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nadvs · 6 months

Text

cam girl (part nine)

pairing rafe cameron x female reader

rating explicit 18+

summary you work two jobs. by day, you’re a maid for the cameron household, where rafe degrades you any chance he can get. by night, you’re a cam girl, hiding your face so nobody can recognize you. when you discover your new subscriber, the filthy-mouthed man obsessively paying you to do everything he can think of, is rafe, you’re not sure what to do next.

» masterlist

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You watch Rafe’s naked back as he sits on the edge of your bed, muscles flexing when he pulls something out of his bunched up jeans.

He puts a small box in front of you and anticipation bubbles in your chest.

What kind of kinky shit is it this time?

Your eyes flick up to meet his gaze. He looks so damn hot right now, his skin still glistening from the orgasm you just had on his face, his lids low.

Warmth pools in your stomach when you open the box.

You pick up the transparent, glass butt plug. It has a row of three circular beads, from small to big, on the end of it. You feel tingles of arousal at the thought of the sensation it’ll give you.

You have a feeling Rafe will get you to explore every toy and kink that exists.

“Is there anything you’re not into?” you ask him with amusement.

“Sharing,” Rafe replies. You meet his eyes again.

“So, if I asked you for a threesome…?” you tease.

“Get on your knees,” he says, shaking his head.

“That’s a no,” you laugh. You wouldn’t want to share him, either.

Your knees sink onto your bed, hips in the air and chest on your pillow. You look back, watching Rafe sit up and run his hand over your ass.

“Such a nice fucking ass,” he praises. “You like when I play with it, baby?”

You answer with a nod, pushing back on his hand. His palm smooths down the curve of your cheek. When his finger presses up against your asshole, your breath hitches.

You feel Rafe shift behind you and you lay your forehead down against your pillow, eyes shut in anticipation.

Pressing up against your bed, you can feel the cum he left all over your chest sticking to your sheets.

His finger slowly buries into your asshole and your toes curl. You hear him spit, his hot saliva dripping down your opening.

Rafe starts to slowly work his finger in and out of you. You squeeze your eyes, the pressure so gratifying.

He pulls out, surprising you with the sensation of his hot tongue against you.

“Oh, fuck,” you whisper, bucking forward.

He chuckles, his breath warm, clearly satisfied from your reaction. His tongue flattens and rolls against you, lapping, granting you a sensual pleasure you’ve never felt before. His hands roughly grip your asscheeks, spreading them apart to give him more access of you.

“You like that?” Rafe murmurs, continuing to lick you. “I knew you would.”

You start to roll your hips, already getting painfully turned on after cumming just a few minutes ago.

His tongue is firm and hot and wet against you, and when he pulls back to finger you again, you groan from need, curiosity getting the best of you.

“Put the toy in,” you whisper. “Please?”

“I love how fucking needy you are,” he rasps. The fact that Rafe loves something about you makes you smile into the pillow.

You hear the drawer of your nightstand roll and the sound of a cap being opened. Moments later, he presses the cool, lubed tip of the plug up against you and you bite your lip at the sweet pleasure.

He wraps a reassuring hand around your ankle while he pushes it into your ass, the first bead now inside you.

“You’re taking it so fucking good, princess,” he praises. “I knew you’d love getting your ass filled like this.”

He slowly pushes the second bead into you, the sensation of being stretched open then closed again making your pussy clench with need.

“That’s two, baby,” Rafe tells you. “You like how it feels?”

“I fucking love it,” you moan.

“You gonna use this toy for me on camera?”

“Yes, baby,” you promise. “Anything you want.”

“You’ll never say no to me, huh?” You can hear the smile in his voice. The third bead, the biggest, starts to push open your asshole, digging into you. Your ass hugs the smooth, wet glass of the toy tightly.

You take a sharp breath in. Rafe squeezes your ankle.

“You can do it,” he says. “This is the last one.”

You feel him shuffle his weight behind you. He slowly digs his cock into your pussy at the same time that he pushes the last of the toy into you.

You let out an uncontrollable moan, the double penetration elating.

“You look so fucking hot like this,” Rafe groans. “Your ass full and your pussy full… fuck.”

“It feels so good,” you groan, the desperation in your own voice surprising you.

Rafe’s hands settle on your hips, fingers pressing down hard. Your asshole clenches around the toy while your pussy swallows his cock and you don’t think this moment could get any better.

“Put that toy on your clit,” he orders you. A thrill rushes through you. You lift your head to find the rose toy close by and turn it on, sinking your cheek back into your pillow while you hold it against your clit.

The combination of his cock in your pussy, the plug in your ass, the toy sucking your clit is almost too much pleasure, making your head spin.

Your muscles tense and your blood runs hot as he starts to rock in and out of you. His thrashes quickly build up in intensity, the lewd noises of him panting and pounding into your soaked pussy filling your small bedroom.

You didn’t think you could reach an orgasm again this quickly, but the surge of pleasure racks you, making you twitch under him. The moan that spills out of you is so damn loud, even with the pillow muffling you, that it surprises you.

You drop the toy, your body weakening.

As you come down from the high, you can’t hold yourself up, starting to go limp, but Rafe’s hands on your hips keep you steady and propped up, continuing to pound into you.

“Stay up,” he mutters. “I’m not fucking done with you.”

Your thighs are burning in pain, but you obey and let him use you for as long as he needs to. He’s lost his rhythm, his thrusts getting sloppier, until he finally comes inside you with a tumble of breathy, dragged fuck’s rolling out of his mouth.

He finally releases you and you fall to your side, feeling him slip out of you, his cum dribbling out of your pussy.

“Shit,” you hear Rafe say in pleasure. You don’t even have the strength to look up at him. Your body is numb from elation as you clutch your pillow for a feeling of stability.

You don’t know how you’ll get up. You don’t even know your own name.

“You wanna keep this in?” Rafe says behind you.

“Huh?” you breathe.

“Damn, baby,” he laughs. “You’re fucked out.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, your eyelids fluttering. You feel him slowly pull the plug out of you, making your back arch. Consciousness floats away from you and you fall into a deep sleep.

You wake up under your covers, lying on your side, your skin feeling sticky and damp.

You shuffle onto your back, elbow nudging against Rafe’s firm body. You see him sitting up using his phone, wearing just his boxers, leaning against your bed frame.

“You’re here,” you say, surprised he stayed. He looks down at you, his smirk inciting a flurry of butterflies in your stomach.

“Had to make sure I didn’t kill you,” he says. You cover your eyes with your hands and laugh.

“That was fucking crazy,” you say, nudging him playfully. You realize his skin is wet, water droplets scattered across his muscular chest. “Did you shower?”

“Yeah.”

“Who said you could use my shower?” you joke.

“Huh,” he mutters. “You let me fuck you any way I want, but I have to ask to use a shower?”

You can’t help but laugh again.

“How long was I asleep?” you ask.

“Like twenty minutes?”

You find your phone on your nightstand to see it’s almost midnight.

You start to sit up, your muscles sore. You realize that Rafe placed your blanket over you and put a pillow beneath your head. And he stayed.

Your heart twists when you look at him. The dangerous thought that maybe he feels something for you hits you hard.

“You can go home if you want,” you say impulsively. “I’m gonna shower, too.”

He nods and sits up, looking completely unaffected. Even though you told him to leave, it hurts that he didn’t insist on staying the night. Fuck. This is getting messy.

He leaves and you try not to think about him while you shower. You fall asleep in his t-shirt.

The next day, you’re in your second class, dreading the quiz you have tomorrow, when a text buzzes on your phone.

Rafe: hey

You reply: hey

Rafe: send a nude

You try not to laugh and reply: i’m in class. u can wait til tonight

Rafe: what if i cant

You: then you have a problem

Rafe: ok i have a problem. now what

You smile to yourself.

You: my contact pic on ur phone is a nude. and u have videos. work with what u have

Rafe: what are u wearing

You: are u trying to sext with me right now

Rafe: yeah. dont act like you dont want it

You have to admit to yourself that he’s got you there.

Rafe: i just came back from the gym

A photo comes in and you lower your phone so nobody around you can see.

He’s standing in front of his bedroom mirror, the same mirror you’ve cleaned so many times, the image making your stomach twist with desire.

Rafe’s phone is below his face, showing the planes of his muscled chest, the valleys of his abs prominent. The large bulge under his shorts is so hot that you want to skip the rest of your classes and invite him to your place to fuck you for hours.

He knows he looks good.

You decide to mess with him a bit.

You: going to the gym makes u hard?

Rafe: dont fuck around. u know u make me hard

You have to squeeze your legs together. You decide to spill exactly what you’re thinking, recalling a day from a few weeks ago.

You: one time you came home from the gym while i was working and you looked so good that i almost jumped you

Rafe: u shouldve

Rafe: i want u to jump me every day

You: oh i know. how many times have we fucked at this point?

Rafe: lost count

You: me too

Rafe: did you like that toy up your ass last night

You: so much that i fucking passed out, rafe. btw im running out of drawer space with all the toys you’re buying me

Rafe: find more space

You: because it’s that easy

Rafe: ur such a brat sometimes

You: aw :( i want to be a brat ALL the time

Rafe: how have i not fucked that attitude out of you yet

You: you still havent given up on that?

You type out and send a second text running purely on impulse, unable to control your jealousy and insecurities at this point.

You: you might need to find a nicer girl for yourself

Rafe: noo

You wish you knew which one of your texts he’s answering.

You: no to what?

Rafe: dont need a nicer girl

You feel your cheeks heat up. Is it crazy to think that you’re more to him than just someone he’s fucking?

You: what are you gonna make me do tonight

Rafe: cum

You shake your head to yourself. You realize the professor has gone through quite a few slides at this point and you feel totally lost.

You: deal. stop making me horny. i have to pay attention

When you make it back home, a few of the items Rafe bought you last night sit packaged in front of your door. Being showered in presents is still a foreign feeling and you hate to wonder if Rafe will eventually get bored of spoiling you like this.

At 10 pm, you’re on your bed in just panties, in front of your laptop and thinking about how you have a new one on its way.

figure8 has joined the chat.

figure8: you gave me blue balls

You laugh.

“I can’t send you nudes while I’m in class, Rafe,” you tell him. “Unless you want me to get naked in front of strangers again?

figure8: not funny

figure8 has tipped you $100.

“What was that for?” you ask.

figure8: to remind you that you only get naked for me

You’re smiling so wide that you think he must know the effect he has on you. There’s no way Rafe doesn’t know how charming he is. You bet he’s seen this exact type of smile on lots of other girls.

“What can I do for you tonight, baby?” you ask.

figure8: straddle your pillow

You follow his instructions, bringing your pillow in front of you and getting up on your knees to put it between your legs.

You sink down on the lush material, sighing.

figure8: can u ride it for me?

You plant your hands in front of you, arms squeezing your tits together, as you slowly start to rock. The friction of the pillow and your panties immediately gives you a sense of pleasure, making you softly moan.

figure8: makes ur pussy feel good huh?

“Yes, baby,” you reply.

figure8: keep riding it. dont cum

You tighten your legs around the pillow, a rush spreading across your body. It’s not enough stimulation, but you won’t complain.

You’re waiting for his next instruction, but he’s not typing anything. You bite your lip as you continue to grind, starting to get impatient.

Finally, he sends a message.

figure8: ur gonna ride my thigh like that

The promise thrills you.

figure8 tipped you $1000.

figure8: im taking you out. be ready

figure8 has left the session.

You stop rocking your body immediately. Taking you out?

You’re not sure what to put on, so you settle on a short dress that you never wear and take off your panties. You figure Rafe will like the easy access.

Thankfully, it’s a warmer night so when you finally step out of your building, you’re comfortable.

When you settle in his Range Rover, you notice that his car smells like him. The scent of his cologne and his shampoo dances over your nose.

