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honkytonk-hangman · 16 days ago

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Running Partners [Oneshot]

Simon Riley x Reader

Summary: You liked jogging, you didn’t enjoy a lot of working out, but jogging felt good. It got your blood pumping, and you always felt more ready and energised for your day. Such a nurse thing to say, you know, but it was true, and besides that… You got to see him everyday.

Words: 10k

Warnings: stalking (not by ghost), mentions of injury, implied uuhhhh murder?

You pass him every day.

Your job started early, the new shifts you’d signed on for at the hospital were regular (thank god), with the only catch being you started at six every morning. It wasn’t so bad. When your lease was up, you’d been able to find a flat barely fifteen minutes from the hospital, which left you with more than enough time to get up early, around four-thirty, and go for a run.

You liked jogging, you didn’t enjoy a lot of working out, but jogging felt good. It got your blood pumping, and you always felt more ready and energised for your day. Such a nurse thing to say, you know, but it was true, and besides that…

You got to see him everyday. Broad, tall as hell, and built like a brick shithouse. You’d never seen his face, he always wore a plain black face mask, a choice you still found slightly questionable, but then again, you were a nurse. You vaguely understood. Still, wearing one while running seemed hardcore, even for one in your profession. It didn’t bother you much. He had beautiful eyes, big and brown and strangely emotive, even though he never seemed to really actually emote that much. The most you ever really got from him was recognition.

It started on your first morning after moving in. You passed him on Gilberton Road, the size of him almost taking up the entire footpath, but he’d moved aside for you as you approached. That early in the morning there hadn’t been anybody else about, and you’d eventually come to know there hardly ever was, but you were English dammit, and the only polite thing to do was to say hello.

The first day you thought he might’ve had headphones in. He always wore a dark hoodie, pulled up, and he eyed you as you passed, your soft ‘Morning’ possibly lost on his plugged ears, but the second morning, and the second greeting, his eyes had shifted to you and he’d simply nodded.

It became routine.

Without even speaking, you came to understand he must have been some type of military. Most days his sweats were plain, dark, but some days his sweatshirts bore an insignia, a few of them unknown to you, but the plainer symbol, the one you recognised as the mark of the British Army, sold the idea to you. Besides, a man built like that, out for a run every morning, his routine mixing with yours like clockwork? He was definitely military. Had to be.

So that’s why when you noticed a car following you early on in your jog this morning, you’d done a few laps of the blocks around your street, and then you’d made straight for him.

You glance back subtly once again, your heart thundering louder and louder in your ears. The dark blue car was still following you. You don’t exactly know when you’d picked up the shadow, but you’d taken a different route upon noticing its presence, a pit opening up in your belly, and a sickly feeling filling your chest. It was definitely following you.

Usually you’d only lightly jog, going at your own pace, but this morning you all out ran. Partly because of the car following you, and partly because you’d already taken a slightly different route, and as you check your watch for the hundredth time since your idea unfolded, you hope to god you haven’t missed him already.

You’re in luck. Though, in the moment you don’t stop to think about how odd it is that your masked stranger has stopped halfway up Gilberton, seemingly standing stock still and waiting for something. You don’t stop to think about how he seems to straighten when he sees you coming, or how his eyes flicker over your much faster pace with a frown.

Your heart continues to hammer, and you tell yourself this is it, this is fine, this is when the car goes away. You slow down as you approach him, and eventually come to a stop.

“Please act like you’re meeting me,” you say breathing hard, your hands shaking as you uncap your water. If your eyes are watering slightly, you don’t notice, but he does. His frown deepens. “Is there a blue car behind me?” you ask, stepping slightly closer, even as you chuck another paranoid look over your shoulder. The stranger's eyes move past you almost immediately, locking onto something else, tracking the movement with his gaze.

“They been following you?” he asks back, his voice deep, almost gravelly, and it suits him. When you don’t respond, his eyes flicker back to you.

“Yes,” you reply hurriedly. “I don’t know anybody with a car like that it’s really–”

“–S’alright, love, follow me,” he says, eyes having trailed back to the car, but he jerks his head along the path you usually take, and waits for you to start moving before he joins you. Your heart still hammers in your chest, your ears, but you practically feel it begin to even out again as you chance a look over at your new companion, and find him focused on the parked cars linging the street, keeping his eyes on their mirrors for the reflections behind you.

“Take a left,” he instructs, eyes remaining vigilant, but nodding in the direction of the forked pathway that leads off into the small park Gilberton Road lines. You follow his directions, relieved when you make it far enough into the grassy plane that the trees block the road, and you can no longer see the blue car, and by extension, it can no longer see you.

You come to a stop, leaning down with your hands on your knees and breathing heavily, shakily, trying to get a hold of yourself.

When you finally look up at your stranger, he’s watching what can be seen of the road, dark eyes scanning the sliver of street, until he appears to be satisfied with what he finds and he turns his head to look down at you.

“S’at why you’re late?” he asks, making you blink up at him in sheer confusion.

“What?”

He turns his whole body to face you now, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“The fucker following you, is that why you were late?” he asks again, forcing you to stand up straight once more, your chest heaving in exhuastion as you feel the adrenaline rush begin to come down some.

“Yes– I– were you waiting for me?” you stutter out, your hands now shaking even harder as you attempt to take another drink from your bottle.

His eyes follow your movements, his brow creasing into an even deeper frown.

“Yes,” he says with no further explanation.

“Oh– I’m– I’m sorry,” you say, trying your best to avert your gaze away from him and place the twist cap back on your water. You drop it, feeling like an idiot, but before you can bend down to grab it, a larger hand enters your vision, snatching up the lid, another hand moving to the bottle in your hand, which he tugs gently out of your hold, and replaces the covering easily, calm as clover.

You look up at him, blinking back the wetness in your eyes, but when that fails, wiping madly at your cheeks with the back of your hand.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, doing your best to choke back the sniffles you can hear in your voice. Your stranger stares at you, an awkward sort of concern in his eyes.

“Nothing to apologise for,” he tells you. You get the feeling offering comfort isn’t usually in his wheelhouse, because he shuffles slightly closer to you, but makes no further movement. He stays holding your bottle as you subconsciously wrap your arms around yourself, doing your best to take deep breaths, still shaky, still sobbed.

“I don’t know if they were following me from– from home or–” your voice cuts out and this time when he steps closer, it's more definitive, more determined, even as his hand comes up and gingerly grips your shoulder, a firm, tight hold that grounds you.

“I’ll go back with you,” he says affirmatively, and all you can do is nod, even when he starts to move, his hand shifting to between your shoulder blades, gently directing you out of the park and back to the main road.

You look up hesitantly, but the snap of your neck left and right makes him answer your question before you can even think to ask it.

“They’re gone,” he tells you firmly, and vaguely you think you feel his thumb sweep in broad strokes across your back. “Which way?”

You direct him quietly as you walk, eventually getting enough of a hold of yourself that he drops his hand from you, though you note he still holds your water.

“I can… I can take that,” you offer, holding a hand out and getsuring to your water. He makes no move to return it, his eyes swivelling down to you almost in a sideeye.

“Hands are still shaking,” he tells you, making you close your fist and return it to your side. “S’normal,” he goes on, like he’s attempting to backtrack. “Adrenaline will probably stay with you for a couple hours–”

“–I know,” you don’t mean to cut him off. “I’m a triage nurse,” you tell him quickly, apologetically. He cocks his head slightly, but nods, turning his gaze forwards again.

“You walk to work?” he asks after a moment.

Your hospital was one of the only big landmarks in the area, you figure he assumes you work there.

“Yeah, managed to get myself stable shifts, couldn’t cut the arse-end hours of the morning anymore,” you’re rambling a little, unsure why you bother telling him all that, but you don’t stop yourself, and he seems content to listen.

“Must be nice,” he says. You have to admit, small talk sounds odd in his voice. He sounds more used to barking orders than chatter, but you appreciate his effort anyway.

“You do shift work?” you venture, nodding to the unfamiliar emblem on his zip-up, which he looks down at almost like he’d forgotten it was there. His eyes shift to you again, and you get the feeling beneath his mask, he might just be smiling wryly.

“Sometimes,” is all he says, not darkly, or finitely, like he doesn’t want to talk about it, so you further distract yourself, pushing deeper.

“What is that? I’ve seen you wearing Army stuff, but I don’t recognise that,” you ask lightly, waiting as he seems to decide whether or not to explain it to you.

“Not supposed to,” he tells you at last, stretching his neck slightly before going on. “S’SAS.”

“SAS?” your voice is coloured with a surprise you couldn’t cover even if you tried. You don’t bother to hide the appraisal you give him either, something he appears all too aware of, averting his eyes from yours, but you see the twitch in the corners, like he’s trying his best not to look back at you.

“Guess it’s my lucky day,” you say at last with a huff of laughter. His eyes do return to you then, a full turn of his head this time, his eyebrow raised.

“S’not usually what people say when they see me,” his voice is amused. You laugh again and shrug your shoulders.

“Maybe, couldn’t think of anyone better to have as a running partner when someone’s following me, though,” you say, trailing off slightly as you remember how all this started. You’re brought out of your spiralling thoughts by the ice cold of your bottle poking you in your side, making you jump and yip slightly. Now he’s definitely smiling under his mask, his cheeks scrunching up his eyes slightly as you blink up at him in faux outrage.

“D’worry about it. Got your back, partner,” he says. You feel yourself grow flustered at the way he says the word ‘partner’, but snatch your bottle back now that he’s holding it out where you can grab it. His eyes follow your movement seemingly faster than you can actually make them, but he doesn’t pull the bottle back, lets you grab it, though doesn’t let go right away, holding on to it for a few seconds longer before finally releasing it.

You ‘humfph’.

“This one’s me,” you gesture as you come to a stop outside your flat–a small-ish, but big enough for you– two story terrace home, one of eight or nine lining your street. Your stranger looks up at it, his eyes roaming over the facade before he nods resolutely.

“Want me to wait with you, walk you to work?” he asks after a moment, like he had to think it over before offering.

“I don’t wanna make you late,” you wave a hand, annoyed to find it still shaky. You drop it quickly, but he’s already seen it.

“Won’t make me late,” he says simply.

You hesitate, before digging into your pocket and grabbing your keys, pursing your lips as you struggle to rifle through them, the jingling from your shaking hands making your difficulty that much more emphasised. Your stranger holds out his hand then, and sighing, you hand them to him.

You watch him climb the four steps up to your door, carefully slotting the key in the lock and twisting, before stepping back and holding your keys out to you, though he does hold them up in such a way it’s clear to you he’s inspecting your keyrings. You shuffle forward, waiting for him to look back at you before taking them from him, opening your door and turning back to him.

“Uhm… do you want to come in? I have tea?” you ask a little nervously. You watch your stranger appear to think.

“Flavoured stuff?” he replies with a sniff that gives you the distinct impression that he does not like ‘the flavoured stuff’. You chortle.

“I have Yorkshire,” you offer, fairly certain you had a box of the stuff somewhere. You drank coffee, but your ex had drank tea, and you’re pretty sure you hadn’t gotten rid of it.

“Alright then,” he says, waiting for you to enter before he follows. “M’Simon.”

–

It becomes the new routine.

At four-thirty on the dot, Simon knocks on your door. You run together. You get the impression he gets his real running done before he picks you up, but you appreciate him keeping pace with you on your jog anyway.

You like Simon. He’s quiet, but doesn’t seem to mind if you make small talk, usually only replying with a few words, or a hum, but you get the feeling he listens to you very intently, cataloguing the things you say or your opinions. He remembers when you talk about work, asking you questions occasionally when you fall quiet. It’s… nice, you think. He’s reliable, oddly communicative for a man of so few words, and you appreciate his sudden but welcomed presence into your life. It’s not hard to have a crush on the man, even disregarding physical attraction, he was smart, sensible, and he often made you laugh, really laugh, usually when he wasn’t even trying to.

But this morning he leads you down a slightly different route. Simon usually led the way in your jogs, you don't mind so much, you’d been jogging the same route since you moved in, so the change of scenery was nice, but today you stray further from the usual haunts. You don’t even think to ask, but as he slows, he comes to a stop outside a small cafe, the inside of which seems bustling with military folks in their fatigues, and you look up at him questioningly.

“Only place ‘round here open this early,” he tells you, as if that explains what you’re doing here, but your stomach grumbles a little bit, and you follow him inside. It’s just a cafe, but you feel oddly out of place among the sea of uniforms, and you feel Simon’s hand lightly ghost over your back as he ushers you forward toward the counter. You can’t help but notice a few of the soldiers stand up a little straighter in what you’re assuming is his presence, not yours, and several men even throw up salutes, but they’re waved away with an almost annoyed sounding ‘at ease’ from the man behind you.

You shuffle toward the counter and wait patiently as the barista, a rough looking older gentleman comes around to you, his features grim, but friendly, and he nods at Simon as he moves to stand beside you.

“Lieutenant Riley,” he greets with a nod, his eyes dancing down to you, and you swear you see the flicker of an eyebrow raise, but you couldn’t be sure. “Usual?” he asks. Simon shakes his head once.

“Not this mornin’. Just her,” he gestures at you, which makes you blink dumbly up at him for a moment.

“I see. What’ll it be, luv?”

You rattle your order off, a simple latte, and Simon swats your card away and hands the older man a couple of notes, instructing him to keep the change. You move off to the side, to wait in the queue, and you take the moment, while standing fairly on your own to look up at him curiously. He doesn’t return your gaze, too busy looking around the coffee shop, but he does lower his chin slightly.

“What?” he asks, gruffly.

“Why didn’t you get anything?” you poke his arm, finally prompting him to glance down at you.

“Didn’t want anythin’,” he says. You frown up at him.

“Liar,” you roll your eyes, watching as he lowers his face even further and fixes you with a stare.

“Fine. I don’t wan’ any of these knobs seeing my face,” he tells you.

You study him for a moment, his excuse momentarily sounding ridiculous, but somehow, you believe him. You hadn’t ever really thought about how he rarely, if ever, removed his face mask. He always wore it in public, he even wore it in your home, and you’d only really caught a glimpse of the lower half of his face on the occasions you invited him in for tea before he walked you to work. Even then, you mostly left him downstairs while you showered and readied for the day. You’re not sure you could really describe him if you were ever asked, and you’d be better off recognising him by his build and height than any facial features, aside from his eyes.

You think you would recognise his eyes anywhere.

Your frown deepens in curiosity, and you study the parts of his face you can see while he watches you.

“Is that… a thing for you? With your job?” you half-whisper. He’d already told you he was SAS, and from the light reading you’d done, their whole deal was pretty secretive, you could only really find details about historical stuff. Simon seems to hesitate before he nods. You blink up at him and purse your lips before making a soft ‘hmm’ sound and turning back to the counter.

Behind you, you hear a low chuckle, a rough sound you’d receive on the few occasions he deigned to laugh.

“Usually get more pushback than tha’,” he mutters softly, and still facing away, you shrug.

“You could wear a tutu for your job for all I care,” you tell him. It was a little strange, but from all you know about him, all you’d learnt in the past couple of weeks, you suspect the man had been through a lot, probably still went through a lot, so you’d respect his wishes for extreme privacy if he wanted it.

Your order gets called, and the barista, who Simon thanks using the name Ed, gives you a wink on the way out.

“What was that about?” you ask with a smile, turning back to wait for him as follows you out of the cafe.

“Thinks you’re my girlfriend,” he replies almost immediately. You pause coffee halfway to your lips.

“Wait? I’m not?” you ask, looking up at him with so much faux-confusion you almost believe yourself for a second. Simon nearly stumbles, but he covers it by spinning on his heel and staring down at you, his eyes wide with something akin to panic at first, before they lower into glare. It’s almost intimidating for a second, but the look of disgruntled agitation on what you can see of his face makes you break out into laughter.

“I’m fucking with you,” you manage to get out between giggles. If possible, his glare gets darker. You start walking again, elbowing him in the side as you pass him. “You’d have to show me your face if you want me to be your girlfriend.”

From behind you, you hear a huff, and footsteps following after you.

“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” Simon grumbles as he falls into step again. “The cheek on you.”

You peek up at him at that, mostly to see if he’s still glaring, only to find that he now eyes you with what you can only describe as fondness.

You soften some.

“I really was only joking, Simon,” you say quietly after taking a few sips of your coffee. You round a corner, and he looks down at you. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“The mask?” he asks. You glance up at him too, and nod.

“Yeah, I get it– I mean, I don’t, not really, but… I guess I don’t know exactly what you do, but it’s probably dangerous, right?”

“Probably,” he agrees.

“And– and you probably don’t want any of that following you home,” you continue on, frowning to yourself even as you look away.

Simon stays quiet for a few moments.

“My other mask might bother you,” he says then, instead of really responding to what you’ve said. You wonder about it for a second, wonder if that really was the reason he covers his face, wonder if maybe, it had happened before, if that was why he was so careful. But then you register what he’s said and you crane your head to squint up at him.

“Your other mask?” you ask, confusion and curiosity mixing in your voice. Simon chortles.

“It’s a skull,” he tells you, bringing his hand up to his face. You think he’s smiling behind his mask again. “Covers everything, protects it too.”

You stare at him for a moment, trying to imagine what that would look like, if you’d even want to see it. You suppose if he was wearing it, that meant he was working, and you’re pretty sure if he’s working, that meant bad news. You don’t say any of that, however, undertsanding somewhere in the back of your mind that he didn’t often talk about any aspect of his job, and even this little detail was probably not something he shared with you lightly.

“I–” the moment you start speaking, you’re cut off, a dark black SUV tearing around the street corner up ahead, and screeching to a halt on the road beside you. Simon’s body language immediately changes into something you’ve never seen before, his arm swinging out and shoving you behind him as he watches the driver’s door swing open.

Almost instantly some of the rigidity in his muscles seem to relax as a young, handsome man with dark, tawny skin steps out, beelining around the side of the vehicle toward the two of you.

“Ghost, you’re needed back on base, we’re headed out,” the man tells him, his accent more Londoner than Simon’s, and you can’t help yourself, you peek around him to get a better look. The newcomer is dressed in what you might describe as ‘tactical casual’, with dark wash jeans, some kind of jacket, and a weapons vest over top. Before Simon has a chance to say anything, the man’s eyes drift toward you, and he blinks, all urgency seemingly forgotten as he takes you in.

“Who’s this?” he asks, voice lighter now, a little cheekier, and you watch as his gaze swivels back to Simon, who stands down completely, though you note, doesn’t step aside to reveal you to the man. He all but ignores him in fact, wheeling around on you, blocking out the other man’s view, though with the tiniest flicker of amusement, you see him shuffle slightly to the side so he can still get a look at you.

“I’ve got to go,” Simon tells you roughly, his voice somehow deeper than usual, gruffer even.

“O–okay,” you respond, not knowing how else you should. He must see your eyes dance worried and intrigued between him and the sight behind him, because he ducks into your vision slightly.

“Might be gone for a while,” he goes on after a moment. “M’gonna text you a number, anything happens, that blue car shows back up again, you call that number immediately, understood?”

You nod, realising you’re no longer speaking with your friend Simon, who even in his rough-around-the-edges manner, was softer than this. No, you realise you’re speaking to Lieutenant Riley, who was giving you an order.

“I’ll call, I promise,” you reassure him. He nods once, then turns, stepping past the other man, and all but wrenching the car door open. You blink in an almost stunned silence as he disappears into the SUV, leaving you for a moment with his friend– colleague?

“Uh, Hi,” he says.

“Hi…?” you return the greeting. The passenger's side window scrolls down, and Simon is glaring out of it.

“Garrick!”

The man, this Garrick, turns quickly around, like he’s been caught, and then looks back at you, swallowing quickly.

“Ma’am,” he says, nodding once. Must be a military thing, you think. Simon nodded a lot too. You watch him as he then spins on his heel, returning to the driver’s side.

And then they’re gone.

You stand in shock for a moment on the sidewalk, blinking after the black car, only pulled from your reverie by a single message from Simon, with no further words, just a number.

You save it, and walk home.

–

“Ghost,” Laswell comes marching through the hangar on a mission, using that tone that makes him stop in his tracks. They’d just finished their latest op, Ghost had been back on base for no longer than fifteen minutes, but he squares his shoulders and turns back to her, ready for whatever she was about to throw at him now. It had been a full month of this, not that he minded so much, always did feel more at home in the field than back London, but he might’ve been hoping for a little bit more down time as they planned their next move, especially with Gaz out of commission and on his way back for surgery on that broken arm.

“Laswell,” he greets her in kind, but she doesn’t stop, keeps moving right for him, only coming to a stand still when she’s sparsely two feet away. “What’ve you got for me?” He asks.

“I got a call while you were on your way back,” she tells him, and immediately his blood runs a little colder. “It was a woman, said her name was–”

“–What happened?” He cuts her off. He knows what your name is, that's not the part he needs to know right now. Laswell eyes him.

“She said the blue car was parked on her street,” Kate tells him and he has to assume you’d explained the car’s driver following you previously, because she says it with a sort of gravity that never meant good things. “I had her call the police, but apparently it took off before they could get the plates… I had somebody sent out to keep an eye on the place…”

Ghost lets out a string of expletives, looking away from her for a moment as he gathers his thoughts.

“CCTV?” he asks, almost snaps back, but Laswell takes it in stride.

“I looked it up, but the thing must be stolen. Plates belong to a gentleman who died three years ago, registration hasn’t been renewed, and the car wasn’t sold, at least not that I could find a record of,” she pauses a moment, eyeing him intently again. “Simon,” she says then, drawing his attention back down to her. “I advised her not to go to work, or leave the house, but I don’t think she was planning to anyway. She’s scared.”

Ghost almost growls at her.

“Of course she’s fuckin’ scared,” he bites back, but quickly regrets it. He shifts on his feet, antsy and annoyed. Kate’s face softens and she steps in just a little closer.

“Call her,” she says, making him freeze for a moment, hands flexing at his sides. “I know it's a blackout, but we’re grounded until we know our next moves. I can give you a few minutes, but only that,” she cuts him off before he can even argue.

He follows her to her office silently, his emotions a mixture of seething and anxious, but all of that fades away when the line picks up.

“H-hello?” your voice sounds small and he has to forcibly stop himself from grinding his teeth.

“Hello luv,” he hears himself say. He’s not bothered about Laswell sitting on the other side of the desk, listening in, he knows that’s her job. He knows she’s heard much worse than this.

“Simon?”

He shifts in his seat upon hearing the crack in your voice, angry that this has happened to you. Again.

