#and how they both didn’t become the fathers wanted

[riboism]

prettiest virgin

》 pairing: dilf! j.yh x fem babysitter! reader

》 wc: 7.8k

》 plot: every night this summer, you fantasized about your boss, Mr. Jeong. babysitting his adorable daughter all summer had turned your small crush on the young, single dad into a lust-filled infatuation. after an awkward encounter that left you both humiliated, you did your best to keep your distance at his daughter’s birthday party. that is, until fate trapped you in a bathroom with him while the party carried on outside.

》 content: oh boy, let's see, age gap, aged up yunho, virgin reader, reader lowkey down bad and porn-obsessed, bathroom sex, mirror sex, panties stay on!! grinding, cowgirl stand and carry, yunho basically using you like a fleshlight, use of sir and good girl, filthy dirty talk, cum eating, cum facial, multiple orgasms, reader obsessed with his cum lol, thigh fucking, sucking his dick while he watches porn??? MONSTER CAWK YUNHO

》 playlist: prettiest virgin- agar agar, candy- doja cat, I fucking lust you- d'african, taste so good- sabrina claudio, less of you- omar apollo, real life- the marias

You promised yourself you wouldn’t do this again, but here you were, laying in bed with a vibrator cupped to your clit, eyes glued to your phone screen as you tapped on the first video in the big dick category. It took a while for the vibrator to buzz you the right way, but once you found your sweet spot, your head sank lower into your pillow and you had to bite your lip to keep any sounds from slipping out of your mouth. This was the fifth night in a row that you jerked off, and honestly, you were exhausted; Tired of waking up late because of your little late-night endeavors, tired of feeling gross each time your wetness leaked out and stained your panties during the day, and most of all, tired of being a virgin. 

The video you were watching had your favorite pornstar in it. The guy himself wasn’t at all your type, but his cock was pretty. And big. It’s weird to admit, but this is how you imagined Mr. Jeong’s cock looked like. You had been babysitting Mr. Jeong’s six-year-old daughter for the summer while school was out. She was an angel. Hana reminded you a lot of Bubbles from the PowerPuff Girls cartoon, with her sweet little voice and sensitive nature. You loved spending time with her. 

Yes, throughout the summer, you had developed a crush on Hana’s Dad. How could you not? He was everything a man ought to be— tall, handsome, and kind. His being a good father was just a plus in your eyes. He worked from home, so you’d see him occasionally throughout the day. During his break, he’d come downstairs from his home office to color with Hana for a few minutes. During lunch, you’d sit with them on the patio, watching with heart eyes as he wiped ketchup off of her little mouth. 

Lately, your infatuation has become all-consuming, and you resorted to buying a vibrator from Amazon to help ease your frustrations. And that’s when this little habit of yours began. It felt odd, at first. You didn’t want to be the type of person who watches porn every night for hours, imagining your boss doing all these things to you. It just sort of happened. And instead of easing your frustrations, it made them worse. 

You hated being a virgin. Vibrators weren’t enough. You, for lack of a better term, needed to be dicked down. Preferably by Mr. Jeong, but that would only happen in your wildest dreams. It wasn’t like he made it easy for you. Yesterday for example, when you were preparing Hana’s PB&J, Mr. Jeong reached over your head to grab a mug from the cupboard above you. “Behind you,” he alerted, his fingers grazing over your waist as he pulled his coffee mug out. You stood frozen, the place where he touched you burning hot on your skin. 

Every time he touches you, whether it’s the accidental brush of his fingers when he hands you your check or the deliberate weight of his hand on your shoulder as he thanks you at the end of the day, it only makes you crave him more and more.

The video you were watching had an obvious size kink going on. The male pornstar was huge, and he was able to pick up his petite partner and fuck into her with ease. Your thighs clenched thinking about Mr. Jeong picking you up like that and pumping you up and down his length, stuffing just the tip of his big cock into you because that’s all that could fit. Your core tightened, and your orgasm was imminent, until…

It died. Your vibrator died. 

“Oh, fuck off!” You cursed, slamming your head back into your pillow. Stupid cheap fucking vibrator. Here’s to another night of being a lonely, twenty-something virgin, going to bed unsatisfied and unwanted. You sighed, exasperated.

Mr. Jeong was older. You didn’t know much about his wife. It was a sensitive topic for him. And Hana was too young to remember her final moments. He couldn’t possibly want anything to do with you, and instead, you filled your head with unrealistic fantasies to keep yourself up at night and made yourself cum to them. Maybe you wouldn’t be so miserable if you were around more boys your age. 

Too tired to continue with your fingers, you shifted to your side and tried to make yourself comfortable. It was 4 in the morning now, which meant you’d only get about 3 hours tonight. Just great, you thought to yourself, waiting for the exhaustion to finally lull you to sleep. 

—

You were rather sluggish today, struggling to keep your eyes open as you drove to Mr. Jeong’s house. The cold brew you picked up before heading over there wasn’t much help. Instead, it just made you even more tired. I need to stop jerking off before bed, you told yourself. Luckily, it was Friday, which meant you had enough time to catch up on the lost hours of sleep this weekend. 

You sighed as you measured out the detergent to wash Hana’s favorite tutu, the warm and fuzzy smell of fabric softener reminding you of your blanket at home, making you want to sleep even more. Hana got upset this morning before you dropped her off to ballet practice when some syrup from her drive-thru pancakes dripped onto her tutu. To quiet her tantrum, you promised her you’d go back home to wash it so it's nice and clean for her to wear when she comes back, and that you’d also bring her second favorite tutu for practice— a purplish-blue one with pink glitter dusted around it. It didn’t feel right just washing one piece of clothing, so you decided to go upstairs and quickly grab the dirty clothes from Hana and Mr. Jeong’s hampers. 

You yawned as you made your way up the stairs, stopping by Hana’s room first. Her room was, as always, a chaotic mess—Barbie dolls and crayons scattered across the floor in colorful disarray, old juice boxes, and snack bags left forgotten on the desk. No matter how many times you tried to teach her the importance of cleaning up after herself, the lesson never seemed to stick. With a resigned sigh, you grabbed the clothes from her hamper and stuffed them into the laundry basket.

Leaving her room, you headed toward Mr. Jeong’s, but froze mid-step as a strange, muffled sound reached your ears from his office. At first, you assumed he was in a meeting, but as you drew closer, the noises grew more alarming—strained and uneven, almost as if he were in pain or… crying?

You gently set the laundry basket down on the floor, carefully tiptoeing toward the door. Pressing your ear against the cold, wooden surface, you strained to make sense of the muffled noises coming from inside. A sharp hiss followed by a low, frustrated “fuck” caught you off guard, making your breath hitch.

Startled, you raised a hand and knocked lightly on the door. “Mr. Jeong?” you called softly. No answer. Concern gnawed at you, and without thinking, you turned the knob. The door creaked as it inched open, the sound slicing through the stillness.

“Mr. Jeong, is everything—” you started, stepping inside.

Mr. Jeong swiveled in his chair, his face frozen in a mask of shock and embarrassment. The two of you stood locked in place as if time itself had come to a standstill. The only sounds in the room were the filthy, lewd moans of a woman coming from his computer. Your gaze dropped instinctively, trailing down his frame until your eyes caught on something in his lower half— his long slender fingers gripping tightly onto his erect cock. 

“Y/N!” he exclaimed, his voice sharp with panic as he scrambled to pull his pants up, hastily stuffing himself back into his waistband. His movements were frantic, his face flushed a deep crimson. “I-I thought you were at the ballet school!”

Your cheeks burned with embarrassment, the heat rising so quickly you felt your face must be as red as his. “I-I was,” you stammered, your words tumbling out awkwardly as you tried to steady your voice. “But… Hana’s tutu got dirty, and I… I came back to grab another one…”

The porn video continued playing in the background, the sounds of the ridiculously wet blowjob making the awkwardness even more unbearable.

Mr. Jeong, finally snapping out of his daze, spun back to his computer and fumbled to exit the site, the click of the mouse unnervingly loud in the heavy silence. He turned back to you, his mouth opening as if to say something, but no words came. His expression was a mixture of shame and desperation, his face still a deep shade of red.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurted out, your voice breathless and shaky as you struggled to compose yourself. The urge to flee was overwhelming. “I-I should get back to Hana. So sorry again!”

Without waiting for a response, you spun on your heel and hurried out of the room, heart pounding in your chest as you tried to process what had just happened.

—

You had worried earlier about how you’d make it through the day, feeling so drained and sluggish, but the shock from what happened had jolted you awake like a surge of electricity. Now, a different concern gnawed at you—whether you’d be able to sleep at all tonight. Embarrassment burned through you, and you were sure poor Mr. Jeong wanted to disappear off the face of the Earth after that moment.

Yet, despite yourself, your mind kept racing, replaying the image of his cock. It was so big. It was prettier than the pornstar’s you watch every night. It looked so firm in his hands, the tip flushed pink just like his cheeks. You wondered how it would feel between your legs. Would you even be able to take it? You had dildos in the past, but nothing more than the size of your palm.

“Cash or card?” Hana chirped, her cheerful voice snapping you out of the inappropriate thoughts swirling in your head about her dad.

“Hmm?” you mumbled, blinking down at her as she sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor. The living room was a mess, scattered with the colorful pieces of her cashier playset. She pointed at the small plastic credit card in your hand, her expression expectant.

“Oh, uh… I guess card?” you replied, handing it over. You watched as she swiped it through the toy terminal, her little hand expertly mimicking the action.

“Boo beep!” she said with a grin, the sound effects spot-on, before handing you back the card along with a tiny plastic milk carton. “Here you go!”

You couldn’t help but smile, her playful innocence pulling you further from your earlier embarrassment. “Thanks, Hana. Can I have a bag, please?”

“That’s fifty cents extra.” 

“Little haggler, aren’t you?” You teased. 

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed down the stairs, pulling Hana’s attention away from the transaction. “Daddy!” she exclaimed joyfully, rushing toward Mr. Jeong and wrapping her tiny arms around his legs in a tight hug.

“Hey, peanut,” he greeted with a warm smile, scooping her up and planting a quick kiss on her cheek.

“Daddy, I did a pirouette today at practice! Wanna see?”

As Hana spun around, tripping over her own feet a couple of times, you gathered your things and stuffed them into your bag. You kept your eyes down, moving toward the door with a quiet sigh of relief. For once, you were thankful it wasn’t payday; no need to linger any longer, no forced small talk with Mr. Jeong. He seemed just as relieved as he tried his best to avoid you altogether. 

“See you next week, kiddo,” you said, ruffling Hana’s soft hair before heading for the door.

“Wait, Daddy! Can Y/N come to my birthday party tomorrow?”

Mr. Jeong’s smile faltered, replaced by an uncomfortable glance in your direction. “Oh, um, well… why don’t you ask her, sweetie?” he said, quickly deflecting the question back to you.

Hana ran up to you, pressing her small body into your legs and looking up at you with those wide, pleading eyes. “Y/N, can you please please please come to my birthday party? There’s gonna be ice cream cake!”

The urge to say no was strong. You could sense Mr. Jeong’s discomfort, and honestly, you were looking forward to a quiet weekend away from him. But her hopeful gaze, the way her lips stuck out in a small, almost irresistible pout… it was too much to deny.

“Oh, well… I think I have to go somewhere this weekend and…” you started, but then her lower lip began to tremble, and you hated seeing her upset.

You let out a soft sigh, the words slipping out despite yourself. “I, uh, I guess I can come for a little bit.”

“Yay!” Hana cheered, her excitement spilling over as she jumped up and down. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

You exchanged a quiet good night with Mr. Jeong, the awkwardness lingering between you both, before disappearing into the warm summer night. The air was heavy as you made your way to your car, but your mind was racing.

As you sat behind the wheel, you cursed yourself under your breath. You should’ve held your ground, should’ve said no when you had the chance. But now… now you are going to a party with Mr. Jeong. How were you supposed to handle that? How were you supposed to navigate a whole afternoon, trapped in the same space with him, when the last thing you wanted was to face him after walking in on him jerking off earlier?

You huffed as you put your keys in the ignition. This was going to be a long weekend. 

—

The next day came quickly, too quickly, and you dreaded the whole affair as you pulled up on the driveway. You showed up about thirty minutes later than the time on the invitation, hoping to blend into the chaos without much fanfare. Sure enough, no one seemed to notice.

The house was buzzing with activity. Little kids, probably Hana’s classmates and friends from ballet, darted around like wild animals, screaming and leaving a trail of toys and crumbs in their wake. You weaved through the commotion, making your way to the table piled high with brightly wrapped presents.

You set down your gift; a doll set Hana had been dreaming about for weeks. Suddenly, you felt a small squeeze at your leg. Looking down, you saw Hana beaming up at you, her arms wrapped around you in a tight hug.

“You came!” she squealed, bouncing with excitement.

“Of course I did. Happy birthday!” you said, smiling as you ruffled her hair.

“Come meet my friends!” she insisted, grabbing your hand before you could protest.

Hana dragged you into the backyard, where her friends were splashing in the pool, their parents sitting nearby and watching them like hawks. Hana proudly introduced you to two of her closest friends—“important friends,” as she whispered with a serious nod that made you chuckle.

As you chatted with Hana’s friends, you felt a familiar pull in the corner of your eye. Mr. Jeong stood near the grill, just within your peripheral vision. The moment you glanced in his direction, your heart gave a sharp tug. He was watching you.

Your breath caught, but just before you could process it, you quickly looked away, pretending to focus on the childlike conversation in front of you. As you nodded along, a thought crept in—was he still looking at you? The possibility made your skin prickle, a slow heat creeping up your neck, your pulse growing erratic. You fought the urge to glance his way again, but curiosity got the better of you. You glanced up again, a quick and casual move, but this time, he wasn’t looking anymore. He had already turned his attention to another parent, nodding along to whatever they were saying, sipping on his ice cold beer. Still, your skin tingled, like his gaze hadn’t fully left you.

The mix of the screaming children, the sun beating down on you, and the overwhelming energy of the party soon had you retreating. With a quick excuse, you headed for the shaded table, grabbing a Coca-Cola and savoring the brief moment of quiet.

You chugged the fizzy drink, the burn in your throat oddly satisfying as it momentarily cooled you off. As you set the half-empty can down, your ears caught snippets of a hushed conversation from the table next to you. Two women, likely mothers of Hana’s friends, were whispering, and one word made you tune in: Yunho.

“His wife passed away a few years ago, back when Hana was just learning to walk. Poor guy, raising her all on his own.”

“God, but he’s so cute, though,” the other one said, not bothering to lower her voice.

“I know, right? If I didn’t have Leo, I’d totally take him out for a spin.” They dissolved into giggles, clearly enjoying their little moment until their eyes flicked toward you.

You froze, caught mid-sip from your drink. The sudden attention made your cheeks warm as they realized you’d overheard them. One of the women quickly cleared her throat, trying to cover the awkwardness.

“So, which one’s yours?” she asked, her tone friendly, though her shoulders were tense—probably hoping you hadn’t heard the part where she casually considered sleeping with Mr. Jeong.

“Oh, none of them,” you replied, forcing a polite smile. “I’m Hana’s babysitter.”

You took another sip of your soda, trying to ignore the way the two women were looking at you. It was obvious they had some kind of assumption about you and Mr. Jeong, and it made your skin prickle with discomfort.

“Oh, I didn’t know Mr. Jeong had a babysitter,” the long-haired woman said, glancing at her friend with a knowing look.

You shifted under their stares, suddenly feeling like you were being sized up. They both looked down at your exposed legs, your flowy skirt just barely covering your knees. You knew what they were thinking. Their curiosity wasn’t just innocent small talk. It felt more like they were trying to figure out if you were a threat. A young, single dad and his younger, pretty babysitter? Sounded like an overdone porn plot. 

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, your fingers anxiously slipped against your soda can, sending the cold, fizzy liquid spilling down the front of your shirt.

“Oh, shit—” You gasped, stepping back as the sticky sweetness seeped into the fabric.

The two women let out little gasps, covering their mouths, but neither of them moved to help.

“Ugh,” you muttered, shaking your hands off. “Excuse me.”

Quickly, you turned and made your way inside, walking past clusters of parents and kids until you reached the staircase. Your face was burning with frustration. This whole weekend was just one embarrassment after another. Everything had felt weird since yesterday. Mr. Jeong had been acting strange, you’d been acting strange, and now you had people assuming things about you that weren’t even true.

You climbed the stairs, the noise of the party fading as you finally reached the bathroom. With a sigh, you pushed the door open and slipped inside, shutting the door behind you.

The cold air from the vent hit your damp shirt, making the fabric cling to your skin uncomfortably. Grimacing, you pulled it over your head and tossed it onto the sink. You turned on the faucet, grabbing a towel to try and clean it before the stickiness set in.

As you rubbed at the stain, you caught your reflection in the mirror. Your cheeks were still flushed, your hair slightly messy from the heat outside. You looked… flustered. Not just from the soda incident, but from everything. From him. From the way he was staring at you, from the way you’d been thinking about him all day, despite knowing you shouldn’t. It was no surprise that you couldn’t sleep the night before, your hands stuffed inside your panties all night, forcing yourself to cum over and over as you thought about Mr. Jeong pumping his big hard cock after a long day. You couldn’t help but wonder what kind of categories he liked. MILF? Hentai? Gangbang? Did he have a favorite pornstar? You desperately wanted to know what he liked, how he liked it, his greatest desires. But what was the use? You were only driving yourself mad with these little fantasies. 

You let out a deep breath, gripping the edge of the sink. Get it together.

Before you could pull yourself back to reality, you were startled by a sudden commotion outside of your door. And before you could even react, the door knob turned and the door creaked open.

Your heart jumped into your throat as Mr. Jeong stepped inside, his eyes focused on something behind him, mid-sentence. “I’ll be right there, just gotta take a leak—”

He stopped. Completely frozen.

His eyes landed on your bare skin, the lacy edge of your bra, the way the damp fabric of your shirt sat crumpled in the sink.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then, as if snapping out of it, his eyes shot up to yours, and his face turned to that shade of red you’d seen before. “Shit” He spun around so fast he nearly slammed into the wall, and shut the door in front of him.

Your face burned with mortification. You grabbed your shirt, holding it up against your chest even though it was still wet. “What are you doing?” you whisper-yelled, trying to sound indignant, but your voice came out weaker than you wanted.

He ran a hand through his hair, his head still facing the door. “It wasn’t locked! And my friend is outside and—” He stopped himself, exhaling sharply. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll go.”

Silence lingered between you. You should’ve told him to hurry up and leave. Should’ve thrown something at him, and scolded him for barging in like that.

But you didn’t.

Instead, your pulse pounded in your ears as you watched the way his hands clenched at his sides, the way the muscle in the side of his jaw tensed. He was still standing there, motionless and breathing a little too hard, like he was trying really, really hard to control himself.

“…Are you gonna go?” you asked, your voice softer now.

Mr. Jeong hesitated, his hand lying still on the doorknob. He let out a shaky breath. “My friend is still out in the hall, maybe, I don’t know, I don’t want him to come in after me and see you. I’m just gonna give it another minute, just to be safe.” He whispered. 

The bathroom felt impossibly small like the walls had closed in on you. The silence stretched, almost suffocating, broken only by the soft inhales through his nose and the distant chatter from the party downstairs. The faint drip of the faucet filled the space between you, but neither of you moved, let alone spoke.

It had only been a few seconds—maybe ten, maybe twenty—but it felt like minutes, like an eternity of you two just standing there, backs turned, bodies tense.

You both strained your ears, trying to pick up any signs of his friend lingering outside, but the house was too noisy, too alive with the sound of kids playing and parents chatting. There was no way to tell.

Then, slowly, almost hesitantly, he turned his head just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. His eyes lowered down to your body, just for a second, before he snapped his head forward again, almost too quickly, like he’d been caught looking.

His throat bobbed. “I think he might be gone,” he murmured. “I don’t hear anything.”

You nodded behind him, staying in place.

He exhaled deeply, his shoulders finally relaxing. “I’m really sorry,” he said, sounding defeated.

“It’s not your fault,” you replied, gripping your damp shirt tighter against your chest. “I’m sorry for snapping at you. I should’ve locked the door.”

“Right. Um… thanks,” he said. Then, after a pause, he added, “I also meant about yesterday. I feel so embarrassed. I hope that doesn’t make you feel uncomfortable about working for me. Hana really likes you.”

The mention of yesterday sent a small twist through your stomach. You swallowed. “I’m sorry for that too. I shouldn’t have walked in on you like that.”

He let out a short, breathy chuckle. “I guess we’re both just bad at locking doors. Makes us even.”