Rafe’s eyes trail down your body, his big hand curled around the steering wheel. A slow song is playing on his speakers.

“You have to be fucking kidding,” he mutters, jaw tightening.

“What?” you ask with a smile, pulling on your seatbelt. “Is this too slutty?”

“Is it too slutty,” he repeats with a scoff. He puts the car in drive, then puts his hand on your bare thigh. “Goddamn.”

Anticipation burns in you as Rafe drives to the beach and parks in the corner of a desolate lot. He’s quiet, which makes you all the more eager to see what he has planned.

“Get on my lap,” he orders.

You lean over the console to straddle him in the tight quarters. Your ass hits the steering wheel, accidentally honking the horn, startling you.

Rafe laughs in that sweet, innocent way you’ve only heard a few times.

“Don’t laugh at me,” you say, even though you’re giggling.

“I can’t put the seat any further back,” he tells you. Of course he can’t, maxing out the space he can get with his tall frame.

You look down at him, pressing your palms on the sides of his neck. In the darkness of the car, you can still make out his beautiful features.

“Got bored of my room?” you ask, teasing. You should have expected he’d want to have his way with you somewhere semi-public again.

“I’m gonna fuck you in more than just a bed,” he replies.

Rafe’s blue eyes drift down to your lips, his hands pressing into your thighs. When he drops his fingers to meet your naked pussy, your breath hitches.

“Holy fuck,” he groans, nearly a whimper, clearly surprised you’re not wearing underwear. He greedily spreads your lips apart and dips a finger inside of you immediately, slipping in with ease. You’re starved for him.

“I’ve been thinking about this pussy all fucking day,” he groans, his other hand gripping the back of your neck and pulling you forward.

He’s starved for you, too. Rafe’s open-mouthed kisses are hot and hungry and unrelenting.

Even though the parking lot is empty, the thrill of potentially being caught is so fucking hot.

You hate the feeling of him taking his hands off of you. He shifts under you and you prop yourself up on your knees the best you can while he undoes his jeans and pulls them down as far as he can.

His hands feverishly hike up your dress and he settles you onto his warm thigh, your pussy pressing up against his soft skin.

“Fuck,” you whisper.

“Ride it,” he tells you. “You’re doing all the work tonight. I’m not helping.”

You start to grind on him and the sensation of your folds spreading and curving on his taut thigh is fucking breathtaking. You’ve never felt each other like this.

Your foreheads are pressed together, your exhales tangling with each other in the warm air. He flexes his thigh for you, giving you more rigidity.

One of Rafe’s hands drops from your waist and he shuffles for something in the console, keeping his eyes on you.

Eventually, you notice he’s holding a necklace, and with how tightly pressed you are against him and how dark it is, you can’t see it. You just feel him put the cool chain around your neck, a pendant resting on your chest.

“Stay still for a second,” he says.

He looks past your shoulder to watch the clasp and close it. The feeling of Rafe wanting you to use him like this, to rub yourself on him, while he places yet another gift on you makes you almost delirious.

His hands find your waist to encourage you to move again. The windows are fogging up as you writhe on top of him. It feels fucking amazing, but you don’t want to finish like this.

“Can I cum on your cock?” you whisper. “Please?”

He breathes out another scoff that sounds like he’s in disbelief. It’s a thrill that simply asking him for what you want makes him behave like he’s in awe of you.

Rafe pushes against your waist to guide you to sit up and you watch as his hand pulls his cock out of his boxers. He grips the base, holding himself up for you.

You sink down on him and you both breathe in sharply at the pleasure.

The car starts to rock as you ride him raw, wrapping around his dick. The way he curves inside of you is absolutely perfect.

“You love this cock, don’t you, princess?” he rasps.

“Yes, baby.” Your voice is so fucking desperate. “I can’t get enough of you.”

“I make you so sore and you still wanna fuck me again and again,” he mutters. “Fucking obsessed with me. I fucking own this pussy.”

He smoothes a thumb against your clit, drawing circles on you. Your groan is broken and shaky when you start to tremble on top of him.

You can’t believe how fast he can make you cum. He’s been learning the mechanics of your body, the shit that makes you lose your mind, and takes full advantage of it.

“I’m gonna cum,” you say, continuing to bounce on him through the shattering orgasm.

“Keep riding it,” Rafe instructs. “Good fucking girl.”

Your pussy spasms around him, fluttering and even through the desire to slow down, you keep grinding on his hard cock.

His hand finds your neck and he squeezes as you start to drain the cum out of him, hot liquid pulsing inside of you.

Bright lights flash across the car and you urgently sit off of him, settling in the passenger seat. Another car simply drives past and you let out a breath of relief.

“You get scared?” he laughs.

“I told you not to laugh at me,” you say breathlessly. You look down to see the moisture between your legs is dripping on the seat.

“Shit, sorry,” you say, arching your back to pull your dress down.

“Don’t be sorry for that,” he says. His eyes dart down to your chest. “It looks good on you.”

You look down and now that you have the space, you can see the necklace. It’s a thin, silver chain with an ‘R’ pendant, encrusted with shiny diamonds. You’re already sure that this is the most expensive thing you’ve ever worn.

“Don’t want you to forget who you belong to,” he says with a smirk, his voice low.

“Rafe, this is…” You hear your heart pounding. You’re not sure what it is.

“You like it?” he asks. A shaky exhale escapes your lips.

Is this just tending to his fantasy of owning you or is it something more?

He acts like such a fucking boyfriend sometimes. Maybe there’s a world where Rafe Cameron’s girlfriend is a maid barely making it through college, instead of a girl just as wealthy and privileged as him.

The feeling of hope, of imagining him being yours and yours only, of imagining him doing more than just fucking you, is addictive.

“Thank you,” is all you can say.

“Looked good while you were riding me,” he mumbles with a hint of amusement in his voice.

You meet Rafe’s eyes again and you know no matter what the hell he does to you, whether he ends up breaking your heart or not, you won’t regret a single second you’ve spent with him.

{ read part ten here }

#rafe cameron #rafe obx #rafe outer banks #rafe x reader #obx smut #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron smut #rafe fanfiction #rafe fic #rafe fanfic #rafe x you #rafe smut #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x reader

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chris-prank · 1 month

Note

Ya i need to punish Dr. Seraph for ruining my plans/ripping my hero suit. Clothes are very expensive these days :(

So we tear his off and pound into him :3 !! ^^ ❤️❤️💯💯😍😍🔥🔥

Sub Yandere villain sidekick x Top GN hero reader

CW: NSFW, doggy style, top reader and slight teasing

So I got carried away and ended up writing around 1K words of smut…

Just like last time the reader is GN, it’s vague enough so you can choose if the reader has a dick or a strap-on.

･*:.｡..｡.:*･*:.｡..｡.:*･

“Do you know how much it costs to make a superhero suit? And don’t even get me started on the anonymous fees!”

Real frustration could be heard in your voice as the unpleasant memories of dealing with your supplier came to mind. But you swiftly chased them away to focus back on the man tied up under you.

“I’m s-sorry, if I k-knew I would ha—”

You placed your finger on his lips, shutting him up immediately.

“I don’t want shallow excuses or explanations, I want you to repay me properly.”

Dr. Seraph looked up at you with confusion. He knew what your intentions were, you had made them abundantly clear, yet he couldn’t connect the dots. How is him being tied up with bondage tape directly related to destroying your suits? Furthermore, he was wondering why you even had bondage tape in the first place! The mad scientist wasn’t complaining of course, but it’s not like it was efficient to apprehend criminals in any way, except…

You must have brought it with you just for this specific outcome! That’s it! You had planned on taking him for yourself! Oh, how quickly he convinced himself this was the truth and how flattered he was about it. And no matter how insane this conclusion was, he was indeed right.

He waited for you to take your finger off him to ask for clarification, but before he could open his mouth you effortlessly flipped him on his stomach, making the man yelp. You weren’t finished as you grabbed his hips, pressing his backside against your pelvis. That was enough to make this genius's brain go blank. He was already turned on by the predicament he had found himself in, but now a primitive desire had taken over any sense of logic he still possessed.

“Since you seem to love ruining my superhero suits, I think it's time for me to do the same with your uniform. That's the only punishment I’ll accept.” You caress his waist back and forth before adding, “I’m sure you’re fine with that, right?”

“Mm..y-yes.” He responded with a feeble voice.

You smiled to yourself, happy that he was so responsive. You took a handful of the fabric in your fist and pulled. His pants ripped apart like paper, making you feel like you were unwrapping a birthday gift. You tore until every inch of his private parts was exposed. The man gasped at this vulgar sight and buried his head back into the pillow.

You, on the contrary, admired your work. In this position, Vincent had the most perfect arched back and his ruined pants gave him a particular disheveled look. Soon enough, you had taken off your suit from the waist down, tossing it to the side without a care. A rush of excitement came to you when you felt Dr. Seraph pressing himself against your groin while letting out subtle whimpers.

You grope both of his ass cheeks as a response, before spreading them apart. With precise movements, you poured lubricant on top of it and prevented it from leaking all the way down by spreading it on his asshole. You stopped and instead rubbed your tip against his entrance to make it wet as well. After you were done, It was slightly glistening in the dim light of the room. By now, his noises had gotten louder, his legs trembling in anticipation.

“Are you ready Vincent?”

Hearing you say his real name made his cock and hole twitch.

“P-please, p-put it in.” He whined, impatience filling his voice.

He had already put aside the fact that this was supposed to be a punishment. He didn’t care if you destroyed his clothes, he had other ones, but there was only one you. Hell, he would let you tear down his entire wardrobe if it meant he could be fucked by you every night.

You grab his hips with one hand, making sure he would stay up right, and you positioned yourself with the other to stuff him full. Vincent threw his head back and cried out a lewd moan as your cock disappeared in his ass. You weren’t even down to the base that he was already gripping the sheets, nails digging through it. You also noticed it had gone in easy, a bit too easy even considering the lub.

“Someone has been preparing himself for me.” You teased, sinking deeper inside him.

Blood shot directly to the man’s face and to his cock, much to his embarrassment. He was already rock-hard, but the simple fact of implying that he has been stretching his insides for you, almost made him cum on the spot.

“Nggf…I-I didn’t…A-aahh! Mng—”

“Oh but you’ve been fucking yourself at the thought of me, haven’t you?” One of your hands grabbed onto his dick, giving it a few strokes while you added, “don’t worry I’m not mad.”

Vincent tried to hold in a sob by biting down his lips, as the mix of both different kinds of pleasure assaulted his nervous system. Though, nothing could prevent the tears from rolling down his eyes and into his mouth while he tried to answer you, emphasis on “tried”.

“Y—Mngh…” He couldn’t finish his sentence, as he felt your pelvis against his butt, meaning ou were completely inside him.

You waited until the mess of a man had visibly relaxed, before pulling back and thrusting inside again with more speed. The sounds of flesh smacking together and Vincent’s moan filled your ears like a melody. The way you bucked against him without mercy was contrasted with your thumb gently rubbing his hips in a praise like gesture.

There was one thing that was bothering you, as you glared at the upper half of his body. You had rolled up his coat a little when you were massaging his waist earlier, yet it wasn’t enough. You took the base of his uniform and ripped it in half all the way to his neck, the roll of your hips never faltering. Satisfied, you bent down and kissed his newly bare shoulders.

“That’s much better, don’t you think?” You took the chance to nibble there too, “And now your outfit is ruined, just like all my suits.”

“Nnhg Uh-uhh.” Whines and moans, mixing together as Vincent wished to speak.

You smile against his skin, satisfied with this little punishment.

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I tried to match your freak, so I hope you enjoyed it 💅🏻

(Oh and I can tell you that Dr. Seraph will have a lot of explaining to do the next day when he arrives in a wheelchair at a meeting.)

