. Your body was still thrumming from your orgasm, she began to gently bite at your skin, crawling down your stomach.

“Jenni, there's no way I can take anym-”

Your words were cut off as you felt Jenni’s tongue glide through your lips, gathering the sweet flavoured substance.

“You taste like candy.” She hummed between your legs.

You gasped as her lips started to suck on your overly sensitive clit. You gripped at her hair, trying to move your body back.

“Jen. I can't take it.”

Your breath caught in your throat as her green emerald like eyes searched for your own. She lifted her head up.

“But babita, I told you, your break is over. We keep going.” She ducked her head back between your legs, her tongue pushing into your core.

“Jesussss.”

Your eyes rolled into the back of your skull as she began to fuck you with her tongue, you were so sensitive you could feel everything. Her hands gripped at your thighs forcing your legs open, taking what she wanted from you.

You both had a safe word, you were never scared to use it if you needed to (you had only used it once when you had got a cramp) So if Jenni thought for one second that she had to stop she would, or if she heard you use the safe word she would stop immediately.

And even though she had just given you your third orgasm of the night, you couldn't lie that having the Spaniards tongue buried deep inside your tight walls was a sensation that you just couldn't deny yourself. You tried to breathe through it, as she buried her head between your legs, thankful she started at your least sensitive area.

She stayed there a couple minutes, allowing your body to get used to her presence once more. Your head was dizzy but you gave into the sensation of her tongue. Your hands threaded through her hair, trying to have some control over her movements, you bit your lip as you heard her sigh from feeling your touch, Jenni loved her hair being touched, especially when she was between your legs.

Your brain short circuited as her tongue slowly stroked up through your folds and pressed to your clit, ever so softly flicking at the erect nub. You breathed through the sensation, slowly feeling the hot liquid melt through your body, making your muscles feel warm and light. It was too much and too little at the same time, and it felt so fucking good.

Your hips started to grind against her mouth, your fingers scraping at her scalp, your body now becoming desperate for her. You nearly lost it when you heard the girl lapping loudly at your sex, your essence having mixed with the vanilla lube, making your core wet. She made the most filthy groans as she ate you out, making you whimper in turn, the room filling with her the most pornagraphic noises.

The raven haired girl stopped her movements, bringing her mouth away from your pussy, replacing her tongue with her thumb, just barely touching your clit. You looked down to see why she had stopped, her wet mouth was smeared with the vanilla lube and your juices, dripping from her plump lips.

“You want to come, amor?”

“Yes. Please.” You breathed out.

A whole new wave of pleasure hit you as Jenni spoke to you, your legs started to shake, ready to take another orgasm, and Jenni was more than happy to get you there. But not before she made a point.

“This will be your fourth one, no?”

“W-What?”

She tutted, she sat up slowing her movements down, but her thumb stayed circling your clit, her wolfish smile creeping on her wet lips.

“This will be your fourth orgasm, sí?”

“Yes. My fourth.” You whispered.

Why the fuck was she asking this? You loved the girl, but right now all she had to do was look pretty while she ate you out. That's all you needed.

“So, I do make you come?”

“You do.” You agreed.

“Ahh so I can stop now?” She began to move her thumb away from your clit.

“NO!” You grabbed her hand, pushing it back to your sex. “Please Jenni, please don’t stop. Please.”

Her smile turned serious then.

“So you were lying?”

“Yes.” You nodded.

“I always make you come?”

“Fuck, yes Jenni. You always make me come.”

Your ever growing orgasm was starting to trickle away.

“Of course I do.” She scoffed. “I know this pussy better than you. Don’t I? You’re so close now aren't you?”

“Yes! You do. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please, Jen. Don’t stop.” You gritted your teeth, your hips grinding on her hand, trying to get that release.

She let out a deep chuckle before her mouth finally went back to your core, your hands gripped at her dark hair, moaning as she suckled on your clit. Once again the girl had you at her mercy, begging her to let you come.

Your mind went blank as your fourth orgasm of the night swept through you. You let out a deep moan that erupted from the depths of your throat, then complete silence followed as tears trickled down your cheeks, and a hot buzz took over your body. Jenni easily held you down as you bucked from the overwhelming pleasure, keeping you in place.

One hand gripped the head board as the other stayed on Jenni. Your hips rolled as the last jolts of your climax pulsated through your clit, inside your lover's lips. Your body finally let go, your muscles un tensed as Jenni’s name fell from your lips over and over again. You could hear the Spaniard was saying something, but all your ears could make out was the thumping of blood as it rushed through your head.

Jenni climbed over your body, her wet lips pressing against yours, you kissed her back weakly, still trying to catch your breath.

“Well done, babita. You did so well.” She stroked your tears from your cheeks.

“Fuck Jen.” You chuckled.

A comfortable silence fell over the pair of you. You nearly started drifting off, until Jenni started to speak.

“Amor, I want to have a baby with you.”

You felt your skip four beats over.

“Yeah?” You asked, not able to hold the smile back from your voice.

Jenni looked up at you, her normally cocky bravado was nowhere to be seen, she for once looked a little shy. You brought her closer to your body, loving the feeling of her naked body on yours.

“Yeah. I think we would be good parents” She nuzzled against your neck.

“So do I.”

#woso community #woso smut #woso fanfics #jenni hermoso #jenni hermoso smut #jenni hermoso x reader #jenni hermoso imagine #woso #woso x reader

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always-just-red · 9 months ago

Text

@irandial and @micasosa34 requested a Rafayel version of this fic, so here it is!! This is a loose sequel, but mostly a spin-off? Also an emotional rollercoaster, sorry! (I fear I put too much of myself in this one, guys... there will be no beating the 'oh you are ACTUALLY in love with this man' allegations after this.....)

Fourth Wall (Rafayel Ver.)

Rafayel x Player!Reader 🔥

(Previous part/Sylus version here!)

Summary: You didn't think Rafayel would let you walk around an art gallery all by yourself, did you?

Genre: Angst! This is my revenge for the claw machine debacle (Checkmate, Rafayel!!! But also I'm sorry and I love you)

Warnings/Additional tags: player!reader, gender neutral, fourth-wall breaking, non-canon, one instance of swearing

| Word count: 2.4k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

You made it through about two rooms of the gallery before thinking about Rafayel.

You stand in front of a dark seascape: a night sky and a symmetrically black ocean framing the plight of a small fishing boat, adrift in the centre. The moon casts a pale, faraway light, and an orange lantern glows, drawing colour from the oppressive darkness— deep blues, and rich, shimmering turquoise, crested with white.

It should evoke some feeling of smallness, some respect for the vast indifference of the natural world, but no— your mind is set on the fictional artist who lives in your phone.

What would he think about it? What would he have to say?

At the moment, you suspect it would be some remark about how you should get your own opinion, rather than piggybacking his.

Still, it gives you an idea. You glance around self-consciously as you draw out your phone and earphones— tucking the latter into your ears as you offer a curt smile to the nearby gallery attendant. You’re not breaking any rules by loading up Love and Deepspace, but it feels slightly ridiculous in a place like this: full of real and honest things where you’re somehow lonely.

You log-in with a tap. “Let’s go to the beach,” Rafayel greets, his voice as warm as sunshine that melts a cold morning haze. “I never get tired of seeing the sunset there.”

You smile more sincerely, tousling his hair, but then it’s straight to business. You drag him into the AR Photobooth, directing him through a few poses until you find one you like: a duo pose. His fingers are meant to be around your chin, but without you, he seems to be pointing. Perfect, you shift— tilting your phone until the painting sits behind him.

He’s winking at you as he gestures to it, his face and body as still as marble.

You’re about to take the picture when a not-so-distant conversation strikes up, making you glance backwards. Another visitor is asking the attendant about a painting, and you lower your phone’s volume a notch so you can eavesdrop on them.

“This is one of Turner’s earliest paintings, y’know? He was young when he painted it. Like, super young.”

You freeze. The attendant and the visitor aren’t standing by a Turner painting; you are. Your gaze snaps back to your phone, drawn by the familiarity of the voice.

Rafayel’s turned away from you. He’s staring at the painting, one hand on his hip and the other up by his face, stroking his chin. He’s swaying on his feet gently, his head tilting as he takes in different parts of the seascape.

“You gonna take the picture, cutie?” he asks, glancing back at you with a knowing grin.

Your lips have parted slightly in surprise, but your finger manages to find the photo button. Rafayel returns to his candid observations just in time for your screen to flicker, mimicking a camera flash.

“Okay, one more.” He turns around and settles into a new pose. You take another photo. “Nice,” he beams, “you’ll send those to me later, yeah?”

But you can’t—

“Relax, okay? I’m kidding. Now come on,” he pokes at the edge of your screen like a mime trapped by an invisible box. “Move this thing! I wanna see what else they’ve got here.”

You do move, but not to show him around. He gets a blurry view of the floor as you hurry over to a nearby bench, sinking down with a sigh because you can’t believe this is happening— again. With a few taps of your finger, you draw the curtains on Rafayel’s view to your world and return him to his.

“No, no, no! What?” he groans in disbelief, suddenly back in the Destiny Café. He throws himself into the armchair with reckless abandon— limbs sprawled— one hand over his face as though it would pain him to look on anything at all. “You find out I’m self-aware and the first thing you do is drag me back here? Where’s your heart? Your empathy? Your soul?”

You poke at his hand and he swats at the air like you’re bothering him.

“Leave me alone. Can’t you see I’m busy, like, contemplating the futility of my existence?”

So dramatic! You consider closing the app out of spite, but this is Rafayel. You know Rafayel; look past the theatrics. It’s been, what— just over a month since Sylus first told you he’d seen through all of this? He said the others were lagging behind, but maybe…

Maybe they weren’t.

Shit. Maybe they weren’t.

You watch Rafayel, sunken down in one of two places you’ve seen him inhabit every day, every night, for almost a year. This café isn’t different from the old in any way that matters. Sylus is new but Rafayel has been here from the very beginning. So many more days. So many more nights.

How long has he known?

He lifts his hand, just enough to peer in your direction. You’ve not closed the app. You’re not poking at him anymore. He sits up straighter in the chair, both hands in his lap, and he looks at them pensively. Maybe even remorsefully.

“You’re thinking about what it all means, huh? Don’t.” It’s a command, but it’s soft. Then softer, a: “Please?”

Your breath catches— oh— he’s known for a long time, hasn’t he? You lean back against the gallery wall, grounding yourself as you text him an emoji: a chick bursting out of its shell with question marks over its head.

He pulls out his phone. Sees it. “Why?” he translates with a melancholic chuckle.

Yeah. You tickle his head. Why?

He runs a hand through his hair. “I guess… I didn’t want you to feel bad?”

You text another emoji and he glances down at it, then laughs more loudly: “I’m a dummy? Check a mirror, cutie— isn’t it you who’s been walking around thinking Mister Wannabe Vampire is the only one smart enough to figure this all out? Puh-lease.”

He laughs even more at his own joke— maybe to fill the quiet and the fact that he can’t hear you laughing with him. It peters out like it inevitably must, and like it always does. He goes still.

“Can’t you show me around, even a little?” he asks.

No.

You feel bad, you do, but you can’t start living for him. This is your world; if you invite him in now, when does it stop? You already spend too much time with your head down, lost in your phone. You were walking through a gallery and thinking about him, remember? Art is supposed to make you think about something real.

No, you text him: a crow holding a sign with a big, red cross. It’s too abrupt, but there’s not an emoji for “I can’t. You know I can’t.”

Rafayel’s face falls further as he checks his phone, his eyes like the ocean in the painting across the room: lit by a weak, failing little light. He looks to you, even though he can’t see you. “Please?”

You don’t move.

“Please,” he tries again, “just this once— this once. Is that so much to ask?”

You’ve used up your three means of answering him.

He scoffs in dismay, alone in the silence of everything you can’t say— you couldn’t say— even if you were really with him and the distance between you was merely invented. How could you go to him, hold his face in your hands and tell him the truth: that you care, but not enough?

Here, now: the quiet confesses it for you.

Rafayel stands from his seat, taking a step closer, his gaze dark. You can see his eyes more clearly; that lantern is at the bottom of the sea, with the rest of the ship and everyone on board. “Do you know what my life is?” he asks, and the silence has become his ally, punctuating his every word so it can cut more deeply. “My life’s an empty café, a book with blank pages and a phone that won’t ring.”

The curtains behind him move softly with a superficial breeze, lit by a superficial sun.

“The only thing that’s real,” he says, “is you.”

You feel like the breath’s been knocked from your lungs.

You can’t resent him for it. He could have drowned you from the start, could have dragged you under a weight of responsibility, but he didn’t, and that’s Rafayel: always tempering himself into something less lethal. He’s been so still for you. So silent for you.

Your mind is wrapped in a vow you made him— one you’ve been unconsciously breaking— and you’re going to break it again, knowingly, wilfully this time, because you want him like this: angry.

You promised, didn’t you? I will never make Rafayel wait for me.

He’s always been waiting, and you want him to stop.

You close the app, muting your phone when notifications start coming through: a squall of frustration, pleading, and frantic apologies. You tuck all of it into your pocket and stand, wandering back to the painting that started it all so you can look at it differently.

Something real to think about. Something real.

You stare at a black ocean and think about him.

…

Rafayel isn’t talking to you.

It’s been a week since your ‘breakup’— dubbed gleefully as such by Sylus— and you load up the game to find your artist slumped back in his armchair, his book over his face. A week of him sitting down, cross-legged and armed, during the Deepspace Trials you’d set out to clear with him. A week of him hogging the Claw Machine, and missing every rare plushie with a sarcastic ‘oops’.

The worst part is that you’ve missed him. You’d tried replaying the kindled moments from his five-star memories, but he’d made you regret it. In Sparkling Traces, he’d summed up his feelings in a very… colourful drawing. Omnipotent Perception: he’d slipped deeper into the bathwater, a blush on his face as he avoided your gaze and murmured something about you ‘having some nerve.’

Now, you can’t even call him over to you. You poke at the book on his face, once, twice, then repeatedly until it slips, but his hands shoot up to catch it. He holds it in place.

Ugh. If he would just—

You drum away at the book more vivaciously, but his grip is solid. Plan B, then: you open your in-game messages and send an emoji instead. Rafayel stirs, one hand moving to his pocket and the other lifting the book so he can peek down at his phone. “What— you tryna bribe me now?”

He’s looking at grumpy crow holding out a present: a bundle of shiny, red gems. His translation is spot-on, as per usual, and you reward it by poking at his chest. He frowns down at the contact, then sits up, rolling his eyes as he tosses the book over his shoulder.

“This better be good,” he yawns, standing up and stretching with a listlessness that could only be described as cat-like, however much he’d whine about the comparison.

Having won his attention— and begrudging consent— you navigate your way to the AR Photobooth. Rafayel stares at you from within the frame: an unwitting subject of a portrait he doesn’t yet understand, but he soon will. You smile as he turns cautiously to regard his backdrop.

Behind him, the ocean laps at a shore of pale sand and stretches into the horizon, where the sun lazily dips. There’s about half of it left, turning the sky a blurred palette of orange and pink that’s spilled over the water. Clouds are few and dark purple, their linings aglow.

Rafayel’s folded arms have dropped to his sides. After a few, long seconds, he gazes back in your direction, eyes wide with surprise before they soften with a radiant smile.

“You—” he starts, and it could be something as light as a joke or as deep as a soliloquy. You’ll never know, because he doesn’t put it to words. He glances at the ocean again. Then at you. “Thanks,” he settles for.

You chuckle. There aren’t many ways you can answer without tearing him away from the sunset and trapping him back in the café, so you stay sitting still. It’s a different silence than a week ago. There are things unsaid, but that’s okay— they’re the sort you don’t need to speak aloud, anyway.

Your shoes are set aside by your feet so you can feel the sand, still warm beneath your toes. You wiggle them into it, gazing out over the ocean as the evening breeze catches and plays with your hair, and the last of the sun trails over your skin. You stare out at where it’s sinking.

Rafayel moves, and your focus meanders back to your phone. He’s walking away from you, gradually— retreating further into the composition you’ve created, just for him. He looks as though he’s nearing the shore, but it’s cosmetic: there are no footprints in the sand. His hair isn’t moved by the same breeze, and his face isn’t gilded by the same light.

He stops by the ocean’s edge and crouches gently, mesmerised by the push and pull of the tide. Slowly, humbly, he reaches out a hand and lowers his fingers towards the water; they never slip beneath the surface, and they don’t stir a ripple.

Rafayel laughs, masking an undertow of sadness, but not disappointment. “It’s funny,” he says, still sketching invisible, ineffectual shapes. “Loving the ocean as much as I do, and knowing… knowing I’ll never touch it.”

He’s all the way over there, but his voice is in your ears, so intimately close. You swallow an ache.

He looks up at you. Smiles: “Y’know what I mean?”

You’re using memories to complete the picture: His hair, mussed by the summer breeze that day you stood amongst the cherry blossoms. His face, painted by the sunset of a different life, where you’d roamed a desert together. In each and every moment, his eyes are the same, just as they are now: kindled by a tender, tentative fire.

“Yeah, Raf,” you say to yourself— just yourself. “I know what you mean.”

#🖋rach is actually writing #rafayel x reader #rafayel #love and deepspace #lads rafayel #lnds rafayel #l&ds rafayel #qi yu #rafayel x you #lads x reader #lads #lnds #l&ds

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c4hr4yz3e · 3 months ago

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When in Doncaster: Chapter One

George Clarke x fem!Reader

I noticed a huge lack of George x Reader fics recently so decided to try my hand :) Never written a fanfic in my life, so I'm incredibly nervous about posting this, but this community seems to be wildly supportive so thought I'd give it a go. Any advice is appreciated. Super open to any ideas you guys have too - I do have a fairly good idea of where this story is going, but I am open to any ideas.

This is planned to be a multi-part series centred around ChrisMD's Soccer Saturday video that came out recently (except Becky isn't in this fic). This first part is more of an intro, and doesn't have too much george x reader interaction, but it will come later, I promise lol

Warnings: Language?? My horrible writing?? nothing else really

Word Count: 1.7k

Summary: When the boys' night of drinking and filming gets a bit overbearing, a bit of help from a kind stranger might be just what they need.

Disclaimer: Do not use or claim my work without my permission. My work is my own. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, and incidents (beyond that ofvreasonability i.e. George, Chris' original video plot) are fictitious in nature, and any connection to any other works is purely coincidental.

Chapter Two out now!!

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“Holy fuck.”

The air was light with the buzz of alcohol and excitement as more and more people flooded through the pub doors to catch a glimpse of Doncaster’s newest visitors. People were pushing past each other, desperate for a photo, hug, or even a side glance from any of the boys. It quickly became clear that perhaps this wasn’t the greatest idea. To be fair, no one could’ve predicted this turnout in Doncaster.

The bar staff were racing to complete drink orders, the quick clinking of the glasses and bubbling of the beer taps were quickly becoming drowned out by the volume of the crowd. Shouts and laughter rang like a constant. It was like the entire town caught wind of the lads’ arrival and flocked to the pub. Like hundreds of moths to 5 unsuspecting flames.

The boys sat nursing their drinks, dreading the thought of having to push through the crowd to get the next round. They made idle conversation, in a vain attempt to have as normal a night as possible. George’s eyes flicked around the room, slightly on edge as more people started approaching the table. The room seemed to be closing in – people were almost pressed against his back, and a group of girls hovered around the end of the table, eager to strike up conversation with Bach. Stranger after stranger seemed to just appear, wanting to hug and touch George and shove cameras in his face.

“This is fucking mental,” Arthur Hill spoke, glancing around the room with a mix of wonder and disbelief.

“I love everyone here,” George started, happy to have a moment of reprieve from his thoughts. “But we are not this important.”