A small, nervous laugh slipped out of you, easing some of the tension in the room.

“And you don’t have to be embarrassed. Everyone does it—it’s normal,” you said, trying to reassure him, though you weren’t entirely sure why. Maybe to ease his discomfort. Maybe to ease your own.

He let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Oh yeah?” he mused, tilting his head slightly. “You jerk off in front of your babysitter too?”

The teasing tone in his voice made your cheeks warm up. But it was the way he turned then, fully facing you, locking his deep brown eyes onto yours, that made the air shift; buzzing with something neither of you acknowledged but both of you felt.

His smirk faded as quickly as it had come as if he suddenly realized how inappropriate his words were. But he didn’t apologize this time. And more importantly—he didn’t leave.

Your stomach twisted into knots again, breath growing heavier, shallower. Fuck. He was so hot. His sharp jawline, so strong and well-defined, tensed ever so slightly. His broad shoulders, so effortlessly commanding, made you feel smaller in the best way. And those eyes—deep, warm brown, always soft when he looked at Hana—weren’t so soft now. They were sharp, locked onto you with an intensity that made your pulse race. Even the faint crinkles near his eyes, the ones that usually appeared when he smiled, seemed more pronounced at this moment, only adding to how devastatingly beautiful he was.

You should have said something. You should have slipped on your cola-stained t-shirt and left the bathroom. But instead, you stood there, heart hammering in your chest, letting the weight of his gaze consume you. You couldn’t leave him. Not yet. 

And then, without a second thought, you let your damp t-shirt slip from your fingers, the fabric pooling at your feet. 

Mr. Jeong's gaze dropped to your cleavage, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. His initial serious expression made your heart flutter with uncertainty. Have you crossed a line? But then, his tongue darted out to wet his lips, and when his eyes met yours again, they held a spark that made your heart skip a beat. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice a mixture of sternness and intrigue.

“I just want to help…” you replied softly, stepping closer with careful slowness. Each step brought you nearer until you were close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. Your eyes locked onto his, filled with intent and a hint of mischief.

With a soft but bold touch, you reached out to cup his clothed cock, feeling its firmness beneath your palm. You applied a teasing pressure, grinding your hand against him. The sudden contact made him draw in a sharp breath, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he absorbed the sensation. “You didn’t get to cum last time, did you?” you murmured, your voice a sultry whisper that broke the tense silence between you.

His eyes opened slowly, a mix of desire and astonishment etched on his features. The initial hesitation seemed to melt away, replaced by a hunger that mirrored your own. He bit his bottom lip, trying to stop a moan from escaping. You could feel him hardening in your hand, his pant seam threatening to burst open. 

As if all his restraint had snapped, he pressed one hand against the back of your head, fingers burrowing into your hair, while the other slid just under your chin, tilting your face up to meet his. He slammed his lips onto yours, finally giving in to the wild desire that had been simmering between you all day. Your lips moved messily while he grinded himself against your hand.  “Fuck, you’re fucking crazy,” he said breathlessly into your lips, “And no, I didn’t, but I did think about creaming on your face before bed last night.”  

You could already feel a wetness pooling between your legs, his words being the boost you so desperately needed to move forward. You kept kissing him hungrily while undoing his fly, his half-hard cock springing out in anticipation. You took him into your hand, your fingers barely meeting as you gripped around him, stroking him gently while he cursed into your mouth. 

Mr. Jeong pulled away and spun you around in one swift move, pressing your body against his chest and trapping you in his embrace. Your hand remained obedient and eager, pumping his cock as his big hands roamed your body. One hand squeezed your breast, while the other slipped underneath your skirt. “Wore this skimpy little thing on purpose, didn’t you?” His words cascaded down your neck, “Little slut.” 

You moaned softly as his fingers rubbed against your clothed clit, your sticky wet juices leaking through the fabric. Mr. Jeong gathered the front of your panties together and pulled with a force that made you gasp. The fabric wedged against your throbbing pussy, leaving you whimpering as you bucked your hips against the friction. 

“Your so fucking wet, Y/N…” He teased, his lips pressed against your ears, sending a rush of butterflies in your stomach. “You liked what you saw yesterday, didn’t you? Couldn’t stop thinking about it, could you? Bet you came in on purpose, hmm? Heard what I was doing and wanted to help me cum?” 

A deep, throaty moan escaped your lips. You loved the way he was talking to you, the way he reduced you to a horndog little pervert, and deep down, you knew it was true. You were addicted to the thrill of it all. “Yes, sir,” you whispered, your voice trembling with desire. “I wanna be your good girl, your slut. Wanna help you cum sir, please. Want your hot load on me. Please, sir, I need it.” Your words were an invitation, a desperate plea for the intense pleasure you’ve craved for so long, and you knew he couldn't resist.

Mr. Jeong shifted from behind you and you felt the warmth of his cock, a tantalizing tap against your cunt, which forced an excited yelp from your lips. His hand covered your mouth, a gentle yet firm reminder to keep quiet. “Don’t want anyone hearing us, do we baby?” 

His cock was sandwiched between your sopping-wet folds and the tight fabric of your panties. The feeling was intoxicating, and you couldn’t help but grind your hot, eager pussy over his length. Your back rested against his chest, and you could feel his heart pounding in sync with your racing pulse. The fabric of your panties provided delicious friction, and you moaned softly into his hand, the sound muffled but still carrying the weight of your satisfaction. 

You pressed your thighs together, squeezing his cock as you rode him, the sensation being too much for the both of you. “Fuck, baby, you’re gonna make me cum too soon,” He panted, his head falling forward and burying into your shoulder. 

You grew restless, your grinding becoming faster and wild, the sounds of your quiet and desperate begging like music to his ears. “Please, sir, cum in my panties, I’ll be so good,” You pleaded with tears of pleasure streaking down your cheeks. The thought of walking around in his cum-soaked panties gave you a thrill. You could feel your clit pulsing as you rutted against his shaft, the sheer bliss of it beyond anything you’d ever experienced. “I’m gonna cum, sir, please…oh, fuck, I’m cumming!” You cried out, your body shaking with the force of your orgasm.

As your orgasm subsided, his cock still pressed against your swollen clit. You felt a numbness, a euphoric high that left you floating, your wetness a warm, inviting contrast to his hot, throbbing length. Shivers ran down your spine, and you felt like you were hovering, your consciousness detached from your body. 

Mr. Jeong lifted you in his strong arms, carrying you like fragile glass. He brought you to the bathroom mirror, and as he held you up, you couldn't help but be amazed at the sight of his length against your body. It was almost surreal, the difference in scale, and you felt a mix of excitement and nervousness. He snaked a hand around your waist, pulling your panties to the side, exposing your wet, glistening cunt to the cool air. You shivered, feeling a rush of vulnerability. He slapped his cock against your wet cunt, grinning, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. 

“What are you doing, sir?” you asked shyly, your voice soft and hesitant. You had never experienced this position before, and the sight of your legs spread wide and your cunt so open and exposed made you nervous. Mr. Jeong's hands grasped under your thighs, supporting your weight, and you could feel his strength and his muscles bulging as he held you up. “I wanna see this little pussy take my big cock,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. “Wanna watch it stretch and take me deep.” 

You gulped, your heart racing in your chest. You had never taken something this big before, and Mr. Jeong was indeed impressive. The thought of being stretched, of accommodating to his size, both excited and intimidated you. You wanted to tell him about your virginity, but the words caught in your throat. You didn't want to turn him off, and so you remained silent, your mind racing with a mix of emotions.

Noticing your worried glance reflected in the mirror, Mr. Jeong's eyes narrowed, a hint of disappointment creasing his features. “What's wrong, baby? You wanna stop?” he asked, his voice laced with concern. 

“No,” you said quietly before reaching down to grasp his cock. With a firm grip, you began to work him up and down, the weight of his hard length in your hands making your pussy twitch. You pushed his cock against your entrance, the head pressing against your tight, virgin opening. “Please, sir,” you begged, your voice pathetically dry. “I want your cock inside of me. I want to feel you stretching me, filling me up. Wanna be good for you.”

The thought of giving up your virginity to him was both scary and exhilarating. You wanted to be his, to belong to him in the most intimate way possible. You pumped him desperately, your core aching to have him stuffed deep inside you. 

The head of his cock pressed against your tight opening, and you could feel the stretch, the burning sensation of being filled for the very first time. A sob escaped your lips as Mr. Jeong slowly lowered you over his cock, the mirror reflecting it all. You watched in awe as his hot, throbbing rod disappeared inside your body, the sight of it stretching you, filling you, almost too much to bear.

“Fuck, you're so tight,” he grunted, his eyes wide with a mix of pleasure and awe. The sensation of being filled by his impressive size was intense, and you were intoxicated by a mixture of pain and bliss, the feeling making your mind numb. He was incredibly gentle at first, pushing just the tip of his cock into your walls, treating you with the utmost care. But as tension built within him, his eyes grew darker, a fierce lust taking over. With a sudden, primal urge, he began working you over his cock, pulling you up and down, your tight pussy gripping his length. You felt incredible to him, like a fleshlight come to life, and even he struggled to mask his moans as your body adjusted to his size. 

The pain was fleeting, replaced by a deep, satisfying pleasure. “Oh god, sir” you whispered, your voice strained. “It feels so good. So full... Please, don't stop.” Your sweet pleas made his ears buzz, his stomach fluttering from just how sweetly you begged for more of him. 

“God, you’re doing so good for me,” He praised, almost giddy with how effortlessly you fit him. His eyes never left the mirror, his thick bulge disappearing into your tight, wet pussy, a sight too mesmerizing to look away from.  “Such a good girl…look so pretty on my cock” He huffed, “My little cumslut.” 

His words sent a rush of heat to your cheeks, and you felt your pussy clench around him in response. You wanted him to keep talking dirty to you, to fill your ears with every filthy word and fantasy he had while pounding into you. 

Mr. Jeong grew tired, and he placed you back on the ground, pushing your body down against the sink, the cold marble against your bare stomach sending a chill down your spine. He lifted your skirt, rubbing himself against your puffy pussy lips, the overstimulation driving you wild. You felt his cock, thick and hard, lining up with your hole, and you knew what was coming. Your mouth fell open in a silent gasp as he pushed into you in one swift, powerful motion, filling you up completely. He stilled his hips, giving your pussy a chance to adjust to his size, to wrap itself around him, to pulsate and invite him deeper. You were stuffed, every inch of your pussy filled with his cock, his balls swinging and slapping against your raw skin with each thrust.

With each snap of his hips, you cursed under your breath, your fingers gripping tightly to the sink as if it were your only anchor in this storm. "S-so big!" you yelped, your voice filled with a mix of awe and fear. Your body was now completely at the mercy of Mr. Jeong, his powerful strokes sending waves of pleasure and pain through your sensitive pussy.

As he continued to thrust into you, he brought one hand up, pressing his fingers against your mouth, effectively silencing your moans. "Gotta do something about that mouth, baby," he whispered, his voice low and dangerous. His fingers, still wet with your juices from before, found their way into your mouth, and you gladly accepted them, your lips closing around his digits. You moaned deeply, your tongue wrapping around his fingers, tasting yourself on them. You lost yourself in his touch, his hard cock massaging your gummy walls, his fingers probing and exploring your warm mouth, his lips licking and sucking your ear lobe as he whispered filth to you, bringing you to the brink of another orgasm.

As your eyes met your reflection in the mirror, you were struck by a sense of unfamiliarity. Your makeup was smudged and running, the black mascara staining your tears and streaking down your cheeks. Your hair was frizzy and chaotic, some sweat-drenched strands framing your face and sticking to your warm cheeks. Your lips looked wet and swollen as you gagged around Mr. Jeong’s long fingers, the saliva dripping down your chin. You loved it. You looked like a woman who had been pleasured beyond measure. There was an intoxicating power in seeing yourself like this, a power that made you feel alive and desirable. It reminded you of the pornstar Mr. Jeong was watching yesterday, her fucked-out expression now mirroring your own. 

"Oh god, sir, it's too much!" you moaned, pulling his fingers out from your mouth. "I can't take it! I'm gonna cum again!"

“Fuck, me too,” He grunted as he pulled out of you, feeling the inevitable approach of his own release. Relief washed over you, your body weakening, your walls clenching and spasming around nothing. Mr. Jeong spun you around, placing a hand on the top of your head, pushing you to your knees just as your body swayed with the first waves of your climax. 

As Mr. Jeong jerked himself off with his hand, his eyes never left your face, now a beautiful canvas covered in the ropes of his hot cum. Though still reeling from the intense orgasm he had just given you, you opened your mouth wide, obediently accepting his thick, white cum as it splashed over your tongue. The taste was both bitter and sour, but you loved it, a unique flavor that was all his.

You licked your lips, moaning softly as you savored his taste. You kissed his tender tip, running your tongue over his slit, relishing the feeling of his cum leaking out, warm and sticky.

With a playful smile, Mr. Jeong rubbed his tip against your lips, leaving a trail of cum as he did so. "Shit, baby, you look so pretty with my cum on your face," he said, his voice shaky with post-orgasmic delight. "My sweet little cumslut."

Taking him into your mouth once more, you swirled your tongue around his sensitive head, moaning from the taste and texture of his cum. You pulled off with a plopping sound, a satisfied smile on your face. "Taste so good, sir," you whispered, your voice filled with admiration and gratitude. "Thank you for letting me taste your cum.”

Mr. Jeong, clearly pleased with your gratitude, ran his fingers through your hair affectionately, gently tucking a strand behind your ear. Suddenly, there was a hard knock on the door, snapping you both out of your little daze. 

“Yo, Yunho,” a voice called from the door. “Are you taking a shit? How much longer are you gonna be? Hana’s ready to cut the cake.”

Mr. Jeong flinched, his hands moving fast as he pulled his bottoms up, stuffing himself back inside like a guilty teenager caught red-handed. “Uh, just a minute! I’ll be right out!” he called back, voice strained.

The man sighed. “Alright, well, hurry up. The cake’s melting out here.”

You both snapped into action, scrambling to fix your clothes and smooth your hair. The rush of reality crashing back down made your heart pound even harder than before. Just as you were ready to bolt, Yunho suddenly froze, his expression shifting once he realized the mess he left on your face was still dripping down your cheeks. 

Then, without a word, he grabbed a few squares of toilet paper and gently wiped the sticky white jelly from your flushed face. “Sorry,” he murmured, his fingers barely grazing your skin, his eyes burning with the same embarrassed, heated look from before.

Once you were clean, he lingered for a second too long, standing so close you could feel his breath on your lips. He parted his mouth as if to say something, anything, but nothing came out. Instead, his fingers anxiously tapped against his thigh, a nervous habit you had never noticed before.

“You should go first,” you said quickly, sensing the weight of the moment. “I’ll come down after.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, then he nodded. “Thanks,” he muttered, stuffing his shirt back into his waistband before slipping out the door with hurried, uneven steps.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding and sank onto the toilet seat. The room still smelled faintly of him, and it felt unreal how fast the energy had shifted. Had he just been hit with regret? Was he now scrambling to shove this whole thing into a locked box in his mind? Now no longer in the heat of the moment, did he think what you two did was wrong? Were you going to get fired? 

For the rest of the party, Mr. Jeong successfully avoided you. He busied himself slicing tiny squares of cake for the kids, nodding along to endless small talk with the other parents as if nothing had happened.

You took the hint, feeling a slight shame in your chest.

Slipping out early, you gave Hana a tight hug before heading back to your car. The second you settled into your seat, your phone buzzed in your pocket. With a sigh, you pulled it out, expecting something mundane.

But when you read the message, you couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips.

Jeong Yunho: See you Monday ;)

—

Your sleep schedule had indeed improved, and you found yourself no longer relying on toys to satisfy your desires. The structure and routine of your new life, with Hana and Mr. Jeong, had brought a sense of balance and fulfillment. You enjoyed the daily interactions with Hana, whether it was playing frisbee in the backyard or teaching her simple math in her room. Your bond with her grew stronger each day, and you found great joy in being a positive influence in her life.

However, it was the Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays that held a special place in your heart. These were the days when you dropped Hana off at her ballet recitals, and while she was practicing her pliés and pirouettes, you would return to their home to tend to your other job.

Your knees were growing sore from scraping against the carpet under Yunho’s desktop table. Sounds of girls moaning emanated from his monitor. Though you were curious about what he was watching, you knew it was none of your business. Instead, you focused on the task at hand and wrapped your warm mouth over his throbbing cock, nestling yourself between his legs from under his desk. The width of his bulge filled your throat, and you gagged lightly, a sign of your complete submission to him.

Yunho, lost in the porno he was watching, seemed momentarily unaware of your presence. He was engrossed in the images on his screen, his eyes droopy and his breathing heavy. Your mouth bobbed up and down, your lips wrapping tightly around his shaft, and you could feel his excitement building. The sound of his moans mixed with the pornographic sounds on his computer made you clench around nothing, forcing you to slip your hand past your waistband. 

As you continued to suck him, you could feel his hands running through your hair, gently guiding your movements. You massaged his warm balls with your free hand, feeling his cum bubbling up in his sack, and you knew it wouldn't be long before he released his load into your waiting mouth.

"That's it, baby," Yunho whispered, his voice soft yet dominant. “Keep that pretty mouth on me. So good…so, so good for me.”

I would greatly appreciate reblogs with comments and replies. please consider leaving feedback if you enjoyed this x.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Change Of Heart - 5 (Edited ver.)

Character: Bucky x Female! Reader

Theme: Angst, tragedy, romance.

Summary: The interviewer asked her a provocative question:

“If you were offered a million dollars, would you leave your partner?”

Without hesitation, she replied with a smirk, “Give me one dollar, and I’ll leave him this second.”

True to her word, she walked away, leaving the man stunned and searching for answers. Now, he’s desperately trying to find her, grappling with the haunting question—why would she leave him so easily?

And is there more to her departure than a single dollar could ever explain?

Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3 , Part 4 , Part 5.

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

By the way, I publish my book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing on Kindle.

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

Bucky stood near the dock, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat. The waves lapped gently against the wooden posts, a rhythmic sound that did little to soothe the restlessness inside him. The sky had begun to darken, shades of deep blue swallowing the last traces of daylight.

"Sir, it's getting dark," his secretary reminded him softly, standing a few steps behind.

Bucky didn't respond immediately. Instead, he exhaled, his breath visible in the cold air. Then, out of nowhere, he asked, "Did your parents divorce?"

The secretary blinked at the sudden question. "No, sir. But my sister did. She divorced her first husband."

Bucky hummed, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the ocean stretched endlessly. "Was it the right choice?"

"I think so," the secretary admitted. "She smiles more with her second husband. He was divorced too. Somehow, they complete each other. It’s like they both learned from their past mistakes."

Bucky finally turned to look at him. "How long have they been together now?"

"Five years."

Silence settled between them. Bucky lowered his gaze, staring at the ground as if lost in thought. His parents divorced when he was young. His father changed wives like the seasons, to where Bucky had lost count of how many stepmothers he'd had. And his mother—she had become a well-known rich cougar, the kind who made headlines.

When two broken people come together, they begin to heal. But what happened between him and you... something still hurts deep down. Though both of you completed each other, seeing you leave felt like it wasn’t enough.

Bucky had spent years running from his past, avoiding the feelings he buried deep within himself. He'd been afraid of truly connecting, terrified that giving in to love would mean vulnerability—and he’d never allowed himself to be vulnerable. But with you, something changed.

He started to open up, piece by piece. He had found solace in your presence, a kind of comfort he never thought he’d experience. You made him feel like maybe it was okay to be human.

But even as the wounds began to heal, a part of him remained fractured. The scars weren’t completely gone. And as he watched you walk away, that deep-seated fear—of losing someone, of being left behind—came rushing back. He realized he wasn’t as whole as he thought he was.

Without another word, Bucky pulled out his phone. His fingers hovered over the screen momentarily before he made the call. He held the device to his ear and started walking, his steps slow and aimless as he paced along the dimly lit dock. A few streetlights flickered, casting long shadows over the worn planks beneath his feet.

The therapist answered after a few rings.

"My advice?" The voice on the other end was calm. "Let her go. Don't stop her. If she wants to come back, she will."

Bucky’s jaw clenched. His grip on the phone tightened. He didn’t agree.

"Do you have any sexual desire toward her?"

"No," he answered without hesitation.

"Do you feel safe when you're around her?"

"...Yes."

"Do you want to come home faster when you know she's waiting there?"

Bucky exhaled through his nose. "Yes."

The therapist paused before asking the last question.

"Do you have feelings for her?"