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devilmademewriteit · 1 year

Text

Playing Dangerous

part 2 of Salvatore

pairing: javier peña x afab!fem!reader

summary: sure, the fact that he’d schemed up an entire, elaborate ruse to get between your legs was upsetting. more upsetting was the fact that he refused to fess up, insisting that you needed to be protected (or at the very least—cautious) because your life was in ‘grave danger.’ most upsetting, however? that would be the fact that through it all and above everything else, you still wanted him—badly.

warnings: rough sex/smut (fingering, fem penetration, oral [m receiving]) so 18+ only content; afab fem reader; mentions of reader having long hair; bratty!reader; brat-tamer!javi; alcohol consumption; smoking; pet names (baby, sweetheart, cariño, hermosa); some angst; dubcon (slight intoxication, power imbalance, age gap).

word count: 10.7k (sorry again)

no use of y/n in this fic

hello here is part twooooo! thank you for all the love on Salvatore I absolutely love all of you so much. you don't rly need to read p1 to enjoy this, just know that: reader is the ambassador's secretary and is an asshole, Javi is also an asshole, they fucked for the first time a few days ago b/c he took her home after someone seemed to be after her life.

don’t forget to join the taglist if you’re nasty; feedback, asks, comments, smoke signals and carrier pigeons always welcome. kisses. -em<3

—

read part 3, Dark Paradise, here.

—

Let’s get in the back of your cop car, officer! - Playing Dangerous

“I am not speaking to you.”

Murphy’s eyes come alive with exasperation, a striking shift from their usual half-asleep, perpetually vacant gawp. Not quite at the point of impatience yet, his voice is soft when he responds.

“Please.”

You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms. An impassive sneer makes its way onto your expression.

Not a fucking chance.

Not only were you not planning on ever doing Steve Murphy—and especially, his asshole partner—even the smallest of favours throughout your remaining time on this godforsaken planet, you’d come to the conclusion (quite recently, in fact) that you’d rather dance barefoot on broken glass than be in the same room as either member of the pair.

And it was a shame, really.

After that (now regrettable, once incredible) night at Peña’s place, everything had been fine.

More than fine. Not even awkward.

For a glorious moment, waking up next to him, ruined and sore and bruised and satisfied, sharing a morning coffee and then a ride to work—peace (and the planted seeds of something else, too) had finally settled across the worn-in battlegrounds between you, solid roots spreading with each passing second spent not bickering. For crying out loud, when he’d gotten called away to Bogotá that very same day, you’d put yourself to work keeping his place clean, going so far as to anticipate his return.

Everything had been fine.

Until, of course, you’d gotten the old Chevy serviced.

“Car’s running fine, señorita. Put that missing part back, s’good to go.”

“Missing part?”

“The spark plug—wasn’t in there when we looked.”

And the missing pieces fell into place.

How he’d waltzed into your car earlier on in the day, running his fingers along the hard, hot plastic of the dash—analyzing, observing, and finally commenting on your shitty engine. Then, he’d been conveniently there, waiting for you in the middle of the night, watching you wrestle your hood open in the parking lot after work. Hell, he took you to his place after he’d told you he'd seen a shady truck parked in front of yours… and you’d trusted him.

Without bothering to check for yourself, you’d trusted him.

You had to hand it to the man; it was a clever plan. Wear you down during the day only to corner you while alone, vulnerable, and at night, with no possible avenues for escape.

All to get inside your pants.

God.

Murphy huffs, bringing you back down to Earth. “Listen,” he rubs his temples, exhaustion weighing down the curves of shoulders, “We just want to make sure you’re safe. You don’t have to stay with him, either; Connie—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” you snap, narrowing your eyes in full view of his own. “I keep wondering, though... seeing as you're… thick as thieves, these days,” you lean forward over your desk, studying his swallow. “Was it you that shot off that gun? Or did he get someone else to participate in his little scheme?”

The agent tilts his head to the side, putting on the air of a wordless 'really, sweetheart?' before launching into a recitation of a sorely well-versed explanation.

But you cut him off, unforgiving in your suspicion. “Don’t bother, alright? Even if I did believe that, what, some 'cartel sicario'—” you emphasize the ridiculousness of the statement by tossing up a couple of well-timed air quotes “—was after me…?” and then you’re gesturing wildly to yourself, fingertips pointed straight to your heart. “I would rather die—really, seriously, die—than step foot into your home—or-or fucking Peña’s—Ever. Again.”

The mounting ire behind your breathless rambling finally wears him down; he surrenders his complexion to a look of genuine defeat. His arms drop to his sides, heavy and limp.

As you try to appear busy, fidgeting with the scattered papers and documents lying listlessly across your desk, Murphy turns on his heels, stooping toward the exit.

For a brief moment, he hesitates, coming to a slow halt halfway down his holy pilgrimage of freeing you from his fucking presence.

“Did you…” and he briefly trails off, anticipating your wrath with a wince. “Did you fill out that form?”

Irritation clouds your thoughts. Its manifestations in your body feel almost violent.

“What do you think, genius?”

You scare yourself with the aggression underpinning each and every word.

Inside the safety of your mind, your inner dialogue treats him even worse.

Go, motherfucker. Go, go, go, go, go or I’ll tear us both apart, I’ll explode, I’ll—

You hope that it’s Luck listening to your prayers (and not God), because as soon as your brain has time to register the nature of your wicked, near sacrilegious thoughts toward the man, Murphy’s yellow-dusted crown is drooping down in eventual resignation, leading the way as he trudges back to his corner.

A relief.

A short lived one.

Too short.

Because…

Well, because those fucking memories won’t stop replaying inside your mind, etched like crude Botticellis on the backs of your eyelids.

Overlaying the non-stop highlight reel of a vicious fight with Peña, just that morning—

“Well, I didn’t see a car. What I saw was you, whipping me over to your fuck-pad—and now? I see your whole... fucking masterplan to get me into bed.”

“You’re talking fuckin’ crazy. There’s no pussy in the world that’s worth pulling all that.”

—are flashes of his bare, glistening chest, an almost tangible haze of longing obscuring his eyes. You’d taken him in your mouth; you’d felt him all over: against you, with you, inside you.

And when you’re not seeing him, you’re forced to hear him, over and over and over again.

“You fuckin’ sing for me when you’re comin’ on my cock.”

So, you push certain memories away by calling on certain others, repeating every cruel word you’d ever exchanged with each other like a mantra, an affirmation.

They remind you of the man that Javier Peña truly was.

“You are the worst person I’ve ever had the shit-luck of meeting, Peña.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not too crazy about you, either. Got some serious growin’ up to do, sweetheart.”

A loud snap wrenches you back to your senses. You unfurl your fingers to reveal the broken remnants of a poor, innocent pencil you’d been white-knuckle-death-gripping.

What really had you ticking was that, after you’d hurled accusations and insults at him for the better part of an hour—totally monopolizing the space of the familiar, dusty old filing room—he’d had the nerve to continue on with his little act.

“You don’t have to stay with me—”

And his voice had been coated in poison, laced with the kind of fiery contempt that surely only a guilty man could achieve.

“—but do me a favour and just don’t be a fuckin’ idiot. It’s shit work, hiring new secretaries.”

He hadn’t waited around for an answer, leaving you alone with his final words and a mountain of your own unsaid ones.

So, you’d hissed a “fuck off” to the lingering ghost of his presence in the room, trying, in vain, to slow your shallow breaths.

You heave a sigh, forehead dropping to lay heavy against the desk.

If only you could take your brain out for the day. If only you could run it under cold water. Better yet, if only you could scrub it clean with bleach, put it in the dishwasher, run it with the damn laundry—anything to make it shiny and new and untainted.

Peña was lying.

He had to be lying.

What kind of shit sicario goes after secretaries who, beyond not knowing what they’re supposed to know about, don’t care enough to actually retain any of it?

Not a good sicario. Definitely not one who would still be alive in Medellìn, today.

It was all bullshit.

You weren’t the kind of person who attended work parties.

They always ran excruciatingly long. On top of that, you had to watch traumatized coworkers drink. A lot. Then, there was, of course, after-hours work-talk.

None of that had ever screamed 'best night ever!' to you.

Tonight, however, you hadn’t been given a choice: the ambassador had needed 'someone there, you know, just in case work stuff comes up’ which really meant that she was banking on you to give her a ride home at the end of the night.

Like that was happening. She hadn't been pleased when you'd made it clear to her that you were out of commission, off-the-clock, done-zo starting at fifteen to ten. You'd hoped that, at that point, she would've rescinded her original request.

She hadn't.

Still, Noonan had spent the week being remarkably kind to you—maybe her invitation was her (deeply misguided) way of trying to make up for the shit-storm she’d watched you face over past few days (whether she believed Peña’s dystopian, hitman fantasy was uncertain; either way, she’d witnessed your torment at his hands, and both realities seemed equally as emotionally taxing).

Despite all the hints you’d dropped about wanting the night off, she either hadn’t noticed, hadn’t cared, or thought you were just trying to be polite.

Come on.

She’d been your boss long enough to know there was no chance of you pussy-footing around out of politeness.

The event was meant to commemorate some big accomplishment—a narco sting gone right (or else, some big narco boss gone six-feet-under). The reason behind the festivities wasn’t of any importance to you—getting through the next few hours as quickly and as painlessly as possible took up all of the remaining (albeit limited) space in your head.

Because, afterwards? You were going out.

A good friend’s bachelorette, a shit-ton of dark tequila, and the warm lips of a total stranger.

God, you needed that. Every intimate spot on your body was in desperate need of a cleanse. Your tongue, the soft skin between your thighs, the peach-fuzz on your cheeks…

They remembered him.

They made sure you couldn’t forget him.

About half-way through serving your sentence in regulatory purgatory, someone turns on the stereo. A Queen song—the one that everyone knows. You’re looking around, trying to locate the source of the sound.

It’s mostly administrative and political bodies crowding up the office's stuffy foyer. There’s an odd clink of glass meeting glass whenever someone new walks in, or else when a deal’s finally graduated beyond the negotiation stage.

It’s too highbrow, too boring and white-collar for restless DEA agents, you remind yourself.

Slowly, slowly the hours trickle by.

The music helps—every Diaz song has the minutes moving double-time.

And after what feels like centuries of excruciating small-talk, of brushing off endless, casual condescension, of staring at the clock hanging off the wall, finally, it’s time to go.

First, a last minute change (you’re not wearing a damn button-up to the bar—it’ll be a tight dress and cute shoes or absolutely nothing at all) and a quick refresher in the bathroom. Then, you’re trailing a bee-line towards the exit with 'home-free' on the tip of your tongue.

Keep your head down. Nod. A chagrined smile to each pair of gawking eyes.

‘Cause soon? You’ll be dancing.

You’re straddling the office doors, left foot in, right foot out when an authoritative voice calls your name from behind.

Christ Almighty.

Turning slowly, you find yourself triangulated between Noonan and…

Fucking Steve Murphy.

That one looks apprehensive. The former?

A bit red in the face.

“Murphy, here,” the ambassador gestures sloppily towards the agent’s uneasy form, “Tells me he needs something. Papers, right? Think we can get that to him before you leave for your… little soirée—what do you say?”

She doesn’t catch it, but he does; your unbridled, aversive stare pierces him right between his eyes. Forcing it down (and oh, does it ever burn your throat) you etch a reluctant smile, nodding wordlessly to your boss.

God, if only money were an object. This damn job would be a short paragraph on your resume, a blip in your timeline on this Earth.

Noonan slaps Murphy on the back, harrumphing as though she’d just solved world hunger. Quickly, she finds someone new to accost (or be accosted by), swept into a different, equally-boring conversation before you can even begin to feel angry at her for putting you into such a… distasteful position.

And you whir on him.

Before the rush of accusations gets a chance to part from your lips, Murphy interrupts you, putting his hands up in mock surrender.