“Thank you for giving me Kate’s number…” you say, sounding like you’re breathing back fresh tears. “She… she really helped me.”

Simon tuts.

“I’ve only got a short time, are you alright?” he asks, trying his best to soften his tone, not let his blooming anxiety feed into yours.

“Yeah, I–I’m fine, just shaken up… I saw them before I left, so I don’t think they know which house is mine…” you tell him, sounding slightly more confident at that assertion. Simon nods to himself.

“Can you do me a favour, sweetheart?” if the pet names register or deter you, you certainly don’t show it as you hum your affirmative down the phone. “Need you to stay at home for a while– Not too long, but just until I know you’re safe, alright?”

Laswell looks over at him then, but he ignores her, continuing on.

“Got a mate that’s gonna be on some leave for a while, gonna send him over to you, can you wait until he’s back f’me?” he asks.

“S-sure. I– I think that would be good.”

He’s glad you don’t argue, though worries about what state you must be in to want that kind of help. Laswell motions to him from the corner of his eye, and he knows what she’s telling him before he even has a chance to look up.

“I’ve got to go, you call again if something happens between now and my mate being able to get to you, alright?”

You confirm with him again, and without so much as a goodbye, Laswell cuts off the connection.

“Any longer than that, I’d have to log it,” she tells him apologetically. Ghost waves his hand, placing the phone back into her possession. He doesn’t stand right away, just sits and thinks for a moment, before he looks up at her properly, meeting her gaze.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely. Laswell smiles, small, but genuine.

“Of course,” she says, before spinning back around in her seat and bringing up something on her computer. “I’ll alert Gaz as soon as he’s awake and able… this isn’t… this isn’t related to work, is it?”

Ghost stares at her for a moment.

“No, happened to meet when she was bein’ followed the first time,” he explains, but doesn’t feel the need to give her the full story. It wasn’t important, all she needed to know was this was some regular ol’ stalker, nothing related to their various ops.

Laswell nods, and turns back to her screen.

“I’ll keep in email contact with her and Gaz.”

Ghost feels selfish for the relief he feels at those words. Feels selfish that he's passing off his worry to her, so he can focus. But he needed to, in order to remain at his best in the field. He couldn’t be worried about what was happening at home, and there was a reason he’d given you Laswell’s contact in the first place. Wordlessly, he stands, and leaves her office.

–

You’re wiping down your kitchen counter for the fifth, maybe sixth time today. You could only fill your day with so many chores, so much telly, and so much laundry before you started repeating yourself. So when your doorbell chimes, you almost jump at the chance for something new, even if you know you should be more cautious about opening your door right now.

You’d promised Simon.

Still, you make sure you look through your blinds and your peephole before you answer, but both pre-checks give you the same answer, and honestly, it’s not the one you had been expecting.

“Hello?” you ask, opening the door a crack, glancing out at the familiar man, the same one who had come for Simon all those weeks ago. He smiles at you, and immediately shows you both his hands.

“Hello again,” he says, his voice warm and filled with what you think is genuine friendliness.

“Are you– you’re Simon’s friend?” you ask, opening the door a little further, but not yet all the way. The man nods, and drops his hands.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m Gaz, Ghost sent me, said you might be wanting for a lil’ company.”

You blink at him, your frown dipping further, your eyes scanning his face uncertaintly.

“Who’s ‘Ghost’?” you ask, and for a split second, his smile drops some.

“Sorry,” he says, nodding to himself, as though realising something. “Lieutenant Riley is. Simon,” he tells you, before shrugging. “Goes by Ghost in the field.”

“Oh,” you say, slightly dumbfounded by the information. You stand there for a second longer, processing before you realise this man has come to help you, and you’ve left him on your doorstep.

“I’m so sorry, I’m just a little shaky, come on in.”

You and Gaz get on like a house on fire. He’s overly polite at first, a little formal, but soon enough he eases out, and you find you quite like having him around.

“So, what’d you do to your arm?” you ask a few days later, after insisting he let you look at his injury.

“Not sure I can tell you that, luv,” Gaz responds without missing a beat. Apparently the break wasn’t so bad, a fracture that required a cast, but he seemed to be healing alright.

“I know what you do, Kyle,” you say in a faux-annoyed voice. “I mean, not like, exactly what you do, but you can tell me if you fell out of a window or something,” you continue with a roll of your eyes. Gaz chuckles, and looks up at you as you round the couch and place a cup of tea down in front of him.

His gaze is momentarily sympathetic, before he gets a wicked look in his eye.

“I’ll tell you,” he begins, shifting better to face you where you sit on the other end of the sofa. “If you tell me what’s going on with you and Ghost– Simon.”

You refrain from frowning. It had become rather obvious to you, more obvious than just the impressions you’d gotten in your own experience, that your friendship with Simon wasn't exactly anywhere near the norm for him, which in turn made it all the more interesting to his teammate.

“Sure,” you say, trying not to feel like you’re tricking him.

“Took a crowbar to the arm,” he says with a sigh. “Knocked my gun out of my hands, blindsided me… probably would have been fine if I hadn’t finished out the mission, but…”

You nod in understanding.

“The extra stress on it,” you say, and receive a nod. He looks at you expectantly, and you let out a breath.

“We’re friends,” you tell him, immediately earning a playful scoff.

“LT doesn’t have friends,” he shoots back quickly, though not meanly, you don’t get the sense he’s trying to insult him.

“Look, I– I know what you’re saying, it's not like… it isn’t as if there’s nothing there, I’m not stupid. I don’t think he’d go out of his way for me like this otherwise… but we are just friends.”

Gaz looks at you thoughtfully, pursing his lips as he thinks.

“I believe you,” he says then, as if he’s decided something. “Mostly because that man has never taken a personal phone call in his life, let alone when we’re in a comms. Blackout…”

“Wait, but I thought soldiers could contact their families… and friends?” you tack on the last part quickly. Gaz shakes his head.

“The type of shit we do… it’s better if we don’t,” he tells you solemnly.

“Is… is that why he hides his face?” you ask. Gaz’s eyebrows shoot up.

“You’ve never seen his face?”

You pause, wondering if this is information you should share. You’d gotten to know Gaz fairly well the past few days, but you still weren’t certain of the dynamic between him and Simon, let alone where you stood within that.

“Sort of… It’s not like he was looking me straight on,” you trail off. “Sometimes after our runs, he has tea while I clean up for work, he takes the mask off then, but it’s always back on by the time I’ve come back downstairs,” you almost feel guilty admitting it, given what you’d learnt since then about how Simon preferred to keep his face hidden. “I don’t know if he meant for me to see.”

Gaz snorts and shakes his head.

“Trust me, if he took that mask off anywhere near you, he meant for you to see… I’ve only seen his face properly once,” he tells you. You blink.

“But you work with him!” you argue. Gaz chuckles and takes a sip of his tea.

“So the fact he regularly takes it off around you at all…” he doesn’t finish, just flashes you a grin and bounces his eyebrows.

You huff out a chortle and shake your head at him.

“You boys don’t get a lot of gossip, do you?” you ask, earning a boisterous, hearty laugh.

“Nah, not really. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened in years on that front,” he tells you truthfully. You shake your head again.

“When I go back to work tomorrow, I’ll fill you in on all the workplace dramas,” you tell him, reaching out and patting his uninjured arm. Once again, he flashes that bright, boyish grin at you.

“You know what? That’s a deal, luv.”

–

You’ve been back at work two weeks now. You loved your job but you couldn’t say you didn’t enjoy the time off with Gaz. Still you got to see him everyday, he’d walk/jog with you in the mornings and then walk you to work, and in the evenings he’d drop by and walk you back. You usually made him dinner, or you’d just talk. You’d gotten him onto ‘Come Dine With Me’, and you’d had a blast replaying the older episodes.

It had been a break at least from the regular ‘missing Simon’ or ‘worrying about Simon’ hours you’d been having. You know you shouldn’t. From everything Gaz had told you or let slip, Simon–or Ghost as he called him most often– was not somebody you should worry about. He was the somebody others should be worrying about.

It goes a long way to comfort you.

It’s not as though you can really imagine Simon at work, with guns and explosives and knives or whatever else, but it isn’t as though you can look at that beefcake of a man and not picture him doing some real damage, it's the whole reason you’d ran straight for him that first day.

He had a dangerous air to him, even the way Gaz speaks about him at times. It was like he was built specifically for something, but you suppose that was what years of training and hard work and a certain mindset would do to you.

You clock out in the main office, and hike your bag further up your shoulder. You’re tired, it had been a long day, but luckily not a very intense one. Sometimes that was worse, though. At least if you were called in constantly for triage, you had something else to focus on, but today your thoughts had constantly drifted back to him.

You chuck a text out to Gaz, who replies immediately, insisting he had a surprise for you. You sigh a little. You know he must sense your growing worry, he’d been suggesting doing more and more things recently in the hopes of getting your mind sof things, you think. You’d gone mini golfing last friday, which had been fun. Gaz was a good mate, and you think you’d really like to hang out with him again, even after all this was over.

You step out the front doors of the hospital, fiddling with your phone in your hand, but looking up sharply when you spot some movement to your left. You see Gaz first, standing against a guard railing, chatting away, and as your eyes drift to the person next to him, you feel your heart speed up and your face break out into a wide, unabashed smile.

“Simon!” you all but shout, moving your way quickly toward them. You want to throw yourself at him, want to toss your arms around him and squeeze tightly, but to be honest you don’t really know what state he’s in. Simon and Gaz stand up a little straighter, a massive grin on the latter’s face. A surprise indeed.

Simon looks weary, looks tired, and you spot what looks like a stitch in his upper brow. It doesn’t deter you though, you meet him halfway and shuffle your bag awkwardly taking him in.

“Y’look good,” he says simply, and you realise how much you’d missed his voice. You can’t help yourself, you move closer, and pull him in, or, really, pull yourself in, wrapping your arms around what you can of his bulk, and smushing your cheek into his chest.

You’re a little surprised by how quickly he hugs you back, it’s not like this was normal for the two of you, but faster than you thought he might, or at all really, his arms are around you too, tight and firm and you can’t help it when your eyes grow a little wetter.

“I missed you,” you say softly, only loud enough that he would pick it up, and he hums against you.

“You been alright, sweetheart?” he asks. You don’t know when he started with the petnames, you don’t think he used them before he went away, but maybe you just hadn’t noticed before. You pull back.

“I’m good,” you say, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. Simon’s brow furrows, and he twitches a little before he lifts his own hands, gloved in the cold weather, and uses his thumbs to dry your cheeks.

“No cryin’ love, come on now,” he faux-scolds, ducking down a little even as you nod. “Makin’ me feel bad.”

You smile up at him and he seems to pause for a moment, before his own eyes seem to crinkle slightly.

“You want dinner?” you ask quickly then, not content to have him walk you home and disappear again. “I got out a pork roast this morning,” you go on, looking past him to Gaz, who had conveniently been checking his phone until he hears that.

“Aw, come on LT, first night back and you’re getting a home cooked meal? Can’t say no to that,” Gaz teases. If Simon is bothered by it, he doesn’t say, simply reaches out and takes your backpack from you, and jerks his head in the direction of home.

You’re finishing up with the vegetables, the roast just out of the oven and waiting when he enters. You’d left the boys in the other room, to talk about anything they needed to talk about, and also give Simon a bit of a break, considering from what you’d picked up on, he’d literally come as soon as he’d gotten back earlier this evening.

You shoot a glance over your shoulder as Simon moves about your small kitchen, tossing the two beer bottles in the trash, but he’s looking over at you. He has his mask off, tucked under his chin, but you were still trying not to stare too much. Gaz had wiggled his eyebrows at you already, as if to prove a point you’re pretty sure you already know, but if you had any doubts, they’re sated the moment Simon seems to cautiously step up to you from behind.

Slowly you feel his arms move around your middle, and you do your best not stop what you’re doing in awe. You feel his forehead connect with your shoulder and when nothing seems to immediately push him away, he lets out a long, deep breath.

“M’sorry I wasn’t here,” he says almost too quietly. You smile a little, still taken aback by this second showing of affection in one evening, and stop your food preparation briefly to pat this arm circling your stomach.

“You couldn’t help it,” you tell him. “And Laswell checked back in on me, too.”

He raises his head a little at that.

“She did?” he asks, sounding a little surprised. You nod.

“Mhmn.”

He doesn’t respond to that, simply rests his head back on your shoulder and takes another deep breath.

“Missed you too,” he says then, like an admittance, but you only chortle, placing down your tools now, and gingerly reaching back to cup his cheek. He seems to jump a little at the touch, before he leans into it, and you think if a man could purr, he might just start.

“I know,” you say softly.

“You know?” he asks back, his voice laced with amusement.

“You don’t send an SAS mate round to look after your friend you don’t miss,” you poke at his arm with your other hand, and feel the huff of laughter he lets out against your neck.

“Friend,” he says, and there's something else in his tone, but you can’t pick out what it is.

“We’re not friends?” you ask then, forcing yourself not to twist around in his arms, but you do turn your head, a little breathless when you find him, his full bare face, looking back at you, thoughtful.

“No,” he says slowly, but you don’t panic too much, don’t feel your stomach drop. He still has his arms around you. “I showed you my face, that’s what you said, innit?” he asks back, almost huffily. You pause for a moment, brows furrowing slightly as you try to recall what he’s speaking about. “Said I’d have to show you my face if I wanted…” he trails off.

Your face breaks out into a grin as you remember, and you can't help but laugh, your hand shaking where it cups his cheek and you giggle to yourself.

“Well, new clause to that,” you say between pearls of laughter, brought on even more so when his face falls into a little frown that you raise your hand to smooth out from between his brows, his eyes watching you closely. “You also have to tell me if that’s what you want!”

“That’s what I want,” he says quickly, like he might miss his opportunity if he doesn’t get in fast. You chortle again, and can’t resist the urge to tease him, the full effect of his facial expressions now almost a game to you, to see how he looks when it’s not just his eyes you can see.

“You know we could still just be friends,” you say slyly, tracking as his lips turn downward and his glare returns, muscles in his face fighting against the thumb you’d used to relax them previously.

“No,” he says again, firmly, a growl this time, and you laugh. “The gall of you woman, making me worried to fuck, then tryna just be friends,” he huffs out, standing tall, making your hand drop from his face entirely. His hands move to your hips then, shuffling you around to face him and he stares down at you for a beat.

You’re surprised when he drops his face to yours, his lips pressing quickly against your own, pulling back only briefly before he seems to decide that’s not quite enough and he does it again.

“I don’t want to be your friend,” he tells you roughly, lips brushing your own when he speaks.

“My running partner?” you ask breathlessly. He glares darkly at you, and this time he kisses you firmly, slowly, like he’s getting a taste for you. You can’t help but lean up into it, pressing up on your toes.

He makes a small sound in the back of his throat, and then one of his hands is leaving your hip, wrapping around the back of your neck where he angles your head slightly to the side. His mouth parts, and you take the opportunity to deepen your kiss, seemingly surprising him somewhat, though you feel his lips curl up into a smile, even as his hand tightens on the back of your neck.

He kisses you like it might make you shut up about this whole ‘platonic’ thing, and when he pulls back at last, hand still holding your head in place, he looks down at you for a moment like he’s searching for something.

“Okay,” you say shakily.

“Okay,” he replies, voice much deeper than it was before. You feel his fingers flex against your neck.

“Okay,” Gaz says, suddenly standing in the doorway to the kitchen, grinning like the cat who got the cream.

“Garrick I will break your other arm,” Simon growls, releasing his hold on you and whipping around. You let out a bark of laughter, your hands coming up to rest on Simon’s shoulders, pushing up on your tiptoes to try and whisper in his ear, but you can’t quite reach.

“If you do that, he’ll have to stay home and hang out with me for longer,” you tell him. Simon turns his head to look back at you, practically pouting. “Set the table please, dinner’s almost ready.”

Gaz stands up straighter, and salutes you with his good arm.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

–

“I’ll drive,” Simon tells the rest of 141, already at the car door, leaving the others to simply complain about it. They’re going for drinks, a ritual that took place one week post mission, every mission, and one Simon did not usually lead the charge on.

Price silently takes the passenger’s seat, ignoring Johnny and Gaz as they fight over who called shotgun first, both of them climbing in the backseat huffily when they notice. Simon almost smiles under his mask, shooting Price an eyeroll the older man waves off with a short chuckle.

“Everyone got your seatbelts on?” Price asks buckling himself in.

“Had it on b’fore I got in the car, wha’with Lt. drivin’ an’ all,” Soap says with a snicker that comes to a short sharp stop when Simon briefly presses down the accelerator, then the brakes, jolting his (un)willing passengers testily.

“Simon,” Price faux-scolds, but when he looks over at the Captain, he’s grinning.

“Alright you trollops, ready?”

The drive out is surprisingly peaceful, despite Simon’s rising anxiety. If anybody notices his nervous tapping finger on the steering wheel at every red light, they don’t say anything. It’s not until he thinks they’ve picked up on the fact he’s driven past the turn off for the pub that the chatter in the backseat calms somewhat, a few more lingering silences between the banter until he comes to a stop outside your place. Simon puts the car in park, and he’s never felt a quiet so pervasive before.

It stays quiet until after he’s left the car, taking the umbrella from the foot well with him. The door slams, and he’s never been glader not to hear the conversation that immediately ensues.

“Where the hells’ he goin’?” Soap snaps like a rubber band, never taking his eyes off of Ghost as he stalks around the car and up onto the sidewalk. “Who’s flat is this?!”

Price watches for a moment before crossing his arms over his chest.

“A woman’s,” he says, doing his best impression of being indifferent, but he can’t quite hide the curiosity and surprise in his voice.

“A bird? Simon doesn’t know any birds!” Soap says, before pausing. “Except the ones we work with,” he adds. The Scot looks between Price and Gaz, before he double takes back at Kyle, and narrows his eyes. “Yer aw’ful shifty,” he says, immediately clocking when Gaz puts up his ‘playing it cool’ front.

“Nah mate, I’m as surprised as you are,” Gaz tells him, almost sounding convincing.

“Wha’ makes you think it’s a woman’s house, Cap?” Johnny asks instead of pressing the Sergeant, though he keeps a side eye on him even as he looks back out at where Ghost has knocked on the door and stands waiting.

“Took the brolly,” Price says with a sigh. “He’s not using it, though. Yet,” he nods toward the scene playing out before them, and Soap’s questions come to an end when the front door opens and you appear, smiling up at Ghost.

His jaw all but drops to the car floor when Ghost appears to actually lean down toward you, you raise a hand, hooking a finger over the top of his black cloth mask and pulling it down. And then you kiss him!

“Fuck off!” Soap exclaims. He looks frantically between Price and Gaz. “Get off!”

No one responds as Ghost puts up the umbrella and holds it over your head as you step out, locking your door, before allowing him to escort you back to the car. Soap almost jumps when the car door opens, and Simon ducks his head into the car.

“Move,” he says shortly. Soap just stares, eyes flickering between you and his Lt. in nothing but agape shock.

You elbow Simon, he catches it without looking.

“Hi, s’nice to meet you,” you say. Soap watches Simon roll his eyes. His mask has been replaced, but Johnny doesn’t need to see his face uncovered to know he’s scowling at him. You peek further into the car, and your already smiling face lights up even more.

“Gaz!” You say happily. Soap whips his head back around to Kyle, expression somewhere between betrayal and shock.

“You knew about this?!”

“Move, Johnny,” Simon growls again, though there's a note of exasperation in his voice more so than anger.

Soap quickly slides over to the middle seat, fumbling for the seatbelt, watching as you look up at Simon with a little frown.

“I should sit in the middle, I’m smaller,” you tell him. Simon’s eyes meet yours and he shakes his head.

“Safer on the sides,” he almost grunts.

“Gee, thanks, Lt.,” Johnny grumbles as you take Simon’s offered hand and climb into the back. He waits for you to buckle yourself in before he closes the door.

“Hi,” you say again in the brief moment you’re alone with 141. Price turns around in his seat, and holds a hand out to you that you shake.

“John Price,” he tells you. “Sorry ‘bout this one,” he nods to Soap, who is still somewhere between bewildered and calming down.

“Sorry,” Johnny tells you quickly, shaking your offered hand, looking at you kindly. “Jus’... didn’t realise Lt. had… you,” he seems to cringe at that. “I’m Soap, or Johnny.”

You smile brightly and shake your head.

“Don’t worry,” you tell him, taking back your hand. “He warned me you’d be like this.”

Soap blinks.

“He talks about me?”

You ignore him with a smile, leaning around to wave at Gaz.

“How’s your arm doin’, Kyle?” you ask warmly. Gaz scrunches his nose and pouts.

“Be better if I had a nurse like you takin’ care of me,” he tells you cheekily, just as the driver’s door opens again and Simon climbs back in.

“Careful, Garrick,” he says warningly, but there’s no real bite behind his words, amusement more than anything else.

The car starts to move once more, and it isn’t lost on anyone but you that the ride is suddenly much more smooth.

“So, you two know each other?” Soap asks the least obvious question first, nodding between you and Gaz. You smile.

“Gaz kept me company while he was on medical leave,” you tell him.

“Oh,” is all he responds at first, clearly wondering ‘why’.

“Some fucker keeps stalkin’ ‘er in his car,” Simon fills in, surprising you slightly. You’d have figured he’d not tell them anything more than absolutely necessary about your relationship, or you by extension.

It hits you then, that despite his seeming annoyance and gruffness with them, these were probably the people he trusted most in the world. It warms you a little.

“Wha’? And you haven’t killed the bastard yet?” Soap asks, immedieatly chilling the atmosphere in the car by a few degrees. Simon eyes him sharply in the rearview, and you feel the held breath by the others like a taute bungee cord.

You knew in the back of your mind Simon was a dangerous man, that when he went away for work, it wasn’t to sit around on a base simply performing requisite duties. But hearing the confirmation of that fact still somehow gives you pause. But only for a minute.

“Sorry– I didn’t mean–”

“–I wish he would,” you cut Soap’s apology, with a short, nervous little laugh. The mood shifts back then, and from the front seat you hear Price chuckle heartily.

Simon’s eyes swivel to you in the mirror, dancing away back to the road a moment later, and he seems to shift in his seat some.

“Is tha’ permission, then?” he asks with a faux-lightness that informs you you should pick your next words very carefully. You shrug.

“Can you get away with it?” you ask, still keeping your voice jovial. Plausible deniability, you suppose. Next to you, Soap lets out a bark of laughter.