This time, Bucky hesitated. His lips parted, but the words didn't come as easily. "...No." But his voice lacked conviction.

The therapist remained silent for a beat before finally speaking.

"It will grow on you. Just wait and see."

Bucky lowered the phone, staring at the dark waters ahead. The wind picked up, tousling his hair, but he barely noticed. His chest felt tight, the answer lingering in his mind.

Had he really meant it?

The Next Day

Bucky followed you.

He shouldn’t have, but he did.

He was already waiting by the dock when you returned from your scuba diving lesson. You looked different—lighter, freer. The usual quiet presence he was familiar with had been replaced by someone more expressive, more alive. You laughed while talking to strangers, engaging with them in a way he had never seen before. When you were with him, you spoke to his colleagues, sure, but never like this. With them, it was polite conversation, surface-level. But now? You were glowing.

And Bucky didn't know how to feel about that.

You spotted him standing near the railing, and your smile faltered for just a second before returning. Surprise flickered in your eyes, but there was something else too—relief, maybe.

"You're still here," you said, your voice carrying a mix of disbelief and quiet gladness.

Bucky was about to respond, but then his gaze caught on you peeling off your wetsuit.

He froze.

It wasn’t like you were undressing provocatively—you were simply taking off your gear. But in the two years you'd been together, neither of you had ever seen the other completely bare. You had shared a home, a bed even, but always with an unspoken distance.

His throat went dry, and he forced himself to turn away, his jaw tightening.

Bucky had seen countless women undress before, but this—this was different. This was you. And it was as if some part of his brain refused to process it. He waited in silence, staring at the dark water until he heard your footsteps approaching.

You had changed into dry clothes and now stood beside him, leaning against the dock railing.

“I guess Grandpa won’t allow you to come home,” you said.

Bucky let out a dry chuckle. “How did you know?”

“Just a hunch.”

He exhaled sharply, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’re right. But I guess… I failed. You don’t want to come back.”

“Not yet.”

Silence. The waves rolled in and out, filling the space between you.

You looked out at the sea, your expression unreadable. Then, as if speaking more to yourself than to him, you asked, “Do you ever wonder why we’re compatible?”

It was a good question. Because in truth, on paper, you shouldn’t be.

Most marriage contracts like yours didn’t last. Some couples couldn’t even stand each other for the duration of their agreement. They broke it off before the ink had dried.

You exhaled through your nose, then said with a smirk, “Because both of us are ambitious as fuck.”

Bucky scoffed. He almost laughed, but he held it in, shaking his head instead.

Then, in a quieter voice, he asked, “If you love me, why are you leaving?”

You turned your head to look at him. Your eyes were softer now, but firm, steady.

“Bucky, I know you’re not ready for this. And I won’t push you. You need to figure it out yourself.”

His chest tightened.

He had spent years figuring himself out. Years battling the demons that kept him tethered to his past. But had he actually moved forward?

“I used this marriage contract to get money,” you admitted. “To have a higher status than my father. Feeling superior to him gave me satisfaction.”

Bucky swallowed hard. He understood that. He understood it too well.

He had never wanted to be in a relationship—not out of fear, but as an act of rebellion. His parents' marriage had been a disaster, a revolving door of broken vows and replacements. His father cycled through wives like a man cycling through business investments. His mother had responded by becoming one of the most infamous rich cougars in town, collecting younger lovers as if to prove something to the world.

Love, as far as Bucky had seen, was nothing more than a transaction.

He had despised it.

But now, standing here, he wasn’t so sure.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “So this is goodbye, then?”

“For now,” you said, your voice gentle. “I just want to do what I’ve been holding back. I want to grow up.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow at that. “What do you mean? We’re already in our thirties.”

You smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. It was knowing, understanding.

“I mean growing up from the trauma.” Your voice softened. “Bucky, both of us were stuck as kids because of what happened to us. Our pasts kept us frozen in time. But I don’t want to stay stuck anymore. I want to move forward. I want to leave the trauma behind.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. He couldn't.

“The reason I didn’t come back,” you continued, “is because I still love you. And that terrifies me. I’m running away because I can’t be near you without feeling everything too much.”

Bucky sucked in a slow breath.

This was the first time anyone had ever said those words to him like this—with honesty, with vulnerability. It was the first time he had ever received a love confession that wasn’t transactional, that wasn’t tied to expectations.

And he didn’t know what to do with it.

You stepped back. “I hope that the next time we meet, everything will be different.”

Bucky watched as you walked away, disappearing into the crowd. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe for a long moment. Then, slowly, he let out a shaky exhale.

Something was shifting inside him, something he didn’t have a name for. It wasn’t just loss. It wasn’t just regret.

It was something deeper.

A few moments later, he pulled out his phone and dialed his therapist.

When the call connected, his voice came out rough, almost reluctant.

“I think I’m starting to have… sexual desires toward her.”

There was silence on the other end.

Then, finally, his therapist sighed.

“Well, Bucky,” they said, “it looks like you’re finally catching up to your emotions.”

He decided to leave you alone, but that didn’t mean he stopped caring. No matter what, you had been there for him for two years. Marriage contract or not, you left a lasting impression on his life.

When he returned, his grandfather was waiting for him, clearly hoping you would step off the plane with Bucky.

When he saw Bucky coming down alone, Tom clicked his tongue. “You’re an idiot.”

Bucky sighed. “Give her time. She’ll be back.” Even though he's not sure when you'll be back.

🌸🌸🌸🌸

One Year Later

The café inside the park was quiet, tucked away between tall trees and winding pathways. The morning sun filtered through the leaves, casting dappled light onto the wooden tables.

Bucky sat alone, a tablet in one hand, a coffee cup in the other. He scrolled through reports, half-reading, half-listening to the sounds around him—the soft chatter of other patrons, the occasional bark of a dog, the rustling of leaves in the breeze.

Then, a voice behind him made him nearly drop his tablet.

“I see you’re still a workaholic.”

His heart clenched. He knew that voice.

Slowly, he turned around—and there you were.

You stood before him, looking different yet familiar. Your skin was sun-kissed, your hair slightly lighter, and your presence felt… freer. There was an ease in your posture, a confidence in your stance that hadn’t been there before.

For a moment, Bucky just stared, as if making sure you were real. Then, a small smile tugged at his lips.

“I don’t work as much as I used to,” he admitted.

You raised an eyebrow, smirking as you pulled out a chair and sat across from him. “Really? Who’s been keeping up with all your work, then?”

“My parents.”

That made you pause. “Your parents?”

He nodded, setting down his tablet. “Yeah. I finally faced it. The whole mess.”

And it had been a mess. For years, he had avoided confronting the real cause of his fears—his childhood. He thought that refusing to engage in relationships was an act of defiance, proof that he had broken free from his parents' toxic cycle. But in reality, he had been trapped just like them. Stuck in the same story, just playing a different role.

It wasn’t fair.

They had lived their lives—moving on, getting remarried, collecting younger lovers, burning through money—while he had been the one frozen in time, afraid to take a single step forward.

So he had done something drastic.

He had cut them off.

No more allowances, no more endless funds. Their luxurious lifestyles had been fueled by company profits, and Bucky had put an end to it.

“This company is not a charity,” he had told them. “You’ve used its assets to fund your lifestyles for too long. If I let this continue, we’ll go down in history as the first corporation to bankrupt itself paying alimony.”

His father had been furious. His mother had scoffed. But in the end, they had no choice. They had to start working.

They had been terrible parents. But, ironically, they turned out to be decent employees.

"Both of them have stopped acting childish," he said. His parents had also stopped playing the roles of sugar daddy and cougar. It turned out money was the solution.

Now, here he was, sitting across from the one person he had waited a year to see again.

"I fixed my relationship with my parents, especially my dad," you replied.

"That's good to hear," he responded.

After spending some time with your dad, you realized that without the rivalry, he's an easygoing person. You started contacting him daily.

“Why did you come back?” he asked, his voice quieter now. “Does this mean you don’t love me anymore?”

Your gaze softened. “No. I never stopped loving you.” You smiled, almost shyly. “I just had a feeling this time would be different.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. “I see. So you’ve completed your self-discovery?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

The conversation between you flowed effortlessly, lighter than it had ever been. You talked about your travels, the people you had met, and the experiences that had changed you. Bucky listened, occasionally throwing in a sarcastic remark or a teasing comment, making you laugh. It felt easy—natural.

Then, as if it were nothing, you casually said, “I broke my leg climbing down a mountain.”

“What?!” His eyes widened, panic flashing through them.

You laughed, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m fine. Some nuns from a nearby chapel helped me. They took care of me for a month.”

Bucky frowned, his mind racing. So that’s why you didn’t post an update for a month.

You nodded. “Yeah. They prayed for me.” Then, after a pause, you admitted, “I’ve never prayed before. But I started to. Admitting my anger, my sins… it made the weight feel lighter. I guess I’m sharing my burdens with God now.” You studied his reaction carefully. “Do you think I’ve turned into a religious freak?”

Bucky shook his head. “No. As long as you found peace.”

Silence settled between you, but it was a comfortable one.

Eventually, he cleared his throat. “Do you want something to drink?”

You grinned. “Yes.”

“Caramel Macchiato, hot, less sugar… right?”

You blinked, then gave him a thumbs-up. He smirked before getting up and heading toward the cashier.

When he returned, he placed the coffee in front of you, watching as you took a small sip.

Then you said, “On my way here, I passed by a cinema playing Interstellar.”

Bucky’s eyes flickered with interest. That was his favorite movie—the one he always watched when he had time alone.

“Really?”

“You interested?” You pulled out two tickets and held them up.

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. “Let’s go.”

As you both walked side by side, he glanced at you.

“You know,” he said, “you could share your burdens with me too.”

You turned to him, your expression unreadable.

Was that… a proposal?

Bucky continued, his tone calm but firm. “We’ve known each other for two years. You left for one. And yet, you came back with the same feelings. And I waited a year for you to come back.”

Your heart pounded.

This time, it wasn’t just a contract. It wasn’t a transaction.

It was something real. Something earned.

And for the first time, you weren’t afraid of it.

This time, there was a difference between them.

Before, they had been trapped—chained to the past, repeating old patterns, clinging to wounds that refused to heal. They had mistaken their pain for identity, their fears for inevitability.

But now, they had changed.

Not because time had passed, but because they had made the choice to move forward.

They had faced their demons, made peace with their scars, and learned to let go. Bucky was no longer a man protesting love out of spite. And you were no longer someone running away to find yourself.

You had both found your own way—separately.

And yet, in the end, that path had led you back to each other.

-The End-

Epilogue:

Bucky suddenly remembered something. “I should call Grandpa to let him know you’re back.”

You chuckled. “Oh, I already met him when I landed. That’s how I knew where to find you.”

Bucky smiled and shook his head. Even after a year, you still cared about Tom.

After watching the movie, he will take you to meet Tom. His grandpa will welcome you with open arms and finally stop calling him an "idiot."

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[rivalsispunk]

Inappropriate (Chapter 4 of ongoing series When We’re Alone)

Best friend’s dad!Declan O’Hara, boss!Declan O’Hara x AFAB reader

Series summary: Journalist Declan O’Hara is in need of a personal assistant as his Corinium career skyrockets, and his daughter Taggie has the perfect candidate: her best friend. What seemingly starts as a professional relationship soon snowballs into something both Declan and reader were never expecting and are no longer able to deny.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, cursing, age gap romance (reader is a few years older than Taggie), mention of male appendages (IYKYK), mention of female orgasm, pussy pronouns, smut smut SMUTTTT, jealous Declan, all the good stuff

Word count: 11.4k

Chapter summary: Happening across your boss pants down only spells the beginning for you and Declan, but neither of you are expecting a surprise visitor to muddy the waters.

A/N: Thank you all for being SO SO patient with this one. I could've easily released this chapter in two parts but didn't want to disrupt the flow of the story (*ahem* smut). This has had a brief edit in my hastiness to publish so any mistakes... Shhhhhh!

© rivalsispunk please do not steal, copy, or translate any of my work onto other platforms!

Chapter Four: Inappropriate

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t had an inappropriate thought or two about Declan O’Hara in the time you’ve been friends with Taggie, perhaps more frequently since he’d become your superior, but that had nothing on the unadulterated filth that had infiltrated your brain in the hours since leaving The Priory. You can barely recall fleeing down its staircase or the drive home, what unfolded at the forefront of your mind until a self-induced orgasme lulled you into a deep sleep. Now, you’re permanently marred with the visual of Declan — your best friend’s father, your boss — fucking his hand with your name on his lips. You should feel dirty. You should feel violated. You should feel the way you do when Tony Baddingham’s beady eyes drink you in across the office. Like you need a scalding hot shower and to scrub yourself down to the bone. But you don’t. You feel like somebody’s doused you in gasoline and lit a match, your whole body burnt to flames — and it’s exhilarating. 

How many times has he done it?

Was that the first time?

And why do you want to watch him do it again?

“Did ya stay late last night?” Declan asks you the next day while you’re sifting through old newspapers in search for more dirt on Rupert, at your boss’ request. “Went straight up to bed once I got back, so didn’t hear ya leave.”

Liar, you think.

“Not too late. Eleven, maybe,” you respond, eyes glued haphazard clippings across your desk.

“Not that I would’ve heard you anyway,” he continues. “Not with the wailing guitar riffs at full volume on Taggie’s stereo.”

Only then do you flit your gaze up to look at the man on the other side of the office. Acting professional after that murky moment with Declan in the hot tub was one thing, but pretending you don’t know what your boss looks like with his pants dropped and cock in hand is a whole other kettle of fish. Under normal circumstances, you’d be awkward. Uncomfortable. But now it’s as if having his secret affection has allowed you the permission to challenge him. 

“Do you have something against Bon Jovi, Declan?”

“Under normal circumstances, no,” he responds, lighting a cigarette. “But when it feels like Jon is in bed with me screaming in my ear while I’m trying to sleep, I’m inclined to think otherwise.”

Let alone when you’re dancing around all but naked to it.

“So, can we count you out of belting Livin’ On A Prayer at Bar Sinister tonight?” you chide, reminding Declan of the invite you’d all received from the Joneses. Smoke plumes from his lips as he rears back from a drag.

“Yep. I’ll not be going anyway. Got too much work to get done.” “You always have too much work to get done,” you tell him. “You have to take a break sometime.”

“That’s what sleeping is for,” he counters, a slight smirk rising from under his moustache.

“Oh, come on, Declan. It’s one night.” You’re staring at him all doe-eyed across the room and your innocence, faux or not, does the heavy lifting of your convincing. “Come to Sinister. It’ll be fun.”

It’ll be fun, you’d said, voice all but a whiney beg that zapped like a rod of lightning straight to his crotch. But Declan’s struggling to find the enjoyment in spending his evening watching a revolving door of men try their luck with you, in that impossibly short merlot-coloured dress that’s befitting of Bar Sinister’s name. First, it was Bas Baddingham; the younger, kinder, though no less leery half-brother of Tony. Declan had noticed the pair of you when he arrived, his attention magnetised to you the moment he walked through the door. Bas had you cooped up in the corner by the floor to ceiling wine racks, his frame bowing over you while you chatted. 

Declan wasn’t prepared for the twist in his stomach, nor the prickle of heat that scaled his body until it reached his cheeks while he watched you giggle with Bas, eyes sparkling under his attention. It was almost as if he were a child watching someone play with his favourite toy, unwilling to let anybody else have a turn, even though he was well aware it wasn’t his to keep in the first place. You slung another one of your dazzling smiles Bas’ way, and it was enough to have Declan beelining for the bar to order a wine and a whiskey to keep his envy at bay. After a while, Bas was called away to assist with a kitchen catastrophe. He was quickly replaced with Rupert Campbell-Black, all smiles and slime as craned his neck to whisper in your ear. Whatever words he was imparting on you — undoubtedly dirty — saw you blush, a stunning flush of fuchsia flooding up your neck to your cheeks. This goes on for a while — too long, in Declan’s opinion — and every grin Rupert shoots your way, coupled with you staring up at him all starry-eyed like you’ve been touched by the hand of God, has Declan grinding his teeth to near-dust. 

He’s too old for you, he thinks. Certainly not good enough. The journalist had already been forced to warn the former Olympian off Taggie. He ought to do the same for you. But who was he kidding? He has no claim over you. You’re not his daughter.

The idea has him downing his whiskey in one gulp.

No, you’re definitely not his daughter.

Filthy hypocritical git.

You felt Declan before you saw him, his gaze like daggers slicing into you as you spoke with Bas, then even more so when while you chatted to Rupert. In all honesty, you had no interest in either men, but you made sure to ramp up the flirty act, particularly with Rupert, because you knew how much Declan disliked him. You weren’t entirely sure why; perhaps you wanted to see whether it bothered him, or how much it bothered him, but you could never get a good enough look at him to gauge where his head was at. You weren’t even talking about yourself, save for Rupert once again trying to coax you into a dinner date. Instead, you’d geared the conversation towards your best friend, whom you knew had a burgeoning crush on her neighbour despite her failed attempts to deny it.

“Are you expecting someone?” Rupert asks partway through gushing over Taggie’s catering at a recent hunt. “Or am I just boring you?”

His question falls on deaf ears, and you scramble to make up for your rudeness. “Sorry, Rupert. What was that?”

“Your eyes have been darting around this bar like you’re watching a tennis match.”

“I’m not—”

“Trust me, you are. It’s not often that a woman can bear to take her eyes off of me,” Rupert peacocks, cheeky grin blooming at his shameless confession. “So, who’s the lucky sod?”

God, he’s nothing if not perceptive, you think, chewing the inside of your cheek. Finally, you clock Declan by the till, his eyes stuck on you while Lizzie Vereker chats animatedly at his side.

“So, are you going to tell me or are you going to make me guess?” Rupert tries again. 

Turning your attention back to him, you make a show of laying a hand on the sleeve of his navy sports coat as you lie through your teeth. “It’s nobody. Nobody worth worrying about.”

“Are you trying to burn a hole through him?” Lizzie wonders aloud, cheeks already flushed from her half a glass of wine.

“He’s just… everywhere. It bothers me,” Declan tells her, not taking his eyes off you.

“Bothers you that he’s here, or bothers you that he’s here with her?” She looks at him quizzically before her sight slices to you.

“You know I can’t stand him, Lizzie. Sorry, I know he’s your friend but, God. Always lurking, trying to shag anything with a pulse. Even that might be too restrictive to the lengths he’ll go to.”

“She’s an adult, Declan. A strong-headed one, at that. She can make her own decisions.”

“Well, she’s making the wrong one with him. He's got all the charm of a burst hemorrhoid."

Lizzie swats Declan for his off-colour description. “And what do you suggest the right one to be, then?” She’s staring up at him, lips pursed like she knows something. Like she’s pried his skull open with a crowbar and all of his dirtiest thoughts about you have leaked all over Bar Sinister’s maroon carpet.

“Someone her own age,” Declan decides, as much as it pains him to admit. “Someone that’s not Rupert Campbell-Black.”

“Someone like Patrick?” Lizzie poses, and Declan’s head whips towards her at the mention of his son.

“Patrick? My Patrick?”

“It’s not that crazy an idea. He’s a perfectly lovely boy.”

“He’s also at university, Lizzie.” Far away from you.

“Was at university,” a familiar and all-too-missed voice sounds from behind the journalist, and he just about spills his Pinot Noir as he turns to greet his son.

“Patrick!” Declan pulls him into a hug, clapping a hand against his back. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I had a few days between exams. Thought I’d pay a visit.”

“Shouldn’t you be studying?”

“Come on, Dad. I’m here to have fun. You should try it sometime,” Patrick jests. There’s that word again. Fun. Despite your earlier promise, so far, Declan’s having anything but. “Hello, Lizzie,” Patrick leans down to drop a kiss to her cheek. “So, what are we talking about over here? Though with you Rutshire lot, I suppose the question should be who are we talking about?” he asks, taking the wine glass from his father’s hand and polishing off what’s left of the heady liquid.

Lizzie steals a quick look at Declan, who feigns disinterest. “We were just talking about that glorious young lady over there,” she tells Patrick, pointing with her wine in your direction. “Rather beautiful, is she not?” 

Patrick’s eyes narrow as he spots you across the dim-lit room, still deep in conversation with Rupert. “Isn’t that Taggie’s friend? I remember meeting her at my birthday party. Rupert hasn’t eaten her alive yet?”

“Seems she’s one of the only women in this town that’s immune to his charms,” Lizzie conveys, and Declan wonders if they’re watching the same scene; Rupert laying it on thick and you seemingly lapping it up.