“I didn’t say a thing.” He sounds serious, sincere. “Swear. She came up to me and just… knew all about it.”

You narrow your eyes in suspicion. Nonetheless, your fingernails slowly retreat from their burrows in the skin of your palm.

It’s not because of his earnestness.

No.

It’s because only a serious maniac would flaunt their under-the-table bullshit so publicly, flying it right under the ambassador’s nose. Whatever those records were for (and whatever the reason why Peña and Murphy so badly needed them), it was becoming increasingly clear that they were not intended to land in either of their hands.

Murphy hadn’t been nervous because of you. He’d been nervous because of her. A little less drink, a bit more curiosity, and Noonan would've been privy to whatever it was that the pair was up to.

“Fine.”

He exhales, shoulders relaxing, dropping like stones with the release.

Without another word, you make your way down the hall, charging toward the alcove harboring your desk. Murphy trails behind, five feet back at all times like a recently-scolded school-child.

Good.

It takes a few, long minutes to get the job done.

He waits around anxiously, fiddling with your stationary (until you slap his hand away from your beloved pens and planners) and pacing around the room.

When it's done, you don’t read the form, you don’t investigate. The less you know, the better.

And frankly?

You couldn’t give less of a shit.

As the papers slide out of the printer, you warn him: “You’re gonna need a signature from their side, you know. I can only get you so far.”

He nods, taking the precious sheets in hand. “Think we got that side covered.” Then, he’s reading them over, checking to make sure everything's in order. You stand with your hand on your hip, waiting impatiently for his goddamn approval. After an eternity (really—by the end of it you’re genuinely wondering whether the man should get tested for dyslexia), Murphy hums in satisfaction, giving you an awkward, “Thanks, again.”

You scoff, crossing your arms over your half-exposed chest.

Didn’t even thank me a first time, asshole.

He spins around, aiming for the exit, when another body appears before him.

And the man stops Murphy in his tracks, deep-brown eyes trailing down to the packet of papers cradled between his partner's hands.

“Noonan came through, then.”

It’s all he says.

Your nostrils flare.

The skin on your face positively burns.

Of course it had been him. He was probably the entire reason behind the ambassador’s unusual tipsyness, too. Hell, he’d probably fed her Prosecco and half-compliments ‘til she’d been more than happy to do him a million favours.

Wasn’t that his M.O., anyways? ‘Get ‘em drunk and get my way?’

Three comfortable, familiar words find themselves sliding—easily—off your tongue.

“Fuck off, Peña.”

You surprise yourself with the cruelty of your tone, the biting emphasis of each word.

He settles his onyx eyes on you. They glaze over with hunger, with amusement, with danger.

Fuck.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, sweetheart—I will in a minute,” and he nods at his partner, effectively dismissing him.

Murphy hesitates, eyes jumping between the stand-off taking place before him. Likely, he was trying to decide which one of you was going to murder the other first.

Finally, with his beloved form tucked under his arm, Murphy heaves a sigh of resignation, and then he’s gone.

Leaving you alone with Peña.

The corners of his lips pull back into an arrogant smirk as his eyes rake over your body—done up, dressed down, and positively fuming in your little kitten heels.

“You look hot.”

It’s all he says.

Some girls would’ve killed to hear those words from him. You’d spent years watching their eyes trail his movements in the office, listening to their puling voices—'is Javi there?'—over the phone.

But it just makes you want to scream.

Fearing the actual possibility of that coming to fruition, you keep your mouth sealed shut. Tight.

Silence won’t do for Peña.

“What’d you tell me, once?” He muses softly, making his way towards your desk. “Somethin’ about this place not bein’ a… a what’d you call it? A brothel?”

Dog.

He yanks a retort from your lips as if he had full command over them. “I’m going out, asshole.”

His face twitches ever-so-slightly, just enough for you to catch the hint of emotion. Then, it’s gone.

“No, you’re not.”

Casual as ever, he does that thing: runs a finger from the corner of his bottom lip down the length of it, looks up at you through thick, dark eyebrows.

You bristle at the sheer, unwinding effect it has on you.

“Yes, I am.”

He raps his knuckles against the desk in irritation; nevertheless, his voice is soft, imploring as he persists. “C’mon, baby. I need you to listen to me, right now. It’s..." and he undresses you with a mere look, "It's not a good time for you to be goin’ to those kinds of places.”

Just like any other man.

Probably, Peña’s ego was so over-inflated that the mere thought of any of his conquests colluding with another man had him on the brink of spontaneous combustion.

Because God forbid you fuck anyone else.

God forbid you even think of touching anyone else.

And this strange, uncharacteristic possessiveness, this… need for control—it was wearing extremely thin.

The man had zero authority over you. He certainly didn’t get to preside over the choices you made during your free time.

“Don’t call me baby, Peña—I’m not your baby.” The snapped retort makes you sound so young, to the point where, for a moment, you understand why the agent had called you a brat so many times that one, fateful night.

Still, you soldier on, focussed on freeing yourself from yet another one of the evening's grueling set-backs. “And I’m not gonna ‘listen to you’ just ‘cause you think you’ve got some sort of… machismo claim over me.”

A deft muscle in his jaw tenses. He rounds the desk, moving just a half-foot closer to you; that alone is enough to jump-start your heart, and you’re almost sure he can hear it, jack-hammering away inside your chest. You both know that being the first to step away signified weakness—concession—so you stay put (even when your legs yield to a slight wobble).

And he’s almost crooning. “You can spread those legs for half the country, for all I care, baby.” A condescending look, cast down at you over the bridge of his nose. “Not what this is about.”

Yeah, right.

“Please.” You roll your eyes. “Still working that angle?”

He takes a step forward. “Is it so crazy to think that I could just be tryna look out for you?” Meeting your gaze, he speaks earnestly—pleading through his irritation.

“I don’t need you to ‘look out for me’,” Your back grazes against the ambassador’s doors—you kick yourself internally for having subconsciously conceded to a back-step. “Especially not since the last time I thought that’s what this was?” your fingers gesture wildly between the (lack of) space separating your bodies, “You totally took advantage of me.”

A pause as the agent fluctuates from bafflement to genuine offense.

“Took adv—are you being serious?” he scoffs, shaking the coarse, dark hair on his crown. “I gave you, like, one drink.”

Victory courses through your veins at the sudden, intense flood of irritation marking his tone, the vein popping in his jaw.

Anything to get to him, to make him tick, to scratch that itch.

Dig. Dig. Dig.

A shrug. “Maybe you put something in it.”

His eyebrows jump up, eyes widening with the movement.

Just. So. Close.

“And… you know, I am a lot younger than you—”

“—okay, enough.”

Peña’s growled response has your voice fizzling out into nothingness. Closing what’s left of the distance between you, muscled form looming, he flattens you against the ambassador’s office doors. As one large hand slowly splays out next to your ear, the other comes up to grasp your chin. His fingers wrap around your jawbone, all the way from one ear to the other.

You’re stuck, frozen under the weight of that dominant leer.

“Y’know,” he muses, deep and low, “It’s really fuckin’ obvious what all this is actually about, sweetheart.” Trapped in his glare, you watch his eyes grow dark, his gravelly voice falling into a register you’d never before heard it descend to. And he’s so, so close to you, close enough that you can smell him: that distinct, earthy scent of man that never failed to have your head spinning, your arms weak. “This… highschool bullshit you’ve been pullin’ since I got back… accusin’ me of all kinds of shit—"

You deny yourself the pleasure of looking at his lips when his words withdraw into an almost-whisper.

“Makes you feel real innocent, doesn’t it?

You don’t respond, concentrating on stifling the growing ache in your core, the thump-thump-thumps inside your rib cage, the lump forming in your throat.

A rarity, a miracle, Jesus turning water into wine: words fail you.

“Know what I think, cariño?” His fingernails press into your cheeks, digging soft indents. Not to bruise—

To hold you steady.

To assure himself of his command over your full, devoted attention.

When he finally continues, his smoky breath raises the hairs along your exposed skin.

God, it must be, like, nine-hundred degrees in the room.

“I think”—and he’s toying with you, near-black eyes dancing with amusement—“You’re just embarrassed.”

Leaning in, his lips brush against the ridges of your ear, slow words washing over you in big, heavy waves. “‘Bout how easy it was for me to get between these legs.” Male, calloused fingers ghost over the skin of your thighs, creeping higher and higher up the length of your body.

“Remember how wet you got for me, cariño? Beggin’ me to fuck you so rough?”

And for a brief, suspended moment—

You do.

He leans back enough for you to watch his eyes harden, uttering an “I remember it all, baby,” as his thumb leaves your jaw to trace the highest point of your cheekbone.

And his tone turns to stone.

“Especially when you’re acting like you need a fuckin’ reminder.”

Your cheeks grow red-hot. The ground feels unsteady under your feet—and the spell breaks.

Pig.

“You’re fucking vile, Peña,” you spit, wrenching his grip off your face. “And also, dead wrong.” Slamming into his shoulder, you aim to storm out.

He catches your arm, twisting you back around to face him. “If you go out tonight,” the man near-growls, lecturing down at you like a damn parent, “You’re putting your life and everyone else's on the line.”

You tear your wrist from his fingers, shrugging off his empty warning with a dramatic spin on your heels.

Strutting out, you leave him with a poison-coated, “Say ‘hi’ to the whores for me.”

And you’re gone.

It’s loud. Your feet are sore from dancing in your heels. A different, unfamiliar body is in reach in every possible direction from your own.

It’s perfect.

Five shots in and you still feel like you could take more, if only to forget the exhausting events of the day.

Less than 48 hours ago you’d been prepared—dear God, longing—to hand yourself over to a man you were now quite happy to never see again. With your hands wrapped around a stranger’s neck, you’re determined to cleanse yourself of his lingering traces.

He’s gazing down at you, male, hungry eyes gunning for the taking. Local, you guess, or at the very least South-American. After a daring look, you grab him by the collar, brushing your starved lips against his.

“Want to get out of here?”

The pronunciation isn’t great—but it does the trick. He nods enthusiastically, allowing you to take his hand in your own without hesitation. Too easy. The hard part is weaving through the agitated, bustling crowd with your nameless partner in tow.

It’s reckless. It’s stupid. But God, is it ever necessary.

Escaping your friends at the start of the night had been child’s play, and they could be counted on to be too fucked-up at this hour to notice your absence, anyway.

Good.

Your act of desperation would be remembered solely by its participants.

A gentle evening wind swirls around your tingling body, the day’s heat hanging thick in the air as you step onto the street, the syncopated thumps of Latin music fading unwillingly into the background.

Pivoting abruptly, you flatten yourself against the wall outside, pulling the stranger in close by the fabric of his blue button-up.

“Yours or mine?”

He smirks, gentle lines forming by his golden eyes. Internally, you commend yourself: the catch was quite pretty.

“Here is okay, I think.”

Then, his lips are on yours, parting you open in a sloppy, drunk kiss.

This could work.

His traveling hands already seem to be numbing some of the tension simmering under your skin.

This could work.

His rough kisses overwhelm your senses, slowly filling the hollow ache lodged at the heart of your core.

Please, God—let this work.

Just as a hand reaches up to cradle the back of your neck—

(let this work, let this work, let this work)—

Just as a pleased moan travels from your lungs into his own—

Tires screech against the pavement, slamming you back into your body, wrenching you straight into the dire moment. Tearing your lips from the stranger’s, you peer over his shoulder, eyes widening at the sight of a black Camino screaming to a stop right before you. Time stops; the windows are down, and what you know to be the barrel of a hand-gun pokes out from the backseat.

“Get down!”

Maybe it's in your head (after all, it would make sense for your psyche to summon his voice in a moment so violent); or maybe it's real. Either way, you listen to the command, hitting the ground without any reservations. And those stupid heels—you stumble, face-planting onto the pavement, scraping every exposed part of your body against hot, rough cement.