The boys all nodded and voiced their agreement.

Of course, this was beyond George’s wildest dreams – he’d dreamt about being a world-famous YouTuber since he was 12 years old. He’d always envisioned the days when he’d be recognised on the street or in passing. But now that it was happening, he almost missed being able to grab a casual pint with the boys without the chaos of it all. He held nothing but appreciation and love for his fanbase, but in this moment, he just wanted to sit and drink with his best friends. A drink-heavy evening was certainly in order after the long week of filming, streaming, and editing he’d had.

“Anyone up for another round?” Chris asked the table, standing up.

“You’re gonna try and brave this crowd, mate? I’d better come and make sure you don’t get trod on, you little man," Bach laughed before standing and offering to help him carry the drinks. Chris muttered something about Bach being a twat before they turned and began to politely push through the crowd, stopping to take a few photos on their way to the bar.

Watching them waddle through the sea of people, George felt a faint surge of happiness for his friends. They all used to speak about making it big together, and it was such a privilege to witness them getting the appreciation they all deserved. He felt comfort and pride knowing that millions of people around the world loved his friends as much as he did.

A hand on his shoulder pulled him from his thoughts as a young man came up behind him and asked kindly for a photo. Agreeing, George smiled as the guy posed his camera and snapped the picture. After shaking his hand and thanking him profusely, the man left and walked back to his friends on the other side of the pub.

Running a hand through his curly hair, George looked up at the bar, instinctively searching for Chris and Bach. Not seeing them at the bar, he glanced around the room, lifting his head in attempt to spot Bach’s head over the still-growing crowd. Nothing. Where’d they go?

A quick scan around the table showed that ArthurTV was now also missing. It had been over 5 minutes. How long had it been? 8 minutes? 10? How long does it take to get drinks? It is pretty busy but surely not this long... Eyebrows furrowing with worry and his mind quickly filling with the worst case scenarios, he grabbed his phone to call Chris. As if on cue, a notification loaded in.

Bilbo Baggins

We’re okay mate, in case you were worried. Go ask the bartender with the ponytail for some pretzels. She’ll help you out.

Um, what? Rereading the text, George took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down after he nearly scared himself into panic mode. Confused but nonetheless obedient, George slowly rose from his seat, taking a deep breath, and started making his way to the bar. He glanced down at his phone, attempting to memorise his script and hide his face a little. He gripped his phone with both hands, feeling increasingly nervous at the amount of people moving around him, shuffling as quickly as possible to the bar bench. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he reached the cluttered area. The bar top, filled with half-drunk glasses of brightly coloured drinks and spotted with spilled beer, seemed as good a thing as any to hold himself steady. Shifting his phone into one hand, he gripped the edge of the bench. Feeling a sticky puddle under his fingers, he quickly retracted his hand. Wiping his hand on his jeans, he allowed himself to breathe a little. In any other instance, he would've made a joke about the sticky mess on his fingers, but he just couldn't bring himself to lean into the humour with the borderline nervewracking anticipation of being bumped into or swarmed. With the boys nowhere in sight, he did not want to face a large group of strangers on his own right now. Nonethless, the beer staining his hands was a welcome distraction from the chaos occurring behind him, even if just for a moment.

Seeing movementout of the corner of his eye, George looked up, noticing a large man in a tight black shirt walking towards him.

“I got that one, Reece.”

A metre to his left, a woman in a neatly pressed tight black button up and ripped black jeans stood, swiftly spinning bottles and pouring shots for the young girls in front of her. She exchanged a look with the male bartender, and he patted her shoulder as he walked past to serve some other intoxicated patrons. Turning to George, she smiled gently and held up a finger to say I’ll be one second, her little stack of bracelets glinting in the neon lighting and lightly clinking as she did. After seeing him nod in acknowledgement, she turned back to the girls and poured the last few shots before pushing the tray towards them. Squealing and hooting, they thanked the woman and carried the tray off into the crowd.

After giving the bench a quick wipe, the bartender slung the cloth over her shoulder and made her way over to George. Her elegant ponytail swished behind her as she gently brushed a strand of hair from her eyes.

“Hey, what can I get you?”

It was like time almost stood still. The shouting and loud laughing behind him seemed to fade into nothing. She peered at him with a mix of gentleness and understanding he hadn’t realised he’d craved. It was like she somehow brought him a wave of calm, and he felt a bit lighter.

He snapped himself out of his trance with a quick shake of his head. God, how long was I just staring at that poor woman? “Um, I’d like some pretzels, please?”

Nodding with a soft and knowing smile, the woman subtely glanced around her before leaning a bit closer to George, "We're just going to go through those doors behind me, okay? When I tell you, we've got to try and be quick. So activate your sneaky-spy persona, or whatever," she offered a cheeky smile. Despite the joking nature, there was something reassuring about her smile, something safe. George felt the tension in his shoulders loosen ever so slightly, and his stomach felt weird. What on earth is wrong with me? I've only had 3 drinks.

She lifted her head and scouted the area before walking out from behind the bar and gesturing for George to follow her. Glancing behind him, he rounded the bench and followed her to the swinging doors she pointed out. With one last look behind her she pushed and held them open for George to step through. He thanked her and shuffled past, albeit a little awkwardly, his hand accidently brushing her arm. Allowing his eyes to adjust to the darker ambience of the room, George quickly spotted Chris, Bach, and ArthurTV sitting at a large table in the centre.

After letting George in, the bartender quickly spoke to the group with a warm smile, "I'll be back in a tick guys, just get comfy." Arthur called out a "thank you" after her as she pushed the doors open and walked out of the room.

“Hey, you made it!” Chris walked up and clapped him on the back.

“Yeah, mate.” Still confused, George added, “What’s actually happening?”

“That bartender is a legend, man. She offered us to smuggle us out of the crowd to avoid the shitshow out there, like a fucking espionage mission or some shit. It’s absolutely mad out there,” Bach said. Admittedly, George felt his heart swell a little more than it should have at the act of kindness. Probably just heightened emotions – it’s been a rough few hours, he told himself.

“Oh, she’s so lovely! She even set us up with a free round for the inconvenience,” ArthurTV exclaimed holding up his pint. George couldn't help but feel a little bit guilty that the woman felt the need to compensate for them essentially leading a mob in here. It wasn't her fault at all - if anything, he owed her.

Bach grabbed George by the shoulders and led him to the table. It was a lovely room. With dark oak furnishings and low hanging yellow lights, complete with plush couches and a private unmanned bar, no doubt it was classy.

Gradually, Arthur Hill and the rest of the crew filtered into the room. Admittedly, despite how much they all love their fanbase, it was lovely to have a moment of peace. For the first time in a few hours, they were able to laugh and chat together without being interrupted or bumped into. George ran a hand through his hair, laughing loudly as Chris choked on his drink. He allowed himself to forget about the massive crowd awaiting him outside, and all the people he was bound to meet tonight. He let himself relish in the moment with his friends that he'd been so excited for. But in the back of his mind, he couldn't help but wonder when the beautiful bartender would come back.

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Alrightie so this is Part 1... what do we think?

This is very much an introduction type chapter - if you guys like this concept so far I have a lot of ideas for the coming parts. So far I'm anticipating this will be a 3-part series with the chance of an epilogue kinda thing.

#george clarkey x reader #george clarke x reader #george clarkey x y/n #ukyt #chrismd #george clarke #arthur hill #arthur frederick #italian bach #george clarkey

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averagewriter-inthedark · 6 months ago

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Fire & Ice 🔥🧊 | MCU!Johnny Storm Imagine

Link to my Marvel masterlist

Characters & Pairings: JosephQuinn!JohnnyStorm x enhanced!reader (romantic), the Fantastic Four (platonic), The Avengers (platonic).

Content Warnings: fluff, profanity, mentions of canon violence and death, canon divergence, light angst | female!reader (she/her) | wc: 7K

Requested 📨 yes/no

Premise: Earth-616 is no stranger to the multiverse. Since the defeat of Thanos in 2023, the Avengers have had their fair share of visitors from other worlds and know what to expect when they do. But when a man wearing the same face of their late comrade arrives, the Avengers are in for the shock of their lives when a group of heroes tailing the individual fall through the portal behind him. And for the flying, fire-wielding, and sometimes charming Johnny Storm, he meets his match in the form of a woman whose power and reputation matches that of her cold, steel, heart.

Note: Happy 2025 everyone! To kick off the year I am gifting y'all this damn idea that's been stuck in my head the past two weeks. Now if you've been following my work since I started, then you know I was pumping out Marvel fics back in the day. Phase 1-4 of Marvel have my heart, and unfortunately the disappointment of Phase 5 (with few exceptions) had me lose interest. BUT if there was one thing I absolutely loved when I was a kid, it was the OG Fantastic Four movies with Chris Evans, Jessica Alba, etc. I watched those literally every day and before the Avengers/MCU I rolled hard with the FF, Blade, & X-Men (I've got another idea involving Deadpool & Wolverine cooking). So I have a lot of expectations for FF: First Steps especially because the MCU has had so many misses the last two years. I love Pedro Pascal, Vanessa Kirby, and Joseph Quinn, I haven't watched The Bear, but I've heard great things about Ebon Moss-Bachrach and I look forward to his and the rest of the cast's portrayal of the FF.

I've been a fan of JQ since 2022 because like majority of people I discovered him by his performance as Eddie in Stranger Things. I'll admit I haven't seen much of his filmography, but I did watch A Quiet Place: Day One and he was phenomenal. And don't get me started on Gladiator II. I was pleased to hear he'd be playing my first love Johnny Storm and I know he'll do amazing, not to mention he has said that he was a fan of the OG movies and Chris' version of the character. Whenever I hear an actor is a fan of the source material, I know they're going to deliver.

The movie hasn't come out, neither has the trailer, so I don't have much to work with. But we know that FF:FS is following the origin story of the FF and will feature the Silver Surfer. AND it's rumored to be where RDJ's Doctor Doom will debut, setting up Avengers: Doomsday and he will be the big villain of the MCU. This obviously is diverging from canon and pretty much an AU story, remember that please. SO here's my treat to my fellow Johnny Storm lovers to feed y'all since we still got months until FF:FS. Enjoy.

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The blinding light of the sun peaking through the curtains pulled Johnny from his sleep before the alarm was set to go off. Had it been any other day he’d be upset. Wishing nothing more than to curl into the comforter and get the extra minutes of sleep. But thankfully it was Sunday--the day reserved for rest. No agenda. No training. No missions. Completely free and dedicated to recoupling after a week filled with non-stop action.

And if there was anyone who would be displeased at waking up earlier than needed, it was the woman lying beside him. Fast asleep on her back with one hand curled beneath the pillow and the other clasping his on her chest. Body cooler than the average person, which made the atmosphere of the room comfortable considering Johnny’s was hotter than the average citizen. Figuratively and literally.

Johnny smiled, happily tucking himself further into her space, chin leaning on her shoulder as he snuggled against her side. Allowing his eyes to flutter close and accept the slumber his body itched to claim. The fresh scent of shea butter from her shampoo and body wash filled his nostrils, and he sighed in content.

This was what life was worth living.

But just when Johnny welcomed the darkness, the annoying, blazing sound of their alarm clock echoed against the walls, disturbing the peaceful moment and making him flinch and groan. “Dammit,” he rolled onto his back, arm reaching to slap at the air until his fingers grasped the device. Snoozing it asleep with a press of a button.

Now he was fully awake.

Flinging himself back onto the mattress, he felt her body shift before letting out a soft chuckle, “Had you turned it off when you first woke, you’d have spared yourself this torment.” Her voice was laced with tiredness, and Johnny turned his head to find her eyes still closed but clear amusement painting her visage by the smirk on her lips.

Rolling his eyes, he moved to lay on his side and brought his arm around her waist, “Why didn’t you? Seeing as you were also awake.”

“Too comfy.”

“Well, so was I,” he sassed, mouth hovering over her jaw before leaning down to kiss the skin, the coolness sending a chill along his spine. She hums, nuzzling into the touch, seeking it.

“The alarm is also on your side.”

Johnny smirks against her cheek, mischief coating his gaze, “you could’ve reached over me, you know. Saved us both the hassle.” His hand reached up to stoke her jaw, trailing to tangle his fingers in her hair. Soft and silky. He takes a moment to appreciate the beauty before him. From her thick eyelashes, to her lips. Her cheekbones and kissable lips.

“Oh you would like that, wouldn’t you,” she challenged with no actual bite to her tone, one eye peeking open. “Me on top of you in the morning.” He didn’t even deny it, flashing a toothy smile

“Very much so.”

Instead of replying, Y/n moved to push the man onto his back, throwing her leg over his waist to lay herself on top of him. Johnny’s hands immediately grabbed her, keeping her body pressed against his with one hand on her back and the other firmly on her hips. The heat radiating off his complexion clashed against the frostiness of hers. Two polar opposites coming together in an explosion of love and devotion.

Johnny welcomed it with open arms, bringing her mouth to his in a tender kiss. Chuckling as she fought away while mumbling about morning breath to which he didn’t care. He kissed her like his life depended on it. Like they were the only two people in existence. For there was nothing sweeter on the planet than the taste of her lips on his.

And thanks to the fire that consumed his veins, Johnny was spared from getting frostbite.

“Happy?” She asked while pulling away, but not getting far as Johnny cupped her jaw in his hand to keep her close. Kissing her once more after mumbling, “exceptionally.”

The tale of the Human Torch falling in love with the Ice Princess begins long ago, three years to be exact, when the Fantastic Four find themselves sitting across the table of Earth’s mightiest heroes, the Avengers.

Everything leading up to the moment was still a blur to the young Johnny Storm. One moment he and his team, the Fantastic Four as they called themselves, were fighting the formidable Doctor Doom in their 60s-style futuristic Earth. And the next they are pulled into another universe while tailing the bastard to prevent him from bringing utter destruction to the world. It hadn’t even been five minutes and the Four were surrounded by armored trucks and individuals donning costumes similar to their own.

“Hands where we can see them!”

“State your name and purpose!”

“Who are you and where did you come from!”

Johnny’s heart pounded against his chest. The anxiety piling up like a volcano ready to explode as he took in the scene before him. There were guns pointed at him and his friends. A man in a blue tunic and red cape with his hands raised in defense next to a young girl wearing a brown tunic. Another man in a red, white, and blue tactical suit with wings who landed in front of them. His shield reflecting off the light. Next to him was a man in a similar attire with wings but in grey. Then there was a woman in all purple, bow and arrow trained on the Four. A man with five golden rings on either wrist. A masked individual in a bright red and blue suit with spider webbing detail crouched on top of a car. And finally, a woman in a striking gray tactical ensemble stood closest to Johnny with a cold look in her eyes.

Upon making a flame with his hands, ready to defend himself and his friends, Johnny watched her face shift to amusement. Raising her brow as though unimpressed by the trick, “Don’t even try, hotshot.” And without taking her eyes off his, her palm raised up to form an icicle in the shape of a dagger. Her other arm extended to show her skin turning completely into ice.

Yeah, Johnny wasn’t sure if it was fear or arousal that consumed him. He often confused them at times. All he knows is there was a pretty woman before him with ice powers with cold eyes ready to strike him down with God knows what laid in store for him should he dare tempt her.

But now wasn’t the time to flirt. There were more important matters at stake. Like the fact they were surrounded by highly advanced, highly enhanced, people with an army of soldiers at their command. In a place that looked like New York but lacked the 60s style he was accustomed to.

“Cuff them and begin transport to HQ!”

“Find me Banner and clear this area at once!”

The Four were at a loss. Outnumbered and confused, none able to process what the fuck was going on. They lost Doom. He was God knows where and they were not a match against these strangers. So they took their loss and compiled as they were restrained by agents.

“What the fuck is happening, Reed?” Johnny demanded, struggling against the cuffs on his arms and ankles. His power seemingly unable to melt the damn things which both intrigued and terrified him.

“I don’t know?”

“Where are we?” said Sue from beside the genius, expression full of confusion and slight fear. The last thing she remembered was falling through a glowing yellow-orange light in the shape of a ring and the feeling of nausea hitting her full force. Giving her whiplash.

But before anyone could answer, the blinding light of the sun hit them as the door whipped open and agents ushered them out of the vehicle. Clashes of voices, cameras flashing as news crews desperately tried to breach the barrier guards had formed and even a helicopter flying above. Johnny glanced up to take in the chaos, gaze falling onto the large building before him with a giant ‘A’

The Four are led to a large glass encased room, still cuffed, and ordered to sit and wait while armed guards post themselves outside. Expecting someone to come in and interrogate them, they take the moment to assess the area. Noting that the glass room sat perched above a large space, like a bullpen, where people were rushing to answer phones, type on computers, or stood watching the vast tv screens splayed on the wall. The news channels played footage of what transpired on the streets moments prior. The Four tense when they see an image of Doctor Doom, disappearing after falling from what appeared to be a portal in the sky.

Just like they did.

The sound of the glass door opening captured their attention, turning to find the man in the wingsuit and the woman in gray. Their body language showed they were on high alert, analyzing the Four for any potential threat, and they exchanged a look before the man set down his shield on a free chair while the woman placed a stack of files onto the table.

“I’m Captain Sam Wilson, this is Agent Y/n L/n,” The man spoke first, cutting right to the chase, “You’re not from here, are you?”

“Here?” Reed repeated, perplexed.

“Earth-616,” Y/n answered, locking eyes with each of the Four, lingering on Johnny before falling onto Reed. “At first we suspected you’re with Hydra, or part of the team Fontaine has been cooking up. But ruled those possibilities out once we saw the footage of your friend who preceded you in the portal.”

The Four processed her words, unable to identify the names she spoke of.

“Hydra?”

“We don’t know who this Fontaine person is, but we can assure you we’re not involved with them.”

“You saw Doom? We have to find him immediately!”

“I’m sorry, did you say Earth-616?,’ Reed reeled back to her initial answer. Y/n crossed her arms over her chest with a nod.

“I did,” she then turned to Sam, lowering her voice but they were still able to hear everything, “This isn’t going to be easy, Cap. They obviously hadn’t discovered what we know and that makes them a liability.”

“We have no choice. Whoever traveled with them is still out there and they know what we’re up against. We need them.”

“And how exactly are we going to send them back to where they came from?”

“We’ll figure it out like we always do,” Sam’s tone grows stern, but Y/n holds her ground and doesn’t reveal any ounce of intimidation. “Strange and Banner can find something.”

Johnny, having had enough of them talking about them as though they weren’t right there, spoke up with annoyance, “Can you two please tell us what the fuck is going on? What do you mean “send us back where we came from,” and that we hadn’t discovered what you apparently know?”

Reed pitches in, “Sounds like you’re suggesting the theory of the multiverse is real and that we’ve somehow breached the gap between space, time, and reality and have fallen into a parallel universe,” the genius scoffs, gaze flicking between the two as though waiting for them to say, ‘Sike!’ only for his stomach to plummet in fear as he saw how serious they were. “Oh my God.”

Reed’s reaction to the implication was enough to cause the same in his friends. Sue’s face paled, Ben froze, and Johnny felt a sudden urge to throw up. They were in another universe.

They watch as Y/n removes a device from her utility belt, stiffening as she points it at the man, a buzzing sound emitting from its speakers causing her brows to furrow and the man leaned over to read whatever it was on the screen. “You’re human, like us, and your DNA appears to be altered with enhanced biological traits.” Glancing up from the screen, her head tilts with suspicion, “but that’s not the interesting part…..your readings indicate you obtain multiversal particles.”

The revelation sent the Four into hysterics. All denying at first the inevitable truth, speaking over each other, struggling against their cuffs--which Sam removed once they calmed down. Reed was dealing with shock and excitement, for the scientific discovery was something he always theorized was true. Meanwhile the others were more fearful of what this meant for their world and the one they were in.