“Aye, you bet yer arse he can,” he tells you, gently nudging you with his elbow. “An’ if he doesn’t get the cunt, I will.”

“Watch your fuckin’ language!” Simon barks, glaring at him in the mirrors. Your laugh is somewhere between a scoff and a gasp. You lean forward to the front seats and smack Simon’s arm.

“You called the guy the exact same thing last night!” You say. “And Johnny was being nice!”

Simon’s head briefly snaps back to you, seemingly betrayed that you outed him, before turning back around and grunting. Soap flashes you a megawatt grin.

–

It’s the Saturday after your drinks with Simon’s team, and you’re cleaning up after lunch when you hear your front door open, then close heavily. Despite all circumstances, you aren’t overly worried, you recognise the sound of his heavy footfalls, and the clank of his keys as he drops them in the bowl by the front door.

“Simon?” you ask anyway, moving around the doorway of the kitchen, surprised to find him right there, and even more surprised when he cups your face in both his hands and kisses full and deep half a second later.

When he lets you up for air, you almost gasp with how fervently he coups you up against the kitchen counter, backing you into it quickly.

“S’dealt with,” he says simply, kissing you again. You frown some, confused, and you pull back ever so slightly.

“W–What?” you ask, still a little breathless. Simon looks down at you. His mask is crumpled up, hanging from one ear, and you recognise the slightly wild look in his eye. It was the same as when he’d come back from his last mission. You hadn’t noticed it then, not used to seeing him a little riled up, a little adrenalised, but you reconise it now.

“Stalker. S’dealt with,” he says, his hands on your face holding you just a little tighter, like through touch alone he can convey what he means. For a moment a slightly sick feeling fills your stomach, and you pull away.

“Simon, stop,” you say quickly, placing a hand onh his chest when he all but reels back from you. Your gesture calms his almost panic now, and you curl your fingers into the front of his shirt so he knows not to go far. You scrunch your eyes closed, and take a few deep breaths.

“I–” your voice fails you at first, and you feel his hands move to rest on your shoulder and your waist supportively. You swallow. “I don’t want to know,” you tell him at last, eyes still shut and shaking your head.

When you open them at last, he’s looking down at you guiltily, though you sense no remorse for what he may or may not have done. You shake your head and use the hand in his shirt to pull him nearer once more, tucking yourself against his chest, and wrapping your arms around his back. You close your eyes again and take in another deep, shuddering breath.

“I don’t want to know,” you say again, feeling his arms wrap almost hesitantly around you. One of his hands cups the back of your head, safely, securely, and he strokes it once, twice, before he simply holds it. You feel him swallow.

“M’sorry–”

“–Don’t be,” you cut him off quickly, tightening your arms around him, latching onto his shirt at the back, over where the muscles in his shoulders jut out. “Don’t be sorry, thank you.”

Your voice gains a slightly weepy edge, and he adjusts you, moves so it’s him with his back to the counter, and you all but fall against him, his fingers on the back of your head gripping ever so slightly tighter, but it's comforting. And then you start crying, full, heavy with relief, and you keep crying until all the stress has worked itself out of you.

–

It takes you a while, but you start jogging again. Simon joins you of course, and you find yourself inordinately pleased on the mornings he brings Gaz or Soap (or both) along with him.you start frequenting Ed’s coffee shop until he knows you by name, make it a well trodden spot during the weeks or months when Simon is away.

Life returns to normal.

In some ways at least.

Simon moves in with you when his lease is up, half his time spent with you at your home anyway, it feels natural for him to be there the other half now too. Gaz’s own end of lease, and some jerking around on the part of his new place’s owner see him staying in your spare bedroom for a few weeks before he finally sorts out his own flat, not that it would end up mattering, with both men getting called away two weeks later. They’re gone for three months, in which time you help Collect the keys of his new apartment, and help him move some of his stuff in, a favour he’s all too thankful for when he returns.

You meet Kate, you go for drinks with the boys, and a few years later, you find yourself with a ring on your finger and a tiny little baby girl that loves her daddy and her uncles so much she ceases crying the moment one of them picks her up.

You don't, however, ever see the blue car again.

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley fanfiction #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x female oc

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mercurial-chuckles · 4 months ago

Text

Half-baked, damn!

Pairing: Steve Rogers x F!Reader x Bucky Barnes, ft. Ransom Drysdale Warnings: Fluff | Language | You found yourself in a pickle | Crack fic | Poly relationship | A teeny bit of non-graphic threat | Allusions to the Blip (but canon-divergent, all's fine and dandy in this universe) | Unedited | ~1.8k | Let me know if I’m missing anything. A/N: This is a half-baked idea that couldn’t wait, so I’m serving it fresh while it’s still...meh. Kindly indulge. I've had quite a day 🥹🩷 And yes, the squirrel incident is inspired by true events from my own life. The left side of my face swelled up so much I had to see a doctor. EVERYONE--even the X-ray guy--had a good laugh...except for me. I was on pain medication for over a week, and now my family tells the story to anyone who’ll listen. It happened almost 12 years ago and I figured...take the inspiration from life. So, here goes🤭🙂‍↕️ Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! Banner and Divider credits to me. Picture credits to the internet. Thank you :) Check out my other works: Masterlist

Indulge Away!

In your modestly chaotic life, a lot of unbelievable shit had happened.

Some of which you were still processing. Stuff that would blow people's minds if you ever played Two Truths and a Lie.

Like the time a squirrel slapped you silly when it fell from a tree while you were riding your moped. Stupidly perfect timing!

Or...

The time Captain America, the former Winter Soldier, and Iron Man broke into your tiny apartment--and in a dazed panic, thinking they were intruders or serial killers--you went full Tangled on Captain America (he was the first through your door), smacking him with your 8.6-inch cast iron pan (a graduation gift from your late Aunt Beth... poor pan, though, cracked right down the middle)

Between the Avengers breaking into your apartment, Tony Stark recruiting you for your weirdly diverse research skills when his AI evolved needing to play God, the purple guy snapping his fingers, then Hulk unsnapping them, and the absolutely insane realization that two ridiculously gorgeous, criminally kind-hearted supersoldiers loved you and you loved them just as much, life had basically blessed you with carefully crafted absurdity.

So, yes, you were proud--extremely so--to say that nothing could possibly surprise you anymore.

Fallacious thought, indeed!

Life could be chaos galore, royally so, because here you were, standing in the dimly lit street, face to face with one of your best friends from middle school, Ransom Drysdale.

He offered you a cookie, and you blinked in surprise, a noise of disbelief escaping you ungracefully as a wave of nostalgia hit.

An image of a boy, almost the pure and innocent reflection of the man before you--so disparate--popped into your mind. He hadn't even reached your height back then. He used to bring you cookies in a Tupperware every day without fail, as a thank you for always defending him from bullies. You used to be badass like that.

But that was a lifetime ago.

Now?

Now you were with two overprotective, over six-foot supersoldiers who made a big deal if you got a papercut.

Dope, right?

And after the shenanigans of Ultron and the blip, you realized you were better off in controlled environments. Plus, it was probably for the best...for the sake of your century-old men's healthy, pumping hearts.

Your career choice was fascinatingly fitting for you, and you were happy.

Ransom Drysdale, however, chose a career that was unimaginable. For someone as smart as he was, you had expected he'd be a writer, lawyer, scientist, hell, any damn thing, really. While not insipid, Ransom chose a surprisingly rad career as a mob boss for a huge Vibranium smuggling cartel. And this man who just dragged you out of the restaurant was no boy, nor did he have that pleasant smile. His smile felt too tainted, too twisted. He filled out a grey cashmere sweater, broad and towering, standing almost as tall as Bucky, maybe even on par with Steve's height. You couldn't really tell when he leaned against the lamppost, his shadow grazing your feet.

Ransom raised a challenging eyebrow, pushing the tissue-wrapped cookie toward you.

Was he just carrying them in his expensive coat?

Anyhoo, of course, you took the cookie, mumbling a thanks. It would've been rude not to, right?

You loved cookies. Ransom knew that. And so did your men, because Steve's voice, "Do not eat that" came sharply through your left earpiece--a Starktech microchip, conveniently concealed in your ear, which was covered by your hair.

You flinched, fearing and praying that Steve's hiss did drown in the silence of the night. God, if you could, you'd smack him. Why would he even think you'd eat it?

"Ya know, when I got the call for such a huge quantity, I had to come personally to see who it was. But I did not expect you," Ransom chuckled, munching on a cookie.

Me neither, Ransom. Me neither.

The only reason you were even on this undercover mission was that the guy, "the link," who took the orders had a type, and, quite unfortunately, you fit the bill. So, the team (minus Steve and Bucky, of course, because they were off on another mission, thankfully) had begged you to dress up and spend the evening flirting with some shady asshole to lure him into leading them to the big boss.

Easy peasy, sweetheart. They'd said.

It's for the people. They'd said.

All you need to do is get him to say the words. They'd said.

You really thought it was a super simple mission, too. If the guy asked too many questions, you just had to convince him of the technical aspects of why you needed so much Vibranium until his brain rotted.

Your role had a character, and she dressed up sexy, too. Me likey, you thought.

And while you were on your way to this fateful mission, Steve and Bucky got back from theirs.

Hell broke loose.

After a horrendous back-and-forth, you tried to convince them you'd be fine. "We got this, we're so close," Nat had exclaimed to your fuming boyfriends.

And you agreed with her. They got this. You believed in their "Easy Peasy" plan. And then Ransom Drysdale strutted up to your table in that fancy restaurant, crumbling the "easy peasy."

"I can't believe my sweet sunshine went rogue," Ransom exclaimed, pushing himself off the lamppost. He sauntered to your side, leaning against the brick wall, facing you with a teasing smile.

You cleared your throat, shrugging, "What can I say? I adapted after the…blip," you said, almost sounding wistful.

Hopefully, you did sound convincing. Gosh, you needed to get paid--preferably a dozen cognitive perception UTMs for your lab-- for all the improv you'd been doing ever since Ransom met you in the fancy restaurant instead of the supposed Edward Silas.

Ransom chuckled, leaning closer with a glint in his eye. "You have a special place in here, sunshine. You know that?" He winked and patted his chest.

Your heart tugged slightly at that.

What can you say?

You were a bit emotional, and those bouts of nostalgic reminiscence spread through your mind like a fog. The warmth of old memories clashed with a growing unease--a fear for yourself and the quiet terror of wondering if your borderline-cavemenish men would burst in, guns blazing.

Ransom was smart, and you'd give him that.

He led you to the side of the restaurant...a real impasse, a pickle of a situation. All three sides were boxed in with towering walls, the back end cluttered with a few garbage bins from the commercial space. The only exit was blocked by Ransom's men, standing stoically, keeping you trapped.

One of Ransom's men stepped forward and murmured something to him, but despite your best effort to listen, the blood pounding in your ears drowned out everything else.

Ransom chuckled softly, nodded, and waved the man away with a casual gesture.

If this went south... Would they make it in time to save you? Ransom had been your friend once. But would that be enough to keep him from pulling the trigger? The thought gnawed at you.

You gulped; this was not what Nat had prepared you for. This was not supposed to happen.

Ransom hadn't said a single incriminating word, no matter how much you had prodded after the initial shock of recognizing each other and the small talk about family. He'd clammed up, keeping everything vague and impenetrable.

You had to get him to talk. You had to.

"And what about you, Ransom?" You asked, trying your damned hardest to keep your tone casual. "What got you into all…this?" you gestured wildly.

Ransom shrugged, offering no answer. "So, what exactly do you need the package for?" He asked instead.

To pack you off to Wakanda so the Dora Milaje would Ka-boom your ass for stealing from them.

But you couldn't obviously tell him that.

"An experiment. I'm a scientist, you see. It's gonna be… let's say…profitable," you grinned conspiratorially, hoping you weren't coming off too creepy.

You immediately felt like you might've gone a little too far with the tone, but you held your ground, watching Ransom's expression. He simply hummed, eyes narrowing slightly as he finished his cookie. He dabbed his mouth with the tissue, carelessly tossing it.

You hated when people did that, and the urge to pick it up and throw it in the bin located a few feet away was itching.

"Don't," Nat's voice came too assured that you were thinking exactly that.

You stifled a curse, resisting the impulse, and cleared your throat instead.

Ransom said nothing, just continuing to stare at you in that almost unnerving way like he knew everything. Did he?

"So…" You started, hoping he'd talk details, plus the silence was killing you.

Ransom's grin stretched wider like he was really enjoying this conversation. He took another step closer, and your muscles tensed as the guards subtly shifted around. Your heart was pounding so hard, that you were convinced Ransom could hear it.

"Tell you what, honey," Ransom said, straightening up and stepping closer. A couple of his guards shifted forward, and you instinctively flinched.

"Why don't you come over to my place? We have a lot to catch up on, don't we? We can talk about the deal, and I'll personally deliver the package to you," Ransom grinned.

Before you could even begin to respond, Nat's voice crackled through your earpiece. "Play it cool. Stall. We're on our way."

You didn't even have time to appreciate the reassurance. Your eyes widened, anticipation ate you up like a termite, and you shifted uncomfortably on your feet, trying to compose yourself.

"Umm… sure, I mean, I've never done these dealings before," you stammered, forcing the words out. "It would be a great help. But only if… if it won't be an issue for you… Do you wanna fix a time? I'm free tomorrow afternoon… or anytime in the week…" You babbled, forcing an awkward laugh, praying your voice didn't shake.

Ransom's lips twitched. "Adorable as ever, aren't you, Angel?" He stepped back, tilting his head. "I told you, you have a special place in my heart. It's funny you think I haven't kept tabs on you, sunshine."

Then, without warning, he pulled a gun from under his coat, pressing it against your side.

Your heart thumped wildly.

"Wh… wh.." You couldn't even form a sentence, your brain short-circuiting as your mind went blank. In that split second, all you could think of was whispering, I love you to Steve and Bucky.

No. No. No. No.

"I don't wanna hurt you," Ransom said, almost apologetic. "But I have to protect myself, right? So why don't you ask your little boy band to back off before things get ugly?" Ransom's voice was low.

"Ransom."

"Come on, honey. We have so much to catch up on," he said smoothly, gesturing for you to move.

His guards were all ready with guns pointing in various directions.

You complied, walking beside Ransom as he led you toward the car. A guard opened the door, his own gun drawn, facing the street.

"I don't fucking think so," Bucky's voice boomed from behind.

Before you could even think or sigh, Bucky tackled Ransom to the ground out of nowhere, pushing Ransom's gun into your hand.

Then chaos.

In the next few seconds, the fastest action sequence of your entire life unfolded--Clint, Nat, Steve, and Bucky took down Ransom's guards with terrifying efficiency, it was almost mind-bendingly sexy.

Steve strode straight for you while Bucky held Ransom tight, staring him down.

"Buzzkills! You really need to learn to share. I mean, come on...We were having such a fun reunion, weren't we, Sunshine?" Ransom said smugly.

Steve grabbed your hand, firmly pulling you from behind Bucky and took the gun away from your shivering hands.

"Don't worry about the reunion," Bucky gritted, securing Ransom. "There's plenty planned for you, asshole."

And as Ransom was directed into the car, he turned to you and winked, flashing a smug, almost warning smile.

Steve's hold on you tightened.

"You were friends with that shit?" Bucky growled as he walked close to you.

You groaned, faceplanting into Steve's bicep with a muffled curse, because holy shit…

Well… did you enjoy this crumbly mess?

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jerrydevine · 7 months ago

Text

9 years old: last time eddie went to confession

10 years old: ramon pulled eddie aside and told him it was time to step up and be the man of the house

12 years old: set off the smoke alarm because he was making eggs for his sisters and ramon yelled at him

14 years old: met shannon for the first time

17 years old: reconnected with shannon and started dating

18 years old: gets married and enlists in the army

19 years old: christopher is born

23 years old: reenlists in the army, almost dies and saves the lives of all but one of his team, honorable discharge, then goes home to his mother berating him and shannon leaving him in the same 48 hours

25 years old: his parents try to take custody of christopher and tell him he cannot take care of his son

26 years old: lives and works through a 7.1 magnitude earthquake

27 years old: shannon dies while he sits beside her and can't do anything to save her, buck gets his leg crushed by a ladder truck and eddie can't do anything to save him, christopher and buck get lost in the tsunami and eddie thinks christopher is dead, buck sues the department and legally goes no-contact with eddie and chris, joins an underground fight club and almost kills a man

28 years old: almost dies in a well collapse trying to save a child, goes through the covid-19 pandemic while not able to quarantine with his son

29 years old: tries to start dating his son's former teacher, chris freaks out and eddie thinks he's gone missing, tries to help a child who is being poisoned by his mother, gets shot in the street in broad daylight and almost dies, works through a city-wide blackout, gets held hostage and threatened with a gun before doing chest compressions to keep the man's heart pumping blood to save the man's child, eddie leaves the 118 for a job he hates because he wants christopher to feel like he is safe

30 years old: has a complete and total mental breakdown when he finds out that every single person he saved from the helicopter crash seven years ago is now dead and terrifies his son, starts going to therapy for PTSD, bobby won't let him back to the 118, his place of work goes up in flames and he has to save his coworkers, goes to visit his parents to celebrate his dad's retirement and when he tries to stand up for himself against his parents his father collapses and he has to save him

31 years old: buck gets struck by lightning and dies for 3 minutes and 17 seconds while eddie desperately tries to save him, his aunt tries to set him up on dates with women without telling him, gets crushed in a van and breaks his ribs

32 years old: gets his ankle sprained by buck, sees a doppelganger of shannon and asks her to spend time with him, wakes up to kim purposefully acting and looking exactly like shannon and cannot get her to leave his house, bursts into tears trying to wrestle with his feelings about shannon and kim's behavior, christopher and marisol walks in on him and kim hugging, chris calls eddie's parents and goes to el paso, lets everyone believe he had sex with kim, his parents completely take over chris' life and do not let him reconnect with his son, the fucking beenado, tries to help a teen who cheerleads reconnect with his dad who hates that his son doesn't align with his ideas of masculinity

also 32 years old: next time eddie went to confession

#so think before you SPEAK buck girls!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#cant believe its now canon that eddie hasnt gone to confession since he was NINE!! NINE YEARS OLD!! the age where he was 'old enough to tel #his folks it wasn't for him' BTW. FROM HIS OWN MOUTH. okayyy. this doesnt even include him scraping up his dad's truck and getting berated #for trying to get his mom to the hospital. jesus fucking christ. and hes an ATHEIST. he doesnt even BELIEVE in that stuff!!!!!! and he hasn #since he was NINE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! can we get him out. please. ogre ogre ogre ogre #talk #911 #🚒

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neontiger · 4 months ago

Note

Could you do something about looking into Jason’s wallet and seeing a little picture of you there?

Baby, this is too cute ♡ Wrote this while at work so I didnt have time to edit, so apologies for any misspells or whatnots. Thank you so much for the love ♡♡♡

~♡♡♡~

The week had been rough on both you and Jason, though for wildly different reasons - you with the double shift four out of five days, him with taking down a gang that had until recently been harassing the residents of the Hill - and so when Sunday night rolled around neither of you could be bothered to get dressed for your regular date night.

Pizza and a movie at your apartment it was, then.

You click through the options, all TV shows, but no movie that feels right. Too many choices and your brain is already empty and tired. Jason's not faring better, arm around your shoulder as you lay against him on the couch, his head dipping down every few minutes as sleep threatens to take him.

He groans, head falling back. His hand squeezes your shoulder. "Let me up," he says. "I'm gonna take a shower."

You wrinkle your nose at him. "Pizza's not far, you know."

He shrugs. "I'm gonna pass out waiting for you to pick something. May as well get clean first."

You give a dry laugh as you sit up to let him off the couch. "You stink anyway," you add, for that extra bite, as he leans to kiss your forehead.

He pinches the tip of your nose lightly between two fingers. "You like it."

You watch him walk away, enjoying the view of his broad back in his tight black shirt...his ass in those sweatpants...until he shoots you a knowing glance over his shoulder. You divert your gaze quickly back to the television.

The water from the shower is at full blast when the doorbell rings. You narrow your eyes at the bathroom door - surely Jason can feel that little bit of contempt through the wood - before getting up. You're not wearing much, a thin cotton slip dress to combat the summer heat, and grab his sweatshirt from where he abandoned it earlier on the bed. Decent enough now to open the door, you grab Jason's wallet from the kitchen counter and move to answer as the doorbell rings again.

"I'm here," you grumble, mostly to yourself, as you pull the door open. Habits built working customer service has a small plastered on your face a second later and you quickly flip open Jason's wallet to dig out enough for the pizza and a big tip.

Instead you falter, cheeks flushed, as you come face to face with yourself.

You recognize the picture; you texted it to him one lonely night when he was out, wearing that mask, cleaning the streets, putting himself in danger...why he needed to, what he was trying to repair, you didn't know...you'd been in your bed staring at the ceiling and trying not to cry. He'd texted first, that's right. He wanted to know how your night was. He missed you. The picture was your response: smiling but eyes a little red, very tired, wearing a shirt he'd left behind.

"It’s $21.49, ma'am."

You shove $32 at the delivery guy and snatch the pizza from his hands. Before he can ask about your change you shut the door.

Your heart races. Pumps blood too fast through your veins, making the walk to the kitchen loose and wobbly. You set the box on the counter and stare at the photo.

Jason's not the sentimental one. You're the collector, clinging to bits of him, to souvenirs, because you knew that one day...because you knew. But not Jason. He didn't put memories in objects.

And yet here you were, safe in his wallet where he could always have you.

The shower clicks off. You close his wallet and hurry to replace it on the counter. Your cheeks still burn as Jason emerges from the bathroom wearing only a towel low on his hips. Water beads on his muscled chest and arms, the right one tense and flexed as he holds the towel up with a clenched fist.

"D'you have some of my underwear here?" He asks.

You snort. "Yeah. Closet, third drawer down."

He smirks. "Pervert," he says, before making his way to the closet.

You try not to rush him, to not throw your arms around and kiss him. Instead you make your way as calmly as your overexcited heart allows to the nightstand next to your bed, to pull open the bottom drawer and find the old digital camera there. It's been a few months since you last used it - with him, actually, taking pictures of birds at the park - but it still has enough charge.

Jason glances at you, fixing the waistband of his underwear. "What are you doing?"

You aim the camera at him and snap a photo. He grins. "We should take some pictures," you say. "You know, in case you want to carry one with you. In case you miss me."

He walks around the bed and wraps an arm around your waist. Strong, warm, a little damp...you could melt into him, right now, right here. He takes the camera from your hands. "That sounds like a good idea," he says.