A cry of terror rips from your throat as the sound of bullets punctuates the warm, summer night—Jesus, it’s louder than anything you’d ever heard before.

Somewhere along the chaos, the pretty stranger from the bar books it down the calle.

Everything happens so fast. A familiar Cherokee veers in the way, separating you from the attackers. The surrounding air becomes rife with lead, a terrified chorus of male and female voices joining the symphony, and you really can’t tell whether the pain in your chest is from the friction of your own harmonizing screams or if it’s bullets tearing through your body. From the ground, you watch your attackers’ vehicle take off down the street, haphazardly parting crowds of cowering civilians in its wake.

When it all stops, it doesn’t really stop.

Violence persists, ringing in your ears like a doomsday clock going off, an A-bomb alarm siren. The echoes are happy to prolong your torment.

The Jeep’s passenger door swings open. You scramble back, scampering down the pavement as adrenaline claims you in never-ending rushes.

“Get inside, now.”

You nearly sob with relief at the familiar voice. It hadn't all been in your head. Jumping up on unstable legs, you lunge into his car, jerking the door shut behind you.

Without sparing a moment, his white-knuckled hands yank the wheel to the side, veering onto a road just off the main strip.

Javier Peña’s never looked so stressed.

“You’re not gonna follow them?” It comes out as a cry, a desperate plea for retribution.

He doesn’t answer.

Which doesn’t stop you.

You want to see them punished for making you feel so helpless, and for the scrapes and bruises decorating your elbows, your knees, your palms.

“Javi,” a begging king of shout, “Why aren’t we following them?”

“‘Cause you’re in the fucking car!”

In the heat of the moment, the cutting edge of his harsh tone doesn’t bother you. If anything, it’s gentle compared to the violent sensations stewing within your body and mind.

“So?”

He takes a sharp right, slamming your side against the Jeep’s hard interior.

“Been in enough…” He grits his teeth, trying to keep his irritation in check, “Compromising situations tonight, alright? Now, just shut up ‘n let me drive.”

You pipe down, not awfully interested in getting yelled at again in your fragile state.

At first, it feels like the full-body trembles wracking your entire being won’t ever cease. And yet, by the grace of God, after a few minutes, the thundering behind your ribcage slowly subsides.

It helps that you’re still a little buzzed.

It especially helps when his driving slows and the streets begin to empty—when the shops and houses become more and more recognizable, when the night grows more and more tame.

You know where he’s headed. The safety of the intended destination has you relaxing, finally level enough to take deep breaths.

Eventually, he stops the car, cutting the engine in full view of his building's front door.

The rumbling stops, and suddenly, it's very quiet. Javier groans, leaning back against his seat, bringing a hand up to his temples. He doesn’t look at you, keeping his eyes closed behind the palm of his hand.

And oh.

He’s pissed.

“Go inside, lock the door, don’t open it for anyone.” His command, though dripping with ire, is underpinned with genuine concern. When you don’t respond, he finally shifts his gaze to meet yours, fixing you with an intimidating, severe kind of stare.

“Do you understand?”

At first, your impulse is to respond with a bitchy retort, to meet his intensity head-on with your own brand of unpleasantness. You stifle that reflex, taking stock of the situation at hand: Peña had just saved you from a flurry of bullets.

Peña… had just saved you…

And the realization hits you like a punch to the gut.

He’d been telling the truth.

Someone was really after you. Twice, now, they'd tried to take your life.

And, still? Your addled brain can’t seem to wrap itself around the idea of Peña’s innocence. Your bursting question takes you both by surprise.

“So, you didn’t take my spark plug?”

He stares at you, full mouth parted in genuine bewilderment. Then, he scoffs, breathing an exhausted exhalation. “No, I didn’t take your damn spark plug, sweetheart. That’s what I’ve been saying. If you’d bothered to actually fuckin’ listen for once in your life…” he shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, “‘Could’ve avoided all… this.”

Shame tries its best to seep into your core. You resist it, scrambling for reasons to justify your actions to him.

To yourself.

You hated being wrong. That feeling had a tendency of overwhelming everything else—of overriding rationality, itself.

So, you turn to a classic defense, an ol' reliable: deflection. “After all the shit you’ve put me through over the years, can you blame me for not, just like, blindly trusting you?”

He scowls, angling his shoulders to square off with your own.

“Never asked for you to ‘blindly trust’ shit, though, did I?” He huffs, “Jesus.”

You try not to wince as he continues on, as the truth of his words and the seriousness of his delivery render you mute. “You’re a secretary, sweetheart. This is my job—my life—okay? When I tell you to be careful, for the sake of your own damn good, you need to listen to me.”

There’s a long pause as his words tease out your final, entangled threads of resistance.

He was right. You’d been stupid in your denial, putting yourself and dozens of others in danger.

Putting Javi in danger.

It takes everything you have to fight the tears threatening to well along your lashes. But there's no sense in allowing yourself to mourn your mistakes—at least not at this very moment.

No, now was not the time to work through your shame.

Now was the time to seek forgiveness.

To make amends.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, trying to catch his downcast eyes.

And it’s true.

Javi shakes his head, resisting your apology. He says nothing, and your heart aches for him.

Whatever this man was—he hadn’t deserved a fraction of the hell you’d given him.

The hell you’d given him because…

Because he’d gotten close. Too close. Close enough to soften you, to see you in a way that not one single person had the right to. He’d been a novelty: the first man you’d trusted enough to be capable of handling the full breadth of yourself. And when that had started to feel volatile—as though he’d gained too much of you?

Well, you’d needed a reason to push him away. To wrench yourself back from him.

Because you’d been embarrassed.

Knowing that he’d been right about that, too, makes you feel so small, so young, and deeply naive.

Immature.

You lean over, crooning at his turned profile.

“I mean it, Javi.” His name is your weapon—you will it to wear him down—a reminder of what it sounds like leaving your lips. “I’m sorry.”

Again, silence.

It’s fucking unbearable.

Placing an unsteady hand on his knee, you trail it up his thigh—slowly. His chest hitches with the force of a deep, sharp inhale and yet, he still refuses to meet your gaze.

But you catch his reflection in the glass: a slight twinge of the eyebrows, a delicate parting of the lips, and a hint of longing within those furious eyes.

Wiggle room.

“Could you ever forgive me?” You ask timidly, seductively, fingers creeping towards the crease of his trousers and that big silver buckle looming right above it.

Finally, he turns, his expression meeting yours with a hungry (albeit still deeply annoyed) look.

That wanting you’d learned to recognize…

It excites you.

And as you tug at his belt, releasing it with tantalizing slowness, you keep your steady gaze on his undecided one, uttering a pleading, “I can make it up to you, baby.”

Wordlessly, he watches your fingers move to the button of his pants, then to his fly, working with dedication, with delicate care.

There’s movement as you reach your fingers underneath the fabric. He grows hard for you, burgeoning out of the fabric in a matter of seconds.

It’s all the invitation you could’ve possibly hoped for.

His skin is hot against your knuckles as they slide down his lower abdomen. Grasping the base of his cock, you use two hands to spring him free.

God, he’s even bigger than how you’d remembered him—bigger than even your guiltiest fantasies.

Javi groans softly when you pull him, releases a hot, shallow breath when you stroke him, and a low, breathy “fuuuck” when you finally, finally take him in your mouth.

He tastes like the salt of the ocean. This close, you can smell men's cologne mingling with sweat.

It’s heaven.

And you just don’t want him to be angry anymore. It’s all you can think about—lips cradled adoringly around his cock, tongue running up and down the long length of him—as he throws his head back in pleasure.

He eventually relaxes, conceding to the ecstasy you persuade him with. Almost drinking the uncertainty—the resistance—right out of him.

“Christ,” he groans, tangling his fingers in your hair, forcing you to take in every last inch of him. “Wanted to shut you up like this all fuckin’ day.”

It becomes a challenge to breathe, but air simply isn’t a priority with a man like him at your fingertips, as your responsibility. This, he knows, his heavy hand determining the slow, careful pace, the impossible depth, and the angle of your unspoken apology.

Growing wet and lightheaded at the same time, you loose a moan against his velvety skin.

Javi laughs, darkly. “Always got somethin’ to say, huh? Even with a mouth full of cock.”

You smile around him—taunts are good. Better than silence, anyways. “Mhmm.”

The sounds of his laughter rumbles soft and low throughout his middle—so different, so sweet and innocent compared to the wet, filthy ones produced by your mouth’s ministrations.

You give him everything you have, ignoring the droplets forming in the corners of your eyes and lips, the dull burning inside your lungs. When the tip of his cock lodges at the back of your throat, you keep him there.

Whatever Javi gives you, you take.

Happily.

Every last drop would find its home inside you, traveling down the length of your tongue and into all of your warmest places.

It was the least you could do for him.

But he has other plans. His hand bunches up your hair, tightening into a fist to pull you off of him. His cock pops out from between your lips; you’re guided up to face him.

He looks stern.

Dangerous.

Out of breath, tears sliding down your cheeks, lips glistening with the slick of your own spit—you’re a welcome sight to any man of his kind.

“Say it.”

He makes use of his free hand, wiping the coarse pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, clearing the string of saliva collecting there.

It’s not rocket science, figuring out what it is that the man wants to hear.

“I’m sorry, Javi.”

Neither of you had ever known how much an apology could sound like a prayer.

“Yeah?” Despite the gentleness of his tone, his eyes darken with lust to the point that you feel genuinely nervous about his intentions. “What are you so sorry for, hermosa?”

Fuck, the pet-names... the way his voice changed when reverting to its native tongue—rolling with confidence. At such an awkward angle, you’re forced to grip onto his forearms to keep balance. They feel strong and unbending beneath your fingertips.

Everything… everything about him draws you in.

He just makes you crazy.

Crazy enough to smile, to turn your profile to the side, laying a long, careful kiss to his palm. Crazy enough to answer his question in a needy, whiney whisper: “for being such a brat.”

He almost smiles, near-black eyes dancing with hunger, with approval, with a playful kind of ire.

Jerking his head to the right, he gestures to the backseat. “Wanna show me how sorry you are, cariño?”

You’re nodding before the question really even registers.

He releases his hold on you, deft fingers quickly untangling from your hair.

Victory. Victory. Victory.

Then, you’re stumbling out of the passenger side, opening the door to the backseat.

(You take a second to commend yourself for driving a man so wild, making him so impatient that he couldn’t be bothered to walk the ten feet required to fuck you inside his apartment. Or, maybe he just liked letting the neighbours watch.)

Before you can even step foot inside the car, you’re being hauled by your upper arms onto Javi’s lap. He manhandles you into his desired position, spreading your knees around his thighs until your dress is hitched up, only covering your ass half-way.

After snaking a hand between your bodies, the agent runs his thumb down the slick fabric of your underwear.

Already, you’re holding back a slew of pathetic whines.

“Next time you give me head”—God, the feeling of those fingers against your clit, the bliss of them pushing your panties to the side, assessing your readiness for him—“Wanna be able to see that pretty mouth while my dick’s inside it, sweetheart.”

His lust has him speaking a bit out of breath. It makes every crude, filthy word sound sweet, almost endearing to you.

Nodding in response, you work with him—lowering yourself onto his fingers as he pushes them between your folds.

“Jesus Christ,” he smiles, head falling back in appreciation, “You’re soaked.”

His fingers curl up, pressing to please in all the right places. Your answer arrives between gasps: “You tasted good.”

That pleases him.

“Yeah?” and he’s dragging his digits out of you, letting them trail through your folds and along your heavy, sore clit before leaving you wanting, leaving that needy cunt clenching around nothing. “I bet you taste even better.”

Then, his grip is on your jaw, pressing damp spots into your skin under his index, middle, and ring fingers. With the pad of his thumb pressed firmly to your bottom lip (and the row of teeth behind it), Javi eases your mouth open, wider and wider and wider for him.