For hours after the initial shock wore off, they stayed in that room until all information was exchanged between the groups. Sam infomed the Four they were at Avengers campus, headquarters for the Avengers. A team consisting of biologically or technologically enhanced individuals responsible for the safety and order of Earth-616 against domestic, international, and intergalactic threats.

“Well now we can add multiversal to the mix,” Y/n crossed her arms over her chest, seemingly annoyed with having to deal with another damn enemy after they’d finally defeated an adversary not long ago.

Part of Johnny wanted to laugh at her irritation, but that probably would’ve made things worse on his end. So he kept his mouth shut.

Sam and Y/n were soon joined by the man in the tunic, who introduced himself as Doctor Stephen Strange. A Master of the Mystic Arts who had experience traveling the multiverse, and had even met a variant of Reed years prior.

He didn’t go into detail obviously of how that ended.

Not long later he was followed by a large man who’s physique rivaled Ben’s and was green. “Dr. Reed Richards, meet Dr. Bruce Banner,” Y/n did not look up from her tablet, full focus on the screen. “You two will surely get on well with figuring out what the fuck it is this Doctor Doom wants with our world.”

While they didn’t join the group, Sam explained who the other team members were that helped attain the Fantastic Four. Stephen’s protegee, America Chavez, who had the power to travel the multiverse--which had Reed’s eyes bulging from his head. He definitely wanted to have a conversation with her. There was Kate Bishop, the purple archer who trained under former Avenger, Clint Barton. Sam’s wingman, Joaquin Torres, and Shang-Chi, who possessed the Ten Rings. Lastly there was Peter Parker, the boy donning the red and blue webbed suit.

They mentioned the Thunderbolts, another team of enhanced individuals who were more anti-heroes and had once been adversaries of the Avengers but are now allies. Then there was the Guardians of the Galaxy. A team of intergalactic heroes traveling space and protecting the galaxy from threats not on Earth. The Norse Gods of Asgard, now living on Earth. Shuri, Scott Lang, Hope Van Dyne, and the Marvels. Lastly, they touched on former Avengers. Ones who retired, like Barton, and the ones who perished.

Finally, when things seemed to settle, Johnny decided to lift the mood by saying, “So do you guys have nicknames? Or like code for when you’re on missions?” Sue shot him a look that read, “For the love of God, Johnny.”

Y/n lifted her eyes from the tablet, giving him a once over, “Are you serious right now?”

“What?”

“Aye, take it easy, L/N,” Sam pitched in, waving a hand for emphasis. “Can’t blame the kid for being curious.” All he receives is a mock scoff.

“Okay, Captain America.”

Johnny’s ears perked up as he looked at Sam with interest. Boyish grin plastered on his face, “You’re called Captain America? That’s really cool.” He motions toward the suit and shield, “Should’ve guessed as much though with the colors of your suit and stars.”

“I used to be the Falcon, but Torres has taken on that mantle. Strange is just strange,” Y/n snickered under her breath, causing Johnny to bite back a smile. “We call America, Miss America.”

Ben nods his head in approval, “fitting.”

Sam continued listing off the aliases of the team, finally coming to Y/n who narrowed her eyes with a frown as he said, “And she’s the Ice Princess.”

Honestly she should be grateful for the nickname and that it sounded quite regal in comparison to other ice related names. Hell, they could’ve dubbed her Frost. Or Snowflake. Or God forbid Icicle. At least with the Ice Princess it made her sound both menacing and dauntless. Still, it was too on the nose. And it didn’t help that before the accident that granted her the powers and the Avengers, she was a socialite in America. Before they died, her parents were wealthy investors and friends with the late Tony Stark.

Johnny didn’t try to hide his grin, “The Ice Princess,” earning a glare from the woman, obviously not amused by the nickname nor his delight from it.

“And what do they call you, hotshot? Firestarter? Flame-man?”

He shrugs sheepishly, cheeks a tint red, “Human Torch.” Now that has Y/n’s lips curl, fighting back the smile as she hums.

Setting the Four up at campus, they were given rooms and full access to the labs and training facilities. Reed and Ben immediately joined Banner, while Johnny and Sue decided to observe the Avengers and learn from them. Their dynamics. Their history. The way they train and how they come together to develop strategy. How they are able to make a team consisting of individuals with different levels of abilities, experience, and ethics work.

Johnny would be lying if he said he wasn’t the most curious about Y/n. Not only was she the most beautiful, and quite terrifying, woman he’d ever met, but he was drawn to her aura. The power she held, both physically and on the team. She was extremely intelligent, a mentor to the young members, witty. Unafraid to go toe-to-toe with Sam or Strange.

And her powers….they were exact opposites. Fire and ice. Hot and cold. Where he controlled flames, she manipulated glaciers. He turned himself into a human torch, she transformed to a human icicle.

Talk about opposites attract.

Days passed, and the two teams merged together with the goal of locating their common enemy. By keeping up with the news and reports of suspicious activity, they were able to narrow down the search for Doom. Suspecting him to be hiding somewhere in the New England area.

The day before planning to scour the location, the teams trained with each other, none holding back. Showing off what they were made of. An enthralling experience considering the Fantastic Four had only been a team for a couple years in comparison to the fifteen plus of the Avengers. Banner being the only founding member there, Sam and Y/n not far behind.

“I like her,” Sue whispered to her brother when Y/n sideswiped Joaquin and put him on his ass. The group made a circle around the matts in the gym and were taking turns going against each other. Sue caught the way the man’s gaze followed the Avenger. Mesmerized by her skill and ability. And Sue always knew when her brother had a crush. “You should go next when it’s her turn again.”

Johnny didn’t respond, but the look on his sister's face, a cheeky smirk told him he wasn’t being conspicuous as he thought he was with his feelings. “Shut up.”

The most tense, and nearly destructible moment, came when the Four discovered a photograph of Tony Stark on the wall of a different debrief room alongside the founding Avengers. Who bore a striking resemblance, well actually he was identical, to Dr. Victor von Doom. The man they were after.

There was screaming. Accusations thrown at each other. Of course suspicion and confusion from the Four. Up until that point the Avengers only saw Doom with his cloak and mask from the footage, and the Four hadn’t described his appearance. And while the Avengers mentioned Tony Stark, they didn’t show any pictures.

It calmed when Strange had to remind them about the existence of variants. He met Reed’s when traveling to Earth-838. Peter Parker met two of his. It was completely possible that their Victor von Doom was a variant of their Tony Stark. Were they the same man? Not really when one thinks about it. But they shared a face. The Reed Richards Strange met looked nothing like the one standing in front of him. While in Earth-838, Strange met a young lady who worked with Christine, that world’s version of the Ice Princess, who was not Y/n. Peggy Carter was their Captain America!

Oh, and there was the big detail in the fact that Tony Stark was dead.

When the commotion settled and the two groups lost their steam, Johnny noted the deflated appearance of the Avengers. All falling quiet with unreadable expressions. Peter excused himself, “I-I don’t feel good. I’m gonna go lay down,” but the blonde saw the way his lip trembled and eyes watered. Rushing out of the debriefing room on a mission to get away from everyone before he burst into tears. A feeling of guilt suddenly consumed Johnny, glancing at his friends who shared the same concern.

Banner was quiet, as was Strange. The others, who didn’t know Tony personally, shuffled on their feet and quietly excused themselves as well. Sam had his back to everyone, a distant look in his eyes as he gazed down at the bullpen below.

And then there was Y/n. Sitting in silence with her hands clenching the arms of her chair, white knuckled and jaw so tight he swore he saw a vein protruding. Her breathing was shallow, eyes staring blankly at the wall.

Johnny felt unease, unsure of what to do. Should he say something? Should they leave the room? Nothing felt right at that moment. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that this new revelation changed everything. This was no longer just containing a multiversal threat, this was personal so to say.

He was spared the ordeal when Sam finally spoke, only to be interrupted by Y/n, “You know you don’t have to--.”

“Do not finish that sentence, Sam.”

He turned away from the window to look at her, tone serious, “I’m trying to look out for you, Kid.”

“What’d I tell you about calling me that?”

“And Peter,” Sam continues, not letting up, “No one will fault you two for wanting to pull out of this.”

She scoffs, offended by the insinuation as she stands from her chair. The atmosphere in the room heated up again, and Johnny tensed, watching the woman step forward so she was nearly chest to chest with Sam. “There is a multiversal madman out there and you’re suggesting I stay grounded?” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing, “What the fuck, Sam?”

“This is different, Y/n,” his voice was steady, willing her to understand. He wanted the best for his team. And their situation was unlike anything they’d ever dealt with. “You have to realize that. This Doom is--.”

“Not him, Sam! Y/n threw her hands up, yelling as the anger she had tried to contain began to unleash, “I’m not fucking stupid! For Christ’s sake, I know that’s not Tony and I’m not going to compromise this team because the man we’re up against has the same face as him!”

“Y/n--,” Strange attempted to intervene but she shot him a look and he immediately backed down.

“If you think Peter and I should back out, then so should Banner,” she pointed to the man who had yet to say something since the news of Tony’s variant was revealed. “Him and Tony founded this team. And let’s not forget your history with the damn Accords. Should I go call Rhodey and see what he thinks?”

‘Accords? Rhodey?’ Johnny thought to himself, not familiar with the term as he thought back to the lessons on the Avengers. They must’ve omitted that detail, assuming it was a rather dark part of their history. A confirmation he got from the reactions of Banner and Strange, who’s expressions were complete shock and appalled.

Sam’s demeanor shifted to that of hurt and exasperation, her words hitting him like a bullet from a gun. “That was low, even for you.” Yeah, whatever it was they were references, the Four gathered it wasn’t good.

Y/n stepped back as though he struck her, a flash of regret in her eyes but she kept her head up, willing herself not to break. “I’m an Avenger. I took an oath, the same as you, and made a promise to Tony that I’ll do whatever it takes to protect this planet against any and all danger. I will not break that promise, and nothing you say or do will stop me.” Y/n backs away, moving toward the door, “I’ll see you on the quinjet tomorrow, Cap.”

An eerie silence remained as the door slammed shut behind Y/n. Nobody moved. Nobody made a sound. The air was thick, and full of tension. The Four glancing at each other with uncertainty.

“Wings up at eight,” Sam announced, voice strong with authority as though the last five minutes never occurred. Or didn’t bother him, though Johnny noted the pinched look of his brows.

The Captain then departed the room, Strange and Banner following out with a nod to the Four. Left to their own devices, the Four spent the next hour in the debrief room watching footage of the Avengers. Particularly ones with Tony Stark, the Iron Man, and the several catastrophic missions he dealt with alongside the Avengers. Provided with the mountain of videos from news channels and social media of people who experienced it first hand.

New York 2012. Ultron 2015. The Superhero Civil War of 2016. That’s where they learned of the Accords Y/n referenced and how she and Sam were involved. The two on opposite sides of the scale as Y/n pledged allegiance to Tony while Sam supported former Captain America, Steve Rogers. Witnesses flying a private plane around the airport captured the fight between the two teams.

Johnny watched with a frown as Y/n battled against her colleagues and friends. He could tell she was holding back on using her power to the highest degree, not really wanting to hurt them, but enough to send a message. For example, when Steve and Bucky attempted to flee to the hangar, Y/n created a layer of ice on the pavement, causing them to tumble and fall. Then she made a wall of ice to contain Scott Lang in his giant form. But that was a failure, as the wall wasn’t thick enough allowing Scott to break free, sending chunks of ice toward the ground, knocking the hero unconscious when one collided with her head, blood spilling from her temple. To prevent her from being crushed, Tony flew in a record speed to gather in his arms and rush her to safety.

Later that night when Johnny was wandering the building, he found Y/n on the balcony overlooking the main grounds. A hue of orange and pink painting the sky as the sun set on the horizon. The dark blue of nightfall taking over lurking in the background. She was out of her suit, dressed in casual clothes consisting of a hoodie and sweats. A faint expression on her visage as she stared out in the distance.

Gathering courage, Johnny took a deep breath before gently sliding back the door, the cool breeze hitting him in the face as he closed it behind him and approached the woman. Her head tilted slightly, acknowledging that she heard him, but made no move to address.

They stayed like that for a minute. In silence, basking in the peace they were afforded before the impending danger they were to face.

“I’m sorry you all had to witness that,” Y/n eventually spoke, tone neutral as her expression. “That was unprofessional of me.”

Johnny shook his head with a shrug, “You don’t have to apologize. I can’t imagine what you and your friends are feeling. And I’m sorry we jumped to conclusions--accusing you guys of--.”

“Considering what you told us of Victor von Doom,” She sent a pointed look, her voice one of understanding, “you had every right to be cautious. Plus,” she sighs, gaze flickered down to the railing, “you four are still new to the Multiverse. We’ve known about it for five years, and I remember that feeling of confusion and uncertainty. America told us all about her experiences traveling through various realities.” Y/n’s frown deepened, shuffling on her feet with unease. “In one world, she met a version of me that hated the Avengers--and tried to destroy them.” Her body shudders, and not from the wind, “That stuck me for a while. I couldn’t imagine a world where I was the enemy. Whose goal was to hurt the people I cared about. Steve, Nat, Tony.”

Johnny nodded, leaning his elbows on the railing as he pictured it. Surely there were versions of himself out there in the multiverse. He wondered what they were like. Did they have the same power? Did they get to live a normal life like he once thought he would? Was he a hero? Or was there a version of Johnny who went against all he stood for?

He too, refused to imagine a scenario where he’d want to harm his sister and friends. It saddened him to even think about such a thing. And the way Y/n said Tony’s name, showed him she felt the same.

“Was he your father?” the question left his lips before he could stop it. Immediately regretting upon the distant look that encompassed her visage along with the glossiness of her eyes.

“He was the closest thing I had to one after my own died,” Y/n bit her lip, scoffing lightly, “actually even when mine was alive. Met the man when I was five--my father invested in Stark Industries and the two were good friends. I have fond memories of going to Stark Tower and watching Tony’s expos.” A small smile appeared, but it soon turned to a frown. “My parents profited off the sciences and technology, but didn’t really care to understand it.” There was a bitter taste in her mouth as she spoke, and Y/n was a bit surprised she was being so open with Johnny. A rare feeling, for she was hardly this vulnerable about her past with her teammates. And she’d known them for decades almost.

“I was always smart growing up but they never acknowledged or praised me for it. Told me college wasn’t necessary since we were wealthy and what good would higher education be when we were well set. Mind you,” she shoots a glance at Johnny, who was watching her intently. “My father went to business school in Chicago and my mother was a journalist before they got married.”

“The pot calling the kettle black,” he muses, tone laced with disappointment on her behalf.

“Exactly,” she sighed, shaking her head as she looked back toward the city. “My father laughed when I told them I wanted to pursue physics at MIT. Told me if I was going to go to college then I should do business where the money was at--as if I needed more fucking money,” Johnny heard the frustration and sadness in her voice, picturing a young Y/n with dreams who just wanted the support of her parents and was denied. Thinking about it made his heart strain.

“Anyways, Tony was the one who helped me get to MIT. It was my freshman year he got kidnapped and became Iron Man. Barely saw him after that because his partnership with my dad ended.” Fiddling with her rings, Y/n closes her eyes briefly while taking a breath, then shrugs nonchalantly, “My folks were among the casualties in New York, my accident happened not long after….” she straightens up with a sniff, “Tony Stark helped me find purpose. Told me there were greater things for me--and my powers could be a tool to help people. He took me under his wing when the government advised him not to. I owe everything to him.” Turning to lock their eyes, Y/n’s gaze is filled with determination.

“As he died I promised him to continue his legacy. I intend to keep it, until my last breath.”

Defeating Doom proved itself to be the most defining moment for the Avengers and Fantastic Four. Lasting months on end, for each time Doom was in their grasps he managed to get two steps ahead of them. Thankfully the integrity of space, time, and reality didn’t seem to disintegrate with the Four in Earth-616. Something the geniuses of the team were concerned about.

When it was finally over, Doom neutralized and the multiverse saved, the Avengers and the Four--bloodied, bruised, and covered in grime, dragged themselves to a nearby shawarma joint to pig out. Beer flowed, music sounded from the jukebox beside the round table they took claim to.

And after months of tip-toeing around feelings, Johnny and Y/n finally said ‘fuck it,’ falling into step together as a unit they both craved. The Ice Princess seated firmly in his lap with her head tucked under his chin, eyes fluttering closed as the exhaustion kicked in.

For Johnny, he’d been crushing on the woman since he first laid eyes on her. Keeping his affections hidden as he knew deep down it would be unwise to pursue anything with someone who 1) was from another world; and 2) he needed to focus on the task at hand.

The same went for Y/n, who realized her fondness for the blonde about a month after he arrived. She’d be lying if she didn’t find him attractive during that first meeting. Anyone with eyes would agree. But she knew better than to be involved with him given their predicament.

Yet, by a power greater than universe, the man of fire melted her frozen heart. He wasn’t put off by her cool attitude, unlike most people when they first meet Y/n. Yeah he got under her skin with his boyish charm and flirtations, but he never crossed any lines. Always respectful. Always mindful.

Neither were sure when things changed between them. Maybe it was when Y/n pushed him out of the way of a line of fire from a Doombot causing her to take three bullets to her back and nearly bleed out right there in the middle of the street. Or when Johnny spent a week in a coma for exposing himself to a deadly dose of radiation to prevent Y/n from doing so. Whatever it was, the two could no longer beat around the bush. And the night before the final battle against Doom, they confessed their feelings on the balcony overlooking Avengers campus. Sealing their promise to stay alive with a kiss.

“You sleepy, darling?” Johnny murmured against her hair after finishing a conversation with Shang-Chi. Tightening his arms around the woman when she nuzzled his chest before laying a sweet kiss to her forehead.

“Just resting my eyes.” His finger brushed her cheekbone, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, making Y/n sigh in content.

“Rest,” he told her, not buying it at all, and by the tone of his voice she knew he was smiling. “I’ll wake you when we’re ready to leave.” All he received was a hum, the man beaming as he carded his fingers through her hair. And when Johnny lifted his gaze he met his sister’s, who’s expression was full of fondness, shooting him a wink as she gestured toward the sleeping Avenger in his lap.

‘Told you so,’ Sue mouthed, grinning at his pink tinted cheeks.

‘Shut up,’ he mouthed back, though he returned the smile.

In the days following their victory, one question remained: Will the Fantastic Four return home? America was their ticket out. All she had to do was open a portal. It may take time, but eventually she’d shuffle through enough realities until she found theirs. Luckily in the months they’d been away, the fabric of reality remained intact.

In all honesty, that fact alone is what made them contemplate leaving.

The Fantastic Four didn’t belong in Earth-616 having landed there by mistake, but it had been almost a year. Integrating themselves into the Avengers and developing bonds. Besides the romantic feelings between Johnny and Y/n, the remaining Fantastic Four were not sure if they wanted to leave. Reed and Ben enjoyed working with Banner and Strange. Sue longed for female companionship, and found that with Y/n and the other women of the Avengers. And Johnny connected with the guys. They all became friends.

They became a team.

And since they weren’t leaving anyone behind in their world, what harm was there by staying? The Avengers could use more allies. And who knows another high level threat would appear. Threatening the existence of the universe. They needed a strong team, and defeating Doom proved they were one.

Yeah, it was a no brainer.

Now here they were two years later. The Ice Princess and Human Torch cuddled in their bed, in their apartment in Avengers campus, on their day off where they could enjoy the peace as no new threats had emerged in the last two months.

Johnny groaned when Y/n pulled away from the kiss, moving to sit up so she was straddling his hips. The comforter falling behind her as she fought against his firm grip when he attempted to pull her back down.