His lips press yours, a smile on them. The camera flashes above you like stars.

#request ☆#jason todd #red hood #jason todd fluff #jason baby ily #jason todd x reader #jason todd x y/n

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agoodflyting · 1 year ago

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Good Omens Historical Trivia That's Haunting Me Today...

So we all know A.Z. Fell & Co is located on the fictitious Whickber Street in Soho and was established in 1800.

Aziraphale has run the shop ever since then and was in contact with Crowley at least until the 1820's when they took their little jaunt to Edinburgh and Crowley got sucked down the tube slide to Hell. They meet up again no later than the 1860's, when Crowley asks for Holy Water.

Stands to reason that between the 1820's and 1860's Aziraphale was in Soho doing Aziraphale things. Running his bookshop. Eating tiny cakes

Yeah... you know what else was going on in Soho during that time?

The worst cholera epidemic in London history.

If you don't know, cholera is a deadly bacterial infection caused by drinking contaminated water. Prior to the 1850's humans weren't really sure what caused cholera, but they knew it was terrifying and also that it was absolutely epidemic in big cities.

TW: this is gross - The main symptoms of cholera are agonizing stomach pain and non-stop watery diarrhea, eventually leading to the skin turning blue due to the thickening of blood from severe dehydration. Patients can lose more than 20% of their body weight in hours as they quite literally evacuate every drop of water in their bodies until they die of heart failure. - OK gross part over

Cholera symptoms show up as short as 5 hours after infection and could kill within as little as 12 hours. Cholera was especially terrifying because of how quickly and painfully it killed you, and because the patient maintained mental clarity up until the point of death. More than half of the people who contracted cholera died within a few days after consuming the bacteria-contaminated water.

And guess what water had cholera bacteria in it?

The public water pump on Broad Street in Soho in August of 1854

And this wasn't one of those epidemics that starts slowly and drags on. It hit like a bomb. It killed 600 Soho residents in ten days.

That's roughly 60 people a day in a 3-4 block area. Most of them died at home because the disease struck too quickly for them to to make it to a hospital. Survivors described hearses stacked with coffins 4-5 high going down the street nonstop all day long during the outbreak. Entire families were wiped out overnight.

What does that have to do with Good Omens?

Aziraphale's book shop was right in the epicenter of this outbreak.

Neil Gaiman has been pretty free about the fact that Whickber Street is a thinly veiled expy of the real Berwick Street in Soho.

This is a famous map showing the 1854 Soho Cholera epidemic. I highlighted Berwick Street and the public water pump that was the center of the contagion. The black bars (I circled a few in blue) on the map designate deaths. The thicker the black bar, the more people died in that particular house.

51 people died the week of the cholera outbreak on Aziraphale's Street alone.

Cholera was one of those diseases that provoked a lot of panic, not just because of how fast and painful it was, but because of the way it didn't follow common conventions about class or age. Children died while the elderly survived (often because the elderly had no one to gather water for them). Lower class houses were spared while their middle class landlords died. Churches were packed that week, because people in Soho had no idea who would get sick next. The epidemic pretty much burned itself out in a week and a half, since by that point everyone who drank the water had already died. I have to wonder what our resident Angel was up to during that time. Obviously cholera can't hurt him, but that's his neighborhood. There's no way hundreds of people, including entire families with children, are dying painfully in his neighborhood and Aziraphale doesn't notice. That means that in between this scene:

And this one:

Aziraphale would have watched one of the worst disease outbreaks in London history play out right outside his front door. I feel like there's great potential for a good story there if anyone better than me wants to write it.

#good omens meta #cholera #how often do those two tags go together #aziraphale #good omens history facts

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austinbutlerslovers · 8 months ago

Text

The Chase

Label Mature 18+

🎃 Kinktober One Shot

Summary Benny Cross chases you through the streets on his motorcycle but once he catches you the fun really begins.

🧡Depraved Smut🧡 Dubcon• fingering •P in V• orgasm 🔗 Master List

🎂 Happy Birthday @austinbutlerfly 🎂 (have a fun day ☺️) 📖 Proof reader @purejasmine

@megangovier Thank you so much it’s perfect for October 🧡

The Chase

The autumn night air is filled with excitement, the streets of Chicago alive for a parade. People are cheering and laughing, their voices rising in excitement as the floats glide by.

But you have no interest in the light festivities, you are looking for a different kind of thrill.

You move swiftly through the crowded sidewalks, dodging groups of people, the cool breeze biting at your skin.

The music fills the air loudly as people clap along, but you keep your head down, weaving through the chaos.

You walk into a crowded diner, the smell of fries and coffee filling the air as the usual crowd bustles in and out.

You go straight to the jukebox, flipping through the vinyls trying to make a selection—and that’s when you see him the moment he walks in.

—Benny Cross

He was impossible to miss, all swagger and confidence, his leather jacket on his broad shoulders like a second skin.

The jean vest he wore over his jacket wasn’t just for show either—it bore the unmistakable insignia of his biker crew, the Vandals.

They were infamous in Chicago, the name carrying weight in each corner of the city, and everyone knew to keep their head down as he walked past.

But Benny was the kind of trouble you couldn’t ignore—handsome in a way that made you look twice, and tonight, that trouble set his eyes directly on you.

He scanned the diner as he came in, looking at you for just a moment, a slow, knowing smile on his lips.

And that was all it took.

Maybe it was the challenge, or maybe it was just the way his eyes lingered on you for that one moment, but you were mesmerized.

You should’ve left well enough alone, you should’ve looked away, but something in you couldn’t help it—the thrill, the danger, the way Benny Cross made your heart race.

So as you walk past him, you make sure to bump into him, casual enough not to raise suspicion but just enough to get close.

Your hand slips into his back pocket with a practiced ease, your fingers curling around the leather of his wallet. He doesn’t notice, not immediately anyway—because who would ever steal from Benny Cross?

By the time you walk was past him, its already in your jacket, your heart pounding.

You dont look back. You couldn’t.

You know you shouldn’t have done it, but it doesn’t matter now. What matters is you got away with getting your quick thrill… or so you thought.

The parade has just ended, and the streets are littered with streamers and confetti, the crowd slowly dispersing as people head home in small groups, their laughter and voices carrying into the night.

-That’s when you hear it.

The echo of Benny’s motorcycle roaring through the streets behind you, the engine a low, menacing growl that cuts right through the cool October air.

Your heartbeat quickens—because you know he’s figured it out and you know exactly what he wants now.

-He’s after you!

Without warning, you break into a sprint, quickly weaving through clusters of people, your breaths coming in fast, adrenaline pumping through your veins.

You can hear Benny’s bike as he tracks you and he’s getting close—too close.

And that’s when you realize you’ve run too far ahead of the crowd, singling yourself out.

—Bad luck.

Benny spots you right away, the sound of his bike engine revving kicks your adrenaline into overdrive.

Gasping for breath you see an alley ahead and push your self faster, your heart pounding against your ribs as you dash in.

You’re trying to put as much distance between you and Benny as possible, but his engine only grows louder and you throw a glance over your shoulder to be sure.

—Bad idea.

Benny is right there, his eyes locked on you as he leans in on his bike turning into the alley, his headlight illuminating your every move.

He isn’t just catching up—he’s on you!

Every time the bike revs, it sends a jolt of panic through you the sound echoing loudly off the alley walls pushing you forward, making your heart hammer even harder in your chest.

You exhale, glancing around desperately for some escape route.

Ahead, the alley narrows, the walls closing in, dumpsters and crates forming an obstacle in your path and you know he won’t be able to follow you through on that bike.

You easily weave through the clutter, your breaths coming in quick as you do.

But just as you clear the blockage, the sound of his engine cuts abruptly, and you hear the heavy thud of his boots hitting the pavement.

—He’s coming after you on foot!

Benny Cross is running full-speed at you, his footsteps pounding against the pavement, and he’s much faster than you, he’s right behind you!

“Hey fucking stop!” he shouts, his voice dark with malice, the sound cutting through the alley.

Your chest is heaving, your veins going cold with dread seeing the alley closing to a dead end.

Your hand goes into your pocket, feeling the wallet you’d taken, wondering if it was all worth it now.

Before you can make another move, Bennys hand grips the collar of your jacket, yanking you back. You stumble forward gasping for breath, as his other arm snakes around your waist, pulling you against him.

“I said stop!” Benny yells, turning and pushing you against the cold brick wall of the alley.

His body cages you in, his grip firm and unrelenting as his steely blue eyes burn with a fierce anger, making it clear he isn’t letting you get away.

“What do you think you’re doing, hm?” he asks, his eyes searching your face in the dim lighting.

Your chest is heaving, still trying to catch your breath, and you don’t even answer, feeling the adrenaline still coursing through you, your pulse thundering in your ears.

There’s a shift in his expression as he looks at you, his intrigue growing as his gaze lingers on your features and then his eyes slowly trail down your body.

His hand reaches into your jacket pocket, fingers brushing against yours as he pulls his stolen wallet from your grasp, his gaze lingering intensely as he holds it up between you.

“You thought you could get away with this?” he asks, his voice laced with intrigue as he returns it securely to his back pocket.

You shoot him a defiant look, your heart still hammering in your chest.

“Maybe …I wasn’t trying to get away,” you retort, your breath catching feeling a wave of heat flood through you having him so close.

He’s pressed against you, the scent of leather and a faint trace of smoke clinging to him, making him even more intoxicating.

“What were you trying to do then?” he asks, his voice dropping lower, his gaze deepening as it sweeps over you, taking in every small reaction.

You look up at him, your face flushed as your lips part, because in the midst of everything, the truth is undeniable—you are drawn to him—irresistibly attracted to his danger in every way, and now you have him.

He catches it, that spark of attraction, his eyes shifting with a subtle recognition as the tension between you changes into a different kind of charge.

His gaze lingers on your parted lips as you hesitate to answer and a slow knowing grin spreads across his face.

He leans in close, so close that his lips brush the shell of your ear. “The next time you want my attention,” he whispers, the words slow, savoring the moment as his grip on your jacket loosens “…just ask for it.”

His words hit you like a spark to kindling, igniting a rush of heat that spreads through your entire body. His attention is exactly what you want.

His eyes lock with yours now fully aware of the effect he has on you and his fingers lightly begin to trail down your body with an agonizing slowness.

His touch is soft, almost intimate, as his hand glides down to your waist but it carries the weight of his dominance—an unspoken reminder that he’s caught you and isn’t about to let you forget it.

You swallow hard, trying to steady your breathing, your heart racing in your chest as his hand lingers, just barely grazing your side, the contact sending sparks of heat through you.

“I should be mad,” he muses, sliding his thumb along your waist, testing the limits of how far he can push.

“But I think I like the way you play,” he reveals, his fingertips slipping into the waist band of your skirt.

His touch is confident and knowing, making it impossible to ignore his intentions, and the way he looks at you makes it clear—he’s in control, and he’s enjoying every second of it.

You bite your lip, the urge to lean into his touch becoming overwhelming as a surge of adrenaline rushes through you reminding you of the chase that led you here.

“You like playing with danger?” he asks, his voice low, his gaze flicking down to your lips and back to your eyes, and the way he looks at you tells you everything you need to know.

—He’s going to take what he wants.

You open your mouth to answer, but the words die on your lips as he says, “Well, now you’ve got it,” his voice rough and heavy with need and you don’t even try to stop him as he leans in, his lips claiming yours in a hard, possessive kiss.

His other hand dips to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him and you gasp against his mouth as his hand slips lower, his fingers grazing your panties as if daring you to deny him.

“You should’ve known better,” he whispers against your lips, his voice dark and intense. “Taking what’s mine… this is what happens.” He confirms his hand gliding lower.

You barely have time to react before his fingers push their way into your panties. The alley beyond you becoming nothing but a blur as his fingers thrust into you rough and urgent, like he can’t get enough.

His mouth moves to your neck, trailing hot kisses along your skin as he thrusts them even harder inside you, the slick wetness coating his fingers.

You let out a low moan, feeling how soaked you are as the pressure builds between your thighs, his touch igniting something deep and uncontrollable within you.

“You like getting caught?” he rasps, his voice low and taunting, his breath hot and heavy against your ear and his fingers thrust faster, relentless now, his control slipping as his own need takes over.

“Yes,” you manage to gasp, the word barely a whisper, almost lost in the rush of sensation overwhelming you.

“I thought so,” he whispers, his lips grazing your ear, his fingers thrusting faster bringing you close to the edge.

“Gonna teach you a lesson about me” he says with a rough grip pulling your thigh up and pressing you harder against the brick wall, his body closing the space between you.

“You’re gonna take this lesson well,” he rasps as his other hand moves quickly, yanking down his zipper.

In one swift motion, he pulls your panties aside, his fingers slipping away, only to be replaced by the hard urgent tip of his cock.

You cry out as he pushes into you with one powerful thrust. He’s raw and unyielding—his pace rushed as his body claims yours without hesitation.

A moan rises in your throat, your breath quickening as your muscles tighten around him. Each thrust igniting a fire in you as he takes control.

“You wanna take something from me?... I’ll give you something to take,” he whispers against your ear, his voice dark and teasing.

With a sudden forceful thrust, he drives into you harder, pressing you firmly against the rough brick wall and a loud moan escapes your lips, as the pleasure floods through you.

The heat of him, the roughness of him, the way his lips claim yours again—it all blurs together until you can’t think, can’t focus on anything but the way he makes you feel.

The tension coils tighter and tighter within you until his intensity is consuming every thought, every breath.

Before you know it, you begin to orgasm, your face pressing to his shoulder as desperate cries escape your lips feeling the waves of pleasure over take you.

Your inner walls tighten on his cock pulsing with each thrust, and you begin to loudly moan against him drawing him in deeper as you ride out the high.

Benny groans from his chest as he pulls out, his grip tightening on your hip.

His other hand wraps around his cock, roughly stroking it as he comes hard, his release spilling in thick streams along the alley way floor.

For a long moment, neither of you move, breaths still heavy and uneven as you come down from the intensity of the moment.

Benny leans back slightly, as he catches his breath. A smug grin on his lips as if he’s just won some kind of prize.

His fingers linger on your waist for just a second longer, as if to remind you he could take more if he wanted.

Then with a satisfied smile, he leans close, his lips grazing your ear.

“Next time you think of taking something from me you better ask first.” He whispers as he tucks his cock away in his jeans. “Or you better be ready to handle the consequences.” He adds with a wicked grin.

His words are a challenge, laced with danger and excitement, making your pulse race as you feel the weight of his promise linger in the air between you.

As you begin to straighten your skirt he steps back, that same easy confidence in his stride as he heads back toward his motorcycle.

He gives you one last look as he kick starts the engine, his grin still firmly in place, the silent promise in his eyes.

The intensity of his gaze makes it clear—he’s daring you to push him, and you know he’s more than ready to make you pay for it.

The roar of his engine echoes down the alley as he rides off, leaving you standing there with your heart pounding in your chest, and you bite your lip as you watch him go, knowing full well this isn’t the last time you’ll make Benny Cross chase after you.

🎃 End 🎃

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sehnsuchts-trunken · 1 year ago

Text

Twenty-Five Going on Forty-Seven

dbf!jake seresin x fem!reader 12k words (.....yes. 12k. i-)

summary: Flirting with the guy who fixed your car turns out to lead to much, much more when you find out he's actually not just some random guy, but your new neighbour and father's new best friend, Jake Seresin.

a/n: porn with plot. a lot of plot. and a lot of porn. 18+ obviously. reader is twenty-five in this, jake is forty-seven. this is entirely based on my new fixation on dbf!jake. i have so many thots. so many that they led to a 12k oneshot lmfao. anyway, as always, a list of things to watch out for:

pet names used in an unholy way, safe sex (i fucking managed to finally give them a condom whooooohoooo), oral sex for the both of them (yes i also wrote a blowjob. this is unbelievable i know), dom!jake, some praise kink, a smidge of strength kink at the end. a lot of begging. as always. mention of shower sex. mostly vanilla. jake fucks in missionary because he wants to be nice for his first time with her. if there's ever a sequel i swear to god he will be the most unholy fucker ever

top gun masterlist | dbf!jake seresin masterlist

The first time Jake meets you isn't the first time he's supposed to meet you. He's supposed to come by for dinner that evening, to finally get to know the daughter your parents have told him so much about. And it's not his fault that he meets you seven hours earlier that day. Not really.

Because the pictures your parents had kept showing him were all old. Mostly childhood photographs, some from your graduation, but none recent enough to connect the dots.

So it's really not his fault that he doesn't recognise you when he sees you standing there on the side of the road, phone clamped between your ear and shoulder, the hood of your car all the way up. With how wildly you're gesturing, Jake guesses that you're not particularly close to fixing whatever problem you have.

You're wary when he pulls up behind you and opens his door. It's rarely a good sign when random men prey on very obviously helpless and distressed young women. But Jake doesn't even get closer at first, just stands there in the opened car door and asks if you need any help. For a little moment, you debate whether it's worth the risk. Then your father's voice rings out from your phone and you decide that there's not much this guy could do to you in broad daylight on a well used street with your father on the phone.

So you tell him the truth. Yes, you most definitely have a problem. The way he makes sure it's okay for him to come over and take a look calms you even more. He's considerate and careful and maybe you're actually lucky and he's just a guy who genuinely wants to help.

He steps out from the door and walks up to you and honestly, for a moment there you're startled. He has to be in his forties, but damn, he's attractive. Suddenly you're glad you picked your sundress over your sweatpants this morning.

You let him lean over your car and take a closer look.

"If he can't help, I'll just come pick you up and we'll call a tow truck", your father says after you've filled him in on what's happening. Honestly, you'd really rather not have to call a tow truck though, because that's just going to cost you a bunch of money again, which isn't particularly the way you want to spend it.

Also, this guy leaning over your car - and you're not even denying that you're very much eyeing him up - seems like he actually knows what he's doing there.

He takes a minute or two before he comes up again. He's smiling, which you take as a good sign. He opens his mouth and you hear what he's saying - but because you have no clue what it is that he's trying to tell you, you just nod along. You're not a mechanic, you don't know the goddamn terminology. Something something battery, something something fuel pump, whatever. You take the time to notice his accent instead.

The good news is he thinks he can fix whatever he's found, but you'll still have to get it checked out later on.

He walks back to his own car, rummages around and comes back with a toolbox and an unopened water bottle.

"It might take a while", he tells you as he offers you the bottle. "Feel free to turn on my radio."

You take the waterbottle and bite down on your lip to keep from grinning. He's sweet. Goddamn. Because you've deemed the whole thing safe, you tell your father goodbye and hang up - you honestly just want a bit of privacy to stare at this hunk of a man who's bending over the hood of your car again and offering you a very... good look at his backside.

It's summer. He's wearing a wife pleaser, which is reasonable in these temperatures, but the sight of his forearms working almost makes you feel like he knows what he's doing by wearing it. Does he have a wife to please, though? He's old enough to have kids - your age, maybe a few years younger. He's about as old as your dad. If he has a wife, maybe he's wearing it for her. Maybe she likes the way his biceps flexes just like you do.

You squint at his hands as you uncap the water bottle and take a sip. There's no ring as far as you can see. Would it be entirely unreasonable to assume he's... single?

It's been a minute, maybe, when you decide it's probably awkward for you to stand there and watch him, so you go with his suggestion and lean into his car, palms bracing against the seat to reach for the radio.

You turn it on, switch through a few channels until you find one you like and turn the volume up. Because it's probably just as awkward if you stay in his car - if not bordering on creepy - you step around the opened door and settle yourself against the hood. Your thighs stick to the warmed metal, but that's something you're willing to deal with.

Your eyes cling to him as he works. You don't know what the hell he's doing, you just hope he knows and you're not left with an even worse problem after. But he doesn't seem like that type of guy. And since he's seemingly unmarried... You don't stop yourself from staring.

Fuck, maybe he has a girlfriend, not everyone gets married at thirty. Not everyone wears their wedding ring either. But a girl can dream, right? And you're dreaming, for just a few minutes. You allow yourself to dream.

He looks so good. He looks so fucking good.

Sandy-blond hair, cut short, but not too short, broad, broad, broad shoulders... those arms, that back.

When he straightenes and looks at you, greasy fingers and a triumphant grin on his lips, you also have to admit that he's got chiseled fucking features. You swallow hard and do your best to pretend you haven't been ogling him.

"All done", he says. You raise your eyebrows.

"Really? That quickly?"

He grins and takes a step back, offering you to take a look yourself. You bite back a smile and push off the hood of his car - your hips are swaying as you walk, yeah, but as far as you're aware, he's single and just fixed your car for you, for free, in less than fifteen minutes.

Also, he's hot.

"Looks no different to me", you admit. He lets out a chuckle.

"Try it", he says, reaches for the hood and pulls it down as you slip into the driver's seat. You look up to him through the windshield before you turn the key in the ignition and-

The car starts.

The fucking car starts.

He's actually managed it.

You turn the key back and shake your head in disbelief. If he hadn't accidentally stumbled upon you, you'd probably have had to call the tow truck by now. Instead, you reach for the glove compartment and grab your purse.

"How-", you start as you climb out of the car seat again, shutting the door behind you. "How the hell?"

He chuckles.

"Actually, don't tell me", you interrupt yourself, throwing your hands up. "I don't even want to know. Here."

You reach into your purse and pull out disinfection wipes, offering them to him. He takes one with a smile and a drawled thanks and cleans off the grease on his hands before folding it up and letting it disappear into his pocket.

"So you're my knight in shining armour today", you say, biting down on your lip. Fuck it. You're gonna find out here and now whether or not he's single. "Otherwise I'm sure the tow truck would've cost me a hundred bucks - at least."

"Yeah, probably", he agrees, his eyes dropping to your mouth for just a second.

"Well, then", you smile, as coyly as you can manage. "How can I thank you?"

And just as you hoped, he stills, taking you in - maybe for the first time, you're not sure. His eyes rake down your body, your cleavage, your waist, your legs. His lips tug into a grin, but when he looks back up at you, he's serious.

"No worries", he tells you. "I'm not the tow truck."

He's not pushing you. Actually, he's doing the opposite, and you're not a fan. Maybe he isn't single after all. Maybe he does have a girlfriend. Or a wife. Or maybe he's not interested. Maybe... but you can give it a try, right? Just one try.

"I can't just drive off", you argue, blinking up at him a little more, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Fuck, are you really doing this? Your breath catches for a moment. But then again, if he isn't single, you're just gonna get into your car and never see him again. So who cares? "How about I give you my number?"