“Show me—show me how good you taste.”

His index crawls onto your tongue. You close your lips around it, sucking him in until his fingernail scratches the back of your throat. He wants to be shown, so you show him: gazing intently into his eyes, you watch his brow furrow as he studies your every movement, as he drinks in your every moan.

“Fuckin' hell,” he groans, commending your efforts. “You’d do anything I asked right now, wouldn’t you, hermosa?”

Your bottom teeth graze the undersides of his index as you pull off—“yes, Javi.” Almost instinctively, you’re reaching your hand down, letting it coast down the hardness of his chest to rub circles around the slick tip of his cock, still peeking out from his open fly.

“Not yet,” he clicks his tongue, pushing his index, and this time, his middle and ring, too, back through the opening of your lips, “Need to clean yourself off every one of these fingers, first—thaaat’s right.” You listen, obediently sucking everything he gives you. He instructs and praises, “easy—easy, cariño, there it is,” as he watches you glide up and down him in slow, big pulls, all the way down to his knuckles.

It’s fucking filthy, and he loves it, unable to keep that arrogant smirk off of his face.

He’s practically in paradise, coming up with a mental list of creative ways to shut you up.

Still, Javi allows you to multitask: all the while, your fingers continue to explore the exposed parts of his cock. Only when he’s satisfied, when his length couldn’t possibly get any harder—only then does he free your mouth, letting his damp fingers trail down the side of your neck.

The feeling sends a shiver up your spine.

Without warning, he yanks down the straps of your dress and bra, pulling them all the way down until you’re postured on his lap, chest fully exposed; his abrupt movement has you loosing a stunned "Javi!" He runs his palms over the most sensitive peaks of your breasts, a hungry smile teasing the corners of his lips.

Then, he shrugs. “Told you last time I wanted to see them. Got the prettiest fuckin’ tits, hermosa.”

You don’t have time to roll your eyes, to laugh, or to really even register the vulgarity of his words, nor the taunting, degrading way they’re delivered to you. Javi’s already holding both you and himself up in one arm (and, oh, how you’d simply ached for the feel of his strength) pulling down the waistband of his pants. He maneuvers you into the proper position to receive him in, two pairs of downcast eyes watching his cock spring free, tip curving in, grazing against the fabric of his shirt.

He rushes, but it still feels torturously slow. You’re craving, needing, as he uses the dark head of his cock to ease your ruined underwear to the side, guiding himself towards your dripping opening.

This time, he’s far too impatient to make you beg for it.

Ecstasy forces your back into an arch as he pushes himself between your walls, as you feel him filling you up, up, and up—wordless mouth falling open, your heavy head collapses aaall the way back.

Immediately, a hand is at the back of your skull, forcing your gaze back downwards. “No, no, no, baby, you let me see—let me see you when you ride,” and his voice is a little strained, a little desire-stricken, a little bit softer as he settles his every last inch inside your cunt.

Your irises could be forest fires as you set your sights on his own, seeing nothing, absolutely nothing but Javier in that moment.

Moving your hips in tandem, you set your pace.

Mother Mary—it’s hard, so fucking hard to keep your legs steady when he stretches you open—wide fucking open—and as his head grazes that spongy spot inside.

He doesn’t help, either. In fact, while your hands dig anchors into his shoulders (sometimes his chest, his neck, his waist) just to keep yourself upright, his own are trailing up to the pocket of his shirt, pulling out a pack of smokes.

You mewl softly at the heat building inside your cunt, loosing an indignant whine as Javi neglects his responsibilities toward your climax.

“Gave me such a hard time today, baby,” he muses, placing a cigarette between his fingers and tossing the rest aside, “Wanna hear a fuckin’ ‘thank you Javi’ every time you come.”

His words dance around you like streetlights passing in the night, barely registering inside your disintegrating mind. How could they? With the feeling of his thighs grazing the undersides of your own, the buttons of his shirt nudging against your aching clit… how could anything else even exist?

All you can give him is an “Mhm.”

He pulls a lighter out, smirking. “‘Tough-talker ‘til this pussy’s all full, huh?”

“I-I’m sorry, baby, I’m s-sorry.”

And he laughs. “Don’t say it, cariño,” he takes your hand, placing the light inside your fist. “Fuckin’ show me.”

He rolls his hips. Your weight collapses against his chest.

“C’mon,” he coaxes, pushing you off, straightening you up before placing the cigarette between his lips, “Aaall you gotta do is light up the tip. You got it, sweetheart.”

His hands travel down to your ass, giving it a rough squeeze before his fingers splay out. He spreads you open over his thighs, watching the etchings of your lust corrupt your expression as he fucks himself—slow, deep, hard strokes—inside you.

“Fu—please, Javi—I can’t, s’too much, baby—please—”

A smile, full lips parting around the dart. “S’wrong, baby?” The words are low, breathy, teasing, contorting around the smoke in his mouth. “Can’t focus?”

God, just make him happy.

It’s the only thought you seem to be able to form. His request doesn’t seem to be up for debate, either.

So, summoning every last bit of control still lingering inside you, you bring a trembling hand up to the unlit end, a string of moans and ‘Javi’s rising from your throat.

And fuck, he’s beautiful, brimming with playful passion, orange filter hanging off those pretty pink lips.

Trying to still yourself, you flick the lighter on—the flame dances between you, illuminating the expansive darkness lurking inside his gaze. It takes everything, everything you have left to light it for him, to make that white tip glow red hot, to stay steady enough, to keep from burning him.

And also, to hold your pace. That grip of steel wrapped around your hip serves as a constant reminder—

Keep taking it.

In those final moments, he picks up his pace, of course. Your simmering blood bubbles to a boil, the flutters inside your cunt graduating into pulsing throbs.

As the flame finally takes, you feel every muscle inside your core tense—when Javi inhales his first drag, you straddle the precipice of your orgasm.

Your weight falls onto his shoulder. One of his arms reaches up to ash the cigarette; the other wraps tightly around you, bouncing you against him as exhales a cloud of smoke into your hair.

“Baby—Javi, I’m coming, I’m coming, I'm c—”

Heat builds between your thighs, and as that bundle of nerves grows heavy, pulsing with the rush of your orgasm, his thrusts only deepen.

He pulls you in close.

“I know, cariño,” Javi coos, condescending into the shell of your ear, basking in the feel of your cunt near-strangling him in adoration. “Can feel you, y’know? Got such a grateful lil' pussy,” he places a kiss to the side of your neck, groaning against the soft skin. “Always lets me know how much you love having my cock buried inside it.”

As he speaks, you try to catch your breath. To come down from your high.

It doesn’t work. Not while his hips continue to grind against yours, not while cradled between his arms like his holy beloved, and especially not with his tip still pressing against every available, wanting spot on your walls.

Javi takes another long drag from the dart. “What do you say when you come, baby?”

A big, laboured inhale, and the words come out in one, rushed exhalation. “Thank you, Javi.”

He responds with a downright cocky laugh. “You’re welcome, cariño. Good girl.”

The praise… it makes you melt.

Tangling his fingers in your hair, nails grazing the skin of your scalp, he pulls you off of his chest. Your heavy breaths mingle together in the stale heat of the Jeep Cherokee.

You buck up, doing your best to keep pleasing him as he studies your devoted movements, as he leans back against the seat—groaning.

His hand—often glued to your rolling hip—provides you with only a mere hint of stability.

“That guy you were with,” he takes a drag from his cigarette, using his free hand to toy with one of your peaked nipples. “At the bar. You’d’ve done this for him?”

Your lips part, but no sound crosses the threshold of your lips. You’re dazed—still coming—and building to yet another peak. His unwillingness to move starts to ground you; the long length of every hard muscle beneath his arms, the round, bulging ridges of his shoulders… they become your salvation, places to lay your weight into. Riding him becomes second nature: you’re attuned to his rhythm and the desperate, commanding desires of your body.

Suddenly, you’re a part of him; when he exhales, the smoke creeps out of his lungs and into your own.

You burn right along with it.

He drops the still-smoking cigarette onto the seat next to your entangled bodies, bringing both his hands to rest against your dampened skin. One comes down hard, delivering a quick, harsh slap to your ass.

It would leave a mark.

“Tell me. Use that pretty mouth, hermosa. ‘Know you know how—used it—ran it all fuckin’ day.” Javi grunts, angling to bend over you, pushing into your guts as he wraps you in his arms, finally taking the burden of your weight off of your scraped up, wobbling knees. He continues on, “Tonight, too—been so easy, baby, lettin’ me put anything I want in there like a good lil' slut,” drinking in your cry of pleasure. He almost says it to himself, eyebrows furrowing as he reminisces, as your cunt begins to throb around his hardening cock once more. “You'd've done that for him, cariño?”

You swallow, trying to clear the stars dancing before your eyes, and that fuzzy sound of static. It muffles the symphony of Javi’s hoarse breaths, your own, helpless cries, and the filthy sound of skin colliding with—grinding against—skin.

He quickens, now, using you like a damn toy. Every rough thrust brings you closer to heaven; every ardent, breathtaking squeeze of his arms around your middle feels like angels sighing.

“No,” you breathe, closing your eyes. Your arms cling around his neck, fingers fanning through his thick hair—everything is him, him, him. He leans forward again, ducking down to kiss the hollow of your throat; you pull him in faithfully, moaning softly at the feel of his lips, his teeth under the valley under your jaw. “Only you.” It sounds like worship, sliding up an octave as that low ache worsens, as he compells a second climax out of your already-quivering body. “Only you, Javi.”

He growls, lips dragging up to your ear as the hairs of his mustache tease your cheekbone. “Prove it,” he breathes, deep thrusts growing even more erratic— needier, sloppier. You can barely hear him over your own noises, but he continues his gravelly coos inside your ear nonetheless. “Gimme another one, baby—wanna feel you comin' on my cock when I fill you up so fuckin' full, baby—show me that you’re mine—z’this pussy mine, hermosa?”

“Yesyesyes—oh God, y-yes—m’yours, Javi, y—”

Your legs seize as yet another release tears through your body. The skin of his neck anchors you in place, and you hang off of him like a rosary, digging your fingernails into the warmth of his flesh with every ounce of strength at your disposal.

He fucks you through your second climax, headed straight for his own.

“S-such a good girl, cariño—f-fuck—” Arms, wrapped around your waist, tighten enough to snap you in two as Javi crushes you against his chest, using the momentum of your entire, shaking body to finish himself off. He comes with a grunted “s-shit”—and you pay attention, wanting to commit the divine sound to memory. Swelling between your silken walls, Javi spills everything he could possibly give inside you.

A final, abrupt thrust, married with the non-stop, involuntary clench-and-release of your cunt works to cover every square inch of you with him.

When it’s over, the man refuses to let you part from him (not that you had any real desire to do so, anyway). A big, shaking hand keeps your head cradled in the firm crook of his neck, and he slowly, slowly softens inside you. He basks in the final, weak flutters of your cunt as you lose yourself in the smell of his cologne.

His heart hammers in his chest. You can hear it with your ear pressed to his neck. Going limp, your damp forehead rolls onto the hard roundness of his shoulder.

That aching, sore opening soaks the skin of his thighs. You shiver softly, dripping onto the base of his shaft.

“Say it, cariño,” Javi murmurs, laying a rough kiss to your temple. He runs his hands up and down your bare spine, fingers dancing along your sticky skin.

You loose a breathy laugh against his golden skin. “Thank you, Javi.”

And you pull back just in time to catch his genuine smile.

It fucking melts you. Adoration, pride… spreading like tree-roots under rich, forest soil throughout your still-heaving chest.

He rubs the pads of his thumbs under your eyes, wiping clean some of the going-out makeup that had no-doubt become a total, leaking mess.