There’s a soft, almost curious tilt to Patrick’s head, lip pursed over as he watches the pair of you. “She might stand a chance after all,” he announces, then he’s away as quickly as he appeared, swerving through the crowd as he makes his way towards you.

Freddie is eight minutes through Meat Loaf’s Bat Out Of Hell and the whole bar is loving it. You can’t recall a time you’ve had this much fun out, your throat is stinging from how loud, how ferociously, you’re singing along with the electronics businessman. Freddie’s off-key and lack of rhythm is long forgotten under the haze of alcohol, and even Declan has slid off his broody perch to join the sing-a-long. Before the unmistakable first riff of the song blasted from the speakers, you’d spent the last half an hour chatting to Patrick, who’d surprised his family for a weekend home from university. You’d met him once before at the O’Hara’s most recent New Year’s Eve party. It’d also doubled as his twenty-first birthday, though you’d barely exchanged more than a hello and goodbye on the night and he was yet to venture back until this evening.

The only son of Declan and Maud, and it isn’t hard to see where the majority of his genes descend from. Hickory curls wisp every which way, nougat eyes flecked with black just like his father’s. While Patrick is far more idealistic than Declan, he’s just as foolhardy and exudes the same charm. He’s funny, too, much easier to joke with than his dad, you find, and though he can’t hear what his son is whispering to you over the roar of the crowd, the way you lean into him and laugh between lyrics grates on Declan. He silently curses Lizzie for setting Patrick’s sights on you. He knows — yes, knows — she was doing him a favour, in some roundabout way, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. Especially when he has an unwilling front row seat with you standing between him and Patrick. To compete with Rupert and Bas was one thing, but his own son? Even if the whole thing was complete mental game, it wears on him, reminding him how fucking absurd his affection for you is.

The bar erupts in applause as Freddie wails along with the song’s final chord, his voice landing nowhere near the note Meat Loaf intended. Beside Declan, you cheer for the businessman while Patrick hollers in a way that’s more suited for a football match

“Right then, you randy bunch,” Freddie shouts, his cockney accent impossibly louder under the boom of the microphone. “Which one of yous dares to follow after the King of Karaoke?” The machine, some high-tech gadget flown in from Asia, fades into the next song, and the first couple of lyrics from Don’t Go Breaking My Heart appear on the screen.

“Oh, Daddy loves this song!” Taggie squeals from behind you, hands coming to shake Declan’s shoulders.

“What? No, I don’t,” he scoffs. “Where on earth did you get that idea?” “I’ve heard you singing it in the shower,” she says, shouldering her way between the two of you. “Both Elton and Kiki Dee’s parts.”

Declan playfully swats his daughter. “Oh, shut it, Tag. Can we have no secrets?” Their repartee makes you smile, even more to see Declan without that far-etched scowl he’s often sporting.

“Kiki Dee fan, hey, Dad?” Patrick teases, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Not enough to get up there and sing it.”

Nobody else has jumped at the opportunity yet, and Freddie’s still trying to hype up the crowd to find a taker as the instrumental track rolls into the chorus. 

“You’ll sing it with him, won’t you?” It takes you a second to realise that Taggie is talking to you. “You were saying on the way here that you wanted to step out of your comfort zone a bit more.” 

You shake your head. That’s absolutely not what you were referring to.

“I meant professionally! Not…” you gesture haphazardly to the stage. You hadn’t mentally prepared to get up and perform. It also wasn’t exactly the activity you had in mind when you thought about you and Declan.

“Oh, go on, you two!” Taggie eggs you on, hopping with excitement. 

“I’ll give you ten quid,” Patrick wagers, and Declan slices a dark look his way.

“Anyone?” Freddie is still trying, swinging the microphone around by its cable. Then, you feel a hot breath sluice over your cheek. The scent of whiskey emanating from Declan gives away the dangerous amount he’s consumed this evening, which could be why he drops his mouth to your ear. 

“I’ll do it if you do it,” he murmurs, the deep timbre of his words racking through you. You rear backwards, nearly headbutting Taggie in the process.

“Are you joking? Two seconds ago you didn’t want to get up there either!”

Declan gives a half-hearted shrug as if to say why not. “It is a duet, after all.” His gaze holds yours and walks a fine line between pleading and defiant. There’s something in it now, a dare lurking beneath the surface, like he’s waiting for you to rise to the challenge. The look hits you sharp, suddenly; a flash of lightning tearing through the dark, and one final daring tilt of Declan’s head pushes your reservations aside.

“Okay, fine.” You snatch his glass from his hand and throw back the rest of the thick amber. A swell of pride burns through his chest, watching you pitch up the courage — even if it’s liquid — to get up on stage. “Freddie!” you shout towards the host. “Start it up again. We’re doing this.”

“Woohoo!” Freddie pumps a fist in the air, winding up the crowd until their cheering and applause hit deafening heights. Between the whiskey and the support of Taggie and Rutshire, you should be amped up enough to get through one measly song. But not even the heat blooming from where Declan’s hand rests on your back as he guides you on stage is enough to distract from the terror gnawing at you. 

Despite the small set-up and there only being forty-odd people in the crowd, you might as well have been performing at Wembley. The relentless stage lights make it seem like you’re just metres from the sun and your heart is pumping a frantic, runaway rhythm that just won’t quiet. You blanch, surprised the microphone doesn’t slip from your clammy palm as Freddie passes it to you, the object a heavy weight in your hand. Just below you, Taggie pumps a thumbs up, and Patrick claps supportively. And then there’s Declan, standing beside you, his presence both grounding and electrifying as he leans in, voice low but steady as the intro to Don’t Go Breaking Your Heart starts back up again. 

“Just breathe, love,” he tells you. “The worst that happens is we both end up looking like idiots.”

The first four bars pump out of the speakers, and you barely hear Declan apprehensively sing the first line because you’re too focussed on not regurgitating the cacio e pepe you’d consumed at dinner. You’re already a beat off when you murmur through your round of the lyrics, but Declan does a fine job at making up for your lack of stage presence. He’s side-stepping to the beat, putting his hips into it and clicking with his free hand. He’s still rigid in his movements, because he’ll be damned if performing for his peers this way is a regular occurrence, but it’s all he can do to get the attention off you, to calm your nerves without pulling you into a storage cupboard and fucking the anxiety out of you. 

By the time the second chorus rolls around, you’ve loosened up enough to follow Declan’s lead, your feet no longer paralysed by fear. You move about the stage, pointing dramatically at Taggie and wiggling your body. The gesture is small, but swinging your hips in a circle has Declan stumbling over his words, his trousers tightening over his crotch. 

Ooh-ooh, nobody knows it (nobody knows), the entire bar is singing along now, and Declan’s welcome for the distraction because the song is right. Nobody knows just how far gone he is for you, and this little love song performance isn’t helping anyone. Thankfully, the music begins fading out, signally the end of your time up on stage, and you clamber down the two rickety steps to resounding applause. 

“See?” Taggie says when you return to your rightful place out of the spotlight. “It wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You ignore your heart leaping at the base of your throat and ignore the urge to steal a glance at Declan, who’s made straight for the bar. Again.

“No, not all bad,” you give in, smiling between your friend and her brother.

You stay for one more drink and a few more songs, finally calling it a night once Charles coaxes half the broadcasting staffers into a Les Misérables sing-a-long. You and the O’Hara’s venture outside, the crisp night air pulling all of the hairs on your arms to their ends. While the four of you wait for a cab, Patrick sloughs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, an almost silent that’s better slipping into the darkness. Lighting a cigarette, Declan tries — tries — to mind his own business. But his ears prick up at the mention of you and dinner.

“What do you say?” Patrick is asking you, voice competing with the sound of tires on wet bitumen and the chorus resounding from inside Sinister. “Tomorrow night? I’ll pick you up?”

The words hang in the air. Simple. Loaded.

You feel Declan’s gaze like a weight on your shoulders. You should want to go on a date with Patrick, right? You’re supposed to; he’s smart, funny and, more to the point, not nearly two decades your senior. But all you can think about is how Declan’s attention makes your skin flush, how he’s standing right there, probably watching this all unfold. You swallow, pressure mounting as Patrick’s invitation still hangs between you. A few steps away, Declan shifts, just barely, but enough to catch your attention. When you glance back at him, he busies himself with his lighter, like its manufacture is the most fascinating thing in the world. 

Would he even notice if you said yes to his son? Would he care at all?

You nod before you can second-guess yourself, your words tripping out like they’re not even yours. “Yeah, sure. Dinner sounds good.” Patrick beams brightly as a taxi pulls up to the curb. Declan’s unreadable as he stubs out his cigarette, while the energy pouring from Taggie is hard to miss.

“I’m so excited!” she whisper-shouts, her hands coming to wrap around your left arm as you approach the cab. “If this works out between you and Patrick, we’ll be sisters!”

Behind you, Declan pales at his daughter’s comment.

You and Patrick. Working out.

You and Taggie. Sisters.

The idea makes him sick.

“Is that thing broken?” Declan stabs a finger at the clock hanging in The Priory’s kitchen. He’s positive something is wrong with it. Every time he looks to the wall, the hands appear unmoving, perpetually stuck at eleven-fifteen.

“It’s working perfectly fine,” Taggie assures her father while kneading a mound of dough that would soon become dinner rolls for tomorrow’s black-tie event at the Baddinghams’. “I think the issue is you keep checking it every five seconds.” Declan shakes his head, boots scraping along the floor as he paces up and down the length of the room. “Daddy, can you stop for a moment? You’re making me motion sick.” “Patrick should’ve been home by now,” he says, ignoring his daughter while his eyes flick to the clock again. 

“He’s on a date, for goodness sake,” Taggie says, and the reminder of his whereabouts — your whereabouts — feels like an infected scrape across his heart. “Just leave him be. He’ll be home when he’s home.”

Declan barks out a laugh. “Leave him be! Thanks, Taggie. That’s just grand parenting advice. I’ll try that one with you when you’ve got kids galavanting around God knows where at all hours of the night.”

“I’d hardly call eleven all hours of the night,” she counters, and the comment stops Declan at the head of the kitchen bench. She keeps stretching and folding the dough, almost unphased by her father’s agitation. Declan smiles, just for a second, recognising that Taggie’s become far more outspoken, less inward, since having you around. He’d be proud if the situation wasn’t so infuriating.

“I’m just—” he stares at a crack in the timber benchtop. “It’s just getting late and he has to drive back to school tomorrow.” It was a cheap excuse. Declan knew full well that Patrick would have no issues making the two-hour drive back to campus, even on little sleep. In truth, he could roll in at four AM and he’d not bat an eyelid. 

But this isn’t really about Patrick, is it? No, it’s you. You, out there with his son, doing God knows what, God knows where. He could feel the weight of it— the resentment, the jealousy — settling deep in his chest. What if you’d kissed? Worse, what if you’d—No. His fingers tighten around the edge of the bench, knuckles coming up white. His mind deceives him again, and there you are, entwined in your bed sheets with Patrick, your laughter mixing with the sound of something more. The thought burns hot and quick through him, and the longer you’re out with Patrick, the harder it is to shake.

Then there’s the slam of a car door. The whine of hinges at the entrance to The Priory. Declan and Taggie both glance at each other before racing to the foyer to greet Patrick. 

“Are you guys waiting up for me or something?” he chides, unravelling himself from his navy scarf.

“No,” Declan is all too quick to answer. Yes.

“So?” Taggie, flour marring her right cheek, is just about levitating with the way she’s bouncing on her feet. “How was it then?”

“Lovely,” Patrick says. “She’s really great. So intelligent.”

Yeah, I know, Declan dares to think.

“Did you kiss her goodnight?” Taggie wants to know, gazing up at her brother like a toddler waiting on a fairytale.

A quiet chuckle rumbles from Patrick as he slings his coat over the staircase bannister. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, my dear,” he muses, thumbing his sister’s chin. 

“You know I’m going to find out from her anyway,” Taggie warns him.

“Then you’ll just have to wait until you see her tomorrow, won’t you?”

She rolls her eyes, and Declan’s stomach churns in a similar motion. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, but Patrick wasn’t usually one to play coy. The only reason for his self-effacement must be because he really likes you. And, as Declan trudges up to bed, throwing a tetchy goodnight over his shoulder to his children, he worries you likely feel the same.

The date was…fine. Patrick was twenty minutes late, but it was quickly made up for with the bouquet of roses, twice the size of his head, that he arrived alongside. After a quick peck to the cheek, he ushered you into the Clubman he’d borrowed from his father for the night. The car reeked of stale smoke and the leathery wood smell of Declan’s cologne. If you allowed yourself, you could almost hear the rasp of his voice and the sharp click of his lighter. Beside you, Patrick chatted away about his literature class at university while he navigated the quiet streets, completely unaware of how his father’s presence seemed to haunt every inch of this car. You bypassed Bar Sinister and town completely, ending up at Le Petit Chêne — The Little Oak — a small, family-owned French bistro fifteen minutes down the road. The food was delicious, the wine even better, but as the night wore on, you couldn’t help but compare Patrick to his father, even though you were well aware it wasn’t fair. Patrick had that same tapered jawline, those dark eyes, but where Declan’s gaze felt like a bolt of electricity, Patrick’s was softer, warmer. The laugh lines at the corners of his eyes were like something familiar, comfortable, like you could just keep moving through the motions and never have to think too hard. But Declan... Declan made you feel every. Single. Glance.

Still, the comfortability and Patrick’s friendliness made it easy to lose track of time as you traded tales from your time at university and compared your favourite novels, arguing over the crux of Of Mice and Men — you find it majorly depressing, while Patrick thinks it signifies hope. You agreed, begrudgingly, to disagree, the squabble wrapping up as your date pulls up outside your flat. 

“I had a really nice night,” he confessed when you reached your door. 

“Yeah, me, too,” you responded, shrugging off his jacket he’d once again loaned you. “That restaurant was lovely. Thank you again for paying.” “You’re worth it.” Patrick shuffled from one foot to the other, the subtle movement signifying the first time you’d ever seen the eldest O’Hara child anywhere close to nervous. You knew what was coming next, with the way he looked up from your doormat with hopeful eyes, blush pinching at the apples of his cheeks. “Can I kiss you?”

You should want to kiss him, the young, likable man standing in front of you. Going against your better judgement, you said yes and tried to enjoy his soft lips against yours. His touch was gentle, one hand on your waist, the other cupping your cheek, but the spark that should ignite at having a handsome man like Patrick wanting you was missing. It didn’t help that you could still feel the ghost of Declan’s presence, like the heat from his stare was still burning into your skin. No hairs stood on end. No rush of warmth flooded your chest. Nothing like the way you felt when Declan’s gaze lingered on you just a little too long, or when your hands brushed, the way they had that night in the hot tub. The gnawing comparisons followed you into your flat once you and Patrick had said goodnight, and tucked themselves into bed beside you, marking the beginning of a long night of fractured sleep.

The next evening, you find yourself in a sea of black tuxedos and satin gowns, the clink of glasses and low murmurs of conversation filling the ballroom in the Baddingham manor as you celebrate Four Men Went To Mow dominating the winter ratings. Early that morning, Taggie called to hear details from your date with Patrick, revealing that her brother remained mum about the night you’d spent together. You kept it top-line, telling her it was fun and that there was a peck, which was met with squeals from the other end of the phone. Taggie then dished that Patrick had extended his stay in Rutshire and would be attending that night’s festivities, and whatever excitement you held for the party dissipated.

After your date, you’d expected Patrick to return to university, taking whatever fleeting attraction he held for you with him. You found comfort in that, knowing you wouldn’t have to let him down easy and that Taggie would stop prematurely planning your wedding to her brother. Yet, here he is, looking dashing in a three-piece tux and already the life of the party. So, you push any awkwardness aside and focus on the night ahead. Patrick told you he was definitely leaving tomorrow morning—no harm in enjoying his company tonight, right? You can smile, have a bit of fun, try not to think too much about it. The music plays, the conversation flows, and you laugh, genuinely, pretending for a moment that everything is simple. But through it all, you can feel Declan observing the pair of you across the grand hall. No matter the conversations he finds himself amongst, whether it be with board members about his show, or colleagues exchanging gossip about interoffice affairs, a portion of his attention is always attuned to you. He winces every time your laugh rises above the chatter and he’s desperate to know what words his son is crooning to justify such a heavenly sound. There was something in the way you looked at his son — a softness that went beyond polite attention. But who was he kidding? Why wouldn’t you be interested in Patrick? Lizzie was right. Patrick is the right choice, and judging by the smile pinching at your cheeks as you look up at him, a choice you’ve gladly already made.

After two rounds of canapes have made the rounds, Taggie manages to steal a few minutes away from the kitchen to join you and Daysee on the dancefloor for the YMCA, the three of you giggling between the iconic moves as you try to decide which of the Corinium men would be each of the Village People. Despite the low temperature outside, sweat slides down your spine and the hairs framing your face stick to your forehead.  “I’m going to get some air!” you shout, gesturing to the doors in case your friends can’t hear you above the music. As the song fades into a Hall and Oates hit, you push through the throng of guests, ignoring the way Tony Baddingham’s eyes rinse over you in your baby blue dress as you pass by him and Freddie Jones in the corridor. When you step outside, the pulse of music and chatter drifts into the cool night, mingling with the quiet conversations and laughter of guests convening among the manicured hedges and flower beds. The air is thick with the scent of damp grass and the faintest trace of woodsmoke pumping from the manor’s chimneys and many roaring fireplaces.

Down the far end of the house, you spot Declan in the shadow of one of the sky-reaching pillars. He’s still, watching the party through the large windows, light from inside flickering softly across his face. It catches the curve of his cheek and the edge of his stubbly jaw in bursts, and battles with the glow of the cigarette he lifts to his lips. Smoke curls up into the night, and only when it shifts does he finally catch sight of you. He doesn’t say a word, just lets the silence stretch between you for a few moments until you ask him, “Are you hiding?”

“Just getting some fresh air,” he says, taking another drag. 

“With lungs full of smoke?” you dare. 

The cigarette tips towards the sky as Declan smirks. “Watch yourself.” You take the cheeky lilt in his voice as an invitation to join him, your heels echoing off the concrete pavers as you walk. “Are you having fun?” he wants to know when you fall into line beside him. 

“Yeah, it’s a great party. I just hope Freddie hasn’t brought that bloody karaoke machine with him,” you say, only half serious.

“I’ll say,” Declan agrees, dark eyes still fixated on the window. Beyond it, Patrick is talking animatedly with a group of six or so guests gathered around him, all of them ogling the young scholar over their drinks like they’re the disciples to his Jesus. As if he’s just relayed the punchline to a joke, his onlookers throw their heads back with laughter, and the man to Patrick’s left claps him on the shoulder, unable to contain himself.

“People are just drawn to him, aren’t they?” Declan wonders out loud. He doesn’t mean it as a test, but he’s curious to see if you open up to him about the night before. 

“It’s not hard to see why,” comes your answer, and it’s clear you’re keeping your cards as close to your chest as Patrick.

“He’s a good boy,” Declan forges on, nudging his chin in the direction of his firstborn.

“You told me that boys don’t know what they want.”

“Not my son. He’s known what he wants since he was in the womb."

“And what about you? Do you know what you want?” The question is playful and doesn’t probe in the way you wish you could ask, but it’s enough for Declan to debate answering.

What does he want?

You.

To not want you.

“He likes you a lot, you know," he pivots, as much as the facts pain him.

“Oh, yeah?”

Declan nods. “He was out here not long ago, banging on about your celestial light.” The phrase makes him chuckle while he shakes his cigarette, ash flickering from orange to grey as it drifts to the ground.

“Celestial light?" you scoff, breath turning to fog in the air. "You’re joking. I have about as much celestial light as a flickering lamp post.”

“Don’t do that.” Any amusement in Declan’s voice is gone with those three words. 

“Do what?”

“Put yourself down. Make yourself small.”

“I don’t know what you’re—“

“Don’t you?" Declan presses, head quirked. You don't fool me, is what he means. "You don't have to do that with Patrick. Don't have to do that with me."

"And the rest of them? I'm not naive enough to think that I'm more than some young thing expected to keep quiet and look pretty. That's just the way it is. All those men in there," you nod towards the sprawling windows that separate you from the party. "They don't think anything of me. They just see me as —"

“Smart? Witty?” Declan interjects, trying to meet your eye as you toe a stray leaf that's blown onto the concrete. “Beautiful as you may be, you have a hell of a lot more going for you. Believe me.” He’s being earnest, you can hear it in the way his voice dips to barely a whisper. In this way, his words are intentional and just for you. 

You abandon the leaf in favour of his face. “You think I’m beautiful?”

“Be crazy not to."