Your heartbeat quickens as he looks at you and straightens up. He's still grinning. You can't quite figure him out.

"I'm forty-seven, darling", he chuckles. You try your hardest to ignore how that pet name sounds, all sweet and intimate and god, you'd do a lot to have him say it again.

"So?", you ask and raise an eyebrow. "Does that mean you don't have a phone?"

Jake shakes his head with a chuckle, but you keep looking up at him so seductively, keep smiling so flirtatiously that he can't help himself. You're wearing such a pretty dress, such a dainty necklace around your throat. And you're serious about this.

He's had younger women flirt with him, yes, but usually five, ten years younger at most - and even that's been a while, because he isn't going to bars every night anymore.

You're really young. You're too young. You're, what, twenty-six? You can't be much older.

But you're stunning. Gorgeous eyes, kissable lips, glossy and plush and for just a moment, Jake loses himself in the images his mind seems to produce immediately when he looks at you - has been, from the second he'd spotted you through his windshield.

He's old enough to know better. But he still reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone.

...

The first time Jake officially meets you is seven hours later when he knocks on your parents' door and takes a step back to wait for it to open.

"That's gotta be Jake, someone get the door!", your mother's voice calls out, and it takes a few seconds until he hears soft footsteps coming down the hallway.

Then the door cracks open.

And there stands-

You.

You're smiling widely for the entirety of two seconds. Then your face falls.

Jake feels like the rug is pulled out from under his feet. He tumbles deep down a dark, dark hole as he stares at your pretty eyes, all shocked and wide, mouth open.

"You", you let out, almost breathless.

"You", Jake echoes, in quite the same tone.

Within seconds, you're stepping out onto the porch, closing the door behind you and holding out your hand in front of you, as if to keep him a safe distance away.

You're quick, almost stumbling over your own words as you come to conclusions and try to grasp all their consequences. Jake has a hard time even listening to you. He's frozen in his spot, barely comprehending the entire situation.

The young woman that had so unashamedly flirted with him this morning - that he had most definitely flirted back with - is his neighbour's daughter. His friend's daughter.

So he's fucking frozen in spot, yes.

He's frozen even as you're ushering him into the house with a smile on your lips that's just a bit too wide. He's frozen as he sits down at the dinner table and frozen as your mother offers him a beer. He's frozen as he settles on the couch after and as your father turns on a football game. He's frozen as you scoff at the tv and disappear up the stairs.

Your father asks him what's wrong, but there's no way Jake can tell him.

Even without your lecture on the porch, there would've been no way he would have admitted that he's got your number saved in his phone, "Twenty-five" with a winky face emoji behind it.

So he says he hasn't been all that well - maybe getting the flu or something.

Which is bullshit. He doesn't get sick. He's been sick two, maybe three times in all his life.

But he does think he'll be sick when you take your last step down the stairs half an hour later, in pajamas that barely cover anything - satin or something, he's too focused not focusing on your bare skin to notice anything except your bare skin, really. You just traipse over to the kitchen on tiptoes, eyes glued to your phone, hushed voices reaching his ears when you talk to your mother before you reappear in the living room.

"I'm going to bed", you announce, phone clutched tightly in your hands. "It's been a long day."

Jake can't hear your father's answer. He can't hear the commentator or the cheers from the tv. He can't hear anything, not when you're standing there in the doorway, when he's concentrating so fucking hard on not looking at you.

He fails miserably.

His eyes rake down your body so scorchingly hot that they burn holes into your skin. You have to swallow hard at his expression.

You're not tired at all, actually. Yes, it's been a long day, but if anything, you're buzzing with adrenaline. Which is worse. Because the entire dinner long, you've just had to sit there and stare at him and not do anything about it.

So you're aching to finally hide away in your room, to crawl into bed and contemplate what the fuck is happening. And, just maybe, to dip your fingers into your pajama shorts and think about his shoulders, his arms, his jawline...

Jake manages to grunt some kind of 'goodnight' before you flee - but he doesn't manage to drag his eyes back up from your stomach, all exposed and on display for him. And he doesn't manage to hide it from you.

...

He sees you often over the following weeks. He's been over at your parents' house almost every day for the past six months anyway, and that doesn't change just because you've come back home. Your father still invites him for football games, your mother still talks him into coming over for lunch or for dinner or both and whenever they're outside tinkering on something, he's being called to help.

And - because of course, it's your house as well - you're there, too.

All around him, all the time.

At first, it's innocent. You walk into the kitchen to get a glass of water and smile and say hello. You sit on the couch on a call with a friend and wave at him through the window. You come back from a walk with the dog and ask how he's doing before you disappear inside.

But then there come moments... Moments in which you lie down on a sun lounger in a skimpy bikini while he's painting the fence with your father, sunglasses high on your nose, a book in your hands, rubbing sunscreen into your skin and biting your lip when he can't help but look at you. Moments in which you brush up against him in the kitchen with a giggled 'Sorry', your mother's back turned to you as she grabs milk from the fridge, his fists clenching at his sides, his coffee cup held decently in front of his crotch. Moments in which you sit next to him on the couch and have to lean over him with a lengthy apology, your father just disappearing into the bathroom, your palm high enough on his thigh to stagger into the inappropriate.

The only time he's safe is at work. And even then, you're on his mind constantly.

Those pretty dresses you wear all the time, low-cut in the front and so short they hardly reach past your mid-thighs, in all colours of the rainbow. Those skimpy tops with the flowers on them and jeans-shorts or skirts he's more than once noticed are actually skorts.

He shouldn't be attracted to you. It's so wrong on so many levels. You're too young, much too young, twenty-two years younger than him. And - worse - he's best friends with your father.

He can't be attracted to his best friend's daughter. He simply can't.

It's wrong. It's so, so wrong.

But he can't help himself. He can't help himself when you brush up against him, when you touch him, when you look like that right in front of him.

He doesn't know how he survives those first weeks. He doesn't feel like he's alive, really. Every waking thought is of you - of you and of how wrong it is that he can't stop thinking about you. That he keeps imagining what it would be like to hold you, to kiss you, to-

No.

No, he can't.

Even though you're making it practically impossible for him.

And it's not like you really know what you're doing either. But ever since the car incident that very first day back home, you've been picturing those arms, those shoulders - and after the first time you caught sight of him working shirtless on some project in the backyard with your father, those fucking abs. All glistening, sweaty skin, that v-line, that happy trail...

It's not your fault he's starring in all of your late night fantasies now. It's his. It's his because he shouldn't be allowed to look that fucking good, to smell and sound and feel that good, when you can't have him. Because of course you can't.

He's twenty-two years older than you. He's your dad's new best friend.

You can't.

You can't flirt with him like you want to, you can't have him, because it would be wrong. But you also can't not.

You don't mean to taunt him, not at first. At first, it's just instincts. Talk to him, get his attention. But the more you're around him... the less you can control yourself.

You want to then. You want to graze your fingers across his thigh when your father isn't looking, you want to suck the straw of your drink into your mouth while you blink up at him, you want to accidentally drop your spoon and bend over in front of him. You want to because you know he wants you to.

Even though he doesn't say it, even though he forces himself to turn away when you walk by him, you see the way he looks at you. You catch him staring, you catch him eyeing you up and down. You notice the tick in his jaw and the way his fists clench at his sides. You watch his knuckles turn white as he grabs the neck of his beer bottle and takes a deep sip.

You know he's most definitely attracted to you.

Because even if you imagine half of those things - there's still the car incident. There's still your number saved in his phone. There's still 'darling' on your mind. Mostly the way he's repeated it since then, two or three times maybe, each one inspiring more sinful bedtime scenarios.

You can't.

He can't.

And yet neither of you doesn't.

...

Your parents are away when it happens. Your dad has to go on a trip for work and he takes your mother with him, surprises her with an extra weekend of romance just for the two of them. They're gone by Wednesday morning and won't be back until Sunday afternoon and even though you're twenty-five and have experience living on your own, they've asked Jake to check in on you, just to make sure you're okay.

The first time he 'checks in on you' is involuntary. He's just come back from work, it's Wednesday, 3pm, and he's sitting down on his back porch with a beer when he spots you.

He really doesn't mean to. He hadn't even known you were there.

But the fence between your house and his isn't high and so it's only natural that his eyes flick over to your garden once.

And then twice.

Because you're climbing out of the pool in the tiniest black bikini Jake has ever seen in his life, looking like some angelic, biblic, ancient goddess - your hair in a messy bun, droplets of water running down your bare skin, muscles working as you pull yourself up the little ladder and put both feet against solid, dry ground, leaving wet footprints with every step you take until you grab your towel, sling it around your shoulders and-

Look right at him.

Your lips tug into a flirty grin. You wave at him, your hand lingering in the air a second too long before you wrap the towel tightly around yourself and tread towards the fence. Jake can't do anything but watch you go and swallow hard.

The other option would probably be to drag you into his arms and ravage you until your throat is sore from screaming his name.

So he just sits there and stares at you instead.

"Hey there", you greet as soon as you're close enough to the fence that he can't look past your belly button anymore.

"Hey", Jake says and for whatever reason, his voice sounds raspy even to himself. Your grin only deepens.

"Do you have plans for dinner yet?", you ask. You bat your lashes at him innocently as you dry off your arms. "I was going to order take out."

So that's why three hours later, Jake rings your doorbell, in a black button up he spent twenty minutes picking out. The last time he'd spent that long in front of the closet, he'd been about fifteen years younger and about to go on an actual date. This isn't an actual date. This is anything but a date, because he's only supposed to check in on his best friend's daughter. He's supposed to look after you. Keep you safe.

But you open the door in an oversized, washed out band tee and smile so stunningly that he forgets what he's supposed to do in about half a second.

There's a moment of silence as Jake stares at you. He knows that damn band tee.

"Is that... mine?", he asks in disbelief as he waits for the sight to sink in, which it does not do. His mind blanks completely. It's not just that it's oversized and that you look like you're drowning in it, which already has him imagining the way he could flatten his palms against your stomach and feel for you in that heap of fabric. It's also that he knows this fucking shirt because he's been wearing it for the past ten years.

You look down like you're just realising what you have on, not like you'd almost had a heart attack when you'd seen it in the laundry basket, squealing so loudly that your mother had come in to check on you. Jake had worn that shirt the same day and apparently forgotten to put it back on when he'd gone home, so your mother had put it in the laundry.

She hadn't realised that you'd stolen it for yourself before she could wash it. She probably hadn't paid it that much attention.

You had though. And tonight had felt like the perfect occasion to wear it.

"I found it in the laundry", you say truthfully, looking up at him with big eyes. "Dad said it wasn't his so I just took it. Maybe a mix up. Do you want it back?"

Your fingers reach for the hem of the shirt down by your thighs, tugging mindlessly up just a tiny bit. Jake almost stumbles over his own words with how quick he is in denying you.

"No, no, keep it", he reassures. "Keep it."

You let go of the shirt as your grin widens.

"Okay then", you say softly, turn around and leave the door open so Jake can get in. You stroll into the kitchen, crack open the fridge and grab the freshly made iced tea while Jake closes the door behind him and puts away his shoes.

It could have easily been awkward. Honestly, Jake isn't sure that it's not. But it doesn't feel like that. It just feels... heavy. Drowsy. As though you're moving in slow motion, looking at him over your shoulder with a sultry grin. And in his shirt as well. His fucking shirt, it's unbelievable.

You're smiling at him over Chinese take out food with the radio playing softly in the background and the dim kitchen light on and it could have been almost normal, almost nothing, almost just a friendly dinner with his best friend's daughter.

But it isn't.

It isn't because you're leaning over the table and stealing a spring roll from him, grinning at him when he starts to protest. It isn't because you're pushing him back down onto his chair when he wants to get up and help you clear the table, leaning most definitely too close to him to grab his plate and bending most definitely too far down to put it into the dishwasher. It isn't because you're opening a bottle of whiskey, pouring him one and only then asking if he's going to stay and watch a movie with you.

You've already poured him the drink.

Not that he'd been planning to say no.

You're not close to him on the couch, not really. You're a respectful distance away as you put your own drink onto the table in front of you and grab the remote. You're still a respectful distance away as you scroll through a bunch of movies and ask him if he's got any preferences - besides football, of course.

But when you decide on a movie, on one of those rom-coms he'd never watch willingly, you're draping your legs over his and brushing your hair away from your face and he has to swallow hard.

His hands drop to your bare skin almost instinctively. He can't keep them off of you, not when you're this close to him, not when you're offering so prettily. It's like he has to touch you, has to brush his thumbs across your ankles.

This could all be normal. This could all be usual.

Jake doesn't bother paying attention to the movie. It's not like he could possibly pay attention to it, not when his fingers are running up and down your soft skin. So he doesn't really mind that he misses their first kiss, even as you look up from the drink you're refilling with a gasp and wide eyes to watch.

Jake just watches the way your hair frames your face, those droplets of iced tea on your lips before you wipe them off. He's sure he could taste them if he tried to.

You lean back into the couch then and stretch and your shirt - Jake's shirt - rides so far up that he catches sight of your underwear. Fuck.

He has to grab onto you hard so that he doesn't launch himself right on top of you. His mouth is dry all of a sudden, so dry that he has to swallow. You blink up at him as you feel his hands clench around your ankles, your teeth digging into your bottom lip to keep from grinning.

He needs a few seconds to even look up at you. It's like his eyes are glued to that expanse of bare skin at your hip, clinging to the thought of you in your underwear right before him. You're always wearing shorts. You're always wearing shorts. You're always fucking wearing shorts.

Shit.

He shouldn't. He can't.

But his hands brush up your calves and he does look back at you then, which really isn't better, because your lip is still caught between your teeth and your expression is so sinful that he has to bite down on his own tongue.

"Jake", you breathe, all soft and quiet and that's it. That's his breaking point.

You can't just say his fucking name like that, not in his shirt, not while presenting him such a good look at your underwear, and expect him to be okay.

"Fuck", he mutters, then he's on you.

It's an uncomfortable position. You're half turned to him, half away, your legs are still thrown over his lap, which means he can't really push close to you, but his lips are against yours, so firmly, so passionately that you can't care, not right then.

Your eyes fall shut and you kiss him back with the same fervor, the same heat, the same fucking desperation to finally feel him. You part you lips almost too eagerly, too quickly, just so he can stroke his tongue along yours. His hands dig into your thighs, grabbing you tightly, and your arms cross behind his neck to drag him down to you - just that your legs are really in the way now and you have to try and pry one from his lap so that he doesn't crush it, which isn't all that comfortable and takes a while too long to still be sexy. You hardly mind. Jake doesn't either, only pulls his knees up to the couch to climb on top of you.

The whole thing is complicated and annoying and decidedly too time consuming, but his lips are on yours and he's pressing against you, catching himself with a palm against the couch cushions and lowering you to lie down, every single touch frenzied and hurried and hot. Heady and heavy and horny.

You're dragging your hands through his hair, tugging, pulling, scratching your nails across his scalp. He's grabbing your hips with his free hand, grasping your thighs, tangling his fingers in your shirt and digging them into your skin.

You're grinding against him. Not softly, not carefully, not secretly. You're wrapping your legs around him and grinding against him, almost without realising it - you need to be close, you need to be closer. You need to move. You need to feel him.

At the first moan you let out, Jake stills. When you breathily add his name, he pulls back entirely.

It's cold and empty without him, cold and empty and confusing as he settles back on his ankles, panting and wide-eyed. Your arms and legs drop to the couch as you try to catch your breath.

"No", Jake mutters. "We can't."

You push yourself up onto your palms, chest still heaving as you look up at him. Your cheeks feel so hot that you're sure they're embarrassingly red by now and your mind is still hazy with what just happened -

Jake had kissed you. He'd kissed you and you'd kissed him back.

And now he isn't kissing you anymore and you're absolutely not alright with that. You need him to kiss you again. You need to dig your hands into his hair and feel him knead your thighs again. You need to find out what it's like to rake your nails along his arms and scratch down his back.

"Jake", you breathe, staring at him all wide-eyed as he shakes his head and inches even further away from you. He seems like he's in a trance. You repeat his name more forcefully and reach out for him - but he only shakes his head again and runs a hand down his face.

You still for the entirety of two seconds. Then you sit up, inches closer to him than necessary, and toy with the hem of your shirt. You've got a hunch that giving and taking the sight of your underwear will only help your case here.

"Why not?", you ask as you watch his eyes drop down, just like you'd wanted. His breath catches.

"You're twenty-five", he begins, his voice a bit too rough to sound unaffected. "And I'm friends with your father."

You take a long look at him.

"Would you if you weren't friends with my father?"

You bite down on your lip and blink up at him as prettily as you can manage. You're quite sure you know the answer. Especially with that car incident... With your number saved in his phone. With that smug grin you still see in your fantasies.

He hadn't been too concerned with your age back then.

"I am friends with your father", Jake says, all the while struggling to drag his eyes back up your body.

"But if you weren't", you go on, not ready just yet to leave this be - because you know that if you back down now, you'll never get a chance again. Not like this. Not with him. "If you weren't friends with my father. Would you?"

A muscle ticks in his jaw. You hold your breath - one, two, three seconds. Then he's on you yet again and this time, this time with no end in sight. Not as he pushes you back down onto the couch and sets both his palms down next to your head. Not as you wrap your legs around his waist and work the buttons of his shirt, fingers moving so frantically that you slip up more than once - not that you care.

You're kissing Jake. After what has felt like an eternity of teasing and quietly flirting, you're finally kissing him, touching him, feeling him. On top of you, all around you.

Yes, he fucking would. You were right.

His shirt finally unbuttons and you can hardly push it out of the way quickly enough to run your hands down his chest - exploring his collarbones, his abs, that fucking happy trail that has been driving you insane ever since you saw it for the first time. Your fingers brush bare skin, warm, hot, bare skin, before they catch on his waistband. He grinds his hips onto yours as you draw your fingertips along his belt and swallows the moan you so pathetically let out.

You're just about to get to work on opening his belt buckle when he shifts his weight onto one hand and grasps your wrist with the other, pulling an inch away from you as he does so, lips parting in sticky intoxication.

"Jake", you mewl, but when you blink open your eyes he's already shaking his head softly and- grinning. Grinning that smug grin that you've been dreaming of. The one you haven't seen since the very first time you met him. Not with your dad around or directed at anyone else, no. The grin that takes your breath away right then, and you can't even tell why.

It's confident and cocky and cheeky and so, so very, very sexy. Fuck.

You stare at him with wide eyes and parted lips, too caught up in taking him in to notice how he's bringing both your hands up over your head.

"If we're doing this, I'm doing it right, darling", he mutters, all low and rough and the pet name has you clamping your thighs even harder around him. "And only if you want me to."

You can't nod quickly enough.

"I need you to tell me, baby", he grins, exposing those pearly whites that you'd very much like to feel biting into your neck or something. "I need you to say yes."

"Yes, Jake", you push past your lips, breathless and panting and desperate. Desperate for him. "Please."

His chuckle reverberates in your own chest. He runs his hand down your side and rubs a soft circle against the bare skin of your hip, catching on the flimsy fabric of your underwear.

"Already begging for me", he mutters with a grin, his fingers hooking into your waistband. Your hips buck up into his and a moan drops from your lips and Jake just keeps on grinning. Keeps on running his thumbs along your hip bones. "That easily."

You can't even deny it, deny him. You need him to touch you and you need him to do it now.

"You're lucky I want to taste you, because I'm sure it'd be fun to tease you", he chuckles, holds you down against the couch as he sits back on his ankles, keeping your legs spread and the dark spot on your underwear right on display for him. "I could keep you here all night."

You're not sure what excites you more - the promise of all night or the tasting you part. Either way, you bury your hands into your own hair and tug hard to keep yourself from sitting up, pushing him onto his back and riding him into oblivion. He wouldn't let you anyway, you're guessing.

Jake runs his free hand down the inside of your thigh and you really have to concentrate on not moving then. Every touch, every brush and every stroke sends shivers down your spine and pools in your core, heating up each inch of your skin.

When he reaches your underwear once more, he hooks his second thumb into it as well and tugs. Your jaw clenches. God, you've gotta keep still, you've just gotta wait-

He looks up then and raises his eyebrows.

"Please, Jake", you breathe, before he can even say anything. His eyes drop again and he pulls your underwear down, down, down, pushing your knees together to slide them off your legs and you're holding your breath, holding your breath in this intoxicating mess of a moment as he parts your thighs again and leans in. Leans closer.

Leans... not close enough.

Instead, he grabs the hem of your shirt.

"As much as I like that you're wearing my shirt", he mutters, already pushing it up and exposing your stomach to him, "I want to see you."

You let out a pathetic little moan, loosen your hands from your hair and pull his shirt over your head instead, dropping it down onto the floor without looking or bothering where it lands. You're not really bothered about anything besides getting Jake's mouth on you right now.

You're dripping already, dripping down your own thighs as he takes you in - all naked, all bare in front of him, soft skin and smooth curves, chest rising and falling with your heavy breath, eyes half-closed, lips parted and kiss-swollen.

It's wrong. He shouldn't. But he's already gone too far and now, now, with all of you for him to see, to touch, to feel, he can't go back. He can't ever go back.

He wants to burn this image into his memory forever.

"Jake", you whisper, voice just as soft and silky as the rest of you and he snaps out of his trance, runs his fingertips over your stomach, studies you as your breath catches. He leans down again, but his eyes are fixed on you still, focused even as he presses a kiss to your hipbone, then to the inside of your thigh. His teeth graze your skin and his fingers brush against the underside of your boobs.

Fuck.

You bite down on your lip.

Jake thinks he might be in heaven as he palms at your breasts, swiping his thumbs across your nipples and watching your expression change ever so slightly. He breathes against your wetness and his eyes flicker down to finally look at you, dripping for him. His fingers still for just a moment.

If he does this, there's no going back. He's crossing a line that he can never uncross.

But in all honesty - he's already long crossed that line.

So he flattens his tongue against you and tastes you. And you throw you head back and let out a moan that's so filthy that he can't even be bothered to care about what fucking lines he's crossing anymore. He just buries his face in your wetness and basks in the way your eyes roll back into your head.

Your hands dig into his hair all by themselves, tug and pull and push him closer, further into you. You taste heavenly. You are in heaven. You're in heaven with Jake between your legs, brushing his tongue through your folds, sucking your clit into his mouth and groaning into you. He's running his fingers over your breasts, palming and grasping at them, circling and tracing.

That's when the movie stops.