“‘Pretty when you’re nice, y'know,” he mutters, moving to cup your cheeks between his warm, hardened palms. And then he pauses, reconsidering his words. “But fuckin’ hot when you’re mean.”

A breathy giggle. “What can I say,” you whisper, trailing a few appreciative fingers up and down his forearms. “You bring out the very best in me, Peña.”

He scoffs, but smiles all the while.

Off in the distance, there’s music. Sounds of debauchery and excitement travel through the warm summer air, audible even through the closed windows. The night is alive for the rest of the city; somewhere far, far away, an engine growls, rubber tires squealing against the pull of hard pavement.

It takes him away.

Javi grasps your shoulders, pushing you up and back to effectively slide you off of his half-soft length. “I’ll wait for you to get inside,” he says, yanking his pants back up over his hips, tucking himself back into his briefs. “Make sure you lock the door, alright?”

Pause.

What?

“You’re leaving?” You mirror him, hastily rearranging yourself—skinny straps find their way back above your shoulders, your short dress finds itself yanked down to its rightful place.

It’s awkward work, given the confines of the space.

The agent slips out from underneath you. He opens the door, rising from the backseat and straightening up with a groan. “Think I know where he was going,” he responds, mostly to himself. “I’m only, what…” a flip of his wrist as he checks the time, “Thiiiiiirty? Thirty-five minutes behind him?”

Before you know it, you’re bristling with irritation.

Again.

You throw your heels down on the street, unceremoniously shoving a cramping foot in each one. “Don’t be an idiot, Peña,” and you try your hand at standing, buckling slightly on a pair of Jell-o legs.

He comes around to your side, steadying you on your feet. Reflected in his deep-brown eyes is the same annoyance flashing across your own gaze. “D’you just expect me to be there, sweetheart? Z’that it? Every time your ass needs saving?”

Shame heats the soft skin of your cheeks. Your eyes trail down to the ground, volatile, incomprehensible emotions building with every passing second.

“It won’t happen again—I won’t-I won’t be so stupid, or-or—I won’t go out, anymore.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, well, that’s nice 'n all, but it’s sure as shit not gonna change anything.”

When you don’t respond, when you don’t look up, his edges soften. “They went to your house, sweetheart.” With his hands on your shoulders, he implores you to see sense. “It’s either we get them or they… get you.”

You exhale, hard. “You’re being dramatic.”

That does it for him.

After an exasperated shake of his head, he’s grabbing your hands in his own, placing a set of keys in the cradle of your palm.

His tone is low, demanding, unbending. “Lock the doors.”

Then, he’s turning to leave, walking to the front of the Cherokee.

Before rounding the corner, he turns his hardened profile to the side. The glare of the building’s lights dance on his tanned skin, turning the whole scene into a sort of lucid dream.

“Y’know, you’re really starting to piss me off with this whole… utopian fantasy you’re livin’ in.” He barely even addresses you, mumbling the rest of his sentiment mostly to himself. “I’m fuckin’ tired of being the only one looking out for you.”

Utopian fantasy?

You try to dismiss him—to call him ridiculous, to throw yourself into the familiar task of poking holes in his arguments—but… you can’t. Over and over, his words rush you in waves: “the only one looking out for you” “utopian fantasy” “the only one looking out for you” “utopian—”

Suddenly, you’re on a different street. In the same clothes, and in the same body, but somewhere far, far away, facing a different man. It’s somewhere very loud, where tires and knees come to a screeching stop against cement, where the downbeat of every Latin measure is punctuated by the sound of a bullet, inscribed with your initials, ripping through the static summer air.

Panic hits you like a bolt of lightning.

It doesn’t go away, either.

Not even once you’re back on Javi’s street, fossilized in amber, watching him move to the driver’s side of his Jeep.

All the fear you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel…

You’d forced him to shoulder it for you, instead.

But, inevitably, what goes around comes around. And he’s dropped your burden right back onto you with a few well-timed words.

Truth bares itself to you, settling heavy atop your bones like an ancient, primal wound. The result is a pair of unsteady legs, a perennial tremor in both, white-knuckled hands, and a crackling voice, resisting use.

“Javi…”

Only when you hear the sound of your own terror echoed back to you do you permit yourself to cry.

And there you stand. Disheveled, confused, broken—clothing misplaced, ruined, broken—

And you just don’t want him to leave.

Not now.

Not when you need him.

Not when you need someone.

Not when you think you’ve finally got it figured out, and especially not when you’re so damn close to speaking it into existence.

Realization. Acknowledgement. Expression.

It’s not a customary pattern, in your experience.

Javi stops in his tracks, stunned to a halt at the sheer emotion in your plea.

It stings when you clear your throat. “I just…” and you falter, strange, unfamiliar words sticking to your throat, sickly-sweet dried honey. Each vowel reverberates back to you, amplified by the acoustics of the empty street and their novelty.

Still, you’re not quite sure how he’s able to hear you, given that you can only bring yourself to speak a handful of decibels above a damn whisper.

“I’ve just never been important, Peña.”

You wipe a self-conscious hand across your face, clearing the sea-salt from below your downcast eyes.

Before you’re able to put a stop to it—it all comes rushing out. Averting his gaze, you ramble on in agitation.

“Not beyond being a-a pair of hands to make fucking photocopies—or as the butt of some sort of “prissy receptionist” joke or even just as some—as-as a kind of fucking challenge to men—men like you, Javier—because I… well, because I’m mean, and I-I guess it’s just fun for everyone to see how far they can take it before—before I…” You give your head a fervent shake, trying to reel yourself back in, trying to close off the monologue.

But the cracks had formed, and with nowhere to go, the mounting pressure of the seven seas washes away the rest of your weakened dam.

The agent can't even get a word in.

“Anyways, that’s-that's not the point. The point is that it just… it didn’t seem possible that anyone in this whole fucking country would even think twice about me—even if it was just to… to kill me…”

A lump forms, lodging behind your larynx.

You start to rush.

“So I really am sorry that I acted like such an asshole, but none of this makes a fucking lick of sense to me—I’m-I’m a secretary, for fuck’s sakes—I’m nothing, no one, I’m not—” and then you’re frantic—

The gunshots, the tires, the music, the spark plug, a Camino—

“Just please, don’t go, don’t—I-I know you’re mad, just—please, just don’t—”

It’s impossible to catch your breath. Every heaved sob racks your lungs, shaking you all the way down to your buckling knees.

You want to turn, to run and hide, to fling yourself into oncoming traffic—anything to end the interminable humiliation you couldn’t seem to keep from putting on display in front of Javier Peña.

And shit. No man could see a woman in the same way after this. No man would care for a woman like this, destroyed and pathetic and—

“Oh, cariño—”

And he’s there.

Those arms—so used to taking—they wrap you up, pulling you into the heat of his body, protecting you from the pointed echoes of laughter and song breezing through the night air. Those hands, the ones that bruised, slapped, grabbed—they hold—the right unburdens you of your oppressive weight, pressed flat against the small of your back. His left cradles the back of your head, laying your temple to the side of his throat.

“You’ve always been important to me, sweetheart.”

His soft murmurs tumble down your spine. That smoky breath envelops you; it reminds you of those blankets in the movies—the ones that the firemen hand out after the disaster’s over, the survivors rescued. In the denouement.

“S’okay, S’okay. I’m sorry, baby, alright? I’m not mad, cariño, it’s okay.”

Running his fingers through your hair, supporting your head like a delicate, sacred object, murmuring comforts against the softest parts of your neck—Javi goes on and on. Despite the frequent shifts between Spanish and English, you manage to catch the main gist of his crooning.

“I could never be mad at you, baby.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m not mad, cariño.”

“And I’m sorry, baby.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not mad.”

“I’ll stay.”

“I’m sorry.”

After an eternity, you feel calm enough to pull away. You’re a wreck, gazing up at him with big, silver-lined eyes.

And it’s then that you see him.

That you really see him.

The concern, the anguish, the affection… You’d punished him for doing the very thing that you were incapable of doing.

Protecting you.

Caring for you.

As tears continue to leak from your eyes, you take note of his beauty. Not just of his looks, but also in the sheer power radiating from him, towering like a knight over you. In those capable, caring hands—hands that had torn others apart, that had put you back together—there was beauty in them, too.

You wipe your face dry.

And you soften your tone, aiming to lighten the mood. “Stop trying to get in my pants, Peña." A sniffle. "I don’t sleep with cops.”

He rolls his eyes, the ghosts of a smile tugging at his lips. “Y’know,” he cups your face, drying the final, lingering remnants of your melt-down off your cheeks, “I waited outside that fuckin’ bar for hours tonight. Just in case.”

Oh.

God, you’d never even bothered to think about how he’d gotten to you so quickly.

Of course he’d been there.

That truth feels… warm.

He goes on. “Watched you… saw you with that guy.” He scoffs at himself, shaking his head. “Had to look away when you came outside. S’why it… took a minute. To get there.”

That has your gaze trailing off, eyes cast down in shame, studying the worn-in rubber on the Jeep’s tires.

It would have never worked, anyway. There wasn’t a man on Earth who could ween your mind off of this one.

With the pad of his thumb against your chin, he brings you back to him. Javi commands your full attention with the just the sincerity of his stare.

“Even when you want nothin’ to do with me... I’m there, alright? I’m here, baby.”

Those eyes… softened with affection, hardened with conviction. Javier always had a way of straddling both worlds at once.

He waits for your signal, your quick nod of acknowledgement.

Then, he’s kissing you—softly. Fingers curling around his forearms, you borrow his strength to keep yourself from swooning. He holds your face as tenderly as he caresses your lips, and with every synced inhalation, he speaks yet another unspoken word into existence.

After giving you enough to make you feel whole again, he pulls away.

With his great-big-palm to your cheek, he says everything you need to hear.

“Let’s go inside, sweetheart.”

—

part 3

—

TAGLIST: @millllenniawrites @pining-and-tired @inkedells @stardust-chords-enthusiast @mattmurdocksgirlfriend @bookofbee @liviloo12346 @anyas-stuff @readingsunshine97 @maudlinflowers @sullysflm @sexygaypalpatine @livyjh @s-unflowxr @lostsoldieronahill @chapterhappygirl @raeluvshammett @silkiers @jupitersmood @supernaturaldean67 @razrsharpwhiteteeth @peqchsoup @corrodedcherries @hawsx3 @monboudoir @theonewithacrush @pono-pura-vida @totallynotastanacc @dzaga890 @swedishscumfuck @killerrxger @niallsbunny @cilliansangel @snowyarcher @grnherbs @mswarriorbabe80 @tercabed @sweettea-and-honeybutter @julesonrecord @bbyanarchist @thisgirl-knm @pedrit0-pascalit0 @princessdjarin @isitselfishifwetalkaboutmeagain @pseudonymist @goldengrapejuice @soullumii @jazzerbelle14

—

Officer Officer Everybody knows that I'm a good girl, officer No, I wouldn't do a thing like that, that's for sure The house was already on fire, I swear I'm not a liar (Well) I'm a little shaken, but I'm fine, thanks for asking Tell me, do you always work alone so late? Gosh, I'm a little shy standing here in my night gown Do you really have to put those tight handcuffs on?

Looking at me, then suddenly

I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane

I've been bad, I've been wrong Playing a dangerous game I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane, hurricane, hurricane

Let's get in the back of your cop car, officer You can ask me anything you want Anything, anything

Do you have a girl? I don't see a ring on your finger Well, that's interesting Have you ever thought of dating a singer?

The flames are getting higher So is my desire It's kind of exciting Don't you think?