"Declan..." You don't know where your sentence is going, or why you step towards him, but you do, the confession — as minor as it is — digging into you like a hook and Declan's eyes, pinned to you, reeling you in.

"So, how was your date then?" The question throws up a wall between you. An unscalable, Patrick-shaped wall.  A red flush spreads over your chest and blooms up your neck. You don't want to talk about this. Not really. Not with him.

"Patrick didn't tell you?"

"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, is what he said." There's a strangled edge to his voice, a frustration, like his son being cryptic was the most inconvenient thing in the world. "Did you —"

"There you are, Declan!" The voice has you skittering you across the pavement away from Declan, your heart tugging like you're still attached to him by that imaginary hook. 

"For fuck’s sake," he mutters, snuffing his cigarette out under his dress shoe as Tony Baddingham saunters towards you, sly smile poisoning his lips.

"And here you are," he croons your name. "Never far from Declan, are you?"

"I told ya, Tony. She's my right hand man," your boss says, and you snuff the smile threatening to crack across your face at the thought that Declan’s talking about you, needing you. He’s trying to sound aloof, but he hates watching Tony sniff you out like a wolf stalking its prey — circling, picking up every subtle scent of your discomfort, eyes glowing with that predatory gleam. 

"So, it would seem. I must admit, your show has taken quite a spectacular turn in the ratings since this one's come along," Tony continues, coming to stand beside you. His cool hand slides too comfortably around your bare shoulders, his fingers pressing into your skin with an air of ownership. You flinch and try to mask it with a forced smile, but Tony doesn't seem fazed, chuckling as he leans in closer, eyes trailing down the front of your chest. "This dress is something rather spectacular itself. How did you know blue is my favourite colour?"

"Lucky guess," you tell him, stiffening under the weight of his arm. Declan's jaw tightens, and while he's trying to stay composed, tension radiates from him in violent, crashing waves. Your eyes dart about as you shift uncomfortably — something that doesn't go unnoticed by Declan. 

He digs into his pocket, retrieving a small, stainless steel case that he holds out to Tony. "Cigarette?"

"Ah, I told the lady of the house that I would try to quit," Tony explains, referring to his wife, Monica. "But I suppose one never killed anybody." It feels like a tonne has been sloughed off you when Lord Baddingam unravels himself from you, moving towards Declan to light up.

"Thank you," you mouth behind Tony's back, and Declan returns a wink that goes straight to your warm centre. 

Inside the house, the party erupts in hoots and cheers as La Bamba starts over the speakers, and you catch sight of Daysee beckoning you back to the dancefloor from the other side of the glass. Tony begins rattling off competitor numbers and other industry secrets well above your pay grade, so you take the opportunity to slip back inside for another champagne, another dance.

Before too long, you’re swept into a conversation with Valerie and Lizzie — well, more Valerie, who is probing you for gossip from within the walls of Corinium. She’s a total fiend for a scandal. You’d heard through the grapevine that she’d told Monica Baddingham about her husband’s sordid rendezvous with Cameron Cook, and no doubt Valerie was well across the fact that Lizzie’s own husband was spending a great deal of time pants down in his dressing room with his co-host.

“Well, there’s got to be something,” Valerie whines when you tell her you tend to keep your nose out of other people’s business. 

“Oh, leave her be,” Lizzie tells her before turning to you. “How are you, love? More to the point, how’s Patrick? I heard the two of you went on a date last night.”

Jeez, word travels fast around here, you think.

“You and Declan’s son?” Valerie clarifies, tweeting at the revelation. “Handsome boy, him. God, Declan’s genes are strong, aren’t they?”

The mention of Declan has you searching for him through the windows, and you catch him just in time to see him storm away from Tony, disappearing from view until he barges back into the party with a snarl contorting his mouth. Most of the guests are too drunk to notice him stalking through the ballroom, or swipe a glass of whiskey off the tray of a waiter in one brisk snatch he doesn’t even slow down for.

“Oh, God,” Lizzie mutters, turning away from Declan as he shoves past your trio, the sleek material of his jacket scraping across your upper arm.

You call after him to no avail before Lizzie touches your wrist lightly, shaking her head. “Leave him, darling.”

“Why?” you ask, searching her face for some shred of a clue. “Lizzie, what’s happened?”

“You didn’t hear it from me —”

“Oh, don’t start with that,” Valerie squawks, her cockney twang exacerbated by alcohol. “The whole bloody country’s already read about it in the paper this morning.”

“For God’s sake, read what?”

“Declan’s wife — Maud — well, she’s got some big flashy part in some famous play in the city,” Valerie is all too excited to tell you, while Lizzie takes far too much interest in the ice melting at the bottom of her empty glass. “Three month run if it all goes to plan, the article said.”

“At least,” Lizzie finally pipes up, crimson colouring her face immediately after. “Poor Declan.”

Yes, poor Declan. 

Taggie and Patrick, who are dancing to a completely different song to the one that’s playing, are none the wiser that their father’s just come barrelling through here like a bull in a china shop. And, given that Taggie’s yet to mention anything about her estranged mother, your bet is that they have no idea about her new role, either. Your heart breaks for your best friend, for all of them, which is why you trail after Declan once Lizzie and Valerie have found another unsuspecting guest to pry information from.

The first few doors you try are no-gos: an office space that looks rather untouched, a sitting room decked out with floral upholstery complete with a couple you’ve never met going at it on a sofa, and an ornate guest bathroom. It’s not until the fifth door that you find Declan looking forlorn in the Baddingham’s library. He’s sprawled out in a dark armchair, tall frame filling it out. Legs spread like he’s waiting for someone to kneel between them.

“Hey,” you say quietly, closing the door softly behind you.

His voice is groggy with liquor when he responds, “Where’s Patrick?”

“Dancing with Taggie, I think. It’s nice seeing them together, I know she’s missed him,” you tell him, adding, “You’ve raised some good kids.”

Declan scoffs. “Dunno how. Workaholic father, absentee mother with a chronic wandering eye.” 

Your stomach dips. “I heard about Maud. Are you okay?” 

“So, everyone’s talking about it.” He sinks impossibly lower into the chair, its leather whining as he splays his arms out to his sides. The whiskey in his hand splashes over the edge of his glass with the movement. “Am I okay? What’s it look like to you?”

He looks like shit, inky hair disheveled from raking a frantic hand through it, but the frustration already emanating from him stops you from voicing it. The man just found out his wife has no intention of returning home anytime soon. The least you can do is give him some grace.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t pry.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Declan snaps. “And I shouldn’t be discussing this with you. It’s…” he ponders on the right word before settling on, “Inappropriate.”

You drag your bottom lip between your teeth. “Because I’m Taggie’s friend?”

He laughs incredulously. “Yeah, because you’re Taggie’s friend. You’re my employee. You’re…” He gestures haphazardly in your direction.

“I’m…?” you prompt, taking a few trepid steps towards him.

Insatiable. Infallible. Interminable. Indomitable. How could he ever settle on just one? 

“Insufferable,” Declan eventually mutters, chasing the confession with a slow swig of his drink.

It’s your turn to laugh now. “I’m insufferable? I’m not the one that’s stalked off to sulk and—” You stop, shake your head. “Actually, I’m not going to argue this with you. If you want to sit in here alone instead of spending time with people who actually care about you, people who are actually here, so be it.” After shooting Declan a pointed look, you stalk to the door, but there’s a buzz in your veins that knows you’re not ready to let up just yet, so you turn on your heel to face him again. “And I don’t need you telling me what is and isn’t appropriate. Your moral compass is far too gone for that.” “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Declan wants to know, sitting a little more upright in his seat.

“You’re kidding, right? I heard you, you know. The other night. Saying my name while you were touching yourself.” Declan’s whiskey glass freezes at his lips, black eyes locked on you. “Not very appropriate considering I’m Taggie’s friend. Your employee,” you confess, throwing his reasons for not opening up to you back in his face. Your chest heaves with shallow breaths, like spilling the secret of you watching Declan come undone has stolen every bit of viable air from your burning lungs. You half expect him to deny it, but his face is blank, and his silence is aggravating. Time, what feels like minutes, stretches between the two of you, gazes set on one another while you silently duel across the library. 

“Nothing to say, Declan?” you press. “That’s a first.”

Leather ripples through the room as he stands, abandoning his glass on a side table before stalking towards you. He doesn’t stop until you’re toe to toe and your back presses into the cool wood of the door. Whiskey, aftershave and a lick of sweat consumes you as Declan regards you down his nose. “Like I said,” he croaks. “You’re insufferable.”

Your jaw unhinges as you go to bite back at him, to tell him that he’s the one making things unbearable, but then he tuts, jabbing his forefinger into his chest. “You’ve said enough. It’s my turn to speak.

“Hiring you is up there with the worst things I’ve ever done, and believe me, love, I’ve done a lot of shitty things. That night in the hot tub? Ruined me for all I’m worth. I can’t go to sleep without seeing you. Can’t go to work without wondering what it’d be like to bend you over the desk. Can’t bear to watch you bat those fucking eyes of yours at Rupert or Bas or Patrick. Then there’s Maud…” His eyes slip shut as he speaks, a small shake of his head revealing shame eroded in the space between his unruly eyebrows. “Every moment she pulls away from me is a moment that pushes me closer to you, and I hate it,” he confesses. “And seeing you with Patrick is fucking eating me alive, because what kind of man — what kind of married man — wishes the worst on his son over a woman that he has no claim over?”

“Is that what this is about? You’re jealous?”

“Jealous,” Declan repeats. He can only laugh. “Did you fuck him?”

You pull back, head softly ricocheting off the wood behind you. “Did I— you can’t be serious, Declan.” “Answer the question. Did. You. Fuck. Him?” 

“Of course not!”

“No?” He sounds surprised, and you’re almost offended.

“No!” you spit. The thump of muffled music vibrates through the door, matching your heart trying to break free from your chest. 

“Why not?”

“Declan, stop—”

“No, tell me,” he probes, hot breath fanning over your face. “Is it because he’s not smart enough for ya? Not manly enough?” You divert your gaze, blurred vision locking onto some benign object in the distance, because you don’t trust yourself to keep looking at Declan. You can’t tell what his angle is, whether he’s jealous at the attention you’re getting from other men, or annoyed that you’re not interested in his son. Eventually, he cocks his head to meet your sightline, finger coming to your chin to turn you to face him. “Tell me why you didn’t fuck him.”

“Because he’s not you!” It flies out of your mouth before you have the sense to stop it, breath catching in the back of your throat as you await Declan’s next move. The energy caught in the mere inches between you continues to crackle, but the fire burning under him seems to have subsided as his shoulders fall from their tense fixture, his suit jacket sagging with his muscles. He looks down at you with heavy eyelids. He’s tired. So fucking tired. Of pretending he doesn’t miss Maud, that he doesn’t want you. That of both those unspoken truths piled together makes him feel like a right failure as a husband, as a father, as a boss. He was already broken, and your admission was the final crack that made him shatter.

Shaky hands come to cover your mouth, a barrier to keep any more secrets from polluting the fragile silence that hangs heavy between you. Declan shuffles back, just a hairbreadth. He’s got his head viced, one hand through his hair and the other gripping his jaw. “Fucking hell.”

“I’m sorry,” you tell him. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Even if it’s the truth?” He’s just barely looking at you, sheepish. Like he’s waiting for permission. Or a denial. The torture draining the colour from his face is making it hard to tell what’s going on in that gorgeous head of his.

“It’s not fair. On either of us.” 

“You’re damn right it isn’t fair. None of this is fair.” He’s back at you, crowding you against the door, one large dress shoe pitched between your platform heels. You’re certain that if he took one deep breath, his belt buckle would make impressions on your stomach. You can see the indentations in his lips, the miniscule patch of dry skin at the corner. “Do you have any idea what you do to me? I’ve exercised more restraint in the last month than I’ve ever had to in my life. You’re fucking ruining me.” 

The disclosure has thinned his voice to barely a whisper. Heat bubbles low in your stomach, the pull of wanting to close the gap between you warring with the consequence you know wait for you both if you give in. Still, the way he’s staring at you, with wounded eyes like twin black holes, how could you ever stand a chance?

It’s why you let another confession slip, for better or for worse.

“You think I don’t feel it, too?” 

Declan reaches to tuck your hair behind your ear, his hand trailing back to caress your cheek. The minute he touches you, your whole body goes lax, completely pliable for him. “So fucking beautiful,” he whispers, and you can practically taste the liquor on his tongue. Black eyes zigzag across your features while his palm moves to cup your jaw, the pad of his thumb meeting the swell of your bottom lip. 

“This okay?” You only nod because you don’t have the strength, the gall, to betray Taggie by vocalising how desperately you want her father to keep touching you in ways you’ve only dreamed about.

“Need to hear you say it,” he urges. “Gotta make sure you really want this.”

He has no fucking idea how much you do.

“Please,” is all you manage to muster before an animalistic growl scrapes up the back of his throat and Declan O’Hara is kissing you in a way that’s going to screw you up forever.

You’re folding like the world’s flimsiest house of cards the moment his mouth hits yours, all teeth and tongues, whiskey, tobacco and him. If it weren’t for him scooping an arm around your waist to hold you to him, you’d be in a heap on the floor. Declan’s faint grunts resonate around your tongue as his own explores your mouth with fervent jabs, only breaking the erratic rhythm to suck your lip so sensually it peels a whimper from you. His arm is scorching against the bare skin that sits above the low-cut back of your dress. His hips flex into yours, and you feel the cool metal of his belt through satin. Then you feel it. His hard length, constricted by his suit trousers, pressing to your stomach. Excitement and desire pulse through you, the feeling of his arousal against you intoxicating, knowing you’re the cause.

“Ya feel that, darlin’? Feel what you do to me?” Declan asks, each word heavy with need and muffled into your neck, tongue flickering over the salty skin there. Your hands twist into his curls while he sucks a kiss into your collarbone. It pulls blood to the surface, most likely noticeable, but you don’t care. Not when Declan branding you feels so fucking good. After a few good moments, he pulls back to take you in, his lips puffy from working over your decolletage. His eyes skim over your face, drinking in every detail — the pale lipstick smeared around your mouth, your glassy eyes, the pink flush staining your cheeks.

“God, look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe. “So fucked out for me already.” Any shame that previously coloured Declan’s features has evaporated, the pity drowning his eyes flushed out by incessant need. He kisses you again, though it’s not so much a kiss as it’s a collision, only slowing down his movements once he’s confident this isn’t one of his fleeting, filthy dreams. It’s been so long since another person has kissed you like this, touched you like this. It’s everything Patrick’s kiss wasn’t, intimate and intentional despite the roaring laughter and music on the other side of the wall. 

Declan’s large hand leaves your hip and you immediately miss it as his fingers brush over the cool doorknob. They don’t linger, there’s no hesitation before the click of the lock vibrates through you. You don’t hear it, though. Not over your pulse thrumming in your ears. It’s a purposeful, unspoken decision to shut out everything but the heat building between you, then his hand is back at your waist, pinning you in place against the wood. The other grazes down your body until he reaches the hem of your dress, sliding it up your leg until he has it gathered in a pool of azure at your hip. Your breathing hitches at the feeling of his skin on your hip bone. Under the flood of material, Declan’s fingers find the waistband of your underwear, thumb trilling over the flimsy lace holding your thong together. Your breaths mingle, lips barely grazing while his mind runs ragged with thoughts of what colour the garment is. Black to match that sinful bra you wore to your interview? Red like the pair you were wearing in his dream last night? He hooks a finger under the elastic, pulling the panties away from your body then letting them go so they snap against your skin. You let out a sharp gasp at the sting but he’s already soothing it, one step ahead of what you’re needing. 

“I’ve wanted to touch you like this for so fucking long,” he groans. His hand finds its way under the lace material again to glide over the bulb of your arse, kneading the flesh there.

“Declan,” you whine, jutting your hips into his, desperate for friction.

“What’s that, darlin’?” Even with your eyes clamped shut you know he’s smirking, relishing in your neediness. You arch forward again but he’s far stronger than you, his brawniness keeping you in place. “If you want something, all you gotta do is ask.”

“Please,” you sigh, following up with a strangled, “Touch me.”

Declan wastes no time in finding you bundle of nerves, but as soon as he’s there, it’s like time slows to an excruciating speed, his fingers featherlight over the thin material. You’re already soaked. Have been since he started berating you about how much him wanting you was fucking him up. Declan knows it too, groaning as he applies more pressure, your slick seeping around the pad of his finger.

“Christ, you’re wet,” he grunts. “Is all this f’me?” Your head cants incessantly, mind and heart and pussy chanting more, more, more. But it doesn’t come. He just holds his finger to you, steady, waiting, like a finger on the trigger of a gun. The only relief you’re getting is from you squirming under his touch, and even then, it’s just not hitting in the way you know Declan could if he would just. Move.

A chuckle rumbles in his chest and as sexy as it sounds on a regular day, under the circumstances, it almost has you seeing red. “Oh, there she is,” Declan says when you finally look at him. “Needy little thing, aren’t ya?” His eyes are glued to yours, half-lidded with a grin tugging under his moustache. It’s not a challenge. It’s a promise. He has you right where he wants you, and you can feel it in the air, thick with his quiet confidence. Your mouth goes slack when Declan removes his finger from the outside of your underwear, instead using it to push the material aside, granting himself full access to your swollen centre. Then it’s back to square one: unhurried, languid movements as he traces your folds. Up and around, not once sliding over your clit despite your unintelligible splutterings begging him to do so. Declan’s lips fall back over yours with a quiet, charged kiss as his hand comes to cup your mound completely, his tongue seeking purchase against your own. You stay like that for a moment, tongues battling each other, his hand covering your pussy like he already owns it. Every single one of your nerve endings is alight, every inch of your skin acutely aware of his presence as his moustache grazes your top lip, as his middle finger ever so slightly dips between your folds. Then finally, finally, he slides a thick finger into you and you clench around him, the unfiltered pleasure enough to never want to be without the feeling of him inside you again. You both moan, the sound disappearing into your kiss, your hand disappearing into his hair, holding him to you. 

The hard peaks of your nipples create little blue buds against your dress, and they rub against Declan’s chest while he drags his finger from your body, in and out, in and out, each movement as deliciously slow as the last.

After a minute, he breaks your kiss, letting his forehead rest against your own. “You’re so tight,” he grits, adding another finger despite his observation. The new addition allows the palm of his hand to jut against your clit, and the friction almost has you levitating. “Oh, you like that, huh?” Declan teases, pushing into you harder, faster. The change in pace has you jerking like a live wire. Totally unhinged, the world feels like it’s spinning off its axis, more dangerously the longer he keeps that unforgiving pace. All this pent up frustration and teasing and longing bucks you closer to the edge, pins and needles edging their way from your toes up your body until—

Knock knock knock.

The door thumps into your back, scaring your orgasm away with it. Declan’s fingers freeze inside you, your clit pulsating against his palm, your eyes locked on one another as you will away the intrusion. The doorknob jostles next and all you can think is thank God Declan locked it when he did.

“‘S occupied!” he growls.

“Dad? Is that you?” Patrick.

The whites of your eyes blow out as you glare at Declan, panicked by the arrival of his son — your date, not twenty-four hours earlier — as you conjugate just mere inches away. Declan lifts his free hand to his lips, pressing a single finger into the supple flesh. Shh.

“Dad? Are you in here?” Patrick asks again, trying the door for a second time. 

“Yeah, son. You alright?” Declan responds, and your eyes go impossibly wider at him answering while his fingers are still buried in your pussy. While his steely length presses into the crease between your thigh and crotch.

“Are you alright? You’ve been gone a while.”

Declan’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, leaving a devilish smile in its wake. “Everything’s grand,” he drawls, fingers slipping out of you to stake claim on your clit. The subtle movement yanks a gasp from you, a mix of embarrassment and arousal pumping through you as Declan begins to trace circles there. You’re caught between wanting to disappear and wanting more as Declan keeps talking, Irish accent laden with lust. “Just needed a few minutes to myself. Needed to…” he pauses, licking a stripe up the side of your neck before latching his teeth onto your earlobe for a hair of a second, “Decompress.”

“Mmm,” you moan, too loudly, because Declan claps a hand over your mouth to keep any more desperate sounds slipping from under the door. There’s a moment pause, and you panic, thinking you’ve given the pair of you away, but then Patrick is chattering away again, asking after you.

“Have you seen her? Could’ve sworn she came down this way.”

“Nope,” Declan lies, picking up pace as he strums your clit, like he’s getting off on holding a conversation while trying to take you to the brink of no return. “Haven’t seen her.”