You hadn't even realised it was still on, to be honest, but now, in the silence, your moans echo three times as loud. Jake bathes in the sounds you're letting out. You're absolutely gorgeous like that, teeth tugging at your bottom lip, cheeks flushed, eyes fluttering closed before you blink them open again to look at him, to watch him as he lays between your thighs.

You're soaking in the way he swipes his tongue against you, the way he palms at your skin. With every touch and every brush, you can feel the knot tightening. Can feel the tension in your limbs growing. Can feel the way your legs are starting to clamp tighter, tighter and tighter around Jake's head.

He's so good at this. He's so fucking good at this.

Your grip on his hair tightens so much that you're sure you have to be hurting him, but he doesn't show the slightest hint of wanting to tell you off for it. No, quite the opposite: he pushes further into you and groans his approval.

Which is about the last thing you can take.

Your legs cramp, your hands drag at his hair, your back arches, your head hits the armrest of the couch and Jake guides you through your high, eyes set on you, focused and fixed on you, watching every single reaction you have to him, drinking in the sight of you, drinking in your moans. You're pushing back against him, panting and clawing at him, lips parted and eyes shut tightly as you take in a shaky breath and sink slowly back against the couch.

The air is heavy. Heavy with your emotions, heavy with your orgasm, heavy with your moans.

Jake pulls back slowly, softly, draws his hands down to your stomach to rub circles onto your skin - significantly warmer now than before. You're still breathing heavily, legs unhooking from around his head only reluctantly. Honestly, you wouldn't have minded if he'd just decided to stay down there for the next three to five business days. But you also don't mind as he pushes himself up and presses a kiss to your lips, because he tastes like you and you get to hook your arms around his neck and pull him even further down onto you.

With his half-bare chest pushed against yours, his tongue runs along your lips and you open willingly up to him. More than just willingly. Because with him on top of you, his lips sticky and syrupy on yours, not wanting or not able to part from yours, there's already anticipation running in your veins, wetness pooling in your core again, the urge to wrap your legs around him and grind against him growing and growing with every second that he's kissing you.

You draw your hands down his throat, push his shirt out of the way and brush your palms down his bare torso, all hard abs against your fingertips. He's in such good fucking shape you could truly be running your hands up and down a washboard right now. It feels unfair that he's more than twenty years older than you and somehow fitter.

Your fingers catch on his waistband then.

"Jake", you whine softly against him. "Please, I need you."

He groans, drops his head down to your neck and for a second, you just hear him breathe - all hot and heavy before his lips graze your skin.

"Fuck, you can't say that, darling", he mutters. "You don't know what you do to me."

His belt buckle feels cold against your fingertips, so cold against your sticky, sweaty skin.

"Show me", you whine, beg, plead. He's not teasing you, not taking his time, he's not waiting or edging or anything, and still- Still, you're so fucking desperate. He's finally got you here, finally, and as much as you're sure you'd enjoy his teasing... You just need him to fuck you. Now.

Jake chuckles breathily as he raises his head to look down at you. There's that grin again. That fucking grin.

Then he plants that grin onto your lips and you moan softly, hooking your fingers into his belt and pulling hard. You've just started loosening it successfully when he sits back onto his ankles, leaves you cold and lonely and fully naked on the couch. You mewl.

"Jake-", you let out, but he's already standing up, climbing off of the couch and you're sitting up as if in trance, just to follow him, whatever it is that he has in mind.

He slips off his shoes before he starts to work his belt and then lets that fall to the ground too. You reach for him instinctively, drawing your fingertips along his thighs as he pops the button of his jeans and pulls down his zipper, but when he hooks his thumbs beneath his waistband and tugs down, something snaps inside of you.

"Wait", you whisper. "Let me."

You reach out for him and graze your fingers along his waistband, taking a breath as your eyes flutter up at him. He swallows hard, lets his arms drop to his sides and nods heavily. God, he looks so fucking attractive. His hair all messy, his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed solely on you. You make sure to work quickly, almost frenzied, hurriedly pulling down his jeans and taking his briefs right with them. You won't spend unnecessary time on unimportant things.

Your breath catches, palms stilling against his thighs.

Fuck.

Jake's hand twitches, then clenches into a fist. But he stays right where he is, doesn't move an inch. Everything in him screams at him to run his fingers through your hair and guide you closer to him - but he doesn't. He won't. Not tonight, not right now. Right now, he wants to give you every out he can. Just in case you want to take it.

You don't. Of course not.

Not when you can see just how much he's holding himself back.

So instead you lean down and kitten-lick his tip. His hand flexes, again, and even though he lets out a deep groan that will surely echo in your head for the next two weeks, he stays still.

You just wrap your fingers around the base of his cock and take him into your mouth.

He has to close his eyes and tilt his head up to keep from bucking into you. Damn, it hasn't even been that long since he got blown. And he didn't react like a teenager then. But something about your warm, wet mouth, something about the way your dainty fingers reach around him, something about how you eagerly take him so far that he hits the back of your throat, something about that soft little gagging noise you make just before you pull off of him to breathe in deeply-

Fuck, you're making this really hard for him.

"Jake", you mutter, your hand still working him. He opens his eyes and looks down at you, looks down at you sitting there on the couch, completely naked, eyes all wide and cheeks flushed and so fucking stunning. His fingers brush along your forehead, tuck a strand of loose hair behind your ear.

"Jake", you repeat, a little more breathlessly this time. "Don't hold back for me. I won't break."

His jaw clenches again, but you just blink up at him, the weight of your words heavy between you. His eyes roam your face for any sign of uncertainty - then he nods. He'd like to disagree, though. He's more than afraid he'll break you.

You're so young, so sweet, so fragile.

Just not innocent. And you feel like you have to remind him of that - of your more than obvious flirting, of your sultry grins and half-naked hints, of your number sitting so unashamedly in his contacts.

So you lean in again, pull your free hand from his thigh and grab his wrist instead, dragging it away from your cheek and planting it on the back of your head as you wrap your lips around him. He takes a shallow breath and your hand drops back down to his thigh. There's one, two seconds in which your eyes just flutter closed and your nails dig into his skin-

Then, finally, fucking finally! Jake tangles his fingers into your hair and pushes you into him. You loosen your hand from around him and put it against his other thigh, allowing him to pull you closer and closer. You breathe deeply through your nose as Jake groans above you - and it takes everything in you not to grin. Instead, you just let him guide you, blink open your eyes to look at him and try to ignore the arousal dripping down the inside of your thighs. He looks so fucking good, it should truly be forbidden, because now you have to press your legs together and steady your palms against him.

Jake feels about the same. His breathing is heavy, his grip on your hair firm, and his eyes are set on you - on how he disappears inside your mouth, again and again, your spit coating him, your throat tight. He can't help but push you down, one time, two times, and pull you back, three times, four times, then push you down and pull you back again. And again. And again. He can hardly concentrate on how good you're making him feel when you're looking that fucking sinful.

Shit.

Before he can come right then and there in your mouth, he tugs you off fully, his jaw clenching involuntarily at the soft whine you let slip. But you can barely be truly bothered when he leans down and presses his lips to yours instead. You're not bothered about anything, really - about anything but his tongue against yours as you cross your arms behind his neck and draw him in, your hands dragging into his hair, your mouth moving desperately against his, sloppily, silently begging him for more.

Jake steadies his palms against the back rest and pulls away heavily, breathing hard as you open your eyes again to look at him - half-lidded, all languid and slow. He swallows hard.

"Do you-", he starts, his voice low and rough and you nod, letting your arms drop from around him to point at the side table.

Have a condom, he'd wanted to ask. In any other situation, he'd have one himself, but something about bringing condoms for a check in on his best friends daughter would have felt incredibly wrong.

"In my makeup bag", you say, your voice thin and breathy as he stretches and reaches for the lavender coloured pouch, unzipping it and looking for the condoms between all the brushes and lipglosses. He can barely pull one out before your fingers close around it, before you've carefully torn it open. He drops your makeup bag back onto the side table right as you straighten up to press a kiss to his lips - almost innocent, almost, if it weren't for the taste of him on your tongue. Then you press a kiss onto his collarbone. Then one right onto his abs. Then one just above that happy trail that has been driving you fucking insane. And then, then, you run your tongue over his tip again before you roll the condom onto him.

Which means it's his turn.

And he doesn't hesitate.

He's not rough in the way he pushes you onto your back on the couch, no, he's smooth with it, hands running along your skin as he cages you in, as he rests his arms next to your head - but he's firm nonetheless. He takes control easily, moving you how and where he wants to, claiming your mouth, pressing his lips to yours. You let him. More even, you relish in giving in to him, in giving him control, in letting go, in trusting him. You bathe in his kisses, in his touches, in his soft grunts as he guides himself into you.

"Jake", you whine against his lips, your fingers tangling in his hair, eyes falling shut. The stretch is delicious, heavenly. He fills you slowly, dragging his lips down your throat as you tilt your head back and let out a filthy moan. Your legs wrap around him, pull him closer. His teeth graze your neck, drawing a moan from you as he settles. He gives you a moment to adjust.

A moment too long.

Way too long.

Even with his lips on your skin, with your nails dragging down his neck, digging into his shoulders, even with him inside of you, you need more. You need him to move. Right fucking now.

"Jake", you mewl, your eyes fluttering open. He raises his head to look at you and- Fuck, good lord. You've messed up his hair and his pupils are wide and his cheeks are red and he looks fucking heavenly. So heavenly that your breath catches. You forget what you wanted to say for a moment. Then his thumb brushes your cheek and you remember.

"Move", you breathe, digging your fingers into his skin and wrapping your legs around him tightly. You need him to move. But his lips tug up in that grin again and, as quickly as you can, you add- "Please, Jake."

His grin widens as he looks down at you, all pretty and desperate, clenching around him, lips parting in a silent moan. It would be so easy to tease you, so easy to make you beg and plead for him... And you'd look so gorgeous doing it. You're already so eager to please him.

But not tonight. Not right now. Right now, he just needs to make you feel good. So he leans down, presses a kiss to your lips and moves. Finally.

You open up to him eagerly, letting him run his tongue along yours, moaning into him as he thrusts into you. Deep and languid, hitting all the right spots like no one has before. Fuck, fuck, fuck-

You're really doing this. He's really doing this. You claw at his back, scratch down his skin, sure to leave bruises as he pulls his head up to look at you, to watch the way you arch up into him. Your skin glistens with sweat, your lips part to let out a breathy mewl and the coil in your stomach tightens, tightens, tightens.

Jake shifts his weight onto one arm, frees a hand to brush his fingers through your hair, tugging, tilting your head back, exposing your throat to him. You moan at the ceiling as he drops a filthy kiss onto your collarbone before he lets go of your hair again, trailing his hand down your side instead - and his hand is so fucking big, so big as he draws it down your body, brushing his fingertips over your boob, sweeping over your hip, grasping your thigh. You pull him down onto you, crash your lips back onto his hard. You need to feel him, you need to kiss him, you need to hold him right now. You need him. You need this.

He smoothes his fingers down your skin until they catch on your clit.

"Jake", you moan into his mouth, pathetic even to your own ears. He only grins into the kiss and circles your clit as he thrusts into you, again and again and again, your legs clenching harder and harder and harder around him before he pulls away, pulls even further away even though you chase after his lips, his eyes roaming your face as you squeeze yours shut tightly.

"Look at me, darling", he drawls, his voice low and raspy, his fingers rough against your clit. "Look at me when I'm fucking you."

You let out some kind of deranged moan at his crude wording, opening your eyes and blinking up at him because there's no fucking way you can deny him. Not when he calls you darling like that. Not when he thrusts inside you just right. Not when the view of him, messy hair and grinning and all, has you clenching around him this hard.

You're close. So close.

"Atta girl", he mutters, and that does it for you.

Your legs cramp and your lips part again to let out a gorgeous little moan that Jake swallows up immediately, slotting his mouth over yours and drinking up the way you clench around him. It takes everything in him not to come too. You're so fucking pretty and you're clenching so fucking perfectly around him, but he needs to make you feel good first, he needs to make you come first, he needs...

"Jake", you mewl, face scrunched up, back arched, as he guides you through your second high of the night. "Fuck, fuck."

He's grinning when you come down. You grab his hand and pull it away from your clit. It's too much right now, too much. It takes a second for you to even realise that he's stopped moving entirely, too focused on watching you, on drinking up the sight of you, tousled hair and red cheeks and parted lips and all. You look like an angel, so fucking heavenly that he can't believe his eyes, not really.

"Jake", you mutter, slurring his name so prettily and pulling him in for another kiss, your arms loose around his neck, your fingers lazily brushing through his hair. "Come for me?"

It's barely more than a breath, barely more than a whisper onto his lips, but he hears it, oh, he hears it. He lets out a groan as he draws away again, his eyes roaming your face. You're unbelievable. Fucking unbelievable.

You're asking him to come for you. Begging him to come for you.

And there's no grin in sight, no smug smile, no hint of trying to take control of him - it's not a command, not even close, you're actually, genuinely pleading, your eyes half-lidded and barely focusing, just needing him to feel good now, too.

You're really fucking unbelievable.

He can't remember ever having a woman ask him to come.

He kisses you so hard you become dizzy, pressing his lips onto yours and tangling a hand into your hair. He pushes impossibly closer, thrusts back into you and pulls another string of moans from you, bordering on incomprehensible, hardly more than breaths, mewls that he swallows before they can flee into the empty air of the living room.

His own breathing comes in pants, his muscles clenching and tensing and he's there quicker than he thought he'd be. He's close, really close, and that's when you decide to dig your teeth into his lip and tug and fuck, he's there, alright. He's done then. He spills inside you with a groan, pulling back right as you flash him a dazed grin, eyes fluttering open to take him in.

Your throat feels way too dry all of a sudden.

You don't think you'll get this image out of your head ever again, this image of him coming undone on top of you. It's burning itself into your memory while you watch, never to be forgotten.

Because hell no, you won't forget this.

"Fuck", Jake groans, his voice all rough and hoarse and he leans down to press a kiss to your lips again, slow this time, almost soft. He brushes a thumb down your cheek, lightly cups your jaw and pulls you even closer, your skin warm beneath his fingers.

You tighten your arms around his neck a bit, keeping him firmly there, firmly on top of you, firmly inside of you. But he makes no move to leave, anyway. Just runs his tongue tenderly along yours, unhurried and gentle, and holds you close. You don't know for how long. He could've kept you there for eternity and you wouldn't have minded. How could you mind, basking in the afterglow like this, with his skin sticking to yours, his fingers grazing your cheek, his lips brushing against yours? No, really, you could've stayed there for the rest of forever.

But he pulls back after a while, of course, and pulls out, too. You let out some kind of disappointed mewl, but that's about everything you can do before he gently grasps your wrists and pulls your arms from around him, smiling in a way you can't even begin to complain.

"Lets get you cleaned up, darling", he says softly, carefully helping you sit up, his hands everywhere but nowhere nearly long enough.

You sigh dramatically, blinking your eyes open to look at him, even as you let him pull you up. Your legs feel like pudding. You feel like pudding.

"If we have to", you give in, smiling as Jake grins and shakes his head at you.

"We have to", he chuckles, hauls you up into his arms and waits for you to hold onto him before he carries you into the bathroom - seemingly fucking without any problem whatsoever, as if you weigh nothing at all to him.

You bite down on your lip and rest your forehead against his chest, squeezing your eyes shut to not have to look at him while you contemplate his strength. He should not be this fucking strong. He should not be allowed to be this fucking strong.

"Careful", Jake says, his voice low, as he sets you gently down on the toilet seat. You flinch away from the ice-cold seat against your thighs, fingernails digging into his shoulders for one, two, three seconds before you relax and settle down.

Jake lets go of you just as softly, steadying you until he's sure you won't just fall right off the toilet. He turns and you look up, his back right there to stare at, a smile tugging at your lips again - goddamn, he looks way too good, holy shit. You barely hear the garbage can open and close as he throws away the used condom, then rummages through the drawers until he finds a washcloth that he can soak in luke warm water.

He turns with a smile, grabs your chin tenderly and presses a kiss to your lips, just one, all sweet and languid, so unlike the rest of his kisses. You hardly notice that he's cleaning you off as he kneels down in front of you, simply because you're so entranced by him. God, but he really looks like he's fucking glowing, you hate him for having this effect on you.

He wraps his arms around you again - did he put the washcloth away? fuck, did you miss that? - and you cuddle close, almost (but just almost) letting out a pleased sigh. Fuck, he's so broad and so strong and so comfortable...

He sets you down on the couch and smiles.

"Wait here for me, darling", he mutters, bending down to pick up your shirt (his shirt, really) and slide it carefully over your head once again. You hug yourself close and settle deep into the couch as Jake disappears. His steps echo through the house.

Then there's silence.

Absolute silence.

You rest your head against the headrest and close your eyes, your fingertips absentmindedly drawing circles against your heated skin.

And in this quiet emptiness... the reality of the situation finally sinks in.

For the first time.

Because you just slept with Jake Seresin.

Jake Seresin. Your neighbour Jake Seresin. Your dad's best friend Jake Seresin. Twenty-two years older than you Jake Seresin.

Holy fucking shit. Holy fucking shit.

This actually happened. This actually fucking happened. You slept with Jake Seresin. And somehow... somehow- Somehow you can't feel guilty. You can't feel bad or ashamed. Not like you should. And you definitely should. Because this is Jake Seresin, not some random frat guy. This is forty-seven year old, your dad's best friend Jake Seresin.

But you can't feel bad.

You really do try, for the entirety of a minute or two, while somewhere in the back of the house, a door is opened and closed again. But you still can't feel bad. So you don't.

Jake comes back with a water bottle and his briefs back on, which you can't help but feel disappointed at. He sits down on the couch next to you and hands you the bottle.

"Drink", he nods, so you uncap it carefully and take a sip. It's charming, really, how the first time you'd met him with your car broken down, he'd also handed you a water bottle. A grin tugs at your lips involuntarily. It's just coincidence, you know that, but there's something incredibly sweet about the way he's seemingly always made sure to keep you hydrated. There's something sweet about him, simple as that, with how softly he's cleaned you off and settled you down on the couch after.

You put the bottle down on the table and turn to him.

He looks almost normal again, almost like before. He's still nearly naked though (which you certainly aren't complaining about), and his hair still looks like he's just walked straight out of a hurricane. He raises his eyebrows at you as you take him in.

"We should probably talk about this", you say, your voice cracking halfway through. You're not sure you want to talk about it. And with the way Jake's face falls... yeah, he doesn't seem to, either. But he still straightens up and brings some more distance between the both of you.

Maybe that's smart, actually. Maybe. But then again, you've already done everything you could to try and feel bad, so instead of doing the reasonable (you're already way past the reasonable anyway) and pushing further away from Jake too, you stretch out a leg and drape it over his lap again.

A muscle in his jaw ticks and he grasps your ankle almost immediately, as if there's no other choice but to touch you even while he's trying to keep his distance.

"But", you grin, scooching a little closer as an idea forms in your mind, "You know, I still have to shower. Chlorine is so bad for the skin unless you wash it off. And I did spend quite a while in the pool today."

...

It's Monday afternoon and even hotter than the weeks before. You're sitting outside, sunbathing in the fifteenth layer of sunscreen of the day, with sunglasses on that hardly seem to do anything and wearing nothing but a bikini because god, you're fucking melting. It hasn't been this hot the entire year.

The only really good thing about the scorching heat is that Jake, for lack of swimming pools in his garden, is doing sets in yours. You're incredibly glad for your sunglasses, because even though your mother is sitting right next to you, burying her nose in another of the novels she'd checked out from the library two weeks earlier, you can ogle Jake without worrying that she'll catch you.

And goddamn, you're ogling, alright.

It's not like you haven't stared at him enough. Over the past five days, you've barely been doing anything else. Well, except for those times you'd had your eyes closed and his lips on yours, of course. But still, you don't really feel like you could ever possibly get enough of staring at him.

And right now, right now, with the way he climbs out of the pool, arms tensing and flexing, water dropping down his skin, his hands running through his soaking wet hair...

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You bite down on your lip and press your thighs together. God, if you aren't careful, you'll have to disappear into the house and shower early, because you're sure you could not pass the dark spot on your bikini bottoms off as sweat.

Jake turns away to grab his towel and starts to dry off and you're already mulling over how you'll phrase the message you'll send him (something along the lines of 'tell my parents you need to use the bathroom' with a shower selfie attached? You've already sent him way worse things while he'd been at work) when your mother suddenly gasps.

Three heads turn to her simultaneously.

"Jake!", she chokes, her book sinking down into her lap. Jake raises his eyebrows at her, just as clueless as you are. She parts her lips and then clamps her mouth shut again, apparently lost for words. "Your back."

It hits you like a tidal wave.

Oh, shit. Oh, holy fucking shit.

You should've noticed earlier. Much earlier. You should've- God, he'd known, too, hadn't he? But you'd been the one to stare at his back long enough that you should've noticed. Yesterday. You should've noticed the long, red lines running down his skin. Your long, red lines running down his skin. Fuck, fuck-

"Oh, that-"

Jake stumbles over his own words for the first time ever since you've met him. His eyes find yours, for just a moment or two, and you can see the panic in them. It's the second fucking day your parents are back. The second fucking day. And you're already messing up, you're already-

"I knew it", your mother grins, clapping her hands together and letting out a laugh that startles you so hard you flinch. "I knew you were a womanizer after all! I mean, looking like that, there's no other way-"

"Honey!", your father gasps, and she giggles and throws her hands up. But he's grinning too and you know him well enough to say he isn't really mad that she's complimenting Jake.

"Sorry, sorry, just saying." She chuckles to herself and grabs her book again, her voice dropping to a mumble. "I can't believe it though, we go away for five days and suddenly he's hooking up with someone! I think we need to stop inviting him over so often if we want him to find somebody."

Your father laughs and gets up to offer Jake a beer.

"You didn't happen to see who he brought home, did you?", your mother asks, her voice almost too casual to really be casual as she turns her head to look at you with raised eyebrows.

You choke on your breath.

"Um-", you start, but your father already rolls his eyes and saves you without meaning to.

"You're not nosy at all", he chides, resting his beer bottle against her foot. She tugs it away and shakes her head at him.

"Just curious", she grins. "Just curious."

Yeah. Just curious. You pray to god that just curious won't one day expose the little secret you've got going on with Jake. Next time, you'll really have to be more careful with your nails.