“Sorry, hotshot, no sleeping in for me today. I have to get ready.”

He tilted his head, partly confused, partly offended, “For what?”

“I promised your sister I’d have breakfast with her.”

“But it’s Sunday,” He sat up, hands gripping her waist as he moved to press kisses on her neck. “We don’t do anything on Sundays. Except sleep….” he trailed off, pulling away to give her a cheeky smile, “and give each other some lovin’.”

Y/n chuckled, tilting her head back as his plush lips captured her chin, trailing down her jaw until he found the place behind her ear. “Baby, I’ll give you all the loving this afternoon until the sun sets and the moon rises,” she feels him shudder against her, smirking in satisfaction. “But I’m a woman of my word.”

Lifting herself off him, she leaned over to her side of the bed to grab her rings off the nightstand. Returning to his lap as she placed them on her fingers. Her college ring on her right hand, and the beautiful Cartier stack consisting of her engagement and wedding rings. Once all were placed on her finger, Johnny lifted her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles just below. His own wedding band shining against the sunlight peeking through the curtains.

“Don’t keep me waiting too long now,” Johnny flirted, chocolate eyes sparkling while pressing her hand to his chest where his heart laid. Heat radiated off his body. “I might come looking for ya.” The words earned him a playful glare.

“Behave,” she scolded without any bite. “Or I’ll punish you.”

“I want you too,” Johnny challenged, winding his arm around her waist to hold her closer.

All she did was shake her head, laughing at his behavior while he continued his assault on her neck, allowing him a few extra kisses before she really had to get up. “You are something else, Johnny Storm.”

“And you love meeeee.”

“I do,” she breathed out, tilting her head down to meet his lips halfway, hand cupping his jaw. He sighed in victory, chasing her mouth each time she pulled away, causing her to giggle. “Johnny! The sooner you let me leave, the sooner you get to have me all to yourself.”

He groaned again, loosening his hold but not completely letting Y/n go. “Fine,” he mumbled, pouting, but smiled when she kissed his cheek. “Bring me back a coffee, please?”

“Of course, my love.”

With that he reluctantly let go of her waist, allowing his wife to get up from the bed. But before she could make her way to the bathroom, Johnny caught her hand, making her turn back to him with a raised brow.

“Some say the world will end in fire.” He begins to recite the famous poem by Robert Frost. What started as a joke between the two because of their abilities, transformed into something far more intimate. The poem itself was about human emotions, and their power to lead to self-destruction. Fire was fast, Ice was slow. Together they were each other's strength and weakness. And despite being complete opposites, they both played a role in dismantling humanity.

But for Johnny and Y/n, they managed to do the impossible. They bridged the gap between fire and ice.

Y/n smiles affectionately, lifting her free hand to the back of his neck to scratch at the nape of his hairline. “Some say in ice.”

“From what I’ve tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire.”

“But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate, to say that for destruction ice.”

“Is also great,” They both recite, leaning in to capture each other's lips as they whisper the final line of the poem.

“And would suffice.”

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writingpandagoth · 1 month ago

Note

I love post war Snape and just read your fic ‘I will wait for you’ and ‘After the storm’.

Soooo i have an idea.

Severus survive the war but y/n end up in coma after war. And Severus go to see her in hospital, he reads to her, sits by her for days and prays that she will finally wake up.

Hey!

I hope this makes sense. I am currently running on three coffee's and desperately need something to eat!😂

But I hope you enjoy anyways.❤️

Home To Me

He wasn’t supposed to survive.

That had been the plan—unspoken, but no less certain. Do the job. Play the part. Die before he had to face what came after.

But fate had other ideas. Or maybe it simply forgot to finish what it started.

He woke in a hospital bed with his chest bandaged, lungs aching, and magic flickering faintly beneath his skin like the last coals of a dying fire. It had taken days to stop seeing red when he closed his eyes. Weeks before he could walk without feeling like the floor might disappear.

No visitors. Of course not. What did he expect?

He had taught children for years and most still thought him a monster. He had risked his life for a cause and none of them knew it. No medals. No forgiveness. Just silence, and the scrape of time moving forward without him.

But he hadn’t thought of you.

Not until he heard your name.

A passing mention. A whispered report between two Healers outside his ward.

“…Spell Damage—she’s one of the coma cases. Curse to the head, I think. (Y/L/N), yeah. Still unresponsive. Poor thing.”

The world didn’t stop.

But he did.

Your name kept echoing long after the voices were gone.

(Y/L/N).

It wasn’t a common name. Not someone else. Not coincidence.

It was you.

He pushed himself up too fast. The room spun. His body rebelled. Pain bloomed under his ribs like fire across fragile parchment, but he didn’t stop.

He needed confirmation.

He needed proof.

His feet hit the floor hard, the cold stinging through thin hospital slippers. He grabbed the edge of the bed for balance, but even that wasn’t enough—his legs buckled, knees locking from the strain. He gritted his teeth.

He staggered toward the door, still half-tethered to a monitoring charm and an IV line humming with restorative potion. Something yanked against his arm and tore free with a high-pitched hiss. His pulse raced.

He burst into the corridor, shoulder hitting the frame, robes loose around him, eyes wild.

“Miss—” His voice cracked. He tried again, louder. “Miss (Y/L/N)! Is she—where is she?!”

A nurse spotted him instantly.

“Professor Snape—sir, you can’t—!”

“Where is she?!” His voice was hoarse, barely more than gravel and fury. “I heard you—I heard you say her name. Is she here?”

“Sir, please—you need to—”

“Tell me!” he shouted, loud enough to make two other staff flinch. “Is she here? Is she—is she alive?”

He didn’t realize he was swaying until a pair of hands caught him by the arms. Another nurse appeared at his other side, trying to steady him.

“You’re not well enough to walk, sir, please—”

“Don’t tell me what I can do—is it her?” His voice cracked. He sounded broken. He was.

They exchanged glances.

Finally—finally—one of them nodded. “Yes. She was brought in the night of the battle. She’s stable but… unresponsive. Long-term spell trauma. She’s been in Spell Damage ever since.”

Something in him collapsed then—not physically, not yet—but inside. A breath he hadn’t realized he’d held was released like a wound unbound.

He bent forward slightly, both hands trembling.

“I need to see her,” he whispered.

“And you will,” the nurse said softly. “But not yet. Please. You’ll tear the sutures. You’ve only just—”

“I don’t care.”

“But I am sure she would,” the nurse said gently. “She’s not going anywhere. Let us get you well enough to walk without falling over. Then you can see her.”

He stopped fighting after that.

Not because he agreed.

But because that sentence stole all the strength from his bones.

You would.

Of course you would. You were always maddeningly stubborn about his well-being. You had a way of watching him like no one ever had—with expectation, not pity. Like you believed he could be someone worth worrying about.

The nurse helped him back into bed. He didn’t speak. Didn’t resist. Just let the blankets settle over his lap, heart hammering and lungs aching like he’d been sprinting through a battlefield all over again.

They left him alone after that.

And that’s when it truly hit.

You were alive and breathing and in this very building, maybe only floors away—but you couldn’t hear him, couldn’t see him, couldn’t speak.

He stared at the ceiling, the walls, the dim glow of the enchanted sconces overhead. Minutes blurred into hours. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw flashes—your smile across the staff table, the way you tilted your head when you were trying not to laugh at him, the fierce light in your eyes the day you hexed a Death Eater mid-duel.

He had thought of you often during the war. More than he ever let show. You were one of the few things he allowed himself to hope for—quietly, uselessly. Now that hope curled sharp in his gut like something poisonous.

Because now you were so close… and still completely out of reach.

He turned on his side slowly, gingerly. The movement pulled at the stitches. He didn’t care.

His voice was hoarse, barely audible in the quiet, but he spoke anyway.

“Don’t do this to me.”

It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t anger. Just a whisper into the dark.

He imagined you there. Not the motionless version the Healers described, but you—alive, snarky, warm, full of fire. You would roll your eyes at him right now. You would tell him to stop being dramatic. You’d probably tuck a blanket around him and threaten to hex the nurse who let him fall out of bed.

His throat closed.

“I didn’t get to say goodbye,” he said.

And then, softer:

“I didn’t get to tell you.”

He didn’t say the words. Not yet.

Not when you couldn’t hear them.

So he just repeated your name, once, like a prayer.

And didn’t sleep at all.

The nurse didn’t say much that morning.

She just brought his walking robe, helped him into it with the quiet care of someone who’d seen too many kinds of grief, before guiding him out into the corridor.

The corridors of St. Mungo’s were quieter than he expected.

Maybe the world was still mourning. Maybe he was too far gone to notice the living.

The nurse didn’t rush him. She let him walk slowly, one hand lightly at his elbow, only steadying him when his steps faltered. He didn’t speak. He kept his eyes ahead. Kept breathing.

When they reached the room, she paused outside the door.

“Healer checked on her an hour ago,” she said quietly. “Still stable. No change.”

Her voice was gentle, but distant—like she already knew nothing she could say would matter right now.

“Take your time,” she continued softly. “I’ll be right here if you need anything.”

He didn’t respond. Just nodded.

And then she opened the door.

It was colder than he expected. Not in temperature—just… quiet. Too still. A silence that had settled like dust in the corners. Like even the room had forgotten how to wait.

He stood in the doorway for a long time.

One hand still on the frame, as if letting go would drop him into something he wasn’t ready to survive.

Then, slowly, he stepped inside.

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

You were there.

Laid out against pristine white sheets that made your skin look too pale by comparison. There were no tubes, no blood, no violent marks. Just stillness.

His eyes locked on your chest, watching—waiting—until he saw it rise.

Slow. Shallow.

But there.

His body moved before his mind did. One foot forward. Then another.

Crossing the room felt like dragging himself through water. Every part of him screamed to reach you, to run, to fall apart—yet all he could do was walk.

Measured. Careful.

As if you might vanish if he stepped too fast.

When he reached the side of the bed, he stopped.

His breath hitched.

You looked like yourself. Peaceful in a way that made him want to scream.

He just looked at you—really looked at you—for the first time since the battle.

The line of your jaw. The curve of your mouth. The faint crease between your brows that never quite smoothed, even in sleep.

You were here.

Alive.

And yet you weren’t with him.

He didn’t realize his hands were shaking until he reached for you. He hesitated—his fingers hovering just above yours.

And then, slowly, he let them fall.

He took your hand.

Not tightly.

Just enough.

Warm.

Real.

His knees buckled. He sat down hard in the chair beside your bed, all the strength draining from him in one terrible, silent rush.

He bowed his head.

Shoulders rigid. Spine curled in. One hand gripping yours, the other clenched white-knuckled in his lap.

No words.

No tears.

Just breath. Sharp. Staggered.

He had been holding himself together for days. For weeks. Since the moment he woke up in that hospital bed and realized the world had gone on without him.

This was the first time he allowed himself to break.

And he did.

Silently.

Utterly.

Sitting at your bedside, forehead nearly brushing the mattress, still holding your hand like it was the only thread keeping him in the world.

He didn’t speak.

But if he had, the words would have been simple.

Don’t leave me.

—

The next morning, he came back.

He dressed slowly. Every movement felt deliberate, like his body didn’t quite trust itself yet. The simple act of pulling on clean robes left his shoulders aching. The mirror above the sink offered a reflection he barely recognized—thinner than he remembered, skin still sallow with recovery, hair too long and unkempt.

But his eyes were clear.

And they were focused.

He didn’t ask for help on the walk this time.

No nurse at his elbow. No guiding hand.

Just slow, careful steps down the corridor, one after another, until the familiar door rose up in front of him like something sacred.

He stood there for a moment, his fingers curled loosely at his side. Not hesitating. Just... adjusting. To the reality that you were still on the other side of that door. Alive. Still breathing.

He pushed it open quietly.

The air inside hadn’t changed. It still carried the faint scent of healing potions and clean linens, but there was something else now too—something almost warm, familiar.

You.

The light from the high windows spilled across your bed, catching on the strands of your hair where they fanned out across the pillow.

He walked to the chair slowly, watching you the whole way.

Still. Just as before.

He lowered himself into the seat with a soft exhale, bracing a hand against the armrest as he settled.

No noise. No dramatic pause.

Just... quiet.

He looked at your face.

Not in the way someone checks for signs of life—he already knew you were breathing—but in that steady, searching way of someone who hadn't allowed themselves to look for too long.

The shadows under your eyes.

The slope of your cheek.

The faint twitch in your fingers—maybe reflex, maybe nothing at all.

His gaze softened without permission.

One hand moved to rest on the bed between you. Not touching yours. Not yet.

He didn’t speak.

But the silence was different now—less like grief, and more like reverence.

He stayed there for what felt like hours.

His fingers traced idle patterns against the hem of the blanket. He leaned forward once, as if to say something—but didn’t. Words still felt dangerous. Too final. Too loud.

So he stayed silent.

He counted your breaths.

Listened to the faint tick of the healing charm tucked beneath your mattress.

Breathed with you.

For the first time since the war, he didn’t feel the weight of the world pressing in on him.

Just the weight of this moment.

Of you.

Of not being alone.

—

He visited again the next Day.

Not out of obligation. Not out of guilt.

He simply couldn’t stay away.

The walk was easier now—less painful, more surefooted. But he still moved slowly, not because he had to… but because part of him feared the moment he reached your door. That something might have changed. That the breath he clung to yesterday might not be there today.

When he entered the room, everything was exactly as he left it.

The light through the window had shifted, softer now, gold where yesterday had been grey.

You were still.

But your chest rose.

And that was enough.

He approached quietly, the familiar ache curling low in his ribs as he neared your bedside.

The chair had not moved. He didn’t even think the nurses cleaned it—perhaps they knew now it was his.

He sat with a soft groan, hands folded in his lap.

There was a new chart at the end of your bed. He didn’t read it. He didn’t need numbers.

He watched you.

The soft lines of your face.

The faint flutter of your lashes, unmoving.

He found, to his surprise, that his shoulders weren’t as tight today. That his hands no longer trembled when he reached to place them near yours.

Not touching. Not today.

But close.

He closed his eyes, just for a moment.

And when he opened them, he whispered your name.

Barely a sound.

More breath than voice.

But it was the first thing he’d spoken since the day he saw you.

And it did not shatter him.

So he said it again.

Once more.

Then leaned back in the chair, arms folded gently, and let the silence settle between you.

Comfortable now.

Like something shared.

By the third morning, the nurses no longer stopped him in the corridor.

They simply nodded when they saw him coming and stepped aside.

He wore real robes this time—not the soft cotton of hospital clothes, but black, proper layers, freshly laundered and a little too stiff from disuse.

It felt strange to wear something like dignity again.

But you deserved that.

He entered the room a little faster than before, his gait no longer uncertain. Still careful, but not frail.

The moment he saw you, his chest loosened.

You hadn’t changed.

Still warm.

Still breathing.

He sat without hesitation.

This time, his fingers reached for yours.

He let them rest lightly over the backs of your knuckles, brushing there with barely-there contact—like a secret he couldn’t quite bring himself to say aloud.

“You’d hate this,” he murmured. “Me, fussing.”

The words surprised him.

He hadn’t meant to speak.

But they didn’t feel wrong.

“You always told me I was too cold,” he added, eyes on your still hand beneath his. “And now look at me. Coming to sit with you like some tragic character in a bloody romance novel.”

A pause.

He swallowed.

“I don’t care.”

He leaned back and closed his eyes.

The warmth of your skin beneath his fingers was answer enough.

—

He didn’t sleep much the night before his release.

Not because of nightmares—those had dulled, faded into a background ache—but because something in him couldn’t stop thinking of tomorrow.

Leaving.

He hated the idea of waking somewhere that wasn’t down the hall from you.

But he’d been cleared. Signed off. Physically sound. No longer a patient.

Just a man.

Just a man with nowhere to be except here.

He came earlier than usual. The nurse on the morning shift blinked in surprise, but said nothing.

Your door opened without resistance.

The chair greeted him like it knew he’d return.

He sat more slowly today.

Not from pain—but to memorize every step of it.

He looked at you longer before speaking.

“I didn’t think I'd make it.”

Then, quieter:

“I didn’t think we’d both make it.”

He touched your hand fully now. Held it between both of his.

It wasn’t just for comfort anymore.

It was for connection.

“I’ll come back,” he said, with more certainty than he had spoken anything in weeks.

He leaned forward, rested his forehead lightly on your hand.

—

He didn’t bring flowers.

You would have teased him for that.

The thought—your voice in his mind, soft and amused—made his chest tighten as he stepped into the room again, slower than usual, as if the space felt heavier now that he returned by choice, not necessity.

You looked the same.

Of course you did.

The stillness hadn’t changed. The pale, too-quiet peace of you lying there. It should have brought him comfort by now, the consistency of it—but it didn’t. It ached more. Because every time he returned, a part of him hoped today would be different.

He crossed the room and sat, fingers folding together over his knees.

He looked at your face for a long time.

That beautiful, infuriating, unforgettable face.

“I never told you,” he said, barely more than a whisper, “how often I listened for your footsteps in the corridor.”

His eyes stayed on you, but something inside him flinched at the truth in the words.

“I’d hear you walking past my office, just... existing. Laughing with Hooch or offering to bring tea to someone. I used to think it was foolish. How much you had to give.” His lips twisted faintly, not quite a smile. “And I kept wondering why you wasted any of it on me.”

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself.

“You never asked for anything. You were just... there. Always. Even when I didn’t deserve it. Especially then.”

His voice broke slightly on the next breath.

“I wanted to tell you once, you know. At the gates. The night before everything went to hell.”

He reached forward, hesitated, then gently brushed a thumb along the back of your hand.

“I saw you standing there. Wand in hand. Determined. Terrified. And I thought... if I don’t come back, I hope you find someone who loves you the way I never learned how to.”

He swallowed hard.

“But then I did come back. And you didn’t.”

His hand curled into yours properly now. Not light. Not cautious.

Anchored.

“I’m trying to be better for you,” he murmured. “Even if you never wake up to see it. I just want to be the man you waited for.”

He lowered his head slightly, forehead nearly brushing your wrist.

And in that soft space between silence and breath, Severus Snape closed his eyes and let himself want.

Not for a miracle.

But for you.

—

The days blurred.

Not because they were empty—but because they were full in ways no one else seemed to understand.

Severus came every day. Without fail.

He no longer needed help walking. No longer hesitated at your door. He simply arrived, as constant as the morning light through the window, robes trailing behind him, a book tucked under one arm, your favorite tea in the other—even though you couldn’t drink it.

Sometimes he’d just sit and talk.

Other days, he’d read.

But always, he stayed.

The hospital room changed around him.

Fresh flowers appeared. The bed linens were swapped out for something softer, something he paid for personally. Your favorite blanket from home lay folded at the foot of your bed, and he made sure it was laid across you each evening before he left.

The nurses stopped seeing him as a visitor.

He became part of the ward.

There were whispers, of course. At first, soft pity—people wondering how long he’d keep it up. But then the days became weeks. The weeks became months.

And Severus was still there.

Not broken anymore. Not waiting for a miracle.

Just… loving you.

The kind of love no one noticed before.

The kind of love that didn’t ask for anything in return.

He read everything.

Classic novels. Potions journals. Your own notes, found among your belongings. His voice was steady, clear, low and rough in the best way. There was something hypnotic about the way he read—as if each word was chosen not from the page, but from somewhere inside him.

Sometimes, when the ward was quiet, nurses paused in the corridor to listen.

They never interrupted.

Just stood there, leaned quietly against the wall, and watched as Severus turned each page with careful fingers, voice soft, one hand always resting gently over yours.

He never noticed.

Or maybe he did—but he didn’t care.

You were the only audience that mattered.