The knot in your stomach mounts again, your whole body buzzing at high frequency. Patrick says something else, a goodbye, you think, but for all you know he could be speaking gibberish, the rush of blood to your ears blocking out anything that’s not Declan. 

The slight savour of sweat he’s worked up and how it tangoes with the cigarette smoke still lingering on his suit jacket.

How his mouth hangs slightly open, his tongue resting loosely against his bottom row of teeth, completely dumb for you.

The grunt wrapped in a sigh that pushes out of him when he plows two thickset fingers inside you again, and the matching moan you hum into the palm of his hand, the metal of his wedding ring cool against your upper lip.

“You’re making me crazy,” he says lowly. “Turnin’ me into someone who steals his son’s girl.” Your response comes out distorted, muffled against his skin. Declan’s hand slips from your mouth, finding its way to the nape of your neck and tangling its fingers into the frizzy hair there, the slight tension making your scalp tingle. “You got something to say, darlin’?”

“Not… his… girl,” you pant, words punctuated by Declan pumping his fingers impossibly deeper into your cunt.

“You’re damn right you’re not his girl.”

The subtext is clear. You’re not Patrick’s. You’re his. The feminist in you should balk at the insinuation but who are you kidding? Every stolen glance. Every car ride. Every solo orgasm you’ve yanked from yourself in the dead of night to the thought of him. Everything has led you to this. 

Your mascara flakes over the apples of your cheeks as you squeeze your eyes shut, Declan’s fingers expertly twisting and careening until the coil in the pit of your stomach is wound so tight you think you’re going to crack in two.

“Fuck, Declan,” you mewl, gripping his biceps to keep yourself steady. “So close.”

“Look at me, love. Wanna see those pretty eyes when you come.”

You could’ve fallen apart at those words alone, but you do what Declan says, gaze fluttering to his face as the butt of his hand against your clit works in tandem with his fingers until there’s a sharp and sudden snap, breaking you apart in a violent burst.

“Fuck, fuck, fu—” your expletives are swaddled by his hand yet again, eyes pricking with tears as you chase your high. Even through the blur, you see Declan grinning down at you with pride, nodding, quietly egging you on.

“That’s it, darlin’. Good. Good girl,” he whispers, thumb at the back of your head stroking tiny circles while his opposite fingers slow down with your breathing. It’s only when you stop convulsing completely that he drops his hand from your face. Your feet scream in pain as you come back to yourself, the weight of digging your heels in to keep you upright making itself known. Meanwhile, Declan slips himself from you, gently rearranging your underwear over your folds and allowing the skirt of your dress to float back down your legs. He shuffles backwards, allowing you space to gather yourself, to ground yourself, breaths still shaky as you step away from the door you’d come to be far too intimate with. You don’t speak, not yet, just watch as Declan peers down at his right hand that’s glistening with your slick, then to his left hand, where his wedding band glints under the library’s chandelier.

“Are you—” okay, is what you intend to ask, but Declan cuts you off, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets.

“I should go find Taggie and Patrick. Can’t have them hearing about their mum through some idle party gossip,” he says, voice steady but marred with a tinge of uncertainty, as if he’s trying to make sense of everything. He maneuvers around you awkwardly, all that cockiness from moments ago melted away. He pauses at the door, the heavy silence between you so palpable. His hand rests on the doorknob, but he doesn’t turn it. “This was…” he trails off, eyes searching the room for the right word.

"Yeah," is all you can manage, because you can’t find the words either. For how he just made you feel like every single one of your synapses was on fire. For the way he's treating you now, all cool and distant, like he's casually asking you to grab him a coffee. Declan forces a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and nods. Just once, stiff. With one final glance, he slips out of sight, laughter and clinking glasses and whumping music replacing Declan in the room before the door clicks closed behind him. And almost immediately, you feel irrelevant and unsure of what to do next. At least, you think it best to let a few minutes pass before you leave the library, so you shuffle over to the large mirror hanging above the fireplace to take in your dishevelled form. You look utterly wrecked, all puffy lips and smudged mascara. All at the hands of Declan O’Hara.

Oh, God, you think, doing your best to wipe away the fallout of the last twenty minutes from your face. What have we done?

When you’re satisfied that you don’t look like…well, like your boss just plied an orgasm from you, you trace Declan’s footsteps and step back into the party, hoping to go unnoticed by the sparse guests mingling around you. Just when you think you’ve escaped unscathed, you catch Rupert’s eye at the end of the hallway — sharp, knowing. He tilts his glass of champagne towards you, slight smirk with the quiet gesture. It’s not a greeting, but an acknowledgement, and you wonder if he saw Declan leave the library, too.

If you got this far, thank you for reading!!!! Let me know in the comments what you think, and what you predict might happen next?!

Previous chapters: Chapter 1: The Interview, Chapter 2: Beneath The Surface, Chapter 3: Driving Miss Crazy

[creeksandsocks]

The door (drabble)

Eddie Munson x Reader, Established Relationship

Tags: Mature 18+, not proofread [550 words].

After the upside down… you and Eddie have to keep your bedroom door open if he'd like to stay in your room.

One month after the events of season 4, everyone's bustling around your house. It’s become the home base after everything. Once Eddie was stable enough to leave the hospital, you campaigned hard for him to sleep in your room. Wayne wasn’t against it, he trusted you two to be smart about his current condition and he knows his nephew, and knows you. You’re newly in love with kids with good heads on your shoulders, and didn't want to deprive his previously chronically single nephew of time with his new girl. 

Hopper, your own father figure, however, was very against it. He didn’t even want to accept that you’re dating Eddie. While Hopper does have a soft spot for Eddie, he didn’t yet trust him enough to be your boyfriend. But, you argued that your bed would be big enough for both of you instead of having his recovery stunted by tossing and turning all night on your lumpy couch, and the trek up the stairs could be good for him, exercise to aid his recovery.

Through your unlamenting campaigning and eddies pain-killer-high mumbles he gave in. But, that wouldn't prevent him from enforcing a strict ‘the door stays 5 inches open at all times' policy, you two were too happy to argue.

You and Eddie have spent the past few days in bliss, a stark contrast from hell being released outside the halls of your bedroom. You giggle yourselves to sleep every night like your at a sleepover and wake up snuggled in eachothers arms and body heat. After his near death, Eddie has a hard time being calm without you in his eyeline, his instinctual urges to ensure your safety cause him to essentially wrap his entire body around yours as you sleep.

Sometimes, when everyone else in the house is asleep, and it's just you two awake in bed you sneak your bedroom door shut and make up (more make out)  for all the lost time you two could have been kissing. He’s still weak, most of his abdominal wounds are still tightly bandaged so he’s can’t climb over you and cage your body in with his as he kisses you, depraved and spitty no matter how much hed like too. Though you've done it enough times that you can count it on one hand, you normally opt to hover over his body, or face each other on your sides, embracing each other and kissing like you’ll never get the chance to again. Things are staying pretty tame between you two no matter how much you'd like to grind your throbbing sexes until the pressure is relieved, he's more than happy to just kiss you, if all he could ever do was look at you he’d be happy.

One time, after you left each other spit covered and covered in hickeys you'd fallen asleep without reopening the door. As Wayne was the earliest riser out of everyone in the house, he was the first to know. Thankfully, he’s on your side so he gently knocks on the door just in case you two are currently up to… unsupervised activities… when he hears no response he gently pries the door open and sticks his head into your bedroom. He's met with a fathers pride when he finds you two wrapped in eachother's arms under the covers. He leaves the door open a crack before he heads downstairs.

[toto-the-cactus]

A fun question for the girl dad Primarchs. How do they feel about finding out that their daughter has a space marine lover from another Chapter. (Like mother, like daughter. They saw a big man in armor and decided they wanted to climb that like a tree.)

Guess what anon? You got me writing shit.

Hope you like this family drama and especial mention to @jaghatai-khock who let me use his sweet blorbo Callahan to be inserted in this shit show.

-°-

It was no secret that Lion El’jonson held a certain amount of irritation about anything that had to do with the Space Wolves Legion. Whether it was their own behavior or their beliefs that clashed with those of the Dark Angels Legion, it was a matter thrown out in the air for anyone to guess.

That’s why Eireen simply knew that the instant her father got wind of her meeting secretly with one the astartes that belonged to her uncle’s legion, hell will be brought upon her and, in consequence, making her already ermetic and busy schedule become even more unbearable.

Besides… it wasn’t like she was doing anything wrong!

It was a nice and friendly… meet up with someone that she had become quite close after a few conjoined campaigns that her father had with uncle Russ.

Cadoc had been a bit abrasive and loud the first time she met him, staying just respectful enough to not be considered rude or out of line. Her entourage of serfs had been scandalized when he had simply come up to her and asked for a sparring match to test her fighting skills out of genuine curiosity.

“This is probably one of the few chances I’ll get to spar with the trueborn of a Primarch. I’m really excited about it!” he had told her that day and, for a reason that still escapes her understanding, Eireen had felt her face burn at his words.

The redhead astartes had flashed a sharp smile back then, a challenge in that expression to try and get a reaction out of her and for the first time in her life… she felt like someone actually treated her as the warrior that she had been raised to be and not just some maiden to be protected.

Now? It became almost a ritual for them both to try some nice training session before deciding to take a nice break hidden behind the lush bushes of her mother’s garden. After some Dark Angels had ruined the flowers of the Lady of Caliban by walking alongside Eireen one morning, it had been nailed over everyone’s head that anyone wearing ceramite armor was forbidden to get close to the garden.

It was quite the convenience that the garden wasn’t so terribly far from the sparring arena.

Eireen had even memorized the schedule of it to make sure that no astartes of her father would see them both training.

For as much as the young lady felt like she wasn’t doing something criminal of any kind, even her mother had suggested to keep her little friendship hidden from her father until she knew how to tell him that her first ever friend (and crush) was a Space Wolf astartes.

“He can be a bit… overbearing sometimes, my dear. Especially if he thinks that this will be the perfect excuse for Leman to rush in and take you away from him” the look on her mother’s face said enough that even she found that logic a bit extreme and farfetched, but her next words almost made her scoff in disbelief. “He cares for you dearly and the idea of you going away scares him”

Eireen honestly felt like she was in her right to be skeptical about her father’s priorities when regarding her future.

All her life she had been reminded of the responsibilities she’ll have to carry on in the Imperium as the child of a Primarch. A weight that had been sitting over her neck ever since she could understand words.

But Cadoc was the one fresh gush of wind that she didn’t know she needed.

She could complain about her father and his astartes without looking like some traitor in the making. Instead of judgmental stares, the redhead marine would point out her mistakes in posture and correct them without belittling her worth.

‘I don’t want this to end’, she thought with a mix of joy and resignation.

“Hey!” he called her, finally pulling her out of her spiraling thoughts once a stalemate was met between the two when both battle axe and long sword didn’t yield a bit. “There was something I wanted to ask you but it also involves the Primarch and Legion Mother of the Dark Angels”

Oh no. That was going to be complicated.

“O-oh… Well… that’s going to…”

“EIREEN!”

Oh no no no no!

“Lion! By the damned throne, stop this nonsense!” and just right behind her father, there was her mother running with all her might to try and catch up with the Primarch.

“I’m not speaking with you, woman!”

Eireen admitted with some shyness that she had clumsily scrambled in panic to get back up from where she and Cadoc rested after their spar, a heavy weight dropping like a rock on her stomach at the scowl merring her father's face when looking over her friend.

The fact that the red-haired Space Wolf just smiled at her father after bowing his head in respect to the Primarch didn’t help at all.

“Eireen, you were supposed to be attending your diplomatic and history lessons” said the demigod in a strange mix of awkwardness and anger. It was easy to see how it took a lot of effort from him to not scoff when his eyes landed once again on her companion and friend. “Not lazing around here at your mother’s garden”

‘With him’ was the unsaid part of that sentence. Years of learned discipline were the only thing preventing the young girl from letting a very unladylike growl at how her father regarded the one single friend she had ever made.

“I… I had a few minutes free before my lessons, father” she defended, barely able to keep her stutter in check before her father scolded her for it. “I thought… I thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to train my abilities with the long sword”

Lion opened his mouth ready to berate her for it (that was pretty obvious), but her mother interrupted just in time to save her from the awkwardness that was starting to build up between the few presents. It was a miracle that no Dark Angel had followed her parents here, but considering how stern the Lady of Caliban was when regarding her garden, Eireen counted her blessings by choosing this place as their hiding spot.

Small mercies.

“That’s very responsible of you, my love” it was amazing how easily her mother knew how to play with her father’s own methods and words against him. “Don’t you think, Lion? You always say that Eireen needs to practice her swordsmanship technique on the offensive. Even one of the astartes of your brother’s Legion is helping her!”

More than hearing, both ladies felt the rumble of a growl that begged to be free from the Primarch’s throat, who clearly didn’t find amusing being called out in his own hypocrisy.

“Enough of this disrespect! Eireen, go to your brother” said Lion after he managed to get a grip over his temper. “Callahan will make sure that you assist your lessons… without distractions”

Now it was the turn of the young lady to feel her face blush in embarrassment at the idea of being treated like she was still a toddler; one that needed to hold her brother’s hand all the time to find her way around everywhere they went.

“Actually! This is an excellent chance, my Lord and Lady. There was something important that I need to discuss”

That got everyone’s attention.

“Cadoc… what are you-”

“I wish to start my courting towards the Primarch’s daughter: Eireen”

The poor young girl swore that if more blood rushed to her face, she'd end up fainting on the spot.

The reaction of both her parents were quite a poem of different emotions; ranging from enraged shock to amazed confusion from both her father and mother respectively.

For a long moment, no one dared to even breathe too loud.

Eireen found herself staring straight at Cadoc’s face to try to see if this was some tasteless attempt of teasing from him… but the only thing that she managed to discover was a warm and peaceful look on his hardened expression when he stared at her back.

Oh, Grandfather almighty! She felt her heart flip inside her ribcage.

This was bad. Horrible bad timing too. The girl already saw the groundbreaking refusal her father was about to throw at Cadoc’s courting proposal.

“ABSOLUTELY…!”

“FINALLY!! JUST SAY YES TO HIM, EIREEN!”

And now, the poor girl could only cover her face in crushing embarrassment at the scream her brother had thrown while waiting for her at the edge of their mother’s garden.

How long had he been hearing?!

-°-

Dis me each time yall feed me ideas

[gurobitsu]

Hello hello, I’m sorry for doing this anon but it links back to my dead main that I don’t use anymore 😅 I saw your reblog of my Mista backstory rant and the tags reallyyyyyyy interested me, we have a lot of the same ideas! If it’s alright with you, would you be willing to share a more in depth version of it? I’d love to read it! (o^^o)

YIPPEE i’m so happy to hear that!! i pretty much never talk about my own hcs (kinda nervous 😛) so here’s what i got…

* for the gurobits nation keep in mind this is SPECIFICALLY only for mista IN JJBA, usually the mista i draw/my “version”/characterization of him is a completely different au. this is just how i see Him as the Character in the show

⚠️ TW for some sensitive topics !!

guido mista backstory written by yours truly…

* i’ll use an asterisk for when something that’s ACTUALLY from his canon backstory pops up

mista, youngest of 4 (3 sisters who are 10+ years older than him), was born to (unnamed… never headcanoned a name for them…) mother and father in palermo, sicily. i’d picture his mom to be short and stout, and his father tall and bulky. his mother was loving and sweet, but his father was a deadbeat jackass who… wasn’t a good rep for mista, the only other boy in the family. and despite being a caring mother, she couldn’t be a good mother. she couldn’t always be there for her children due to their household already struggling with income, living in a poor part of the city, taking care of 4 children, and verbal/physical abuse from mista’s father. and being a victim, she ended up also contributing to the cycle of abuse but in a neglectful/emotionally unavailable way.

later along the line, mista’s parents divorce and his father eventually goes to prison (either for battery or assault… smth bad but expected). mista is around 10-12 now, and is pretty much told to be the “man of the house”. their way of living was honestly… heavily patriarchal.

* this is around the time his neighbor’s eye got scratched by the cat. he may not have developed a fear of the number 4 because of it, but it certainly made him scared of cats lol. and also! i don’t really think there was any big event that “gave” him tetraphobia. i personally headcanon he has ocd and has always been particular about numbers and patterns in general, and as a kid he learned and observed 2 things: 4th cat went crazy, and he’s the 4th child (at this point in time he began to really hate his life and had become heavily neglected).

he was homeschooled until 14 when he started high school. a very bad student. big jock though. no he did not get along with the ladies, no he was not popular. he was bullied actually. skipped all the time, which is what caused him to drop out. started smoking and sneaking out a lot, quite reckless behavior. not to be “cool” or anything, but just to feel something. he’s honestly always been alone with only a few friends who were neighbours, street thugs, or… dealers

* a funny little thing i like to think is that mista always had long curly hair that went to his neck/shoulders. around 15, he got lice and had to go bald 😭😭 and he hated it and wore a beanie all the time. which is why when we see him at 17 in his backstory, he has a buzzcut (he just decided to continue keeping his hair like that because he thought if he grew it out he’d get lice again) and that damn hat he STILL doesn’t take off (he’s insecure about his hair. i also think he was bullied for his hair BOTH when it was long and after he had to shave it. poor boy)

he left at 16 after dropping out and financial issues in his home. it wasn’t “kicking out” necessarily, his mother didn’t want to, but she couldn’t afford to keep him in the house and his sisters were already beginning to move out. his mother also got in a fight with him the night before about dropping out of school and not getting his life together, so he technically it was also his choice to “run away”. she basically implied she was kicking him out, but he decided to take on the decision for himself (like finishing off what she started i guess).

mista is now homeless. he had frequently stayed either at friend’s places or on the street (upgraded to a tent at one point). eventually, due to mutual connections, he ended up getting close with a group of people who were… up to no good, to say the least. bad, bad people. think narancia’s backstory. but they didn’t treat him badly — just got him into bad situations. lots of drugs. clubs. hookers. started smoking (don’t really think he stops until bucciarati discourages it, but he was never strict enough to make mista quit). and the classic beating up people for money (over clint eastwood. this petty mf 😭). but mista never really saw it as “bad”. he was having fun, making money, had friends, and wasn’t getting abused. in his eyes, at least.

eventually he ended up prostituting(?) himself… like, shin-from-nana style. and that’s how he got places to stay and made good money. often from older women and sometimes men. he never really saw it as “wrong” though, because he didn’t know any better. but he glorified it and thought he was the luckiest guy ever because “ooh they all think i’m mature for my age and are letting me into adult spaces! and i’m getting women! cool!” (no mista you are a victim)

* aaand now he’s 17, with a decent rental apartment. he’s not as close with the “bad” group anymore, kinda stopped being into it. didn’t leave them in bad faith tho (he’s just a chill guy like that… literally “i have no enemies”) (although let’s be real he did NOT need to be put in those situations at that age).

* and then boom ladidadida the same backstory sequence you see in the anime.

—

and if all of this was hypothetically canon, we can extrapolate so much more from his personality/character, like:

- hypersexuality due to Exposure throughout his life and especially during his teen years

- lots of insecurity… that never gets talked about because this boy REPRESSES!! doesn’t like showing vulnerability.

- mommy issues and daddy issues

- used to being independent, but DESPERATE for attention and love. but won’t accept that 🤪🤪

- not including hookups, he’s never been in an actual relationship. he’s too messyyyy and has commitment issuessss and doesn’t know what real love feels likeeee

- he’s not a suave playboy he’s a WEIRDO. an oddball. he’s a strange NEURODIVERGENT man with TRAUMA (i mean yeah, he’s a sleazy outgoing flirt, but he does NOT have game)

- he misses his family a lot. especially his mom. he regrets leaving her but he’s too afraid to come back. he doesn’t like facing reality. he’s all for blissful ignorance. a bit selfish, yeah. his family was left to assume he was dead. he wishes he got to enjoy his childhood more. although he was never really able to.