#jake seresin x reader #jake seresin smut #dbf!jake seresin #dbf!jake seresin smut #x reader #dbf!jake seresin x reader #top gun #top gun x reader #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman seresin smut

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froggibus · 2 years ago

Text

Power Trip - Miguel O’Hara

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x f! Reader (reader uses female pronouns + has a pussy)

Genre: smut/NSFW

Word Count: 1.9k

Summary: Miguel comes to your universe seeking comfort, but gets the opposite when he sees you on a date

CW: kinda sorta maybe dubcon?, friends with benefits, dom! Miguel, sub! Reader, jealous! Miguel, possessiveness, fingering, oral (f! receiving), slight orgasm denial, begging, sub/dom dynamics, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it <3), creampie, Miguel is kind of an asshole

ive been incredibly down bad for this man lately so here is the result of my 2am thirst writing lol <3 also idkidk I just love the idea of fwb with Miguel and him being super possessive while also being noncommittal

————

It’s late by the time Miguel is back in your universe, but you’re nowhere to be seen in your studio apartment. He knows you were here recently, he can smell it. Smell your perfume lingering in the air.

The sweet smell floods his senses and only adds to his annoyance. Where are you going this late at night, dressing up all nice and smelling so sweet? Who are you seeing?

The thought of you going on a date has the adrenaline pumping through his veins. You’re his. You should be with him.

He pulls his mask back over his face and climbs out of your window, pulling out his phone. He opens up the app he installed on your phone to track you, narrowing his eyes when he sees the red dot pulsing at a bar.

Because of course you’re at a bar.

Miguel watches you from the shadows of the rooftop across the street. You’re all dressed up, sipping on a Manhattan while some loser chats you up. He can’t help but size the guy up—he could snap him like a twig with one arm.

What the hell are you doing with a guy like that?

You can feel eyes on you, and not just from the guy in front of you talking about his crypto. No—you’re being watched. You can feel eyes burning into the back of your head, watching your every move.

The feeling makes you tense, shoulders bunching up to your ears. You finish off your drink and start pulling your coat over your shoulders.

Crypto guy looks at you in confusion. “Leaving so soon?”

“Yeah, I just, I need some air,” you say, and before he can protest anymore, you’re shoving your way onto the cold, crowded streets.

Miguel doesn’t take his eyes off of you the whole time, silently trailing after you. He almost laughs at the way you look over your shoulder, trying to see if you’re being followed, but falling just short of seeing him. It’s adorable, really.

As if he’d ever let anything happen to you.

You set down your bag and jacket at your kitchen table, rolling your shoulders to loosen the tension. Something in the shadows catches your eye and you sigh. Of course.

“You can come out now,” you sigh.

Miguel steps out of the shadows, broad frame towering over you. His jaw is clenched and he looks unimpressed.

“What are you doing here, Miguel?”

“Who was that at the bar?”

You sigh, leaning against your counter and rubbing your temples. “We’re not together, Miguel. You shouldn’t even be here.”

He steps closer to you, fists clenched at his sides. His dark eyes narrow on you, eyeing you from head to toe. “Answer the question.”

“Jesus—just some guy, okay? Why is it any of your business?”

You’re playing a dangerous game, like running across thin ice and expecting not to fall through. You avoid looking at him—you can feel the tension in the air.

And then Miguel laughs. Really laughs. You stay perfectly still, clenching your hands on the counter. Heavy footsteps approach you until you can feel him standing behind you, hard breathing echoing in your ears.

His hands grasp your hips, sharp nails digging into your sides. He tugs you back to him, holding your hips flush against his. “It’s always my business,” he growls. “You can pretend all you want, dear, but you will always be mine.”

His words have your breath catching in your throat, heat flooding your entire body. You squirm under his touch with no real intention of getting away, body fully submitting to him just from his touch.

“See?” He rubs his hands up your sides, roughly cupping your chest and squeezing hard. “You like to play pretend and tease and run away, but you come back to me. Every. Single. Time.”

He squeezes again, hovering his lips over the base of your throat. A gasp falls from your lips. You can feel his fangs grazing your throat, sharp teeth brushing the sensitive skin. You close your eyes, bracing yourself on the counter in front of you.

He pushes his hand under your shirt, cold fingers ghosting over your sensitive skin. You shiver from his touch, throwing your head back against his chest. His other hand snakes around your throat, holding you still so he can sink his fangs into your neck.

The puncture stings as always, blood rushing to the sensitive vein he just bit into. Miguel manages to balance the pain with pleasure—rolling your nipples between his fingers, alternating between gently rubbing and harshly tugging at them.

He moans at the taste of you, hot blood flooding his mouth. You’ve always tasted delectable, and he’s never been able to get enough. You shake in his arms, whimpering from the feeling. He can smell your arousal in the air, flooding his senses.

He releases your neck and drops his hand from his shirt, lifting you up and tossing you onto the counter. He towers over you, broad form engulfing the kitchen light. He rips off your shirt, practically shredding the flimsy fabric to pieces.

“M-miguel!”

He rolls his eyes at your antics, pulling so the edge of your thighs rest on the counter. He pulls your pants off in one, swift motion, leaving you naked and shivering on the marble countertop.

The smell of you only gets stronger, sending the blood rushing straight to his groin. You look so pretty like this, so weak. His for the taking—not that you’d ever protest.

Sharp teeth graze the plush skin of your thighs as he plants kisses up to your heat. The feeling of his breath just above where you need him most has you arching your back, pushing your hips into his face.

Miguel takes that in stride, wrapping his hands around your thighs to hold you in place and forcing you down to his mouth. The first touch of his tongue against your swollen clit has your eyes rolling back, pleas for more filling the air.

You reach down to tug on his hair, dark curls falling through your fingers like silk. The feeling of you pulling on his hair and shoving your hips into his face only makes Miguel hungrier for you. He slips a finger inside of you, working you open. His fingers are so long and so thick, they stretch you open better than when you do it yourself.

He pushes another finger inside of you, pulling his mouth away so he can watch your drooling hole open up around his knuckles. “As if any other man can make you feel like this,” he growls.

He dives back into your pussy, burying his face between your legs. The added contact has your legs shaking, muscles quivering around his face. He slips one more finger in, reaching that spot that he knows drives you crazy.

It only takes another second before you’re being thrown over the edge, crying out for more while trying to pull away from him. Miguel keeps a tight grip on your legs, holding you against his face while you ride out your orgasm.

He pulls away, a twisted grin on his face. “Look at you,” he shakes his head, tugging off his pants to reveal his hard cock.

He strokes it with one hand, using the other to trail up and down your shaking body. You’re looking at him with those needy, desperate eyes. It’s like you’re begging him to take you.

He lands a slap to your pussy, laughing at the way you whine and try to close your legs around his hand. He spreads your legs apart, positioning himself between them so all you can do is wrap your legs around his hips.

He shoves his way inside of you, your walls straining to take him after all this time. He’s so big, so much bigger than you, it’s a struggle. You close your eyes and whine, reaching desperately for his shoulders. For anything to ground yourself.

Miguel settles into a steady pace, slamming his hips into yours, bottoming out with every thrust. He’s so deep inside of you, stretching out every part of you.

With every thrust he admires the fucked out look on your face. Your whines and whimpers and pleas for him to keep going only drive him further, speeding up his pace just so he can keep hearing you whine like that.

You claw at the skin of his back, each thrust pushing you farther across the counter before Miguel tugs you back to him and thrusts again. You slide your hands from his shoulder to his arms, gripping at the muscles of his forearms.

His muscles flex with every thrust, tugging you even further against him. He watches how desperate you are, how badly you need to finish. He knows if he keeps up this pace, you won’t last long.

So he stops, leaving just the tip of his cock inside of you.

You whine in protest, opening your eyes to reveal tears starting to form. “W-why’d you stop?”

“Admit you’re mine,” he emphasizes his words with a thrust before holding still, “or you don’t get to cum again.”

“M-miguel, please,” you whine, looking up at him with those desperate eyes.

He stares at you unimpressed, trying to resist the urge to keep going so he can finish too. But he won’t. Not until you say it.

You try to thrust your hips against his but he holds you still, and he’s so much stronger than you that there’s no chance of moving.

You sigh. You didn’t want to be put in this position again, but he’s so sexy and you’re so hot and wet and all you want is to cum, and his big cock is just sitting there inside of you. You clench around him, whining.

“I-I’m all yours.” You whine, trying to pull him back to you, “only yours.”

He grins, immediately thrusting back into you. His pace is faster now, more frantic. Desperate.

He wipes a few tears from your face, “isn’t it just so much easier when you submit to me? Don’t you love it when you don’t have to think about anything other than being my slut?”

His words make you drool and clench around him, wrapping your legs around his waist to force him deeper. Miguel gets the hint, throwing one of your legs over his shoulder and fucking into you even harder.

He’s so close, but he refuses to finish until you do. He leans in, leaving gentle bites up and down your neck and collarbone. The slight pain is enough to finish you off, your orgasm washing over you in intense waves.

As soon as he feels your legs shaking, your muscles relaxing, Miguel knows he can let go. He pounds into you a few more times before bottoming out and letting wave after wave of cum flood your insides.

The hot feeling has you moaning, lazily rolling your hips into his while he pumps his cum inside of you. Miguel pulls out, admiring the sight of you on the counter with his cum leaking out of you.

He pulls on his clothes and leans in to kiss you. “This is how it should be,” he says. “You better be ready for me next time, no nonsense.”

“Yes, sir.”

He smirks at your submission. “Good girl,” he says, and disappears into the night.

#spiderman #spider man 2099 #spider man 2099 x you #spider man 2099 x reader #spiderverse x reader #spider man 2099 smut #miguel ohara #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara x you #miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara smut #smut #x you #x reader #miguel spiderverse #miguel x you #miguel x reader #miguel smut

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 9 months ago

Text

Soldat

A random drabble for @startcarvingdarling

Warnings for fear, kidnap, and spanking.

Character: Bucky Barnes, side of Peter Parker

“Peter? I’m waiting,” you say as he finally picks up.

“Hmm? Waiting? What do you mean?” He asks as you hear something whirring in the background.

“What? Don’t tell me you forgot.” You sneer, “you’re at the lab, aren’t you?”

“Uh, yeah, of course. Where am I supposed to be?” He sputters.

“Meeting me for our date!” You snip. “Ugh, I’m so embarrassed.”

“Date? What—I didn’t-- I guess I forgot but I don’t remember--”

“You never remember anything, do you? Not unless you’re getting some award or simping for Tony.” You huff.

“What? I mean it. I have no recollection of this--”

“You texted me last week. Said you want to spend some time together since you’ve been so busy and—Never mind. I’m not doing this. I’m not responsible for keeping your mind straight,” you shake your head, “bye.”

You hang up as your eyes prick. You should have expected it. You can barely get a message back so why would he follow through on this? Besides, all he ever talks about are his gadgets.

You drop your arm and turn to the restaurant. You look up and groan. He probably didn’t even make a reservation. You drag your feet away and head back down the street.

The marquee lights reflect off the dark pavement and cast your shadow across the curb. As you walk, others pass by merrily in couples and groups. They’re raucous as they head out for a night of fun. For time with people who care about them.

You turn down the next street. It’s emptier, and darker, away from the main strip. Your footsteps echo and you cross the street, undeterred as the traffic is sparse. As you get to the other side, you flinch. You turn. You thought you heard something.

As you turn back, you jump. There was a shadow there. You spin and search the darkness. You’re imagining things. Even if that’s the case, it is New York.

You speed ahead through the cones of light glowing from the tall street poles. You pump your arms as your breath hitches. Your heart is racing. You hear another scuff. You turn but see nothing.

You jump as there’s a clatter down the alley and you squeak, stumbling back. You whirl around again and this time, your path is blocked. The silhouette of a man looms between the safe haven of the lights. His shoulders are broad and his feet wide.

“Um, you—take it,” you throw your purse at him. He swipes it away. You flinch and step back. “Sir, I don’t--”

He steps forward and your voice fizzles in the air. You know him. It’s Bucky. Yet, it doesn’t seem like him. His posture is different and he has a black mask over the lower half of his face. His eyes are almost black and he move mechanically as he comes closer.

“Bucky? What are yo--”

He grabs you by your throat and you cough. You latch onto his wrist as your phone bounces off the sidewalk. You whimper. The street light is swallowed up in his pupils as brings you near. He presses his nose to yours, the fabric of the mask rough.

He tilts his head as he pulls back and launches you up. He takes a step and catches you easily over his shoulder. He veers and marches into the alleyway as you squeal. His hand cracks across your ass and your voice catches. He squeezes until your whine, digging into your flesh.

“Wait- what--”

He hushes you as he keeps going. You kick your legs and swipe at his back. He doesn’t stop. It’s as if he can’t hear you. As if your pleas are nothing, just like your weight on his shoulder.

His laughter echoes against the brick walls as he carries you into the shadows. You don’t know where he’s taking you, or why, but you know you should be afraid. This isn’t Bucky, this is what he used to be.

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #winter soldier #captain america #avengers #mcu #marvel #drabble

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softcursechoso · 4 months ago

Text

Somewhere, We Do: Ch. 1

JJK x Reader

Nanami x Reader

Masterlist

MDNI! // 18+ //NO SPOILERS ARE OFF LIMITS!

Ch. 1 Warnings: None

Summary: Drowning in the monotony of corporate life, you and Nanami both find yourselves at the end of your ropes—exhausted, overworked, and utterly disillusioned. The world of deadlines and fluorescent office lights has drained you both, but fate has other plans. In each other, you find solace, understanding, and a passion neither of you expected. But in a world where duty always comes first, can love this intense truly last?

Words: 3.5k+

HAZELNUT ESPRESSO

Shinjuku : 1:30pm : The Flour Garden

“If I have to remake one more goddamn Iced Honey Lavender Matcha with oat milk, two pumps of vanilla, one pump of caramel, light ice, and a dusting of cinnamon I’m gonna lose my shit!” The voice of a very impatient barista cut through the crowd like a knife.

The Flour Garden is where you were. A modern jungle of caffeine fueled chaos was clearly on the menu today. It was nestled in the heart of Shinjuku. The cafe was an architectural fusion of industrial minimalism and warm organic textures. There were polished concrete floors, matte black steel framing that ran down the glass windows and let in the hazy midday winter sunlight.

Hanging ferns and pothos cascaded from geometric planters, and was a nice counter to the contrasting monochrome furniture. It was a nicely decorated spot when it wasn’t packed practically shoulder to shoulder.

Every table was filled, and every booth occupied. The sheer volume of conversation created an ever-present buzz that crackled with frustration- which is what probably ticked off the barista. But shit, it was lunch time in one of Tokyo’s busiest districts.

Maybe the frustration was getting to you too. “Tch, be a little more unprofessional for those in the back, lady.” You mumbled under your breath, “Is it too much to ask for a black coffee and a damn donut? The hell are these people ordering?”

A low grunt of agreement rumbled behind you, “Tell me about it.”

The line inched forward at a snail’s pace. No, worse than a snail’s pace. Was time reversing?

You crossed your arms over your chest, “The cafe up the street has food twice as good with half the attitude.”

The stranger behind you spoke again, a tinge of irritation behind it. “I have to be back to work in thirty minutes.”

You laughed, exhausted, from the relatability. “Same, and it’s so dumb. I spend half my break walking to this shitty cafe, just to stand in line for ten minutes. I sprint back to work, and attempt to scarf it down in five. How the hell does an hour lunch turn into five minutes?”

Ughhh, you were pulling your hair out… well, not actually. The swoop bun was quite sleek today. Couldn’t mess that up.

“That’s a desk job for you.” The person sighed.

The words were a little too close to home. Who were you talking to?

You finally turned around, and when you did, you stalled… like completely. The man behind you was tall, broad, and absolutely miserable looking. Somewhere between wanting to wither away and wanting to beat everyone's ass in this godforsaken cafe.

His blonde hair was neatly parted to the side, and you couldn’t really see from this angle, but it kind of looked like he had a bit of a fade going on in the back perhaps? Maybe a little undercut or something? He was very handsome, and his features were sharp. Kento Nanami.

He radiated exhaustion and the kind of stoic indifference that only came from years of corporate suffering. You knew it all too well.

“Tell me about it.” You laughed slightly nervous over knowing who you were talking to now. “Where are they overworking you at? Cause listen, I-”

Before you could finish talking, something slammed down hard on your foot. Your right black pump was scuffed. Why?

“Ow!” You reeled back.

A man had stepped in front of you, cutting in line. His heavy boot stepped on your foot in the process.

You stare at the man with knitted eyebrows, just baffled at this shit. “Um, excuse you?”

“Excuse you.” He snaps back at you with unwarranted sarcasm.

You gesture behind you at the line that stretched all the way to the entrance and nearly out the door. “The line starts way back there. You can’t just cut—and also, you stepped on my foot, hello?”

The man barley even turned back your way, waving a dismissive hand over his shoulder. “Shut up, bitch. I only stepped out of line for a minute.”

First of all… what? You didn’t know where to begin. The fact that he was in line, sure, but he definitely had been gone for like fifteen minutes. Or maybe the fact that he never asked you to hold his place. Or the fact that he was so casually calling you a bitch!

Yeah, he picked the right one today. You took a sharp inhale, preparing for rebuttal when- a delicate hand is placed on your back for a brief moment.

“Excuse me.” The businessman stepped in front of you, partially blocking your view. “You can either step out of this line, or you can step outside.”

Oh shit!

His tone was calm, but the weight of it was deadly. It felt like the temperature shifted. It was winter in Tokyo, but that ice had nothing on this man. It was suddenly very cold in here.

The man who cut you turned around and immediately froze up. It was as if he had sensed something primal and inescapable. A hulking businessman at the end of his rope? He didn’t want this fight.

“Whatever. Food sucks here anyway.” He hurried away.

“Hold on.” He placed a powerful hand on the man’s shoulder, “You stepped on her foot.”

It wasn’t just a comment. It was a very stern suggestion to do something about it. Make amends if you will.

The wiry man looked at Nanami with the fear of God in his eyes before turning them to you. “My- uh, my bad lady.” He shrugged out of the light grasp and hastily left.

Nanami took a step to the side, gesturing for you to resume your spot in front of him. Almost like the warmth had returned in one fell swoop. Could this guy control the temperature or what?

You turned to him with a grateful smile, “Thank you so much. That was very kind. You didn’t have to do that.”

Before he could respond, the barista’s sharp voice rang out. “Hello?! It’s your turn miss there’s better food up the street.”

Oh damn, she heard that?

You bowed politely to the man behind you once more before stepping up to the counter. The menu loomed before you and suddenly you went blank. What did you want again?

“Hmm…” You tapped your fingers against the counter, eyes skimming the options. “Strawberry danish… nah, might be too sweet. Chicken Pesto Sandwich- I’m not gonna finish that. Miso butter toast?” You sucked your teeth, “That’s not a meal though…”

The barista sighed loudly, “Are you being serious? You spent all that time complaining about the service and you have the audacity to come up to this counter not knowing what you want?”

This lady was so rude, but unfortunately she was very right. You couldn’t even be mad.

“Hold on, that’s not true. I know what I want… I juuuuust…” Panic began to set in. Fuck! You were taking too much time! “I waaaant theeee…”

“Ma’am?!”

“Hojicha dirty latte and gochujang miso grilled tofu?” You regretted it right after saying it. Why were you trying something new? This never ended well. Oh well.

“Finally.” The barista huffed under her breath as she began to put in your order.

Before you swiped your card, you leaned in a little bit. “Oh, can you also ring me up for a hazelnut espresso for the guy behind me?”

It was your way of saying thank you. After she took your name and you paid, you’d scan the cafe for an open seat.

Like the heavens above blessed you with luck, a small group walked away from a booth. Ah! Yes! And they didn’t leave a mess. Amazing.

You swooped in immediately and slid into the seat. You’d smooth down your black pencil skirt before sitting down. Yes, a black skirt suit is what you wore. Black blazer and white button up with a black tie. Just like the guy behind you said- that’s a desk job for you.

You’d pull out your phone while you waited for your name to be called. The cafe remained a chaotic blur of white collar workers rushing in and out. Groups of college students huddled in conversations. Overworked baristas slamming espresso shots into machines. Meanwhile you were half tuning out when you got a message notification.

Your best friend and coworker. It was always a risk opening her messages in public… or private. You clicked it open absentmindedly and immediately regretted it.

[Kaya 🤡]: LOOK AT THIS DICK PIC MY STALKER EX SENT ME! LOOK AT IT! WHY WOULD HE SEND THIS?!?!

Your phone nearly slipped your grasp as you attempted to click off, “Holy-” You slapped the phone face down on the table hoping no one in this crowded ass cafe happened to see.

It was never a dull moment with this woman. The two of you met back in high school. You remained tight despite going to different colleges, and serendipitously ended up working at the same office.

With a heavy sigh, you typed back:

[You]: Why the hell would YOU send ME this?!

The message was read immediately, and three little dots danced as she typed back.

[Kaya 🤡]: Because I needed to share my pain. That’s what best friends do. Now you have to suffer with me.

[You]: Block him.

[Kaya 🤡]: No, because then where would I get my daily dose of horror?

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head with a faint smile. This was absurd, but it was also the nature of your relationship. Never failed to exhaust you. Never failed to entertain you.

As you buried your face in your phone, your peripheral vision caught movement. You glanced up to see a small plate with mont blanc set in front of you. Chestnut strands cascading in delicious swirls and dusted with powdered sugar. Mmmm!

Your eyes traced the retreating hand that placed it there, following it up the sleeve of a well tailored black suit. Oh..OH! Him!

“Consider it a thank you for the coffee.” He gave an almost imperceptible smile.

You gazed up at him with a slightly amused smile. “I bought the coffee to thank you for earlier though. Seems you’ve one upped me.”

His expression didn’t change much, but there was something subtle in his eyes. Something knowing. “So it seems.”

You exhaled a small laugh, “Well at this rate we’ll be locked in a cycle of favors. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that kind of commitment.”

He made a faint sound, almost a hum of amusement, though his face remained neutral.

You tilted your head slightly, “Where did you say you worked again?”

“I didn’t.” He replied simply. “But I work about three blocks away. Stockbroker.”

You let out a knowing- “Ooh. Salaryman?”

He exhaled through his nose like something caught between a laugh and a sigh. “Something like that.”

You pointed at yourself, “Human Resources. I’m in that similar direction.” You nodded to the empty seat, “Would you like to have a seat? I dare you to find somewhere else to sit. It’s packed in here.”

He hesitated, “I couldn’t impose.”

You rolled your eyes with a light scoff, “Sure you can. It’s just a seat, not a ticket to a luxury resort. If it were, then yeah, I’d reconsider.”