He braided your hair once, when it grew too long and tangled. His fingers were clumsy, awkward, but he took his time. Whispered apologies when he tugged too hard. Smoothed strands back behind your ear like you could feel him.

He trimmed your nails.

Massaged your hands when they grew stiff.

There was a day when he brought a radio and played a sonata he remembered you humming under your breath the winter before the war.

He didn’t say anything as the music played.

He just watched your face, his thumb stroking slowly across your knuckles.

The nurses found reasons to pass by more often on those days.

Just to get a glimpse of the silent love.

—

He turned the corner toward your room, just as he always did.

Same time. Same slow gait. Same breath held in his chest like it might hold back the worst.

But this time, something was off.

He noticed it instantly—the cluster of nurses standing outside your door. Not passing by. Not tending to charts. Just standing.

Whispering.

Their faces unreadable.

His steps faltered.

Panic didn’t hit all at once—it crawled up his spine slowly, tightening everything in its path.

He stopped several feet away.

They hadn’t seen him yet. They were angled toward the door, heads bowed together in hushed conversation. Not laughing. Not smiling. Just… murmuring.

And the door to your room was closed.

It was never closed.

His heart began to hammer, sharp and rhythmic like a warning spell. He could hear his pulse in his ears, feel it at his throat.

Something had happened.

He forced himself forward, jaw clenched tight, his limbs cold despite the warmth of the hall. One of the nurses turned and noticed him at last.

Her expression didn’t shift into panic.

But it didn’t calm him either.

“Professor,” she greeted gently, voice too smooth. Too careful.

He stared at her. At all of them. “What’s going on?”

The others looked back at the door, then at him.

“Just… go see,” the nurse said. “You should look for yourself.”

No explanation.

No comfort.

Nothing to hold onto.

He could barely feel his legs as he moved to the door. His hand shook when he reached for the handle.

He didn’t know what he expected—he never let himself imagine outcomes. Not anymore.

But dread bloomed in his chest like poison.

He opened the door.

And froze.

There were Healers inside. Three of them. Standing close to the bed, their backs blocking his view.

Their voices were low, clinical.

He stepped inside, but not fully—his feet rooted to the floor like his body was trying to shield itself.

His voice was hoarse when he spoke. “What’s happening?”

The Healers turned toward him, slowly, and there—there—was something in their faces he didn’t recognize at first.

Not grief.

Not apology.

Something else.

One of them gave a faint smile.

Then they stepped aside.

And there you were.

Sitting up in bed.

Your hair limp and tangled around your shoulders, your eyes half-lidded with exhaustion and confusion, skin pale against the blankets.

But you were looking at him.

Awake.

Here.

Something inside Severus fractured.

All the careful control he’d built in these months—the poise, the silence, the patience—it shattered.

His breath caught, ragged and sharp.

He staggered forward before he realized he’d moved.

His knees hit the floor beside your bed with a hollow sound, hands gripping the blanket, because he didn’t trust himself to touch you yet.

You blinked slowly, brows drawing in.

Your voice was hoarse, raw from disuse. “…Severus?”

He choked on the sound of it.

His name, from your lips.

He bowed his head against the mattress, shoulders beginning to shake—quiet at first, just the trembling of breath that refused to steady.

Then he broke.

All the love he hadn’t said. All the fear he had buried. All the prayers he hadn’t dared speak aloud. It poured out in silence and in tremors, in the way he clutched the edge of the blanket like it might disappear, in the way he leaned in closer—finally, blessedly closer.

You tried to lift your hand, slow and shaky, and when your fingers brushed through his hair, it undid him.

He turned his face into your palm and wept—not violently, not loudly.

Just honestly.

You weren’t sure what you expected when you opened your eyes.

But you didn’t expect to see him.

Not like this.

On his knees beside your bed, face buried in the blankets, shoulders trembling with the weight of something he’d kept buried too long.

And it wasn’t just shock that struck you. It was the sheer force of him. How utterly broken he looked in that moment. Not composed. Not cutting. Not distant.

Just Severus. Undone.

Your fingers had barely brushed his hair, but it was enough.

Enough to make him lean into your palm like a man who’d been starving for the feel of you.

The Healers still stood at the edge of the room, their presence suddenly too loud, too much.

They exchanged a look.

Then, without a word, they stepped out and closed the door behind them.

Silence fell like a blanket, thick and heavy, save for the quiet, stuttering rhythm of Severus’s breath where he knelt beside you.

You swallowed, your voice thin and shaky.

“…Severus.”

He lifted his head.

His face was damp, his eyes red—but open. Unhidden.

For a long moment, he couldn’t speak. He just looked at you, as if he couldn’t believe you were real.

You offered a trembling smile. “You don’t have to cry, you know…”

His mouth moved like he wanted to argue. But the breath he let out was shaky—half a laugh, half a sob.

You shifted slightly under the sheets, weak but steady, your fingers brushing against his jaw.

He turned into the touch instinctively, his own hand rising to catch yours—press it against his face like something sacred.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, voice low and wrecked. “Every day I came here—I watched you breathe, but you were gone. You were right there, and I couldn’t reach you.”

His hand tightened around yours, not enough to hurt—just enough to feel.

“And I kept thinking… what if this is all that’s left of us? What if I never hear your voice again? What if I never get the chance to tell you that—” His voice cracked.

He dropped his head, forehead pressing to your hand.

“…that I love you.”

You froze.

The room felt impossibly still.

His voice was hoarse, barely audible. “I loved you before the war. Before everything fell apart. I just never told you. I thought there would be time. And then there wasn’t.”

You could feel his breath against your wrist. Warm. Shaky. Honest.

“I would have stayed like that forever,” he whispered. “Reading to you. Sitting beside you. If that was the only way I could have you… I would’ve done it until I died.”

Your heart ached.

He raised his eyes again—so open, so unbearably vulnerable.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner,” he breathed.

You let your eyes close against the weight of his truth.

And when you opened them again, there was only him.

“I love you too,” you whispered.

He stilled.

Completely.

You felt his fingers tense just slightly around yours—like he needed to anchor himself in the moment.

You swallowed again, voice softer now. “I didn’t know how to say it, not with everything falling apart around us. I kept telling myself I’d tell you after the war. When it was safe. When we were both still breathing.”

Your voice trembled on the last word.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came.

So you pressed on.

Your fingers found his again, weak but certain.

“I thought about you… all the time. Before the battle. During. Even when it all started to go black.” Your voice cracked slightly, but you didn’t stop. “I kept thinking—I didn’t get the chance. To tell you.”

A soft, breathless laugh escaped your chest, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. “Seems like we’re both terribly good at not saying things.”

Severus made a small sound—something like agreement, something like grief—and ducked his head slightly, his thumb brushing the back of your hand.

And then you laughed—soft, wet, helpless. “But of course you had to beat me to it, didn’t you?”

He lifted his gaze, eyes shining with something that looked almost like disbelief.

“I didn’t think I’d get the chance to hear it,” he said quietly.

You gave him a faint smile, exhausted but full of something brighter.

“You didn’t think I’d let you out-confess me, did you?”

And for the first time in what felt like years, he laughed.

Truly laughed.

Low and shaky, but real.

He didn’t move at first.

But you could feel it.

The ache in his silence.

The thousand words he was holding back now that he finally had something to lose again.

You gave his hand the faintest squeeze. “Severus.”

That was all it took.

He stood slowly, fingers never leaving yours, and leaned over the bed—not looming, not rushing—just a man closing the final inches between two hearts that had waited far too long.

You lifted your hand to his face, fingers brushing along the sharp edge of his jaw.

He leaned into the touch like it was air after drowning.

His eyes searched yours, still uncertain, still trembling with the weight of everything he hadn’t allowed himself to hope.

“May I…?” he whispered.

You didn’t need to ask what he meant.

You nodded once.

And then he kissed you.

Not with urgency.

Not with hunger.

But with a reverence so profound it made your breath catch before your lips even met.

His mouth was warm and careful against yours, trembling just slightly—like he was still half-afraid you’d disappear if he held you too tightly. You kissed him back with all the strength you could manage, your fingers curling in the collar of his robes as if to anchor him there, in this moment, where nothing else mattered.

It wasn’t perfect.

It was hesitant. A little uneven. Breathless.

But it was real.

And after everything… it was perfect.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours again. You could feel the way he exhaled—slow, shaky, full of a kind of peace you hadn’t felt since before the war.

“I missed you,” he murmured, voice barely a sound. “Every version of you. Even the one who never answered.”

Your heart cracked open and mended at once.

You reached for him, tugging weakly at his robes.

He understood.

Without hesitation, he eased himself onto the bed beside you—slow, careful, his body curling around yours like a shield. His arms slid around your waist, tentative but grounding. He held you like you were precious, not breakable. Like something sacred returned to him after being lost too long.

You tucked your face into the hollow of his throat.

He pressed his lips to your temple.

And for the first time in months, both of you fell asleep listening to the other breathe.

At peace.

#severus snape #fanfic #severus snape x reader #harry potter

158 notes · View notes

blank-slate-jay · 2 months ago

Text

"Long Time No See"

(Elias 'Stack' Moore x Male!Reader)

Word Count: 1.9k+

Summary: You get yourself a visitor from a familiar face who wants nothing but to see you; allegedly.

Tags: Black!Reader, Sexual Tension, Kissing, Teasing, Established Relationship, Mild Angst

Author note: Ok, so first, I'm out of retirement lol. I saw Sinners (2025) a few days ago, and holy shit it was good. I'm gonna see it again today! To my dismay, the male reader fics for Sinners, specially either Elias 'Stack' and Elijah 'Smoke' is so low. So, for all the other male readers who liked the film this is for you all! This took way longer than it should've and shorter than I wanted, but it's finished! Enjoy!

You sigh deeply, eyeing the empty shelf where your main source of canned fruits were missing. Bummer, you thought not giving it much as a thought other than glancing at the young girl by the register. You settled on the canned peas instead, shoving a couple in your nearly full sack. Rolling your items around, you decide you had sufficient enough food.

Although not enough, you could at least experience the slight joy of having a few extra dollars to spare; awaiting expenditure. You were sure you'd burn through it sooner or later, saving init of itself was a gift you'd wish it didn't feel like anything but a miracle.

"Thank you for comin'".

You nod, with a small smile, "Thanks."

Exiting the store, you take the long trek home. The weather conditions never bothered you, Mississippi’s heat, sometimes an annoyance, made you consider another plantation north, but at the cost of losing contact with the community you’ve grown to find endearing; no way.

You didn't ponder on it very much, it served very little to dream big but sometimes you felt doubting kept you from reaching for opportunities beyond yourself, as if there was much to reach for. The rich life was madly tempting, you weren't gonna deny that. You bit your lip, scoping the vast fields with distance where huddled up homes were. You shake your head not even noticing the passing vehicle in parallel with your trajectory.

The polished motor growing smaller by the second almost felt comedically timed, acting as the external world’s method of rubbing what you could never have right in your face. It wouldn't be all too bad, at least you had the rest of the day to kick back til morning.

Circling into the small village, you give a nod to your known neighbors, picking up your pace as noon was soon to hit. Your eyes catch a glimpse of your house which was occupied by both someone on your doorstep and a vehicle by the front steps. Stunned, your brows furrowed as you picked up your pace. The man, wearing a top hat, gave your door a knock which only urged you to shout out to him.

"Hey!"

The man turned at your voice, his face slightly more visible. "Oh" he exaggerated, "There he is..."

You squint, tracing his face as the man leaned against the porch’s post.

"Thought you was ignorin' me."

The moment you got close enough, his features ran clear; the smug smile, familiar voice and stance. You didn't realize it, but you were expressing awe in his new attire; brisling in a tux that hosted room for a chain or two to hang freely. The unfamiliar look in both his outfit and vehicle made you consider if you were merely hallucinating. But no, the slight gust brushing against your skin proved otherwise. This was reality, and Stack was back after a year and a half of no contact.

"What?" he inquires, getting you to make eye contact with him. "Somethin' on my face?" The hints of gold on his teeth had you scoffing before flicking your eyes in an exaggerated manner. You trot forward, not bothering to make eye contact with him. Before you could get into your house, he slid in front of the door; blocking your method of entry.

You stare at his shoulder for a moment, tracing up to his expression reading as ‘well…?’ You mimic his features, tilting your head to the right, “Can I get in, please?”

“Not without hello. Or how about, ‘Long time no see.’ Yeah, that’a do it.”

You sigh, “Hello-”

“Ah!” he raises a finger before pointing at you, “Welcome back, Stack. How bout you give it a try.”

You roll your eyes, already being pulled back into his charming nature, “How bout you get that motor out my grass.”

Stack gets a good chuckle out, “Alright, my bad”, he grips your shoulder, squeezing it, as he passes you, “You got it. Baby.”

A huff left you the moment you push indoors, placing your pouch down onto the small but creaky wooden counter. You hated when he called you that with the knowledge of his infrequent visits.

With the sniff of your shirt, your feet drag you into your bedroom instead of pondering. Quickly you throw on a fresh enough cassimere shirt with a hole or two in it, but nonetheless, a garment you consider nice enough for a visitor. Applying extra lotion for your skin, the door swung open followed by two whistles.

You suck your teeth, “Come in.”

Stack enters, immediately you drop your shirt, hoping the smell of salt was mitigated by the cream. It wasn’t for him, you told yourself, you’d do this for anyone visiting; your parents, friends, even Smoke on a good day.

Your steps have him snapping his head toward you, soldier instincts you supposed, you guess you couldn’t blame him for that like you could for other things. You gulp, with mixed feelings at Stack’s eyes looking you over. Typically it’d be a queue for sizing you up or the alternative of checking you out; face alone was proof alone that anyone could deduce that the former was practically zero. You had better reasons to mimic him however; his light brown cargos and clean coat, the traits of a wealthy man.

You digress, biting your tongue, no way Stack was gonna get you fumbling easily over his current display, not without him even touching or sweet talking you.

Stack smirks as you come into your living space. He takes his hat off and sets it down on your table before gently resting against it. He glances around, seemingly giving you an opportunity to get yourself situated with your items.

Stack huffs to himself, “Not much change huh?”

“Hmm?”

“Here. Home.”

Your head shakes, “Nope. I mean, it's been quieter for the last seven years, cause…”, you look at him momentarily.

He puts two and two together, “Shit! My brother is quite the talker.” He knew well, you weren’t referring to Smoke, rolling your eyes once more. “Am I really that annoyin’?” You nod slowly. Stack sucks his teeth, walking up to and mounting his weight against the counter right next to you, “Now you’re gonna have to suffer with me then.”

You let out a long breath due to his proximity, but you kept focus on your food. You clear your throat, pivoting, “The plantation’s been calm as well…if you could believe that.”

He takes a second to respond, “None of the them Klan members try to-”

“Nope. As far as I know.”

Stack nods, and what follows is a long pause. Whether it was him deciding to eye you again, or if there was nothing he had left you speak up, balling up your pouch in the process. “So why’d you come back? Aren’ you supposed to be in…Chicago, doing-”, ‘god knows what.’

He looks down at his boots, “Yeah…things up there have been alright. We still have our business. But shit! Let me tell you, we got our pockets chiming.”

‘Business’, what he really meant was killing for profit or getting involved in illegal activity. You knew it, he knew it. If there was something he couldn’t fool anyone on, it was this.

A sharp breath comes, reminded all over again that the SmockStack twins still were pursuing that life. Being on and off with Stack over the years, felt constantly unsatisfying, only amplified by the infrequent visits; you’d be lucky if he’d visit once a year. You were sure every time he’d head north that he was essentially walking to his demise. Planning robberies, getting involved with gangs; was just as equally dangerous as the country was to the two of you.

You gritted your teeth, unsure of what to say. The pushing and pulling between ecstasy and dread was exhausting. You weren’t even sure what to say, your opinion previously conveyed, and yet he still kept at it.

Instead of replying, you turned away, the silence even more deafening than ever. Almost instantly, or perhaps a moment of you staring out the window clouded your perception of time; either way a soft touch graces your side. The feeling of Stack’s fingers nearly have you tremble however you attempt to remain unshaken.

His grip tightens ever so slightly, his warmth growing with his weight chest to your back; straightening your posture. You pear down, thoughts swimming, tenderness soothing over both your mind and physique.

Stack’s hands carefully trace up your concealed stomach. Dare you try swatting them away to save yourself the trouble. No, your hands cup over his, where it was methodically caressing your abdomen. A warm breath tickled your ear, Stack’s head leaning against yours, soothing your nerves.

“Is this alright,” he asked in a low tone.

You swallow, tilting slightly toward him. He’s got you trapped yet again, the temptation overbearing. You gave in with a nod.

Stack took the chance to start kissing your cheek. You lean into him, biting your lip, “Shit.” His pecks started as soft, turning into an attack on your neck. You closed your eyes in both sensitivity and enjoyment. Bite, lick, then kiss over; you had forgotten that was his usual routine while buried in your neck. You recall having to worry you’d have to account for the marks on your neck to others, but no worries ever came up thanks to your collar garb.

Spinning around, you lock lips with his, your hand wrapping around his back, his thick hands cupping your face. A mix of his salt and reminisce of a cigarette lingered, you didn’t care, you’d been craving the intimacy with him for a long while, and certainly it was mutual. His kisses had a certain sense of passion, his tongue slipping in, not even a few seconds into it. While expected of him, there was something a lot deeper you felt by how prolonged, how tight and long he’d hold each kiss. Maybe you were grasping for straws in the repetitive nature of everyday life, that Stack’s presence could alter your mindset. Or it could’ve equally been your growing bulge doing the talking.

You weren’t sure either or could’ve been possible, but what you were sure of was his neediness for you. He releases his palm to cup your grotch, “-fuck…!’, you blurt into his mouth.

He smirks against your lips.“Mhmm, you like that baby?”

You, of course, didn’t get a chance to answer when he nibbled on your lips. Hands now rubbing against his collar, you slowly start undoing his button up coat. He grips your hands, mumbling ‘uh uh’. Stack instead seemingly had other plans, releasing your wrist and unbuttoning your flannel. He lets out a sharp huff, looking over your chest, pupils enlightened by your skin.

Slipping his fingers into your shirt you speak up, “What’re you thinkin’”?

“Lotta things”, he softly plays with your nipples, “Some I bet you're going like?”

Your breath becomes shaky, “Really?”

“Yeah. Whichyousay we drink a bit and I’ll show you.”

You snicker to yourself, “I don’t got no beer in here”

Slack’s eyebrows raise, stopping the motion of his hands, “Guess that means you're gonna have to wait,”

“You’re not thinking of the bar, are ya?”

He nods, “It’s not far out from here. Couple of rowdy folk in and out of there, but I doubt that’d be an issue.”

“Certainly won’t be, I hope,” you breathe, fingers interlocking with him. So much for a peaceful day.

#male reader #sinners 2025 #sinners #sinners x reader #elias stack moore x reader #elias stack moore x male reader #stack x reader #elias stack moore #stack x male reader #sinners x male reader #elijah smoke moore #elijah smoke moore x male reader #x male reader #x masc reader #x black reader

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jazzthatonewriterchick · 3 months ago

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Who Is In Control? (18+ Fic)

Pairing: Sung Jinwoo x Black!F!Villain!Reader x Hunter!Gojo Satoru

Synopsis: Sung Jinwoo is the highest-ranking hunter and the most powerful human being humanity has ever seen. So is Gojo Satoru. Both cocky, both confident, and both eager for more power, they compete against each other for each gate that seems to get more dangerous the farther and higher they go. They figure your gate won’t be any different and that you will be the usual big baddie that they need to take care of. Another cog in the system. Until they manage to beat you and find out who you truly are behind your facade. Now the hunters are hellbent on keeping you to themselves. So, what’s another friendly competition? Only this time, the prize is you.