- also he had a family dog. one of his sisters took it though (he’s a dog guy, really likes animals actually. took care of the dog a lot as a kid. that’s kinda why he’s good with the pistols)

- actually like tons of untreated diagnoses holy hell

- i’m probably forgetting more rahhh

—

anyways, hope you all like it !!! idk if this is an unpopular opinion but i really do believe mista’s personality is a complicated one. i feel like everyone slightly mischaracterizes him one certain way, even if only slightly (like if he had a route in a dating sim, it’d probably be the hardest one. he’s a messy character). he’s not quite a “himbo”, but he’s not smart either. he’s flirty but he isn’t a charmer either. he’s outgoing but he isn’t a people-person either. i think that’s what makes him so interesting, he’s the most realistic character to me.

that’s honestly why he’s my favorite, he INVOKES something in me and captured my attention in such a way that i HAD to investigate him and understand him further… IK his ass is hiding so much. i’ve psychoanalyzed him so much that i’ve accepted him as an oc atp 😭🫶 can’t let him go…

feel free to share your ideas everypony!! ^_^ i’d love to hear more… (this was super long sorry)

[wigglebox]

Destiel Pride - Day 21; Most faithful mirror

[concrete-3ater]

if I had a nickel for every time I was in a fandom and a child character had a breakdown and did something that accidentally hurt another character, and then the fandom all turned on the character and vilified them because they [the fandom] can’t understand that sometimes 14 year olds make mistakes when they’re going through something traumatic, I would have 2 nickels

not a lot but it really is weird it happened twice

[x-rds]

That post about huge red flags from exes is going around and I’m like well mine requires some background reading

[donnatroyyyy]

Batman has/had some kind of miscommunication going on with every single one of his kids. The bat family is just one big miscommunication trope after the other.

[scorpiosbite]

when drew watched actress!reader’s sex scene for the first time

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 ────୨ৎ──── drew’s been binging game of thrones ever since that fateful day madelyn forced him to watch the show, what was meant to be a normal binge session turns into him being the horniest he’s ever been. making the anticipation of meeting you even heavier.

𝜗𝜚 pairing: actress!reader x drew starkey

author’s note: this takes place during the filming of obx 4, before madelyn informed the obx cast that they were going to meet you when you came to LA.

drew could not tear his eyes away from the screen of the tv in his moroccan hotel room. he thought that after watching game of thrones consistently, now nearing the end of the first season he would become accustomed to see you in costume, but every time you came onto the screen his breath was taken away. seeing you in that the sliver waist length wig that looked like it was your real hair, the sheer fabric floor length dresses with the daring cuts that exposed more and more of your soft skin, and the intricate dornish jewellery with the subtle targaryen detailing made him feel like a teenager once again with how quickly his pants tightened. and it wasn’t only how you looked, it was also your performance. you were an astonishing actress, he would forget that you weren’t actually visenya in real life, that this world didn’t actually exist and that you were just acting. he was so captivated by you.

“the last dragon, that’s who you are visenya, the last targaryen left in the world, perhaps if you favoured your mother in looks, you would escape the pressures of the targaryen name, but you do not, you look just like rhaegar only with the tanned skin of elia.” you rolled your eyes and drew felt his heart jump. surrounded by the hanging gardens of sunspear in dorne, you paced with aggression, your sliver hair swishing behind you, your dress billowing as you stared down your costar. “have you come to lecture me of my responsibilities as the last targaryen, jaime? all while your bastard son sits my throne? and your sister puppets him from behind.”

“we are only married because your father knew that once i take back my throne i will come after the lannisters for your family’s hand in my mother and brother’s murders. he thought that if we were married that i would not harm you and your name would live on through my womb. but i am no fool, targaryen women have been known to kill their husbands, who is to say my coin wasn’t flipped on the side of madness. that is the saying is it not? when a targaryen is born the gods flip a coin, greatness or madness.” you now stood face to face with the man, staring him down with a smug expression and drew was once again struck with your talent as an actress, your body displayed the anger and frustration that your character felt despite the facade of arrogance on your face. then suddenly your lips connected with his, the actor who played jaime slid his hand around your waist, the cuts of your dress allowing him to touch your bare skin, your hands went to his hair and drew had never felt so jealous of another man.

jaime picked you up with ease, walking backwards to a chair sitting down with you spread on his lap, and drew thought that he would do anything to have you like that. the camera filmed you from the back, jaime’s hand caressing your exposed back down to your ass, and drew squeezed the covers of his bed in response. the camera cut to a mid shot of both of you from the side, you broke the kiss your face still so close to his, lips brushing together as you spoke in a hushed tone. “i want you to fuck me, jaime.” drew groaned at the lust in your voice, and wondered if that was what you sounded like in real life. jaime’s actor groaned in response to your statement and drew felt sympathy for the man, because he knew that if he was in that position instead of him he would be unable to stop himself from cumming in his pants, professionalism be fucked.

jaime’s hands trailed to the back of your neck and the camera cut to back to the shot of your back, closing up on his hands as his hands pulled at the strings holding your flimsy dress together the camera seemed like it was handheld making the shot feel all the more intimate, the material fell and jaime tugged the dress off of you leaving you completely bare but drew could only see your back and up, but then, the camera cut to a wide shot, and drew gasped as your entire body from the back was exposed. jaime’s hand coming down to squeeze the supple flesh of your ass and drew felt his cock harden at the sight. the camera cut to an over the shoulder shot from jaime and your bare chest came into view, this time drew couldn’t stop the moan that escaped him, your hands tugged at the strings of jaime’s pants although the camera kept on you, your hands out of the shot.

you sank down on jaime’s cock and a whine-like moan escaped you, drew felt like he was going insane, he couldn’t stop himself as he tugged his boxers down, his hard cock springing up to slap against his stomach. his hand wrapping around the thick length, squeezing, pearly beads of pre cum leaking out. drew flicked his eyes back up to the screen and you had your head thrown back as you bounced on jaime’s cock, drew knew that the pleasure on your scrunched up face was fake, that the melodious moans that were escaping your pretty lips that were hung open were fake, but the way your tits were bouncing was real and drew couldn’t stop himself from tugging his cock in time with the movements of your hips, your head tilted back down to gaze down at jaime your eyes so fucked out and drew wished that it was him you were looking at. that it was him that could run his hands all over you.

you spoke breathlessly “targaryens used to feed their enemies to their dragons, i don’t have a dragon yet, perhaps i shall just eat you myself, husband.” jaime groaned in response, connecting your lips back together and drew sped up his movements his hand stroking with fervour, the squelching sounds echoing through the room, his other hand coming down to squeeze at his balls, his eyes still glued to you on the tv. drew was close he could feel it and as your body shuddered and you collapsed into jaime’s lap, drew came with a deep groan. cumming all over his chest and stomach. drew threw his head back against his headboard, he felt just a little bit pathetic, that he didn’t have the courage to message you but he could jack off to you doing your job, but god what he would give to have you like that.

TAGLIST: @sunnybunnyy2 @percysley @wearemadeofstardust0 @idgasb @pinkpantheris @emmaaas-posts @grace-sully @chimmysoftpaws

you guys are not believe the fucking writers block i suffered while writing this for it just to turn out so shit but nevertheless I hope you enjoyed!

[arkangelo-7]

I’m sure someone’s already headcannoned this, but Bruce having pet names for the Batkids? Man, those are his babies—you can bet your ass he has pet names for them. He might not be the type of man to show much affection beyond a shoulder pat or the occasional forehead kiss, but he’s determined to parent the crap outta these orphans, and pet names are an easier medium to show that he cares.

Dick is both “chum” and “sweetheart” depending on the context. When Bruce is feeling playful and comfortable (the easy, “your mine and I’m just happy to be here with you” kind of love), he’ll stick with “chum” and Dick absolutely loves it. But when Dick’s sick or has a nightmare or got injured during patrol? It’s sweetheart. It’s default mode for Bruce, because seeing Dick in pain brings up so many raw, intense emotions (Bruce gets scared, goddamit) that it’s easier for him to say “I’ve got you, sweetheart, it’s okay, just keep your eyes on mine,” then it is to say “I’m so terrified that I’m going to loose you, I love you, you’re my everything.”

Jason is“Jaylad.” But it’s less of the name that’s important and more of the story behind it that is. For the first few months that Jason was in Bruce’s care, Bruce didn’t dare call him anything other then his name, in fear that he’d scare him away (he was already so distrusting, so hesitant, so fearful whenever Bruce talked to loud or moved to fast or got upset), but at the same time, he’d seen how pleased Dick had been at being called “chum” and wanted to bestow a similar endearment on Jason. But—he didn’t want to go to far. So instead of calling him “lad” like his own father had once called him, Bruce calls him “Jaylad.” It’s a little more impersonal, but it makes Jason more comfortable. (But when Bruce cradled his son’s broken body he said “no, darling, not you, don’t leave me—” because just how Dick is “sweetheart,” Jason has also always been “darling.”)

For Tim… it’s more complicated. He shoved his way into Bruce’s life and he’s forever grateful, but it wasn’t the same as it was with Jason and Dick. He sees Tim as his son, of course, but their relationship was built on the darkest, most despairing part of Bruce’s life. But even in that terrible season, Bruce would look over at Tim working on a case or cleaning his suit and say, “Good job, sport.” It doesn’t happen often, but Tim is “sport.”

Cassandra is “love.” Bruce has never said it to her, aloud, but he knows Cass can read him well enough to hear the unspoken endearment, to see how much he longs to protect her, bring her joy, fill her heart with all the love she’s filled his with.

Steph is “duck.” And not necessarily because Bruce decided that it was, but because 9 times out of 10 he finds himself screaming, “Robin, get down!” because Stephanie will not for the love of God follow his orders, and end up right in the line of fire. To save time he eventually just started saying “Duck!” It keeps Steph from getting whacked to high heavens and saves Bruce (another) heart attack, but over the years it’s also become somewhat of a ritual to say “duck” whenever Steph walks in the room. Bruce secretly wants to call her “ducky” (which is what his mother called Kate), but he’s never worked up the nerve.

Duke is “kid.” By the time he’s in the family, Bruce has loosened up and lightened up, especially with everyday affection (which is to say, he’s not avoiding it like the plague). He’s quick to say “Good job, kid” whenever Duke had an accomplishment or ask “how are you today, kiddo?” when they see each other in passing in the Batcave.

Damian, lastly, would never allow Bruce to call him anything other then his name. But every once in a while, Bruce can get away with saying “son.” And it’s the best thing in the world.

[doctorsiren]

Here they are when they’re 17 :)

This is when they finally meet their older brother (after Bridge to the Turnabout)

I’ve done it again

We were talking about Misty and Gregory (thank you Squib for coming up with the ship name Mistory LMAO it’s perfect) and once again (because I love to design characters) was like “hm what if they had a kid” and then decided that they should have twins because it’s been too long since I’ve decided to design twins :3

So here we have little Gwendolyn and Griffin

Gwen has very little in the way of spirit powers, but she wants to be a paranormal investigator. She will use a magatama like a supernatural magnifying glass (by looking through the hole of it).

Griffin, despite being a dude, has spirit powers (because I said so. He gets to be special hehe).

Just very quick concepts for the silly :>

[nezuscribe]

gojo is used to strange people with strange requests. he gets paid for doing people’s dirty work, things they’d never do themselves, so this is pretty standard in his line of work.

he had to survive somehow, and if becoming the bidder of bad tidings was what made him coin, then he wasn’t one to complain.

another thing that gojo had gotten especially good at is knowing when somebody is looking for him. it’s usually scurried glances and sweaty palms that give them away. which is why now, as he’s resting an ale in hand at the back of the tavern, does he feel this sense go off.

he sits alone, not looking up from his drink as he feels a set of eyes on him. tonight was his night of rest, his horse was sleeping outside, and he had booked a room just for himself. he didn’t care what they gave him. he was checked out for the night.

the room is crowded, with loud and boisterous laughter filling any gaps of silence. people are taking and shouting, but it doesn’t mask the set of footsteps getting near to where he was trying to hide away from everybody else.

gojo keeps his head down, his nose wrinkling in annoyance when timid hands set a pouch in front of him. filled to the brim with gold, most likely.

“i need your help,” a voice, frightful and cracking, says.

gojo rolls his eyes. this isn’t the first time a girl has run away from his rich family and begs him for a chance away. but he’s done that too many times, gone through too much. he’d rather just kill the parents. he takes a sip of his drink, resting his back on the wall.

he knows how this usually goes. a girl wants to run away, she finds him, they end up running away, only for the girl to feel guilty and beg him to take her back home. either that or she has no plan in mind and forces him on an endless chase to somewhere she doesn’t even know.

judging by the tone of your voice, he’s betting you’re a mix of both right now.

“i’m not offering any help right now,” he says, twisting a ring back and forth on his fingers, one he had stollen a while ago.

“i have more gold,” you beg, “i need your help… please. i heard you’re the only person who’s made it through the north alive.”

gojo glances up at you briefly, taking in your bruised and cut face, most likely from running away, at your eyes filled with tears, and at the way your lips trembled.

his eyes flit away momentarily, not expecting you to take him by surprise. you look more roughed up than the other girls he’s seen so far, a certain heaviness in your stare.

“no.” he says bluntly and your gaze seems to waver just slightly. you gnaw on your lips, wondering how you could change your speech to change his mind.

“my father wants me to marry this man. he’s,” you shudder a little bit at the thought, “inhuman. if i don’t get away soon his men will find me. i,” your breathing shudders, “i can’t let them find me.”

gojo sighs deeply though his nose. so much for a relaxful evening.

his eyes search yours again, and he feels a different urgency that he’s never felt before. something that tells him that this is different, that if he doesn’t help you it’s going to be more than a simple punishment of your father taking away your allowance.

“where’s the rest of your gold?” he looks to your empty hands and then back up to your face.

you sputter, looking at him in shock.

“i-in my satchel,” you swallow thickly, “i left it near your horse.”

his mouth almost quirked upwards.

“where do you want to go?” he asks, watching as your posture straightens up a bit.

“to the shore,” you say, “i’ll get the soonest ship out.”

gojo stares at you and you stare at him. he surveys the pouch of gold, knowing it’s more than he’s ever made in months, something he desperately needs.

he rubs a hand across his face, squeezing his eyes shut as he thinks.

“when do you need to leave?” he asks although gojo already mows the wretched answer.

you look bashful as you duck your head down.

“n-now, if possible.”

gojo stares at your pouch a little bit longer. he downs the rest of his drink as he stands up, eyes raking over your features. if it weren’t for time and place he might’ve asked you to accompany him back to his room.

you stare back at him silently and he quirks his silver brow.

“what?” he grumbles, “get your things. we’re leaving.” a small smile breaks its way into your face as you collect your measly bag and your satchel of gold.

gojo knows he shouldn’t have said yes the moment he saw you grin, knowing that you weren’t an ordinary girl and this wasn’t an ordinary request. but he didn’t find it in himself to care.

at least for now, he didn’t.

[minswriting]

NSFW | MDNI

for all my girlies that need to fuck spencer reid RAW

warnings: nsfw, mdni, lack of birth control, breeding kink, unprotected sex, desperate sex, please make sure you guys use protection/contraceptives when engaging in sexual conduct. jesus reid vibes

spencer’s eyes were wide with his mouth formed in an “o” as he looked up at you with flushed cheeks. you were bouncing on his cock for the first time without protection and god, you were fucking soaking wet. “i-“ spencer cut himself off, moaning loudly as your hips landed back down on his lap. “fuck you feel so good,” he whimpered, licking his lips.

you moaned in response, relishing in the feeling of him inside you, raw. it was heavenly, to say the least. you had always used condoms before this, making sure to practice safe sex. but today? today was just…different. maybe it was the fact that spencer’s hair just fell perfectly around his face. or the fact that he looked so good walking with his cane after being shot awhile back. or maybe you were just ovulating. regardless, you needed his cock inside of you and you needed it raw. the risk of pregnancy was entirely worth it.

spencer wrapped his arms around you, bringing you closer to him and burying his face in your chest. you moaned as you continued moving your hips, the slight adjustment of the angle making his cock hit your g-spot directly. “o-oh,” you said, clenching your walls around his cock. “feels so good, spence.”

“yeah, baby?” he murmured against your skin, pressing kisses along your chest. spencer moved his mouth onto your breast, his tongue circling your nipple. “wanted to fuck me raw?” his voice was heavy, scratchy, and breathless at the same time. he let out a whine when you began to grind your hips, feeling himself getting close. “want me to spill inside you, make you pregnant?”

you let out a whiny “yes!” as you ground your hips against his, riding his cock like your life depended on it. “i-“ you cut out self off, throwing your head back in pleasure. “i’m so close, spence.”

“me too, baby, me too.” he groaned.

spencer began thrusting his hips upward, meeting your hips with his. the added pleasure caused both of you to moan loudly and desperately. you both were oh-so-close. were either of you ready to become parents? probably not. you both were only in your 20s still. but in that moment, you hardly cared. you’d gladly have spencer’s babies if it meant getting filled by him continuously.

and after a few more thrusts, spencer’s let out a choked moan as his hips stuttered. his eyes rolled to the back of his head while he came inside of you, filling you up with his seed for the first time ever. and as you felt him releasing inside of you, you came very hard on his cock, letting out a loud “spencer!”

when you were both finished, you both stayed still, breathing heavily with his cock still inside of you. after a few minutes, spencer pulled you closer, burying his face in your neck while pulling his cock out of you, his cum leaking out onto his legs. “fuck,” he whispered, pulling back to look at you with a smile.

you smiled back, brushing spencer’s hair out of his face. “we’re definitely doing that again.”

“oh for sure.”

it was a wonder how you didn’t end up pregnant right away. but after that, spencer fell in love with the idea of filling you up. the risk that you could end up pregnant turned him on so very much. plus the fact that he’s always wanted to be a father and having you be the mother of his children would be beyond a blessing.

[hllywdwhre]

Revenge - Tommy Shelby

Summary: Reader takes personal offense over Sabini’s attack on Tommy

Warnings: arranged marriage, graphic depictions of violence, reader leaves a message written in blood, smut, creampie, light degrading, oral smut (f receiving), overstim, p in v, let me know if I missed any

Notes: I made this text post about protective reader and decided to write it lmfao. I want Tommy with a feral woman. Thank you to @slut4thebroken for proof reading, encouragement, and suggestions💖

MDNI, 18+ only

You weren’t quite sure how it had happened.

Scratch that.

You knew exactly how it had happened.

Your father and Tommy had worked out a deal when Sabini had first started trying to intimidate your father. A bride in exchange for protection and both of them walked away with extra allies when the inevitable war against Sabini broke out. You’d protested the marriage at first, screaming that you were more than just a political pawn for your father to sell when he needed help, but it went through anyway.

You had to admit, it wasn’t the worst thing that could’ve happened. Sure, Tommy was distant and seemed obsessed with work, but you knew you could’ve ended up in a much worse situation. He treated you with respect, never let you open a door on your own if he was around, always had a protective hand rested in the small of your back, and… the sex was great.

Perhaps the thing you appreciated the most, was that he didn’t expect you to become the housewife you had feared you would be reduced to. You were your father’s only child, meaning when he died, you would become leader of his gang. You were a gangster the same way Tommy was and he seemed to realize that and respect it. You helped out with the daily runnings of the Peaky Blinders and helped with the daily runnings of your father’s gang at the same time. They both recognized your potential and weren’t afraid to use it.

It wasn’t until you were sitting in a family meeting about a year after your marriage that you realized you had grown to feel more than just okay with the marriage.

Tommy was a closed off individual and through the entire year you had been married, you felt like you were just starting to finally get to know the real him. You never pried because he never pried in your life. If you had general questions, neither of you were afraid to ask them, but anything more was left up for the person to tell. You had more questions than answers still, specifically about the matching scars on his cheeks, but you didn’t dare ask. He hadn’t asked about the scar that ran from your right shoulder blade down to your spine, so you didn’t ask about his scars.

It was a common occurrence for Esme, Ada, and Polly to sit with you at one of the desks in the betting shop, whispering things to you during family meetings to fill in any gaps and answer any questions you may have had.

“Alfie has informed me that the Sicilians are being provided aid by Sabini, in the form of cars and housing,” Tommy started, causing Arthur to let out a loud groan of frustration.

Before you could get dragged into hearing any more of it, you turned your head to Esme who was sitting next to you.

“Sabini’s a prick, I know that, but what has he done to us?” You asked quietly, your eyes still flickering back-and-forth between Tommy and the rest of his family as they spoke about what to do next.

Esme began explaining exactly what Sabini had done. How he and five other men came after Tommy in the dark of night, how he’d ripped out a tooth, sliced his cheeks, and beat him to an inch of his life.

The rage that settled inside of you was your first hint that you had grown to genuinely care for Tommy as more than just a friend and (amazing) fuck buddy. Your jaw remained clenched and set for the rest of the meeting, but as soon as the meeting was called to end, you wiped the look from your face and forced a calm expression to take over.

You stood up and walked over to Tommy, forcing a small smile to your lips,

“I’m not really feeling all that well. You go with your brothers for a drink, I’m just going to head back home, okay?” You said, meeting his eyes so he wouldn’t have a reason to not believe you.

Tommy’s eyebrows furrowed together as he tried to look for any sign you were lying. You had been fine that morning and fine two hours prior when you sat down for the meeting, but he had no reason to believe you were lying so he simply nodded, placed a hand on the small of your back to pull you closer to him, and kissed your forehead.