Something flickered in his gaze. Interest perhaps? Small, but distinct. “Dream vacation, I assume?”

You nodded, resting your chin in your palm. “I’ll only talk about it if you impose on my lunch break.”

He gave a soft nod before taking a seat opposite you in the booth.

Hell yeah! You just secured the sexy salaryman at your table! Okay- play it cool…

You smiled, “Just so we’re not total strangers, you can call me-”

You perked up upon hearing your name get called for your order. Finally.

“That.” You gestured toward the counter, “You can call me exactly that.”

For the first time the faintest trace of amusement crossed his features, “Nanami.” He nodded, “And I appreciate your generosity.”

“You’re welcome Nanami.” You pushed yourself out of the booth, “I’d ask you to save my seat, but then you’d be one upping me again and I just can’t have that. I will be right back.”

You made quick work of collecting the food you definitely didn’t care to eat or drink before you returned to the table. You’d scoot back in the booth and start digging into that mont blanc.

“So,” he prompted, lifting his cup. “Tell me about this dream vacation.”

You stuck your fork into the dessert, a smile crossing your face before you started, “Oh, I’ve put a lot of thought into this. It’s been a long time coming.” “Let’s hear it.”

“Malaysia.” Your smile softened. “Waking up in an overwater villa with the waves gently lapping beneath me. The sunrise spilling gold across the ocean. I want my mornings to be slow. Just wandering the streets, sipping teh tarik. Maybe visit the market and buy some tropical fruit. Quiet afternoon in the Cameron Highlands. At night I wanna see the lantern lit markets and just enjoy the life of not having to send another goddamn email explaining that begging your coworkers to invest in your pyramid scheme does not qualify as networking… even if for a moment.”

The words just poured out of you. It was unfiltered and passionate, and although Nanami didn’t outright smile, you noticed how he never interrupted. He sat with his elbows on the table, fingers loosely curled around his espresso cup, and his hazel eyes fixed on you.

You’d continue, your eyes turning slightly out the window beside you now, “I think I’ve been putting it off because I have a feeling that if I go I’ll probably never come back.”

There was a silence. Comfortable silence. Like the words were being considered and taken in. But it was then that you realized that was probably way too much to be saying to a stranger.

“I am so sorry.” You frowned just slightly, “I feel like for someone who works HR I should know social boundaries a little better. That was probably a lot for someone I just met.”

The blonde shook his head, “Not at all.”

There was no false politeness in his tone. No empty courtesy. It was just calm and measured with sincerity. It was like he meant it.

You took another forkful of the mont blanc, “I usually don’t talk this much.”

“I usually don’t listen this much.”

Well that caught you off guard.

“So what I’m hearing is, I’m special?” You tilted your head, smirking.

“I might phrase it a little differently, but sure.”

You chuckled, “Careful Nanami. That almost sounded like a compliment.”

He exhaled, “Well, slip of the tongue I suppose.”

You grinned, “Well since I completely overshared, it’s only fair you do the same. Dream vacation. Let’s hear it.”

You could see his eyes almost dim. Like there was something so real about the answer he was going to give you.

“Home.”

Shit…

Maybe it was an answer far too real. If home was a dream vacation, then that meant he was being far more overworked than he ever let on.

The conversation continued, and the hustle of the city roared outside. It felt like time was kind enough to slow down for you just a little bit so you could enjoy this conversation with a relatable stranger.

The smell of brewed espresso and cinnamon wafted through the air. It was like a warm moment of peace.

“Yeah, so I studied at Duke. Four years, in and out and then I came back to Japan.” You shrugged, “What do I have to show for it? A mountain of debt hidden by a prestigious name.”

Nanami made a quiet, amused sound. Almost like he knew.

“That sounds like higher education.” He took a slow sip of espresso. “And unfortunately, not an uncommon story.”

You sighed dramatically, slumping in your seat just a tiny bit, “I know, but you see, I had this idea that I could be the exception. Get my degree, come back, and just boom! Instantly land a high paying job with a great title and live up to my full potential.”

“And instead?” He quirked an eyebrow.

“Instead, I came back as another statistic, Nanami.” You sat back up.

Your words were clearly amusing to him.

You leaned forward now, resting your chin on your palm, “I didn’t go to one of the best schools just to have some underqualified middle manager with a big ego push all their busywork onto me… but according to my bank statements- yes the hell I did.”

And with that, something incredible happened. You actually got the stoic man to laugh. Not exhale. Not smirk. Not just a hint of amusement. A low, but very real and genuine chuckle. That honestly felt like a win, and you would certainly count it as one.

You wouldn’t call him out for actually having laughed for the first time during this conversation, but you were going to internalize it for sure.

Still smirking, he rested his arm on the table, “Alright then, tell me this. What is the worst part about your job?”

You let out a long, suffering sigh, “Oh God, I have decision paralysis now. There are so many options. I guess I have no right to really complain because I just got this job like three months ago, but it’s the same shit as the last job. The work life balance speech they sell you during orientation is a joke.”

The man nodded as his intrigue deepened. “Yes, the infamous corporate lie.”

You nodded, “Yeah, they're like we want you to thrive. We care about our employees. Take your time to adjust. Go at your own pace.” Your eyelids lowered in irritation, “Then a month in they start sending emails at 11:42pm like- Hey can you circle back on this?”

There it was again, you coaxed another laugh and it was so worth it.

He set his cup down, “And of course they follow up the next morning asking you something else as if you weren’t already up to your neck in work.”

You slapped your hand against the table. “Exactly! And you can’t even be mad because technically they didn’t say you had to answer last night, but if you don’t you're suddenly not a team player and you’re the unreliable one in the office now.”

The blonde sighed deeply, “Ah, corporate manipulation at its finest.” He’d pause for a brief moment, “So you think there is more to life than just work?”

It was a simple question, but he asked in a way to gauge where your head was at. It wasn’t that he was seeking an answer to some deep philosophical question. But, come on, did he know who he was asking?

“I think that most people convince themselves that work is the means to an end, but that’s just because they don’t know what they’d be doing otherwise.” You shugged, “I mean there has to be me more to life than this, because I for one cannot put up with this shit for the next forty years.”

He’d chuckle once more, and you could tell he was getting comfortable with doing so.

You’d continue. “I think life is about building character.” Your fingers traced the rim of your now finished latte. “It’s not about standing on the shoulders of giants, but becoming one yourself. Forging your own path.”

Once again his gaze was steady and calculating. Listening.

“You either stand with the greats or look up to them as far as I see it.” You grinned, “And I don’t know about you, but looking up for too long makes my neck kinda hurt.

He laughed once more, “You’re an interesting one.”

What a compliment! Or, at least you’d take it as one.

Before you could respond, your phone vibrated against the table. Your alarm! Shit! You were supposed to be back already. Your lunch break was over, and you were officially late. It was worth it though. This conversation was nice.

“Damn, back to work for me.”

Nanami finally took the last sip of his espresso and collected the trash from his lunch. “Same here.”

You smiled at him, genuinely, “This conversation was a surprising pleasure.”

His eyes stayed locked on you, like he was taking in the moment one final time before the interaction was up. “The pleasure was all mine.” He’d pause for a beat, “Should our paths cross again, you can just call me Kento.”

Ah! Your heart! Did it speed up or stop?! It was so hard to tell! Kento?! First name basis?!

“Alright, Kento. I’ll be seeing you.” You’d gather your purse and your tray with your now eaten lunch before heading back to the corporate battlefield.

You’d take a half step away before turning to him again, “Thank you.” Your voice was softer this time, “It’s been a long time since I laughed like that.”

He didn’t know it, but you felt like you were drowning lately. It was like you both met at the end of your rope and somehow combined it to buy each other a little extra time. It was more than just a pleasant conversation, for both of you.

Your feet felt like anchors now. Were you really about to leave? You were going to let this sexy salaryman with all this potential walk out of your life like that? Your heart was pounding. Could you ask for his number? Would that be weird? Too suggestive? Shit!

You’d take a few steps away, but something was gnawing at you. Don’t do it. Don’t leave yet! You turned around…

“Hey.” You both spoke in unison.

“Yes?” You replied first.

“Please, after you.”

You hesitated, forcing your nerves down, “Do you want to exchange numbers?”

His eyes stayed on you, and the faint smirk crossed his lips, “You read my mind.”

Play! It! Cool!

You pulled out your phone and handed yours to him, and he’d do the same for you. This was not the day you were planning on having, but honestly, after all the corporate bullshit you’d been putting up with lately… it was the one you deserved.

Kento Nanami

New Contact: Saved

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jasontoddsdarling · 1 year ago

Text

perihelion

— pairing: red hood x female reader

— words: 2,9k

— tags: smut 18+, naked female clothed male, cunnilingus (jason is a pussy eater and i meant it here), size differences*, size kink, rough sex, vaginal sex, belly bulge, overstimulation, creampie, fluff at the end

*❗content warning: repeated (and i meant repeated) descriptions about their size differences, so proceed with caution! it's going to be excessive lol so if it's not your cup of tea you can skip this one :)

"Red."

She whimpers pathetically, eyes blurry with unshed tears as she looks down at the man situated in between her wide open thighs.

Red Hood's tongue delves into her pussy, eating her out like a man starving. Maybe he is. Because it's been… what? Thirty minutes? And he hasn't stopped. Not even for stretching his massive body or something. Not for one second, even.

His lips keep making out with her cunt.

She's overly sensitive.

But by hearing her mewling his name it spurs him on, for he's sucking her clit hard with a low groan.

Her hips shot high. She will probably reach the ceiling of her room if Red Hood's hands on her hips aren't holding her down.

"Red! Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!"

She sobs, orgasm wrecking her body like a ship against gigantic waves. Tears falling down her face in rivulets, dampening her soft pink pillowcase.

She can hear Red Hood shuffling now, by the sound of the fabric of her bedding against his clothes.

"You said you want to take my cock whole and not just half to three quarters," he says, voice hoarse, "I should prepare you thoroughly to make that possible. And multiple orgasms seem to prepare your tiny pretty pussy better indeed."

He proves his point by sweeping his fingers around her pussy opening, gathering her arousal.

"Look at this."

He's showing his shiny fingers to her.

"Look at you gushing for me. All for me, isn't that true, princess?"

"Yes, Red. All for you."

Red Hood smiles, eyes glittering with wickedness and blown wide with lust behind his mask.

Red Hood quickly works, removing his belt and thigh holsters and dragging his trousers and briefs down above his knees.

He positions his leaking fat cock on her entrance, moving it up and down that at some point the angry red tip catches inside her.

She jerks at that, letting out a gasp. Her body always seems to forget how big he is compared to her.

Red Hood doesn't seem to notice because now he's placing his cock on her entire mound, his tip rests right above her navel. She shudders at the image both of them create.

He is so massive. It should make her feel wary or something, she thinks, but she just feels that she's being taken care of and protected by this masked vigilante. A man that's capable of eradicating crime without mercy in Gotham streets is also able to worship her body and make her feel safe whenever she's with him, making her feel so wanted.

See, her thoughts have wandered into deeper territory she doesn't wish to visit—at least not right now anyway, when the man above her is about to be balls deep inside of her.

She directs her mind to the present.

Red Hood rubs his cock on her pussy, slathering the underside with her arousal from the orgasms he has drawn from her.

"I'm not doing my job well if you're able to leave me alone and busy with your thoughts."

"Huh?"

She doesn't think Red Hood realizes that, she's pretty sure she was just lost in her mind for some milliseconds.

Red Hood removes himself from the top of her. She is about to protest but he swiftly sits on his haunches and pumps his cock with his precum and the wet underside of his cock from her arousal, slathering the moistures all over his cock.

Before knowing it, he has positioned himself back above her body.

She knows if hypothetically there's a mirror on her ceiling, she's only able to see his broad shoulders and toned body on the reflection—maybe her thighs if she opened them wide but that's it—because this massive man just simply covers her smaller torso with his. And she likes it more than she ever should.

Red Hood eases his tip inside of her and she feels the relief of having a part of him in her.

She closes her eyes as he keeps feeding her pussy with his cock.

She can feel the slight pleasant ache that indicates he's working himself deep inside of her. He's probably almost all in now, she thinks.

But when she opens her eyes he's only about halfway inside.

Red Hood's expression indicates that he's holding back, pleasure written all over his face.

But he is nothing if not relentless, keep pushing hips and drawing back, trying to ease the process. He keeps stuffing her with the rest of his cock centimeter by centimeter.

When he's like four fifths inside her, he groans her name.

"Princess. You're–" he groans, "you're always so tight. But I think this is the tightest you've ever been."

She preens at his dirty talk.

"It's you that is so big, Red. Why are you so big, so so big."

Tears gathered in her eyes at the sensation of his fat cock almost fully nestled inside of her. She has never felt like this, so full and whole. And he hasn't even all the way in.

And it's true. He's very considerable, and definitely the biggest one she has ever taken. The first time they're doing this—it was two months after he was wounded in her fire escape and kept visiting her weekly since then, just hanging out and mindlessly talking with her after his patrol—Red Hood was only able to put one third of his cock inside of her because he was afraid he was going to break her, even though she was begging him to just put the rest of it inside. Afterwards he was making it up to her by eating her out until she couldn't feel her thighs because of how he was holding her down so she couldn't squirm away from his ministrations.

Red Hood growls in her ear, cupping her tit and harshly playing with her nipple.

"You're flattering me so much, my sun."

My sun. Her nickname from him after learning the meaning of her name. It makes her feel buzzing that has nothing to do with him currently working his cock to be buried deep inside of her body.

Red Hood swaps his fingers with his hot mouth, his teeth pulling at her peaked brown nipple.

"Ah!"

Red Hood puts his forehead on hers.

His minty breath fanning her hair as he stuffs the rest of his cock while also keeps distracting her from the stretch by circling her areola with her tongue and sucking on her nipple and globe of tit—leaving hickeys, switching between right to left.

Until he accomplishes the thing that she has wanted since the first time they slept together: the entirety of his fat cock inside of her pussy.

"Redredredredoh."

She feels intense stretch and pleasure she has never felt before, feeling his cock stretch her and the length of it reach a part inside her no one has ever been able to go.

She feels so incredibly full.

"That's it. It's all in. You take all of my cock. Your tiny cunt is able to swallow all of me."

Red Hood kisses the rivulets that sliding down her cheek away, licking them clean.

She squeezes her inner muscles at the praises and the gesture and he groans, deep rumbles of sound from his chest.

She can feel every ridge of his cock, his veins rubbing deliciously against her walls.

She has to bite her lips to contain her mewls.

"We're a tight fit. You're so good for me, so perfect."

She moans at his praises.

Curious, she looks down at the part where they're joined.

A tiny gasp leaves her at the sight.

Her lower stomach has a bulge from his cock residing inside.

Red Hood touches the indentation on her lower stomach, pressing on where his cock is nestled deep in her.

"Look where I am inside of you."

He says as he keeps the pressure on her skin.

"You're–you're so deep."

She breathes out, seeing the proof of how different their bodies are—how big, how massive he is compared to her regular size, sending minds into so many directions.

He caresses the bump with his hand like it's the first time he has ever witnessed this.

"It's the first time I have ever left something like this."

He says as if he knows what she's thinking about.

"You're so beautiful like this."

She whimpers, her blown wide dark brown eyes seeing his beautiful rugged face above her. Even though he's always with his mask, his beauty has never been able to be obscured by it.

Red Hood kisses her deep, his mask digging on her face. His arms beside her head are strained, holding his body from crushing her smaller one.

His kiss is bruising, his teeth scraping against her upper and lower lips equally. He swipes his tongue, demanding an entrance to her mouth that she immediately grants. His tongue swipes hers, their saliva strings connected and messy between their lips.

Red Hood starts to move his hips, drawing his cock in and out of her in an experimental thrust, his fingers rubbing on her engorged clit. She lets out a pleasurable sigh.

Seeing her body has adjusted to the feel of his entire length intruding her slick walls, he repeats the motion much quicker and she screams at how her throbbing pussy being speared over and over again by his thick cock, always managed to be balls deep and bottoming out inside of her tight cunt everytime.

Her hand tugs on the silky strands of his dark hair.

"You're created for me, made for taking my cock nice and whole."

Red Hood says each word in between each of his deep thrusts. He grunts on her ears, the sounds making her cunt gushing.

Her eyes roll to the back of her head by the carnal pleasure of his heavy thrusts and his dirty praises.

She sobs on his shoulder, long black hair wildly fanning on her soft pink pillow and her bed.

But instead of telling him to slow down, she tells him, "Harder, please. Give your all."

Red Hood always obliges her, she doesn't have to ask him twice. That's what he wants as well, but he wanted to build up the pleasure. But her asking him to do so without his initiative, it just spurs him on.

He plows her cunt roughly, the drags of his thick cock and its ridges sets her nerves on fire. She accepts the pleasure borderline on oversensitivity gladly. She takes them all like a champ. Partly because it's a hassle to thrust up her hips against his powerful one but also because she wants this, badly.

Beads of his sweats rolling down his cheeks, dropping on his light stubble and dropping on her tits. He swipes it away, fondling her tits and squeezing them. He pinches the erect peak and then closes his mouth on one of them, biting it hard. She cries, an orgasm tearing out of her by him, again for the nth time tonight.

"Red, you're so big, so deep. So deep."

She babbles the only words she can only think of at this time.

Her mind is completely blank with the way his cock keeps making space inside of her deeper and deeper as if it's still possible.

"So big, oh God. Big. So thick… my tiny cunt."

She looks like she's delirious with the height he brings her, the words that will make her hide her face with her hands if she ever remembers she ever speaks of them.

His chest rumbles at her mindless dirty praises to him, his eyes almost rolling to the back of his head, his sacks drawn tighter, preparing to blow his massive loads.

If she keeps praising him like this with the cute and ethereal blissed out face of hers, messy but glowing black hair tangling on his fingers, and glistening skin of hers, he isn't sure he's able to hold on longer. He has been holding his orgasm since he was eating her out hours ago.

"Where do you want me, angel?"

Red Hood asks, grunting and panting above her.

"Inside, please. Please cum inside of me, Red."

Red Hood growls at her consent and then draws his hips for the last time sending a deep, deep harsh thrust—that will send her head knocking against her headboard if he isn't currently clutching her hips to the point of bruising—until he's fully sheathed and bottoming out inside of her, the deepest he has been tonight, both of them sure—then losing himself in the height of his powerful climax.

A bodily shudder goes through her, her teary screams of pleasure are sure audible for her nearest neighbors.

Red Hood chants her name as his hot, thick white cum flows inside of her cunt, flooding her insides.

It's so much, too much.

The streams of his hot cum is somehow a relief but also making her oversensitive. She doesn't think anyone is able to give that much of cum in one climax, but she thinks—as her mind cleared by her most powerful peak tonight—he must have been holding his orgasm since he ate her out hours ago.

God knows if she were in his place—giving him blowjob multiple times until he climaxes—she wouldn't be able to hold hers and would probably orgasm alongside him with his cock deep in her throat. She shudders at her imaginative thought, not entirely against it—but Red Hood sure is, he likes the act of giving more than receiving.

She squirms because he hasn't stopped pumping his seed inside of her—balls still half drawn tight—but he shushes her and flicks her clit to calm her down from oversensitivity.

She's just there, lying blissfully where the broad shouldered man above her cooing at her and praising her for doing so good for him and but she's in between wakefulness and sleep. She feels it when his cock sends the last spurts of his cum inside of her, but he doesn't move until he has softened in her, then carefully pulled out of her.

Red Hood is lying down beside her, hasn't drawn his pants and briefs up.

He can feel the heavy stare of eyes in between her thighs, so she looks down on her body too.

Their combined fluids are a sticky white mess between her thighs, the blob of it peeking out from between her folds—not to mention the rest of his massive load inside of her cunt that probably will dribble down if she is as much as sitting down, she can't imagine if she tries to stand or walk, if she's able to in the first place, which she thinks she doesn't.

The man beside her has wrecked her pussy with his cock and taken her ability to stand for at least until this morning, the feeling of it will definitely last for a week though.

As if senses that she needs to clean up but can't, he stands, drawing his pants and briefs up without zipping the former—probably for easy clean up—and walking to her bathroom. He's there for two minutes—she checks her bedside clock—and then comes back with his pants zipped up, hair much tidier, and a wet, warm soft towel on his hand.

He sits on the edge of the bed, cleaning the stickiness on her thighs and the white blob of cum that peeking out from her labia—the latter carefully because he knows she is overstimulated after everything—and then goes back to the bathroom to deposit it in her basket of dirty clothes.

When he's back again, she's slightly moving her body up—still laying down, though—holding her stuffed animal in her naked form in between the shallow valley of her tits, the sight making him smile. He sits at the side of the bed, drawing her blanket up until it covers her navel.

He reaches for a bottle of water she has on her nightstand. Opening the cap, he offers it to her and because her head is only leveled up by her pillows at the back of her head and neck, some of it spills down her torso and slightly dampened her stuffie.

"Pengu!"

"Pengu is okay, she's a penguin."

He retorts before drinking the rest of the water.

She gives him her playful stink eyes, but says nothing and tries to rub the water with her blanket, even though it's obvious has been absorbed by the material of her stuffed animal.

She is still drying Pengu, so it surprises him when she asks, "Are you going to go, soon?"

"Do you want me to?"

He usually goes right after cleaning up, no hard feelings and anything.

But something is different in the air today, and he doesn't want to examine it further, but he knows he wants to stay here at least for some more hours.

"No."

She still hasn't looked at him, holding Pengu to her chest, so he pinches her chin up and kisses her.

"Okay, I will stay. Maybe until you sleep?"

She nods at him, her little smile is everything to him.

He lies down beside her, heads on the stack of her fluffy soft pink pillows that smells so her—peony and lychee scented perfume she wears—clothes intact and all, just without his belt and holster that are lying on her bedroom floor, but that's his problem for later.

For now, he caresses her hair and holds his head close to his chest until she falls asleep.

mariea's notes: wow, you made it here! technically, this fic is crossposted from my ao3 account, i wrote it in september 2023. slightly modified. and i mind slight. you can head to my account (link on my pinned) if you're curious about the change i made lol. anyway thanks for reading <3

#jason todd smut #jason todd x reader #jason todd x female reader #jason todd x fem!reader #red hood smut #red hood x reader #red hood x fem!reader #red hood x female reader #jason todd fanfiction #red hood fanfiction #mariea's fics #mariea's writing #mariea's works #queue <3

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