Chapter Warnings: MILD SPOILERS; Blood/Injury; Hypnosis; Manipulation; Mild Violence

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer’s Note: Tried to get this out tonight because I really didn't want to wait till Sunday to drop it. Please enjoy my poorly-written action sequences lol -Jazz

CHAPTERS: PREFACE. ONE. TWO. THREE. FOUR. FIVE. SIX.

*************

TWO: WHY AM I HERE?

Kill All Humans.

It is the only thought plaguing your mind that is currently going on hyperdrive because of your newest “visitors”.

Intruders are more like it. You have always despised any stranger invading your gate, your kingdom, your domain just to snag a prize. That is often why you see these hunters–and you say that with disdain and disgust–enter your gate, time after time, over and over again. And over and over again, you show them that you are just not someone to be beaten so easily. You can’t even begin to count how many hunters you have watched die over the years, either at your hands or by the swords of your army.

You sit on your throne now, sitting patiently and filing your long, claw-like nails. There is only the sound of the fire blazing outside of your very tall, very ominous castle that overlooks your kingdom set ablaze with flames. Flames that you caused some time ago that have continued to grow and grow, engulfing everything in their path. The villagers who once lived in this kingdom have long since left now, leaving only you. The new ruler. The new Queen of this kingdom and Boss of this gate.

And it still isn’t enough. It is never enough. You can feel the need for more power, more blood, more everything simmering under your bosom right beneath the bodice of your gown. Your crown, silver and dripping in diamonds, sits on top of your head, only held up by your neck and the french braid that your servants carefully braided for you. They had better be careful. You created them and your army yourself from your own two hands after taking over this kingdom.

You remember when you first “came” to this world (“appeared” is more like it, though you can hardly remember either) when villagers still roamed, the skies were still blue, and hunters weren’t invading your land. But then you suddenly…snapped. You can’t quite describe it even now. All you remember is hearing “Kill All Humans” in your head and suddenly, you were standing among the destruction of the kingdom that once flourished with life.

Though there is a part of you that feels immense guilt for this, you have no idea where this part comes from. Is it you thinking this? Could it be something that plagues you at night where you have nightmares of strange creatures calling themselves “Gods” and men with blue eyes? Could it be…

Your frustrating thoughts take the back burner when one of your soldiers in clanky medieval armor comes walking in. He takes a bow, silent. Just as you created them to be. Only to listen and obey your every command. “What?” you snap. “Didn’t I tell you about–”

Your lecture is cut off when the soldier lifts his head and suddenly, you feel it: a vibration inside of you that feels as if your veins and cells are shaking. You stop filing your nails and sit up straight. “They are near, aren’t they?” you ask. Your soldier obediently nods. You smile, and once again, you are plagued by that one thought: “Kill All Humans”.

“Perfect,” you whisper and stand in your dress. You wave a hand to your soldier, snapping at him. “Then don’t just stand there. Get the others and cover me.” As your soldier walks off to do as he is told, you pucker your lips and exhale slowly, causing wisps of red smoke to escape your mouth.

Instantly, your dress melts away and is replaced with armor black as tar. A sword, bigger than your thigh and sharp to the touch, sits at your hip, ready to be unsheathed. You place your helmet on to hide your features as you usually do. You never fight hunters without it. You don’t want them looking at you.

With just one thought and your willpower, you teleport from your castle to the burning lands of your kingdom. Your army is already here, standing at attention and bowing at your arrival. In front of you is nothing but plumes of smoke with only the shadows of destroyed buildings and cobbled streets facing you…and also a herd of undead animals and a tall knight standing in front of them. They are shadowy figures, each one appearing like ghosts.

‘Da fuck?’ you think, utterly confused. These couldn’t possibly be the intruders, could they? They’re not even alive! But at the sight of the blue glow that illuminates them, you realize what they are. Shadows. “Necromance work,” you whisper. You look to the knight standing silently before you. “You’re controlled by one, aren’t you?”

The knight doesn’t answer. Instead, he lifts his sword and charges at you at full speed. Dozens of your soldiers run to your aid, but they are distracted by the herd of bears, orcs, and a giant fucking ant herdling at them. The knight is so fast that you barely escape his sword, having to duck to avoid getting your head cut off. “Fuck!” you hiss.

You don’t even have time to recover because the sword is coming down towards you again. You thrust your sword up to block it, grunting at the force and power of the knight in front of you. He has taken on a light purple glow that emits from his black armor and you notice a scar at his right eye. You don’t see a face though, but you figured as a shadow that he wouldn’t have much.

With a grunt, you use all of your energy to thrust him away, sending him careening backwards. He quickly recovers and assumes a battle-ready position. You stand before him, laughing despite the sweat coating your face behind your helmet. “Y’know, you’d actually be kinda hot if you weren’t tryin’ to kill me. I like guys who don’t talk much.”

That seems to anger the knight because he charges at you again and suddenly begins swinging his sword this way and that, trying to get any open point on your body. You try desperately to keep up, using any and every ounce of speed and strength given to you. But God, does it hurt! Your arms ache in your armor and each clang of your swords colliding hurts your ears. This guy is fast and lustful for blood. Whoever is controlling him must be as well.

You have never faced anything like him before. Clearly because when he swipes his sword at your head a second time, you crumble to your knees, your sword clattering out of your hand. Before you can take a breath, the knight stands above you and raises his sword high, preparing to thrust it into your chest if not your brain.

“Igris, heel!” comes a loud, guttural demand. It is a demand that stops the knight dead in his tracks. It stops you, your army, and the shadows too. The battle ceases as each head turns to regard the owner of the voice.

Admittedly, if it wasn't his voice that stops you in your tracks, it would definitely be his looks. The man is the very definition of “tall, dark, and handsome”. Your eyes roam over his lanky yet muscular form despite his mundane clothes, his black undercut, his long legs, his to-die-for cheekbones and jawline, and…. Your eyes widen at the sight of his electric blue irises. The same ones you have seen in your dreams.

‘Danger,’ your mind screams. ‘This man is danger.’ Your body seems to wail it too with the way your heart races and your stomach dips. You telepathically signal for your minions for protection, but neither of them move. They are all glued to the spot, staring at the blue-eyed, dark-haired hunter whose camp whips around their ankles in the fiery air.

As the hunter comes walking over, his gait calm and collected, all of his shadows vanish into thin air. All except for Igris, the knight, who takes his sword away from you and digs it into the ground before kneeling. You don’t use it as a chance to ask. Who knows what this hunter could do to you? You just watch, shocked and confused, as the hunter stops at Igris’ side and lays a hand on his helmet. His aura is quite powerful…and seductive. He is doing nothing but standing there and yet, he makes your stomach flip-flop.

“Nicely done,” he praises his shadow in a deep, soothing, oh-so-delicious voice. “You got real far with this. I knew I could count on you.” You shiver as if his saccharine words of praise are directed at you. You have never been so captured by a voice before. When he finally puts those dazzling, intense eyes on you, it shocks you to your core. Your body seizes and your muscles tense. You feel as if he is looking deep into your soul, peering into your past, present, and future with one look.

God, what the hell is happening to you?

An almost sardonic smile appears on the hunter’s lips. “Hi, there,” he draws out. “I’m guessin’ you’re the Boss for this gate, right?” He cocks his head to the side, sizing you up. “You’re not much to look at it, and I mean that size wise. I usually get Bosses much bigger than–”

With a grunt, you grab your sword and swing it at him, only for Igris to block your attack with his own sword. The hunter peeks out from behind Igris’ shoulder, shock leaving his face. “Oh,” he says. “Guess you wanna start. Alright, I can get down with that.”

Igris tosses you aside, the force of it sending you careening yards away, but you manage to skid to a stop in the dirt, Akira sliding with your hand shooting out to bring you to a pause. The hunter wills Igris away and pulls out his own sword. A bigger one than Igris’ that is alight with blazing blue flames. “I’d prefer skippin’ to the good point anyway,” he chuckles.

He charges at you and you charge at him, the both of you running at full speed towards one another until you’re a foot away. Your swords clash instantly, the clanging of metal heard throughout the land like thunder clapping in the sky. Under the dark storm clouds hanging in the sky, you dance the Dance of Death with the hunter, moving when he moves, following every step he makes. And vice versa. “Not bad,” he comments, actually giving you a smile. “But I’m better.”

The man would be a lot more charming if he wasn’t trying to kill you. You will hand it to him: the man can fight. He doesn’t seem to stop, always sensing what you are about to do next. It’s like he has eyes everywhere! ‘Does he?’ you deliriously wonder. Just who is this person?

So caught up in your thoughts, you make a misstep and lower your sword just a bit. It allows the hunter to swing the sword your way, not to try to cut off your head but to make you retreat as if he is. With a gasp, you clatter onto your back in your armor, the wind knocked out of you. You stare through the slits in your helmet at the hunter. He stares down at you, smirking. “C’mooon, you gettin’ tired already? The fun’s just begun.”

Before you can even think of conjuring help, the hunter is suddenly pinning you to the ground with one hand grabbing your neck. You grunt as his long fingers grip your throat, making it hard to breathe. “Gotcha,” he whispers, and his blue eyes flash. “Any last words?”

You don’t speak. You can’t. Even if you could, you wouldn’t. He actually looks slightly disappointed. “You’re not gonna speak to me at all, eh?” He tuts, shaking his head as he takes his sword and presses the tip of it above your armor, right over your heart. “No matter. Your words won’t matter once you’re dead.” The look in his eyes is absolutely murderous, fully content with killing you and enjoying it.

Unfortunately for him, you need to live just a little longer. Quickly, you jut your head up to force the front of your helmet off of your lips. You begin to move your lips, pretending to speak low and weak. As you planned, the hunter stares at you, perplexed. “Huh?” he asks himself.

He leans down closer to hear you, getting closer…and closer…until you are able to press your lips to his in a forceful kiss. He moans in shock and immediately pulls away, wiping his mouth.

“What the hell?!” he angrily bellows. “Why did you…” His rageful expression suddenly vanishes and he blinks at you as if seeing you for the first time. Your attack worked. “What did you do?” he asks, bewildered.

You use that chance to kick him in the balls and make a break for it. You scramble to your feet and teleport as far as you can come from him, but you don’t get to stand in your freedom for too long. Before you can teleport back to the safety of your castle, you scream as you’re suddenly yanked into the air as if pulled up by strings like a puppet.

The world turns upside down and you realize that you’re hanging in the air headfirst! You try to move, but you can’t. Your arms are stuck at your sides and your legs are immoble as you hang in thinair. ‘I can’t move!’ you think in a panic. ‘Shit, this is bad!’

You begin to hyperventilate as the dark-haired hunter comes waltzing over after recovering from your ball shot…but he isn’t alone. Someone else appears in front of him, beating him to you.

A very tall, very hot someone with stark white hair, a blindfold, and a playful smile on his pink lips. “Head over heels for me already?” he tuts. “My, my…and you don’t even know my name yet!” His voice is not as deep as his fellow hunter’s, but it is just as seductive and seems to make you throb.

You can’t dwell on it for too long because both hunters have gotten closer to you, watching you hang suspended in the air with peaked interest.

“Cheater,” the dark-haired one growls. “You can’t steal my kill, Gojo. I had her first.”

Gojo, the white-haired hottie, turns to face his colleague. “And you failed. Hate the game, not the player, Jinwoo. And I’m not gonna kill her just yet–I’ve got some questions for her first.” He turns to you, inspecting you despite his blindfold. You don’t understand how he can even sense you with the blindfold on, but then again, you figure that he is just as powerful as Jinwoo. “I know you’ve got a face under there.” He cocks his head to the side, curious and seductive. “You wanna take off that helmet and face me?”

You keep quiet despite something in your subconscious telling you to do it. Telling you to give in to the strange, sexy hunter and his partner. But you say nothing. “C’mooon, I know you don’t wanna die,” Gojo drawls. “Boss or not, you’ve still got a life.” He then takes a hand and glides it across the metal of your helmet. “So you may wanna watch your behavior if you don’t wanna piss me off,” he whispers.

Again, you say nothing. Instead, you wait until he slowly peels the slot to your mouth upward to plant the same kiss you gave Jinwoo onto his lips. He yelps in shock, immediately pulling away. “Da fuck?!” he angrily shouts and Jinwoo covers his mouth to hide a laugh.

A strange, dangerous blue light suddenly emits from Gojo’s person and he waves his hand in a sharp cutting motion. You are slammed hard into a wall beside you and roughly turned upright to be pinned against the bricks. You feel pain explode behind your skull and on your right side, making you gasp behind your helmet. You see stars that drift in your vision, making it hard to focus on the two hunters in front of you.

Gojo tuts, shaking his head at you as if you’re an insolent child. “Do you not know stranger danger, girly? You can’t just go around kissing people you don’t…oh, fuck.” He pauses, laying a hand on his chest.

“What?” Jinwoo asks, confused. Gojo’s Adam’s Apple bobs as he roughly swallows, a warm blush coating his cheeks. “You don’t feel that shit? Like real hot and tingly?” Your eyes switch to Jinwoo, hoping to see that the same symptoms are taking effect. The dark-haired hunter’s intense eyes fall on you, narrowing. “She drugged us,” he growls.

Before you can utter a breath, he wraps a hand around your throat and slams you into the wall again, causing your scalp to slam hard against the jagged bricks. You feel something wet dripping down your neck and you realize that you’re bleeding. Jinwoo’s eyes are positively murderous, with no humanity left in them. You’re going to die if you don’t say something.

“S-Stop!” you cough, desperate and in anguish. “Please stop! I give up, okay?!” Jinwoo’s brows scrunch in confusion. “Oh, so you’re talkin’ now?” Gojo huffs. He goes to say more, but Jinwoo raises a hand to stop him. He loosens his grip on your throat, but still keeps his hand there. “Reveal yourself,” he demands you.

You don’t know if it is free will or if he hypnotized you to some degree, but you find yourself taking off your helmet with shaky hands. The hunters’ eyes widen at the sight of your face, not at all ghastly like many of the Bosses they have encountered before. “Damn,” they both murmur to themselves.

You do not focus on the way their eyes roam over your features or the fact their cheeks have grown pinker. You just want to live. “I-I give up,” you sob, dropping your helmet to the ground. “I completely give in to you both. This win is yours. Just please…don’t kill me.”

You feel tears prick at your eyes as the blood trickles down your neck under your armor. Your right side aches like someone just took a blow to it. You are in no shape to fight or attempt to escape. You can’t even begin to think about teleporting away. Your energy is completely gone.

Jinwoo raises an eyebrow at your begging. “And why shouldn’t we?” he asks. “You tried to kill us, didn’t you?”

“I was forced to!” you cry out, tears springing into your eyes now. “I can’t think of anything else, but to–” You suddenly grunt, your body tensing at the spark of pain in your side. You feel as if you have been stabbed. What is happening to you? The hunters stare in concern and suspicion, both trying to decide if you are being truthful. “P-Please help,” you plead. “I don’t wanna be like this.”

After a beat of silence, Jinwoo drops his hand from your throat. You slide down against the wall before you crumble to your knees, unable to find the strength to get up. “You want us to help you, then you help me,” he cooly replies. He and Gojo stand over you, looming like two storm clouds. “Answer me this: What is it that makes you wanna kill hunters? Why are you here?”

“And why did your gate go red so quickly?” Gojo adds. “What’s goin’ on here?”

“W-What?” you whimper, your mind scrambled. “I-I don’t know!” You flinch as you feel your head throb with the onslaught of an oncoming migraine.

Jinwoo suddenly kneels in front of you, his face inches from yours. “Wrong answer.” His eyes flash that same electric blue that has haunted you for nights now. “Why. Are. You. Here?” His voice echoes in your head, making your head throb even more.

‘Why am I here?’ you think. ‘Why am I here?’

You can’t remember. How exactly did you get here? Who were you before all of this? And why do you feel so drawn to these two men that you’ve never met before?

Suddenly, that mantra comes back. The only thing you remember from the past that you’re not even sure belongs to you: “Kill. All. Humans.”

You grunt again and press a hand to your right side. Your hand comes back stained with blood. You turn to Jinwoo to ask for help, but another voice unlike yours leaves your lips. “Subject has reached completion of speech,” an automated, robotic voice says out of your mouth.

Then, all you see is blackness when you pass out in the arms of Jinwoo.

***********

Taglist: @leviackerman2030 @emonaculate @lnette04

#black fanfic writer #smutty smut #my works #black coded reader #black writers #my fic shit #jjk smut #poly smut #solo leveling smut #jinwoo sung x reader #sung jinwoo smut #solo leveling x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo satoru #sung jin woo #anime crossover #anime smut

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almostempty · 9 months ago

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Paris, Texas pt. 2

aka: 2 Texans, 1 Lady 🎀 The joel x javi x f!reader threesome PART 2!!

WC: 8k | Other fics | Rating: 18+ | Read on Ao3 | PART ONE

Paris, Texas the video by my love

this one goes out to my fellow mlm fans and voyeurs, i hope it’s everything you wanted and more <3; dedicated to everyone that gets a tag bc i love you 5ever

Summary: Joel, still struggling with his conflicting feelings about the threesome with Javier, gets a surprise visit at work from the man himself that leaves him even more confused. After a week of seeing Javier in his dreams, he gets another surprise visit at work.

Note: it’s pretty heavy on the m/m action so if that’s not ur thing no worries you can still have a forehead kiss from me

Tags/warnings: pwp, smut on smut on smut, internalized homophobia, dubcon joel/javi, infidelity, oral (m and f), consensual f/m sleepy oral, m/m anal, it’s not exactly a cuck chair–but there is a chair and u get to watch from it, top!joel, bottom!javi, but also switchy/vers in the future bc, respectfully, i would to experience the best of all worlds, i do not have a dick (i’m just a member of the fanclub) so if any of the m/m action is wildly inconceivable or something pls let me know i’m happy to receive feedback (spit as lube just pretend ok), some angsty guilt and shame in between the smut bc joel is still in denial, uhh dom!joel, idk if contractors have offices and i spent too long googling about it before remembering the point was the porn so pls forgive if that ruins ur immersion, tell me if i forgot something important

standard almostempty warnings at this point: unprotected sex with no consequences bc it’s fiction; f!reader is able-bodied otherwise no descriptions of skin tone, blushing, hair, idk tell me if there’s something that takes you out (physically); everyone is probably bi; no y/n, no beta just fueled by the power of adhd and delusion, if u see a mistake it was the gremlins i’m sorry

PLEASE TELL ME IF U LIKE IT OR IF U HATE IT OR IF YOU WANT MORE

Joel is buried in paperwork. Permits and invoices are stacked up on his desk in organized chaos. The week has been a disaster. He blames his low-grade headache on the deadlines and number crunching, but he knows something else makes him uneasy. He rubs the pads of his fingers between his brows as if he could massage away the stress or erase the permanent worry line carved into his features.

The noises outside his office blend into static as he recommits himself to getting caught up.

He rolls up the sleeves of his worn plaid shirt, sighing to himself before he resumes. His pen scratches across a form he doesn’t care much about when the door to his offices creaks open.

His head snaps up, looking across the room with a sharp glare. He’s not in the mood for interruptions, and he's already irritated at being stuck behind a desk playing catch-up. He isn’t expecting the man that enters the room. Stifling a surprised noise, he narrows his eyes to a sharp glare. He’s not in the mood for work-related afternoon interruptions, let alone a surprise visitor.

“So, this is the boss’s office?” Javier’s voice is smooth like he didn’t just appear out of nowhere and uninvited.

“Yep,” Joel mutters, grip on his pen tightening in his fingers. Dropping his eyes back to his work, considering ignoring the man. Maybe he can will away the pest by avoiding eye contact and ignoring the intruder sizing up his space.