“I won’t be out long. Ask Frances for anything you need, okay, love?”

You nodded and the forced smile turned to a genuine one,

“I will, promise,” you told him before stepping away from him and waving goodbye to the rest of the family.

Yes. You had truly gotten lucky when it came to who you had been forced to marry.

The entire ride back to the Arrow House, you were silent and going over your plan in your head. You knew you’d have to earn Tommy’s trust back after this, but you didn’t particularly care. You were a force of nature on your best day. You were lethal when you were angry.

Once you arrived back, you immediately headed upstairs to yours and Tommy’s shared room. The marriage may have started off with the two of you in separate rooms, “I’m called the devil, but that doesn’t mean I’m some sort of monster. You can sleep in your own room until you’re comfortable sharing a bed,” but it didn’t take more than a couple weeks for you to eventually join him in bed.

Damn those blue eyes, full lips, and that jawline.

You grabbed a small bag and threw the first set of clothes you laid hands on into it, then, much more carefully, a dress. You grabbed everything else you needed and headed to Tommy’s office next.

I’ll be back soon. I’m sorry for lying, but I’ll be back.

You signed the note and left it in the center of his desk where you knew he would see it, held down by his ashtray.

As quickly as you had entered the house, you left it, getting right back into the car with the driver Tommy had employed for you. You told him the name of a hotel in London that you knew was just outside of anyone’s territory.

The drive seemed to pass by too quickly and soon you were saying goodbye to the driver and sending him home for the night. It was barely 7 in the evening when you got up to your room.

“If there is a God, please let me get through this. I’ll make it up to you… somehow,” you said quietly.

The beading on the dress swayed loudly around your body as you pulled the dress on. The pins in your hair seemed to be extra noticeable against your scalp. The straps on your shoes pressed into your skin more than usual. The blade held against your thigh and hidden by your dress seemed to refuse to warm up. Your left hand felt entirely too light with your ring missing.

You knew it was only your mind playing tricks on you. You’d worn this outfit before and it had always turned heads, which is exactly what you wanted.

You needed Sabini to notice you.

You greeted the cab driver politely as you stepped in and ignored the way his eyes seemed to follow you a bit too closely.

The doors of the club were held open for you and you made your way to the bar and took a seat, knowing you were just playing a waiting game now.

You could feel eyes on you. The wife of Thomas Shelby in Sabini’s club, hours away from Birmingham, far out of Peaky Blinders territory or her father’s territory. You stuck out like a sore thumb, even if you would have blended in during any other scenario.

It felt like an eternity passed before you finally saw the man that made your blood boil, but one glance at the clock above the bar told you it hadn’t even been an hour.

“You seem lost. I thought we had made it clear that your kind weren’t welcomed here,” Sabini said once he was in front of you.

A charming smile graced your lips and you looked up at him,

“My kind?” You questioned, playing innocent.

“Yes. Your kind. You’re the wife of Thomas Shelby and I don’t appreciate him ignoring the last warning I gave him and sending you-“

“I wasn’t sent here,” you stopped him, lifting your left hand and pushing a piece of hair that hadn’t fallen back behind your ear, “and I’m not really a Shelby or a Blinder, am I?”

His eyes were drawn to your hand and noticed the lack of a ring you wore and he quirked an eyebrow at you.

“Is that so? I was under the impression the two of you were lovebirds.”

You pulled your bottom lip between your lips and looked away, trying to come off as shy. When you looked back up to him, you hoped the look on his face meant he was intrigued and believing you.

“Perhaps we could talk about it somewhere else… somewhere private?” You asked him, batting your eyelashes as you did so.

Gods help you. The smirk he gave you made your stomach twist and you wanted nothing more than to wipe it off his face, but patience was something you’d adopted a lot of.

“Allow me to show you to my office then,” he said, offering you a hand which you forced yourself to take.

He guided you through the club and towards the back. Some amount of luck seemed to be on your side as his office was behind the stage and provided some cover for any noise you might make. Even more so as you noticed a window just large enough for you to be able to crawl out of.

Once the door was shut behind you, he sat down behind his desk and motioned for you to take a seat in one of the chairs on the opposite side.

“Trouble in paradise, I take it,” Sabini said as he poured you both a drink.

“It was never paradise to begin with,” you replied, thanking him for the drink and taking a sip.

You had grown used to Tommy’s Irish whiskey and the bourbon he gave you wasn’t nearly as smooth going down.

“Was it not? From what I’ve heard, you two have quite the fairytale. Gang leader’s daughter married off to another gang leader, uniting two empires.”

“That’s not the way I see it,” you lied.

“And how do you see it?”

“A desperate father sold off his daughter to a desperate gang leader in an attempt for the both of them to gain more power and disregarded the woman’s wishes,” you replied simply, shrugging your shoulders.

“And so you’ve come to London for what?” Sabini questioned, wanting to hear you say it.

“Because I think we can help each other, Mr. Sabini,” you said, downing the rest of the bourbon and standing up.

His eyes followed your movements, his eyes trailing up your body before resting on your legs again.

“And how do you think we could help each other?” He asked.

You moved to stand in front of him, placing one leg over the side of his and straddled him, placing your arms around his neck.

“They trust me, Mr. Sabini. They don’t suspect me of anything,” you started. The shiver of disgust that rolled up your spine due to his hands trailing up the back of your thighs was one he apparently took as excitement as he gripped slightly at the backs of them, “I can tell you everything and, in return, I get out of my marriage once they’re all gone.”

“They don’t even realize the ticking time bomb they’ve got in their fingertips, do they?” He asked and a chuckle left your lips as a genuine smirk took over.

“They don’t…” you said, trailing your hands down his chest and then up your thigh, trying to make the move appear seductive. Your fingers wrapped around the hilt of your knife, “and neither do you, apparently.”

His eyes widened and he realized the trap he had walked into at the same time as you pressed the blade of the knife to his neck.

“I’d say that if you ever threaten my husband or our family again, you’ll regret it, but you won’t be,” you told him, unable to resist pausing for a touch of dramatic effect before adding on, “Never fuck with a Shelby.”

In the next second, you were quickly slicing the knife across his neck and flinching back as his blood coated you.

You knew your next move was morbid, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. It had been morbid for him and five other men to attack your husband when he was alone. It was morbid for him to rip out his tooth. It had been morbid for him to slice his cheeks. It was just as morbid for you to quickly and quietly clear off his desk, dip your fingers into his blood, and leave a bloodied message across his desk.

Revenge is a scorned Shelby

As soon as the message was written, you grabbed one of the coats from the coat rack and slipped it on, then crawled out of the window. The coat was long enough to cover all of the bloodied mess that was now your dress.

Sabini is dead.

That seemed to be the only thing you could think of as you were driven back to the Arrow House. It wasn’t the first time you had killed a man and you knew it wouldn’t be last.

But you hadn’t told anyone about this time. You hadn’t told anyone your plan, where you were going, or why you were doing it. You had also just started a war.

You weren’t surprised to see almost every light in the house still on when you arrived, and you made sure to slip the cab driver a little extra for the long drive.

You hadn’t risked staying in London longer than you needed to. You had gone into your hotel room, grabbed your bag, and promptly left, only taking the time to slip your wedding ring back on when you were in the cab.

When you stepped into the house, Tommy was in the hallway. All he saw as you stepped in the door was you, in another man’s coat, your wedding ring still on your finger, but your hair and makeup done much differently than it had been you had left.

You stayed silent as you stared at him with nervousness written on your face.

He put out his cigarette and quirked an eyebrow at you, a silent prompt for you to explain yourself.

Your silent explanation was to undo the tie on the coat and let it fall to the floor, revealing your blood stained dress.

“I need a fucking drink for this one,” Tommy grumbled, motioning for you to follow him. He guided you to his office and poured both of you a drink, handed you your glass, then sat down in his office chair. “What the fuck did you do?”

“Do you want the short version or the long version?” You asked, a smirk on your face as he looked up at where you still stood across the room.

Despite himself, he couldn’t help but chuckle and shrug his shoulders,

“Humor me. Short version first,” he told you.

“About a year ago I got married, and tonight I started a war.”

Tommy leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk and running a hand over his face, “Long version.”

“About a year ago, I got married. Over the past year my husband has been nothing but a respectful gentleman, making it nearly impossible for me not to fall for him when you combine it with his fucking blue eyes that could bring the devil to his knees,” you started, feeling the hint of a blush creep into your cheeks, which you knew he noticed by the way his eyes flicked to your cheeks and then back to your eyes, “then today we had a meeting with his family where he mentioned Sabini. When I asked, his sister-in-law told me about what Sabini had done to him. About how my husband had been beaten to an inch of his life and brutalized, leaving him permanently scarred, and I knew I had to make the bastard pay.

“So, I lied to my husband and said I didn’t feel well. I went home, packed a bag, left him a note saying I’d be back, and went to London. I rented a hotel room where I changed into a fancy dress and did my hair and makeup, then I wrapped a knife to my thigh and slid my wedding ring into my bag and went to The Eden Club. News of a Shelby woman spread quickly and Sabini showed up to question me within an hour. I lied to Sabini, told him that I didn’t want to be a Shelby and that I had never wanted to be one. He took me back to his office and I sat on his lap and made him think I was about to cheat on my husband when I slit his throat and made sure he knew it was because of what he’d done to my husband. I left a message on his desk, went back to the hotel, grabbed my bag, and then headed back to our house.”

Silence filled the room for a long moment as Tommy stared at you. His eyes were unreadable as he watched you.

“What did the message say?” He suddenly asked.

“Revenge is a scorned Shelby.”

“Nothing about the Peaky Blinders?” He asked curiously, tilting his head slightly.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It wasn’t Peaky business,” you answered confidently, watching him just as closely as he watched you as he stood from his chair and came to stand in front of you.

“Was it not?” He questioned, taking the untouched glass of whiskey from your hand and setting it on the desk before turning back to stare you down.

“No. It was Shelby business, but not Peaky business.”

“Explain.”

“He didn’t just harm a Peaky Blinder. He harmed a Shelby, my Shelby.” Your gaze was unwavering as you held eye contact with him. You wanted him to know you meant your words. He was yours, and the protective touches on your back when you were in public and the way he intimidated and glared at any man who tried approaching you was all the proof you needed to know that you were his.

“So I’m your Shelby?” He asked as he took a step towards you and continued to do so until you pressed against the office door.

“Yes.”

“And that means you’re mine?” He questioned, his hands now pressed against the wall on either side of your head.

You could feel that you were walking into some sort of trap, but you didn’t have a way out of it right now. All you could do was be honest.

“Yes.”

“Then you should know something about what it means to be mine.”

“What’s that?” You asked, your breathing getting shorter as he lowered his face so it was level with yours.

In a second his hands were on your waist and he had you picked up against the wall with legs instinctively wrapping around his hips.

“My Shelby is to never come home wearing another man’s coat again,” he said, pressing his lips to yours in a rough kiss.

You don’t know what reaction you had expected from him, but being pinned to his office door and him kissing you hadn’t been one you had thought of. Your shock wore off after half a second and you returned the kiss as your arms wrapped around his neck to keep him close.

“You’re not mad?” You asked against his lips.

“At you starting a war?” He questioned, leaning down and beginning to trail kisses hastily down your neck.

“Yes,” you replied, leaning your head back to give him more access.

“Livid,” he said with no hint of joking in his voice.

“This is quite the punishment,” you replied sarcastically. A moan fell from your lips as he nipped at your pulse point.

“Oh, I’m livid,” he said, looking up at you, “but also extremely turned on at the thought of my wife slicing a man’s throat over me and coming home still covered in his blood.”

You weren’t given a chance to respond before he was kissing you again. Your hands came down to his tie, pulling it loose before starting to work at the buttons of his waistcoat.

He didn’t bother setting you down, only turned the two of you around and walked you over to the couch in the office. He laid you down on it and then pulled the waistcoat off before leaning back down between your legs and kissing you again once. His lips started trailing down your neck again while your hands went to undo the buttons of his shirt.

“Someone’s impatient tonight,” he teased as nipped at your skin again.

“You’re the one who pinned me to the door after I revealed I killed a man for you,” you replied in the same teasing tone as him. You undid the last button of his shirt and pushed the fabric off his shoulders, his undershirt following a second later.

He reached his hand to the side of your dress and unzipped it, pulling the fabric down your body while his hands grabbed hold of your underwear, stockings, and garters in the same move and pulled them off, leaving you completely naked underneath him.

He stared and looked over your body a moment longer before running his hands up your thighs and giving a gentle tap to your thigh,

“Up,” he said, causing your eyebrows to furrow in confusion.

You did as told though and sat up, leaving him enough room to lay on his back and pull you up to straddle him,

“Was killing a man not enough work?” You teased, not actually minding if he was going to have you ride him. At least it meant you wouldn’t be subjected to him teasing you when all you really wanted was for him to fuck you.

“That’s cute,” he said sarcastically, gripping your thighs and attempting to pull you further up his torso, “that’s not where you’re sitting tonight.”

The man was no stranger at using his mouth to make you see stars, but you’d never ridden his face before. You looked at him, the question obvious on your face.

“Seriously?” You asked even though you knew by his face that he was.

“Seriously. You were enough of a leader to go after Sabini, you’re enough of a leader to sit on my face. Up,” he repeated again while his grip on your thighs tried pulling you forward.

You did as you were told this time, shuffling forward until you were straddling his face. You weren’t given a choice of when to sit as his hands came to your hips and pulled you down, forcing your full weight onto his waiting mouth.

If there was one thing you were grateful for, it was Thomas’ ability to use his tongue and lips in more than just outsmarting his enemies.

His tongue trailed through your lips, his hands keeping your hips in place, while his tongue slowly explored you at first.

It had only taken a couple weeks for you to crack and make the first move on Tommy, joining him in bed one night when you’d decided you could trust him, and you’d been insatiable and addicted to him ever since, though he never complained. He’d spent the first couple times figuring out every move that made you tick and every name that made your cheeks flush and used them to his advantage at every turn.

His tongue was a gift with the way he knew exactly how to use it. He dragged it up and down between your folds, drinking in every bit of your arousal before focusing on your clit, alternating between quick flicks and long drags.

Tommy’s hands on your hips began guiding them, silently instructing you to take control. You didn’t hesitate in going along with what he wanted you to do and began rocking your hips. One of your hands trailed to his hair while your other went to lay on top of one his that gripped your hip. You hadn’t realized the volume of your moans until you felt the vibration of his moan against your clit.

Your hips jerked at the added stimulation and he hummed against you purposefully, his eyes never leaving you as your hips sped up, chasing your own high. Within moments you could feel it approaching and your grip on his hair and hand tightened, moans of his name falling from your mouth like a prayer.

“Please, fuck,” you cried, whimpers falling from your lips, “Tommy, Tommy…”

Your high crashed over you a moment later and you felt Tommy’s movements begin to slow down as you rode out your high, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you caught your breath.

You went to move off of him, but his grip on your hips tightened at the same time that his tongue started speeding up again.

Your moans of pleasure turned to whimpers of over stimulation and you squirmed against him, but he didn’t let up. Your hips jerked as you tried moving away from him, but all it did was add to the stimulation.

You could practically feel him smirking underneath you as he continued on, watching as your eyes clenched shut and you relented yourself to letting him torture you so beautifully.

If it wasn’t for the way your body was on edge from not being given any type of break after your first orgasm, you might have felt slightly ashamed at the way he was able to bring you to your second orgasm so quickly.

And then your third.

Tears were freely falling from your face when he finally slowed his movements to a stop and helped you to lay down on your back.

He trailed soft and slow kisses along your thighs and stomach to help bring you back down to earth. When his lips reconnected with yours, you returned the kiss, letting your eyes fall shut at the surprisingly tender moment.

“Next time you want to start a war, at least let me know your plans,” he said, causing you to open your eyes and be met with a smirk dancing across his lips, “and don’t doubt my punishments.”

You could’ve smacked the smirk off his face if it wasn’t for the fact he had turned your entire body into mush.

“Think you can be a good girl and handle one more?” He asked.

Your cheeks flushed at the praise and his hands moved to his belt and pants, pulling them off after you nodded your confirmation.

Once the rest of his clothes had been removed, he gently lifted your legs and positioned himself between them. He was gentle as he pushed inside you, but the smirk on his face from the way your voice cracked when you moaned was obvious.

The stretch was familiar at this point, but it didn’t mean you didn’t need the moment he gave you to adjust. When you nodded your head, he started moving.

Tommy knew your body like he knew his own after your time together. His hips immediately changed position as he started thrusting, making sure to hit the spot inside you that added to the ways your legs shook underneath him.

He leaned down and placed his elbows on either side of your head, capturing your lips in a kiss right as a moan parted through them. One of his hands came back to cradle the back of your head and his fingers tangled into your hair to keep you close to him.

His other hand went to one of your legs and pulled it up so it rested in the crook of his elbow, causing him to hit even deeper inside you.

The action caused you to let out a high pitched moan and you wrapped your arms around him. Your next moan broke the passionate kiss the two of you had shared while your nails raked down his back.

“Who do you belong to?” He asked, beginning to speed up the movements of his hips.

“Y-you,” you moaned out, your back arching underneath him.

“Say my name. Who do you belong to?” He repeated.

“Thomas Shelby,” you answered and dropped your head back.

“Good girl. You’re my fucking wife,” he moaned out. He sat up, using one hand to keep your leg up in the same position while his other hand went to your already over sensitive clit, “all mine. No other man gets to touch you, look at you, or even fucking think of you. It’s my cock that you’re whimpering over right now, and it’s the only cock you’ll ever be whimpering over again.”

“I’m yours, Tommy,” you repeated, your voice breaking as moan after moan fell from your lips.

“Then cum for me. Be a good Shelby wife and make a fucking mess on my cock just like how you made a mess of this war tonight,” he commanded.

You didn’t need any more encouragement from him as your fourth orgasm hit you, causing your back to arch again and your nails to run down his arms.

His moves start to become more sloppy and his pace sped up as he began to chase his own high, the feeling of your cunt squeezing around his cock only driving him closer to the edge.

“Want to feel you Tommy, please,” you moaned underneath him, “please, cum inside me.”

“Fuck,” he swore out. His hips pushing against yours as his high hit him and his arms came down to either side of your head again while he shoved his face into your neck, completely claiming you as his own while his cum filled you.

His hips slowed as he rode out both of your highs and your arms came to wrap around him, placing a gentle kiss on the side of his head you could reach.

Once the two of your breathing had slowed down to a normal pace, he moved to push himself up and your legs around his waist tightened along with your arms.

“Don’t. Not yet,” you said in a quiet voice.

“I’m going to crush you, love.” He placed soft kisses along your shoulders between his words as he tried warning you.

“I’m a grown woman. I’ll tell you if it’s too much,” you replied and began running your nails softly along the shaved part of his head, knowing the motion worked on him every time.

“Stubborn,” he falsely chided, but relented and relaxed back into your hold.

“Little late to the party if you’ve just worked that out.” Your reply causing both of you to chuckle. “Remind me to start more wars if it means you fuck me like that every time.”

His hand came down and gently slapped your thigh in response while a burst of quiet giggles left your lips.

“Stubborn and a brat,” he teased, sitting up again and carefully sliding out of you.

“Too bad you’re stuck with me,” you responded with a smirk.

“I don’t think of it that way,” he said as he stood up and wrapped his arms under your waist and legs before pulling you up into his arms.

“How do you think of it?” You asked him as he carried you across the hall and into your shared room.

“I think I’m lucky enough to be married to a woman who killed for me over a years-old attack even though we’d never even said that we loved each other.” He set you down in the middle of the bed before crawling in next to you and pulling you into his chest.

A bright blush rose to your face as he pointed out that you had never even said you loved each other, even though you had admitted to him earlier that you had fallen for him. You didn’t know how to reply immediately and you turned in his arms to look up at him, his arms staying locked around your waist.

He didn’t seem to expect you to reply though, because he leaned in to you, pressing his lips against yours. The kiss was tender and sweet, as if he was trying to communicate what your actions had meant to him without having the words to say it.

“I fell for you, too,” he finally admitted, “I don’t know when it happened, but I know that I realized it tonight. The panic I felt to see your note and to see you come home covered in blood. The anger I felt over seeing you another man’s jacket. The way I felt when you revealed what you had done and why…” He trailed off, looking down at you and seeming to try and memorize every part of your face, “You’re mine.”

“I’m yours and you’re mine,” you replied, leaning up to kiss him.

“I’m yours and you’re mine.”