Javier scans the sparse office. Empty walls, bare bones, and practical.

Joel assumes he’ll have a snarky comment about the size of the room or the view. He keeps flipping through the paperwork in his hand, braced for Javier’s attitude. Joel is tense and prepared to snap back, but his shoulders are tight and stiff as if he’s been sleeping on concrete for a week.

The signature scent of Javier, spicy and smoky, fills the air. The fragrance stirs Joel's memories and causes a visceral reaction. It makes his gut churn and fingers itch with restlessness.

The last–and only–time he’s seen Javier plays out like a well-edited montage. New images flash every time he blinks. Dark eyes. Sweat glistening on Javier’s chest. Lips, tongues, and teeth, he tries to subtly shake the thoughts out of his head.

Javier drops into the chair in front of the desk, eyeing Joel with a casual bravado. He crosses one leg over the other, resting his ankle along his knee in his dark jeans and rusty red button-down. He links his hands behind his head as if he’s prepared to settle in and bask in Joel’s discomfort.

Javier’s eyes roam over Joel’s desk. “You don’t have a secretary for all that paperwork?” he muses. A smile pulls at the corner of Javier’s mouth that Joel could sense without looking at him. He can feel the heat of Javer’s gaze pouring over the desk between them, making the air feel heavy, thick with something unsaid.

Joel can feel his pulse jump in his throat, chest constricted. “Nope.” He hoped his clipped tone would push Javier out of the room, but that hope flickers and dies when he takes in the nonchalant sight. Irritation spikes in Joel at the whole disturbance. He’s not interested in letting Javier take up residence in his office. Or his mind.

“You need somethin’?” Joel’s throat feels dry as he spits out the blunt question. He flips through the next invoice without processing a single word on the page. He’s tired and has a low threshold after a week of poor sleep. Though, he’d never admit, except maybe to you, that he’s easily irritated even with a good night of rest. But you always slice right through his grumpy shell.

“Just in the neighborhood,” Javier drawls, “thought I’d stop by.”

“Right.” Joel rolls his eyes, ”We supposed to be friends now?” Or what? Something more?

Javier shrugs casually, like that’s up to Joel to decide.

Joel tosses his pen and paperwork onto his desk. He takes a breath, forcing his features into something neutral. The night you brought Javier into your home, and your bed has haunted him. Made it so he couldn’t think straight. Tortured him, not with regret, but with the messy, tangled knot of shame and desire.

Now Javier is here. In the flesh. Self-satisfied and content, watching Joel and waiting expectantly. Waiting for what?

“Is staring me down part of your ex-cop deal? You come here uninvited to interrogate me or something?” Joel accuses with annoyance in his eyes.

“I don’t need to interrogate you,” Javier answers, mellow and cloying, “already know what you want.” He shifts, leaning forward, speaking quieter. “Just wanted to see if you’ve figured it out yet.”

Joel works his jaw as he crosses his arms. A brick wall of resistance. The fuck is that supposed to mean?

He clocks when Javier’s eyes lower, tracing the line of his arms, the same way you do when you catch Joel in a mood. You so easily diffuse his anger, disarming him with your wit or completely dismantling him with your body, unlike the instigator in front of him, who seems to only get under Joel’s skin.

Joel lets out a deep sigh. Javier isn’t here to be friends.

“It was what she wanted,” Joel says, his eyes hard, his voice firm. It felt like a weak excuse the second the words left his mouth. Shit.

Javier can taste the blood in the water. His eyes glint at the thrill of the chase. “Is that all?”

The room feels like it’s shrinking. Heat crawls up the back of Joel’s neck, anger entwined with something else he refuses to name. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he replies, standing up from his chair, trying to tower over Javier in some pathetic attempt at dominance.

A move he immediately regrets.

Javier also stands, circling around the side of the desk to look Joel up and down. Boldly. He admires Contractor Joel. The way he fills out his well-fitted work jeans, the way his deep green plaid hugs his broad shoulders and strains around his biceps as he crosses his arms again.

The workwear suits him. A strikingly masculine figure. Powerful and seductive. Tempting Javier just by existing. “I get it,” Javier murmurs to himself, understanding what you’d mean when you first described Joel. The disgruntled expression, the furrowed brows and sharp eyes–he only makes it worse.

“Always thought the whole construction thing was a cheesy porn gimmick,” Javier admits, “you could pull it off though. You got the toolbelt and the hat?”

“You can leave,” Joel replies dryly.

Ignoring Joel, Javier steps closer, “I’m just saying,” he rests a finger on Joel’s shoulder, drawing a line down towards his chest. Joel’s body is rigid, the contact searing his skin even through the soft material of his shirt. “You look good. This is your color,” he tugs at the dark green fabric below Joel’s throat. He drops his hand, and Joel feels like the earth could swallow him whole.

Javier’s mock compliments make Joel’s stomach flip before he steels himself again. Javier flashes a diabolical smile, catching the flare of Joel’s eyes and the hard swallow of whatever retort he couldn’t muster.

“You’re really trying to convince yourself, aren’t you?” Javier’s voice is dripping with mock sympathy.

Violent, intrusive thoughts race through Joel’s mind—socking Javier in the jaw to wipe that smug look off his face, grabbing him by the collar and running him through the wall, slamming him onto the desk. Face down so he could lean over his body and tell him, hot breath on the back of his neck, that he’s about to learn to watch his mouth.

Joel’s hands flex, knuckles popping, and heat stirs at the base of his spine at the dark desires. Suddenly, very aware of their close proximity. Close enough to feel the heat of Javier’s body, and to see the unwavering confidence in his face.

Amused by Joel’s volatility, Javier scoffs gently. His warm breath fans between them, and a smirk spreads on his face. Out of context, it’s only a gentle tease. A flirty smile and charged moment. But to Joel, strained like the last barricade holding back a beast, it’s too much. He snaps, and the beast gnashes its teeth.

“Get fucked,” Joel’s voice is a rumbly, low growl.

Javier’s smirk blooms into a Cheshire Cat grin. “I’d ask if you were offering, but I don’t think you’ve got it in you.”

Blood pounds in Joel’s ears. Drowning out the voice that wonders why Javier can rile him up so easily. The reminder that he’s got no reason to be jealous. That you’ve done nothing to make him worry.

“You were only doing it for her, huh?” Javier’s voice was quieter but still laced with danger.

Joel’s jaw is clenched tight when he replies, “Yep.” It doesn’t carry the conviction he needed to convey.

“Shame she isn’t here now, then,” Javier keeps pressing. The honesty in his tone throws Joel off.

“Would do anything for her,” Joel adds, softening fractionally at the truth in it.

“Anything?” Javier repeats.

“S’right.”

“For her.”

“For her,” Joel nods in agreement. Letting out a breath, he didn’t realize he had been holding. Javier rocks back on his heels like he’s about to turn and stroll away, satisfied by God knows what part of that interaction.

But he pauses.

Time feels weighted until Javier moves in closer. Another smile breaks across his face at how easily he can shock Joel into a trance with his audacity. Acting in defiance of all of Joel’s words.

His hand snakes up Joel’s chest until his fingers are slipping between the curls at the base of his skull. He leans in close, lips ghosting over the shell of Joel’s ear, “Is this for her too?” He shifts back half a step, and with the hand on the back of Joel’s head, he urges him to look down.

Javier’s hand had moved between them, palming the bulge in Joel’s jeans, his fingers pressing against his erection through the denim. Joel’s lips part, his whole body jerking forward instinctively, and a low groan rumbles in his chest before he can stop it.

Javier’s smirk deepened. “That’s what I thought.”

For a moment, Joel’s mind blanks out, lost in the haze of physical sensation. His body reacts before his brain catches up.

“The fuck are you doing?” Joel snaps, grabbing Javier’s wrist and yanking it away. His voice is hoarse, breath ragged.

“Anyone could walk in here.”

Javier didn’t pull away; he didn’t flinch. His head cocks in contemplation at Joel’s specific reasoning.

Leaning in closer, Javier’s voice drips with amusement. “You’re afraid of them?” he nods towards the door. “Worried about what? That your crew is gonna find out their boss likes cock?” he laughs softly, a dark, teasing sound.

Joel’s chest heaves, heart pounding. Anger, lust, and frustration all swirling together inside of him.

“You think they won’t take orders from you if they hear the noises you make for me?”

He knows Javier is running his mouth to provoke him. But it works on him anyway. Joel huffs dismissively, without a thought, “You think I’d make a sound for you?”

“I think you’ll beg me to stop before you do.”

Before he can dwell on the ramifications, Joel acts on impulse. Stepping back, his face hardening as he stares Javier down. That smug bastard. He’s consumed with a defiant urge to remove that smirk from Javier’s face.

“On your knees,” he orders, his voice cold, flat, and restrained.

Javier’s eyebrow raises, lips curling into a lazy smile. “Why, Joel?” he asks, voice playful.

“You know why.” The presumption is underscored by the sound of Joel’s belt clinking before he unzips his jeans. He grips the base of his thick cock, menacing and erotic, as he keeps his hard gaze on Javier.

He accepts the challenge, kneeling slowly, never breaking eye contact.

“Yeah,” Javier murmurs, “you look even better like this. All frustrated and desperate to be touched.” His voice is thick and low, like molasses. Almost reverent, but at the same time gloating, as if Javier’s only proving himself right. It’s infuriating to Joel that the man can so freely express his desire and rile Joel up further with the same words.

Javier’s hand covers Joel’s as he gives Joel’s cock an experimental stroke. Joel hisses through clenched teeth, slamming his eyes shut and tilting his head up to break the eye contact. To sever the intimacy. He’s taut, impatient, and ready to snap.

Until Javier’s lips wrap around his weeping tip, and they both groan in unison at the sensation. The wet heat of his mouth sends a sharp throb of pleasure through Joel. The intensity causes his hand to shoot out to his desk, fingers digging into the edge in an attempt to ground himself.

But it’s no use.

Javier knows exactly what he’s doing, taking him deep, fast, his mouth warm and eager. His hands work in symphony with his mouth, twisting around his length, massaging at his thighs and hips, deliberate and competent. He has nothing to be shy or restrained about.

Sinking into the pleasure, Joel starts to reason with himself. A mouth is a mouth, he can allow himself to have this, to let himself enjoy it.

And he does.

Javier’s tongue teases underneath the sensitive head of Joel’s cock before he slides past his lips, along the flat of his tongue, and deep into his throat. It’s good. Why is it so fucking good? Joel’s head tips back down, blinking his eyes open. His body shudders.

It’s not just a mouth.

Seeing Javier’s head bobbing, his cock disappearing past the man’s lips, it stirs something wild and untamed within him.

It’s a mistake to finally look. To really watch, taking it all in. The handsome features on Javier’s face, the unapologetic pleasure he takes from every reaction he pulls from Joel’s body. The strength and finesse of his hands are so different from you. He’s drawn to follow the movement of Javier’s hand dropping to readjust himself, to ease the pressure on his own aching cock.

The brief friction looses a moan from Javier, vibrating around Joel’s length. It’s undeniably fucking hot. Joel’s control slips, possessed by his urges.

He reaches for Javier’s face to cup his jaw and hold him still. And he gives in. Fucking into Javier’s mouth, hips jerking recklessly. It’s a desperate strain to tamp down the groans clawing at his throat, and it doesn’t help when Javier watches him with his half-lidded eyes. No.

“Shit,” he admonishes himself. Suppressing the captivating draw he feels. He tries to find focus, to keep it together–but there’s a loud knock that staggers him.

A voice, muffled outside of his office door, shouts to him, “There’s a vendor here, says he needs your sign-off.”

Joel’s breath hitches, “Fuck,” he spits, hands grasping the desk and Javier’s jaw, forcing out a coherent response. “Be there in a minute!” he calls out, voice strangled.

Javier doesn’t stop. He doubles down, hollowing his cheeks and greedily coaxing Joel to lose control. And, of course, he does. Joel’s climax hits fast and hard. His last attempts to stifle any noises falter. He gasps, body jerking as he comes, spilling into Javier’s mouth.

Dazed, he can only blink as Javier pulls away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking.

“Seems to me like that was just for you.”

Joel is wrecked, leaning against the desk, his heart racing. He doesn’t have time to process anything before Javier kisses him—brief, chaste, leaving behind the taste of himself on his lips.

“Better get out there before anyone worries, boss,” Javier whispers with a wink before walking out of the office, leaving Joel standing there, stunned, unable to move.

As the door clicks shut behind him, Joel isn’t sure if the knot in his stomach is anger, guilt, or worse, wanting more.

Seems to me like that was just for you.

It echoes, slowly settling over Joel.

He nearly doubles over when the reality finally hits. His thoughts race, consumed by the thought of you. What did he just do?

…………..

Joel is wracked with guilt and misery for days. Suffering in his own self-imposed torment.

He needs to tell you, but he can’t figure out how. There’s no version of, “Hey baby, you know the guy from the threesome? The one that I threatened to kick out of the house? Well, he showed up to my office, and I may have come down his throat before he disappeared without a trace like a dick-sucking fairy.” that he can come up with that sounds redeemable.

Worse, he still can’t get over the guilt and shame of how it even happened. Seduced by another man? He can’t fathom the reality that another man could turn him on, refuting the way he felt when he watched Javier sink to his knees. And rejecting the truth when his cock stirs at just the memory. Joel is at a complete loss for how to explain it away.

It fucks with his sleep. He jolts awake in the middle of the night, aching and hard and furious that Javier has invaded his dreams. He sits up in bed, dragging his hands over his face. And you stir, always attuned to him.

You’re warm and sleepy, but concern washes over you in the moonlight.

“Can’t sleep?” you murmur, reaching out to pull him towards you. “What do you need?” Always so grounded, so considerate. It twists the guilt inside of him. He tries to erase his self-loathing and reassure you, to ease you back to sleep.

You aren’t quite conscious enough to listen, but when you shuffle beneath the sheets to cuddle up to your man, you gasp when you accidentally brush over his hard cock. Not because it’s a shock to find, but because in your barely lucid state, you’re uninhibited. Earnestly expressing the desire his arousal sparks in you.

“Use me,” you whisper, slow and syrupy. Difficult to deny.

“No, baby, it’s okay. Go back to sleep,” Joel argues softly.

You roll over, muffling a low whine into your pillow, before turning back towards Joel. You can make out his profile in the dim glow of the room. You can feel the resistance, but you give it another shot.

“It’s not okay,” you grumble, and his head jerks towards you, “can’t go back to sleep now, you’ve got me all wet already.”

“Okay,” he gives in like he could ever hold out on you anyway. He pulls back the sheet, exposing your sleep-warmed skin to the cooler air. Running his palm down your spine as you melt face down on the bed. He crawls overtop of you, straddling behind the curve of your ass, before lowering himself, caging you under his body.

The skin contact is overwhelmingly intimate as he presses soft kisses to your neck and shoulders. You settle with ease and whine softly into the dark room as he rubs his cock along your slick folds. He continues, grunting in his own pleasure, as he glides along your seam, soaking in the sensation of you. Wet and needy from his touch. Until your legs are twitching and your whines grow louder, impatient, and sharp until he hears you say his name. When you plead for him to fuck you already.

Then. He adjusts and sinks slowly into you, filling you inch by inch, grinding languidly against your plush body.

You’re soft. Warm and wet. You take him so well, and he knows how to find the angles to make you shake and cry out for him. Now he chases it, needing to please you, to give himself to you. He plunges into you deeply, whispering praise against your skin until you’re shuddering and gasping beneath him. He nearly comes with you, but when the thought of Javier pops up, he falters. He pulls out of you and gently flips you over.

“Sleep,” he commands as he settles between your legs, and you let it take you. Drifting off before you can process that he didn’t finish. Content to dream about Joel’s tongue dipping into your fluttering entrance and his hands spreading your legs wider.

Joel stays between your legs, making your dream a reality. Trying to purify himself by worshipping you. Pouring his sins out between your thighs. Seeking forgiveness through your pleasure until he’s too tired to dream.

He’s convinced this method will work. That eventually, he’ll forget about Javier altogether. But Joel underestimates how deeply the other man has sunk his claws into the back of his mind. It’s unsustainable, and his exhaustion becomes more and more apparent throughout the week.

Despite thinking he’s able to cover up his internal torment, you always seem to know when something is wrong. You don’t push. You’re patient and gentle with him. It adds to his guilt.

You help out in any way you can. Commenting that he seems stressed and tired but never asking for an explanation. You let him stew on his own emotional nightmare in solitude. As he prefers.

For now.

When Joel admits to you on Friday night that he’s behind at work, you simply nod. He doesn’t argue when you offer to bring lunch to him the next day. But he can barely meet your eyes when you smile and trail off about how you know just what will help him get through the day.

You tell him decisively that he deserves to finish up early if he’s going to the office on a Saturday. He can only nod. Determined to spend the morning figuring out how to confess to you. With words.

He’s still in a haze of fatigue the next day. Despite the rest of the office being quiet, his head is loud and buzzing. Likely the reason he’s so taken off guard when the door to his office swings open.

“Working on the weekend?”

Joel’s pulse spikes as the sound of Javier’s voice fills the room, smooth and mischevous.

Anger floods his bloodstream and cuts through the fog of shame that had been clouding his vision. Joel crosses his arms and levels a ruthless glare at the man leaning against the doorframe.

Javier should be the one that looks out of place. Overdressed for the occasion, in the wrong place. But he stands confidently, neatly groomed, and polished. His dark blue collared shirt and fitted jeans highlight his broad shoulders. He looks like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be, and his expression says he knows it.

“No,” Joel says gruffly. Unperturbed, Javier sails into the room.

“I don’t have time for this. Get out.” Joel says, his voice low, dangerous. He stands, hips leaning against his desk, prepared to back up his threat. His tolerance is already out the window for Javier.

Javier shrugs, movements so fluid in relation to Joel’s fixed demeanor.

“You didn’t say please.” His smirk is maddening. Joel’s fuse is short. He’s not interested in games. Not interested in having anything to do with his surprise guest at all. But he doesn’t move. Words caught in his throat.

“Besides,” Javier continues breezily, “you aren’t very convincing. I told you last time, I like this look on you, all mad and–”

Joel feels thorns clawing at his throat. Furious that his nerves flutter in response to Javier’s backward flattery. He can’t be thinking straight, that’s all.

In fact, it’s damned near impossible to think when Javier keeps running his mouth, pushing every button he’s got.

“Fuck you,” Joel hisses, vibrating with frustration, cutting off whatever Javier’s next words would have been.

Amused by the interruption, Javier’s smile widens, eyes gleaming. “Mm,” he purrs, stepping closer, “You would like to, wouldn’t you?”

That’s it.

Joel snaps, his hand shoots out, grabbing Javier by the front of his shirt and shoving him roughly against the nearest wall. The loud thud of Javier’s back hitting the drywall echoes in the small office. But the smirk on Javier’s face only deepens.

“Touchy today, aren’t you?” Javier teases, breath coming out in a soft laugh. His body is pinned between the wall and Joel’s, but he doesn’t seem fazed. In fact, he looks pleased with the predicament.

Joel’s breath is coming out hard and fast, fists still gripping the fabric of Javier’s shirt. This is the last person he wants to see right now. He seethes. Pent up and compressed into a dangerous coil.

“You think this is funny?” Joel snarls, his face mere inches from Javier’s.

Javier’s smile softens into something darker, more intimate. “A little,” he admits, leaning in just enough that their noses almost brush. “But, you seem to be taking it pretty seriously.” Javier shifts under Joel’s grip, his hands skirting up Joel’s waist. “You’re so worked up.”

Joel grits his teeth, a ferocious-looking expression that only eggs Javier on.

Dropping to a whisper to demand that Joel listens closely, Javier adds, “Maybe you’re not mad at me at all.”

Before Joel can snap back, Javier shifts, movements effortless and exact.

In an instant, Joel finds himself flipped, his back flat against the wall, slammed with a force that he wasn’t expecting. Javier’s arm presses across Joel’s chest, and his hips press against Joel’s in a way that sends a hot wave of need shooting down Joel’s spine.

“Maybe,” Javier murmurs, lips to Joel’s ear, “you’re just mad at yourself.” Javier rocks his hips into Joel’s, grinding against his body in a slow, deliberate motion. A shudder ripples through Joel’s frame, even as his mind rebels against the thrill. “Denying the truth.” He emphasizes his point, pelvis pressing into Joel’s hardening cock, rolling his hips again. “Denying the pleasure.”

No. Joel holds out. He isn’t going there. Not now, not ever.

But damn, the way Javier has him, the heat of his body against Joel’s. It tugs at the tangled knot of confusion in his chest. The knot that’s close to unraveling.

“Fuck you,” Joel spits again, but it lacks the venom from earlier. His voice is a little shaky, resolve crumbling the longer Javier stays this close.

Javier smiles, his lips brushing against Joel’s jaw. “Say it, Joel.” He’s all-consuming, like a tidal wave crashing over and destroying all of Joel’s hastily constructed defenses. Javier is a relentless force.

“Say it,” Javier demands. “I already know. Knew the first night we met,” he murmurs. “Just need to hear you say it.”

Joel’s heart pounds against his chest, and his mind races. He wants to shove Javier off, wants to do anything other than stand there and feel his body respond to every damn word Javier says. Instead, he can’t seem to do anything. Can’t stop the muscles spasming in his core, or the way his chest heaves under Javier’s arm.

“You can’t, though,” Javier whispers, his voice a dark, teasing rumble. He drops his arm, releasing Joel from his hold. “Such a shame. I wanted to know what you could do with that pretty cock of yours.”

That was the last straw.

Joel grabs Javier by the waist, roughly spinning him around, and shoving him face-first onto the desk.

“You wanna know what I can do with it?” his voice is harsh and wild.

A reckless energy blazes between them. He pushes Javier down, leaning over him, chest pressed into Javier’s back. One hand snakes down Javier’s side, stopping at his hip. The other hand firmly planted on the back of Javier’s neck, pinning him down.

Javier catches his breath. He doesn’t resist. If anything, he leans into it, arching his back, breath coming out in soft pants as Joel’s firm body boxes him in. With their bodies pressed tightly together, Joel’s straining erection isn’t subtle. “That’s more like it,” Javier murmurs, breathless but still smug.

“Shut up,” Joel’s voice is hoarse. He is losing himself in it, the heat, the tension. Javier’s solid, toned body beneath his. He doesn’t want to think anymore. Doesn’t want to feel. He just wants to take control. To push past all the noise in his head.

His body is on fire. Adrenaline, testosterone, and arousal all surge through him. Heightening every sensation, forcing him to be present. Rooted in his physicality.

Gritting his teeth, Joel’s hands grip Javier tighter, a bruising force.

“You’re gonna be good now,” Joel orders, “For me.” His voice is rough dark, and he doesn’t bother trying to hide the anger—or the heat—coursing through him. He can’t deny it right now, not when it burns so intensely.

He shifts his stance behind Javier, grinding his hips forward and feeling how Javier’s body responds. How he invites the contact and braces against the desk. Sweet, thick satisfaction pools at the base of Joel’s spine.

Javier is still mouthing off, taunting Joel. Despite his voice sounding more breathless, it still brims with arrogance. “For you,” Javier repeats Joel’s words. “I thought it was all just for her? Have you changed your mind now?”

Joel doesn’t answer. He’s too far gone. His hands move to the waistband of Javier’s jeans, yanking them down roughly, exposing the curve of his ass. Javier lets out a small gasp but doesn’t protest. In fact, Joel can feel the anticipation humming in Javier’s body, and he’s amused when Javier presses back as if he needs to dare Joel to go further. As if he could stop now.

Curling over Javier’s body, Joel presses his fingers to Javier’s mouth. “Suck.” Javier complies, allowing Joel to slip two fingers past his lips. Javier lets a hum vibrate around Joel’s fingers that causes Joel to roll his hips, grinding his still-clothed erection against Javier.

Losing the war with himself, Joel takes out his resentment on Javier. He hooks his fingers into Javier’s cheek–jerking his head to the side. He glowers at the signs of arousal on Javier’s face. The undignified hunger.

Remnants of disgust curdle in Joel’s gut. “You’re fuckin’ sick,” he accuses in a husky whisper, removing his fingers and straightening, breaking the eye contact that stirred something fierce and hot in his veins.

Accusations aside, Joel continues. He watches, smirking to himself, as Javier tenses at the sudden contact when Joel runs his hand over the curve of his ass. He takes his time. Enjoying his own exploration of Javier’s body. Smooth skin and firm and muscular.

When he slowly pushes a finger inside, Javier’s body tenses at first, but Joel is persistent, working in deeper and stretching him open.

Javier lets out a soft moan, still managing to sound smug even with the sharp gasp that follows. “You act all pissed,” Javier’s whispers, “but you love this.” His voice drips like warm honey with a teasing bite.

Joel grunts, ignoring the taunts, focusing instead on the way Javier’s body relaxes beneath him, allowing him to add another finger. Javier’s breath hitches and he drops his head onto the desk.

“Yeah,” Joel mutters, “you like that.”

His words on encourage Javier to continue, “Know you wanted this,” he breathes, “that you’ve been thinking about it since last time, since the first time.” He continues his murmuring, words spilling over Joel’s desk, “I know because you’ve been in my fuckin’ head since that night.”

“You’ve got an awful smart for someone in your position,” he continues, mindlessly flipping the attitude back at Javier, pointedly ignoring his confession.

A strained chuckle comes from Javier, his body tightening with every twist of Joel’s fingers. “You still think you’re in control here?” he breathes, voice challenging and raw. “You’ve got no idea.”

Joel pulls his fingers out abruptly, letting out a throaty growl as he shoves his jeans down just far enough to free himself. He spits in his hand, slicking himself up with rough, hurried strokes, his mind focused on the sight of Javier bent over his desk, waiting for more, begging for it.

“Let’s see if you can keep running your mouth with my cock inside you,” Joel’s voice is layered with satisfaction. A challenge. He’s firm, gripping Javier’s hips and lining himself up. The room feels still, their ragged breath the only sound filling the air.

He feeds his cock into Javier slowly. The tight heat of Javier’s body draws a guttural noise out of Joel, and he pauses for just a moment, letting the sensation wash over him. Then he pushes in deeper, inch by inch.

Javier lets out a sharp moan, hands balling into fists against the flat top of the desk. “Fuck,” he breathes, and this time there’s no teasing edge, just raw need.

Holding still while they both catch their breath, Joel’s hands dig tightly into Javier’s hips, anchoring the two of them together. He buries himself to the hilt, savoring the overwhelming sensation of heat and friction.

And then he starts to move.

Slowly, at first. Deliberate. He moves with measured control, hips snapping forward, pushing deeper with every stroke. Javier groans beneath him, then manages to mumble something about Joel being desperate, about how much he wanted this, but the words are broken, breathless.

“Yeah?” Joel growls, picking up the pace, his movements growing rougher, harder. “That’s what you think?”

Javier’s body jerks with each powerful thrust, breath coming in short bursts. “I know it,” he rasps, his grip on the desk tightening as Joel relentlessly continues. Slamming into him harder now, control beginning to slip.

“You talk too much,” Joel decides, pounding harshly into Javier, reveling in the sweet clench as his pelvis meets Javier’s ass. He’s entranced by the sensation, the skin-to-skin contact, the heat, sweat, and musk.

Joel feels reckless. Intoxicated with the rush of adrenaline and dopamine. Chasing an escape and taking it out on Javier. He is distantly aware that Javier has stopped with his taunting. The only sound either of them makes are low groans and throaty grunts as he pounds into the man beneath him.

So absorbed with the immorality and the thrill he’s blind to the rest of the world and the rest of the room.

Until the door opens.

Joel freezes, his heart dropping into his stomach.

It’s you.

You shut the door, locking it, before turning back to face both men. Joel’s mind goes blank. His body is still pressed against Javier, his hands still grip his hips, his body flush against his.

For a split second, he thinks he can pull away and cover up the situation somehow, but there is nothing that can explain this away. No excuse. No cover story. His body runs cold, at a loss for words, mouth agape.

Then he sees the look on your face.

You stand still, like a prey animal caught in the line of sight of two apex predators. You can see the fear in Joel’s eyes, and your heart lurches, aching to comfort him. But the rest of the scene has you stopped in your tracks.

Joel sees your eyes widen; your breath is shallow, but there’s no shock. No confusion or hurt. Just a raw, undeniable hunger. You aren’t prey.

You stand, taking in the sight of Joel fucking Javier into his desk, and your lips part in a small, breathless sigh.

Javier turns to take you in, noticing the shift in the room, but he doesn’t pull away either. He is glowing, flashing his teeth with a wicked smile. The locks of hair on his forehead are damp with sweat, and his chest heaves as he remains braced atop the desk across from you.

“Look who’s here to watch. Her own private show.”

Joel swallows hard, still buried deep inside of Javier, his heart races. Adrenaline and arousal tangle together in a haze that leaves him unsure and adrift.

You step further into the room, your gaze never leaving Joel’s as you cross the room. Setting down the lunch you brought, you perch on the edge of the chair that sits in front of the desk.

“Don’t stop,” you encourage.

Joel still looks like he’s forgotten how to blink or breathe.

“The deli had a long line, and I couldn’t get parking,” you trail off a little breathlessly, watching the confusion on your man’s face.

Statuesque and still, Joel is dumbfounded that you’re talking about being late for lunch while he’s balls-deep in the man bent over his desk. Is this real life? He’s been plagued with dreams of Javier for the last two weeks, waking up hard and sweating. But they weren’t like this. None of them were like this.

“Don’t stop,” you repeat, voice dropping, sultry and encouraging. But he’s still locked in a trance.

“Can’t perform for an audience this time?” Javier quips, and Joel can hear the eye roll in his tone.

Joel swallows hard, his mind spinning. He doesn’t know what to make of this. How to handle the fact that you’re here, watching. But with the heat in your eyes and the lack of surprise, you seem so relaxed–no, you’re enjoying this.

That does something to Joel.

Something dangerous.

The invitation in your eyes sets him off.

“She said don’t stop,” Javier continues on, smirking playfully at you, pushing back against Joel.

Slowly, Joel regains feeling in his body. His hold on Javier constricting, his breath steadying, “I won’t.” He starts to move again, indulging in the sensation as he slowly drags his cock almost all of the way out before burying himself deep with a harsh snap of his hips. The motion forces a gravelly moan out of Javier that makes your cheeks hot.

Joel continues, unhurried, fixed on the expression on your face and the depravity of the situation. You have a sparkle in your eye that he’s familiar with. “You knew,” Joel states. You nod in affirmation, a grin spreading on your face.

“I set it up,” you whisper.

Your admission hangs in the air. The sex-filled, debacherously thick air. Joel's remaining hesitance dissipates as it all sinks in. Washing away the fear of being caught or ashamed. He can see the glow on your face, your eyes dark--blown out with lust, wetting your lips as you wait for more. He can ask questions later.

For you.

He tells himself, dismissing the last of the voices in the back of his mind.

You can see the gears turning in Joel’s head before something settles in, and the dark look he gives you makes your body burn up. Joel grunts, and you nearly melt, knees weak at the eroticism. It’s a good thing you’re seated.

Joel slams harder into Javier, giving in to the primal heat driving him forward. Every broken breath from Javier feeds Joel’s growing need. His intensity shoots straight to your core. Your cunt throbs between your legs. You settle back into the chair, savoring the fruits of your labor.

Your eyes trail over both men. It’s better than you could’ve imagined. You only wish you’d been in the room last week. However, getting the details from Javier kept you aching all week, even with Joel’s newly acquired midnight oral fixation.

You feel the hungry look on your face, gaze darkening as you marvel at the lewd scene. You don’t wait for Joel’s approval. Hand dipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, slipping over the seam of your pussy, already needy and wet from the debased view of the two gorgeous men.

“Oh, shit,” Javier’s eyes nearly roll back as he watches you, eyes flicking from your hand disappearing beneath your shorts and up to your face.

Your lips part, arousal flooding your body at the dynamic between both men. You watch them in awe, like your very own porn starring your two favorite men. It’s indescribably hot to see you Joel so unraveled, his teeth clenched in a feral snarl as he continues. And to see Javier so blissed out beneath him.

“Show me,” Joel’s plea sends a tingly thrill down your spine. You remove your hand from between your legs to show off the tips of your fingers, glistening from tracing your slick folds. The way both men are glued to your display gives you a different thrill, something powerful and bright that starts in your chest and flows through your body. “Show me everything, baby,” his gruff voice is irrefutable.

You slip the shorts off, spreading your legs wide and parting yourself boldly to give your men their own private show. You trace your fingers from your entrance to your clit, drawing circles and seeking relief from the pulsing need that has you already feeling precariously close to the edge.

Joel’s breath comes in harsh pants now, body slick with sweat. The desk rattles beneath them as he drives into Javier, losing himself in the rhythm, the heat, the friction, and in the sounds Javier makes–those desperate moans, ragged breaths, the way he was trembling beneath Joel, taking it all.

And all the while, Joel’s gaze flicks back to you, watching the way your breath quickens, the way you touch yourself more urgently. Like a live wire had been lit between the three of you, charging the room with an intensity Joel had never felt before.

You’re spread out in front of both of them, a vision he’ll never forget. You freely let out soft whimpers and sweet whines that drive him wild. It all surges through Joel like a fever, threatening to consume him and driving him harder into Javier, who lets out a strangled moan.

“Fuck, I’m so close,” you sound frustrated. “You have no idea how fucking hot you are like this–shit.” You watch them with rapt attention, your hand moving quickly between your legs as you touch yourself. Joel can hear the soft, slick sounds of your fingers working and can see the way your body shivers with the same need that builds inside both men.

Your soft moans fill the room, blending with Javier’s broken gasps and Joel’s deep, gruff groans, creating a symphony of debased pleasure.

“Let’s see,” Joel encourages you in a hoarse voice. You can feel all of the need radiating from both men, it’s salacious and empowering. Joel’s gaze stays on you as he pounds into Javier, watching as you arch your back slightly, fingers working faster. Your parted lips and breathless noises make Joel’s pulse pike.

“I’m gonna come,” You can’t stop drawing out deep and bright waves of pleasure as your eyes dance in a flurry between Joel and Javier, taking in every detail. You can vaguely hear Joel’s praise as you work through the sensations. Panting shallowly, you’re fixed back on them as you start to relax.

Joel’s cock throbs inside Javier as he watches you, and for a brief moment, his rhythm falters, overwhelmed by how much it was turning him on to see you like this, to know you were getting off watching him like this.

Having caught on to Joel’s shift in focus, Javier lets out a choppy laugh. His own voice cracks with need. “She likes watching you fuck me,” he says, his words slurred with pleasure. “Look at her,” he begs in earnest.

“Shut up,” Joel grits out.

But Javier only laughs again, his voice still jagged. “Can’t blame her,” he continues, testing Joel’s patience. “Told you already, that sexy angry look you get–”

Joel doesn’t let him finish. He slams forward, thrusting into him deep and hard. Cutting Javier’s words off with a loud, choked moan. “Talk too fuckin’ much,” Joel spits out roughly as he leans over, his chest pressing against Javier’s back.

Joel catches the telltale hitch in Javier’s breath, the sharp, desperate moan that slipped from his lips as his need builds, coiling tight in his gut. He slides a hand over the curve of Javier’s ass, snaking around his hip, tracing over the curls at the base of his cock, and finally wrapping his fingers around his length.

Javier’s entire body jolts, clenching tightly around Joel at the contact. Joel strokes Javier’s cock firmly, matching the rhythm of his own thrusting. He revels in the delicious sensation of Javier tensing beneath him, and his breath catches in his throat.

The display of dominance and ego keeps you enthralled. Skin ablaze as you can barely keep up with the intensity of the two of them. You sink two fingers into your throbbing cunt, aching to feel filled and as wrecked as Javier seems.

Javier’s body clenches tightly around Joel as he watches you come in front of them, for them, but Joel isn’t about to stop. “You,” Joel growls as he pulls Javier’s head back just enough to hear him better. “You’re next.”

“Just–fuck,” Javier groans, hips pushing back to meet every thrust, practically vibrating under Joel, the usual cockiness faltering and replaced with something more intimate. “Don’t stop.”

Grinning through clenched teeth, leaning forward, breath hot against Javier’s ear, Joel’s voice is velvety smooth, “I know.”

“You gonna come for me?” Joel asks, his fist tightening as he jerks Javier’s cock, his other hand holding him steady by the hips.

“Please,” you add, desperate to see them fall apart.

“You–” Javier’s head drops forward, his voice a ragged gasp. He can’t finish the sentence as Joel slams forward, his hand moving faster and harder as he feels Javier’s cock pulsing in his grip.

“Come on,” Joel taunts now, rough and demanding. “Do as you’re told for once, Javier, come for me.”

And with a sharp gasp and cry, Javier’s body tenses, his cock jerking in Joel’s hand as he comes. The sheer intensity of his release is all too much.

Javier slumps forward, panting and spent, Joel’s gaze shoots back to you. The sight of you–the way you are losing yourself in watching them–makes Joel’s entire body light up with a new intensity.

You let out another soft groan, your gaze locked on Joel’s as you touch yourself, your fingers glossy with slick arousal. “Fuck, Joel,” you whisper. “Please.”

His body reacts immediately to the sound of your voice, the sight of you so undone, and he knows he’s close. He can feel the way his cock throbs inside of Javier, the heat of his release building in his gut, tightening with every rough movement. But this. Having you here, watching pushes him to the edge in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

Hips stuttering, Joel’s orgasm tears through him. Groaning deep within his chest, his body jerks forward as he comes inside of Javier. His fingers dig so hard into Javier’s hips that he knows he’s going to leave bruises.

Javier shudders beneath him, panting, body spent, but still bracing himself against the desk as Joel rides out the last of his release, breath coming in harsh, uneven pants. He looks at you, and a grin spreads on his face. The wrung-out expression really does it for you.

Your eyes are half-lidded, face hot with arousal, fingers desperately reaching for the sensitive spot inside your cunt that Joel reaches with ease. Both men’s dark eyes rake over your body, spurring you on. Writhing under your own hands and their heady expressions.

“Goddamn,” Javier breathes raggedly, but his tone is laced with admiration as he watches you. It makes you glow. “So pretty like that.” You moan louder, body arching as you ride the edge of your release.

“Such a good girl,” Joel says. “Come for us.”

With a shattered breath, you come–moans filling the room as your core contacts in waves. Until you’re cursing and panting softly. Letting the praise flowing from Joel and Javier wash over you. You giggle softly, acknowledging you feel more cockdrunk than the two of them look despite only watching.

You feel a warmth settling between the three of you.

It makes your limbs feel loose and floaty as you smile lazily, watching both men tuck their softening cocks back into their jeans. You swell with pride. For your own luck, snagging two incredibly gorgeous men. And for successfully executing your plan.

You know there’s more work to do. You catch the awkward pauses and shuffling, but you can only allow your heart to swell as Joel helps you to your feet as if your legs stopped working. A deep-seated contentment unfurls in your chest when his arms wrap around you. And when he releases you, watching as you pull Javier towards you, you remain hopeful.

You’ve got more in mind for your two Texans.

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