Then suddenly he's uncuffing me

I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane

I've been bad, I've been wrong Playing a dangerous game I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane, hurricane, hurricane

Love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I can be the bad girl I'm getting you so hot You can be the good guy Tell him please stop

Love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane

You can be the good guy (Officer) I'm in love Tell him please Stop (Officer) (Officer) You can be the good good (Officer) I'm in love Love in a hurricane

—

#Javier Peña #javier peña x you #javier peña x reader #javier peña smut #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #javier pena smut #javier pena fic #javier peña fanfiction #narcos fanfiction #narcos #Pedro pascal #Pedro Pascal x reader #Pedro Pascal smut #javier peña x y/n #javier peña narcos #javier pena narcos

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futureplayboibunnie · 11 months

Text

Heartless Pt.1

Mafia Boss! Miguel O’Hara x fem! reader

You and Miguel are married to each other…and it wasn’t because of love.

okay i’ve redirected this fic and made it into a slowburn multi chapter series, in hindsight my last idea was too abrupt. i feel like this storyline is wayyyy better. I LOVEEEE SLOWBURN. i hope ya’ll like this one better! Part 2 up now!

PS. if you don’t like this type of stuff, don’t be stupid and comment on it because I really don’t care enough to hear it, use ur fingers and scroll. it’s not that hard.

You thought your wedding day would've been more romantic than this.

More personal, more involved, a consolidation of the many moments you shared with the man you were going to love forever, but free will and liberation were something that you gave up when your parents decided that it was in your family's entrepreneurial interest to participate in a partnership with the O'Hara Dynasty.

You weren't mad. It was just...different. You knew this day was coming but it was all wrapped together quite nicely, in a neat little bow.

Everything was done with the utmost sensitivity and respect, the O'Hara family's Consigliere placed piles of paperwork in front of you, NDAs were rarely ever necessary, and guns and fists normally did the trick but Miguel personally wanted all of this to be clean. He was getting married for the sole purpose of extending his power and influence, being a part of the 5 Families in this city wasn't something that was done without shedding blood. And Miguel shed a lot. This was a very important occasion to him, marriage was important in all generations of his family, and almost every single Don arranged a marriage with a woman from another Dynasty just for the purpose of spreading influence and agendas. Miguel and his brother talked for hours about it and in the end, he had to do what was necessary for his family and his capos. He needed to conserve what was his whilst also inserting his power.

Dealing with ill-tempered men and being a sounding board for their last scraps of sanity wasn't new but Miguel wasn't that. He was just silent in a way you didn't like. It was almost unsettling. Maybe it would be easier to hate him if he was an asshole, but he was very kind and respectful in the little words he said to you.

All of this was strictly professional, a beautiful show for the underworld. It was ridiculous and you felt like a fool, and after the day you had, it felt perfectly reasonable to feel that way.

It was your wedding day and word got around fast.

The dress he picked was fine.

The ceremony was fine

The ring was fine

Everything was just fine.

Now you were in his cold, lavishly destitute penthouse at an ungodly hour, sitting around, still in the wedding dress that you haven't taken off for some reason- maybe to compensate for the fact that you'll throw it in a corner, leave it in the cold and black dark, collecting dust for you to never see it again. Miguel's capos had to scamper around and follow you just about anywhere but for once, they left you alone with Miguel shooing them out.

Is this what your life would be like? Sitting around, waiting for something to happen? Was everything meant to be so banal and grey?

“You looked lovely today.” A low voice grumbled behind you, you whipped your head around to see Miguel leaving his study and entering the living room, he was still wearing his tux with that unknotted ugly bow tie that was crooked the whole ceremony. He looked tired. You gave him an agreeable smile in response.

"Thank you.” You said politely, there was just nothing purposeful behind your voice. All there was between you and Miguel was agreeable conversation, polite and meaningless drivel to distract from the very true and real fact that you were betrothed, you both owed each other something. Miguel gave you protection and you gave Miguel his pathway to influence- it was a business transaction, that was all, but it didn't mean that all of this wasn't abnormal. “I can't reach the zipper, can you please zip me down?” You asked as if it was a normal question- it wasn't for your kind of relationship but what the hell was normal nowadays? For Christ's sake, you were married to a man you barely knew and you slept in different rooms.

Miguel approached you in silence, watching you stand up from the couch and turn around. He liked the dress, he picked it out himself, you looked nice. His fingers found the zipper and pulled down slowly, watching the slivers of skin appear with every small tug down.

As far as women go, Miguel wasn't really that interested in sleeping around, every woman he shared himself with became a target or an opportunity pry into his head- he didn't want anyone messing with his internal affairs. Sometimes he'd cave and fuck one of the women serving him drinks at private poker nights, they always made eyes at him, begging him with fluttering eyelashes and wet lips to fuck them senseless. He was a man after all, sometimes it was enjoyable, sometimes it wasn't, he just needed to get off.

You on the other hand, you were unreadable in a way that he didn’t know how to approach.Though sometimes he did find you talking to him like an acquaintance vaguely irritating he would definitely be a hypocrite for calling you out.

It felt like you were holding your breath when he was finished, you settled baxk into your senses, he gazed over the patch of skin peeking out of your dress. He stopped his gawking when you turned around and gave him a weak smile like you would a friend or a neighbour. "Thank you. Goodnight Miguel.” You walked passed him and went to your designated room. Miguel did the same

You never really thought of yourself as an incurable romantic, but this was truly dull and you contemporary marriage like this. Even if it was to one of the most dangerous men in the city.

You awoke to a cacophony of sizzling and rustling noises coming from outside your room, your dreary eyes lulled by sleep couldn't fight against the delicious smell wafting from outside. Before you could fully register that breakfast was being made, the first thing you noticed was the heavy feeling of dread resting on your chest, you raked a tired hand over your face and rubbed your eyes awake. Opening them up fully, you saw the white fabric on the floor. In another life, the husband you actually loved would be laying next to you, whispering sweet nothings. Your wedding dress and veil were strewn about as if it was an article of clothing a teenage girl would carelessly discard while figuring out what to wear for a date with Tommy or Billy or Jason or whoever. But this wasn't high school drama, this was the type of life you were conditioned into.

Blood, war, and money.

You weren't complaining, the protection it offered you was immense. Miguel was a corrupt man dealing with equally corrupt politicians and people of interest, he had to adapt in his work but a part of you didn't believe he was the poisonous person everyone always made him out to be. Maybe it was because you hadn't seen him in his raw, primal ways, beating people bloody. That's what made you weary.

You shifted up and headed over to the walk-in wardrobe. This was the part that really stunted you, Miguel wanted you to wear what he specifically liked, everything was picked out by him and you still didn't know how to feel about it, but it made you grimace. You stepped in and glanced at the hangers, they were all ordered out by color and style. You noticed that he seemed to like satin and silk, and he was very particular about color, he liked black, silver, grey and even a baby blushed pink in certain articles. Your fingers grazed over the silk of the nightwear dresses, and the fabric of the gala dresses- you didn't like the idea of having to play pretend in front of too many people. You idled towards the drawers and wondered what he preferred when it came to underwear. You raised a cynical eyebrow and your lips pursed in curiosity as you let your finger pull it open.

Your mouth unhinged in a surprise you expected, but not in the way you thought of. He definitely had a thing for lingerie. God, there was a pair of everything, lacy, strappy, padded, unpadded, sheer garters, sparkly garters, knee highs, thigh highs. He was very particular indeed. It was tailored to your perfect cup size. Fucking hell. He liked Brazilian underwear but he seemed have an affinity for a thong too. You sighed and closed the drawer, you didn't want to read into it. Your eyes wandered to the muted pink silk robe hanging next to the drawer. Hm. That'll do for breakfast.

Miguel looked up from his newspaper to see you padding barefoot to the table where a spread was laid out. His maid, although young, ditzy and so obviously desperate to fuck him, was a very talented cook but the coffee she made always tasted like dirt. “Thank you.” He said to her plainly, he couldn't even look at her due to him being distracted by your presence. Your face creased into a light frown as you stared at the eye candy handing Miguel his coffee before she left as Miguel waved his hand. Of course the women who worked around him had to be insanely beautiful.

“Good morning.” Miguel grumbled before taking a sip. You were wearing the silk robe he liked. Good. Good girl.

You didn't say anything back, acting aloof and nonchalant seemed to be the only way of conserving whatever sanity you had left. The back of your throat had back drool when you stared at the delicious spread in front of you. You didn't know what you wanted to eat first. You grabbed a few pickings of everything, topped off with a mimosa. You ate in polite silence, minding your business, uninterested in anything he had to say at this point. Miguel settled down his newspaper and glared at you, you weren't particularly bothered by his presence, and that made him...unsettled. It went on like this for a solid few minutes.

“What?” You asked him, not even giving him the decency of looking him in the eye. Miguel was silent for a moment, contemplating your presence before he opened his mouth.

“We're leaving the city tonight.” He said oh so casually in that deep, low voice of his.

"And why is that?”You sighed tiredly, a slightly amused smirk twitched at your lips at this out-of-the-blue statement.

Miguel clicked his tongue and cooed at you, “Because cariño, my Consigliere has informed me that our marriage is not boding well with the other 5 Families, they think it's a covert attack in some sort of way, a questioning of power or sorts. And also..” He cut himself off for a reason unknown to him. “He also thinks it's a prudent idea to have a honeymoon, to hone everything in and make this...real.” He murmured as he rolled up his shirt sleeve.

Your eyes pricked up at the word 'real.' Wasn't this real? The papers were real. The ring was real. But the actual connection…? You glowered at him, your eyes narrowed.

“Do you think this is real?”

Miguel didn't know how to answer that. “Isn't real relative?”

“No.” You replied thickly like you didn't even need to think about it.

“Look. I don't want to discuss this.”

“So you can't compromise.” You shot back.

“No, I won't.” He pushed his chair back aggressively and sat his coffee down hard, he looked irritated by all of this. He didn't like that you thought you had the power to interrogate him.

Miguel walked past you as he went to exit the room but then for some reason he halted in his tracks. Compromise. Miguel is not known for compromising. The people around him know that for a fact, but he doesn't want this marriage to be another agenda that he has to put up with. He didn't want to hate you.

He sighed.

“Choose where we go. Tell my brother and he'll tell my pilot.” Miguel said coldly, his tone clipped and gruff even when he was trying to build a bridge of some sort.

It didn't seem like you had a choice, so now you were just another lackey he ordered around.

#spiderman 2099 #miguel ohara #miguel o’hara angst #miguel o’hara smut #atsv miguel #miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara fluff #miguel o’hara x reader #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara

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sunkissedrafe · 6 months

Note

enemy!rafe >> doesn’t really hate you but fucks you like he does!!

mmm wait this is so yummy

he does everything he can to make your life a living hell. spreads little white lies about having his way with you knowing damn well you hate his guts and wouldn’t touch him with a ten foot pole. all his boys at the country club only get his side of the story, the one where you bend to his every demand. telling them all how slutty you are. of course when the two of you interact and they see you rolling your pretty eyes in his direction he brushes it off with a “she’s just mad i didn’t give her any dick last night. girl was damn near blue in the face beggin’ me.”

he’s always in your way, always doing anything he can to get a rise out of you.

anytime you step into tannyhill to meet sarah and he hears your sandals smacking against the floor he saunters down the stairs with a grin. sometimes it’s putting things he knows you’ll need on the highest shelf so that he can sneak a peek at your ass when you’re on your tiptoes, your frilly little sundress working in his favor as it rides up. “need some help?” he casually strolls up, hands resting on your waist like it’s nothing. like he can’t feel the anger boiling in your blood.

“no, get the fuck away from me.” you huff and let your heels hit the ground with a thud, and he doesn’t hide the fact that he’s eyeing your tits as they bounce. he doesn’t really care if you think he hates you, all he’s thinking about is the way you’d look laying across his bed for him, pretty eyes rolling in the back of your skull as he fucks you into the mattress.

“fine, get it your damn self.” he walks away but not before giving you a little tap on the ass.

he loves getting under your skin and watching your face as it fills with anger. in a twisted way it turns him on. he knows for sure that you think he’s your sworn enemy, but he really doesn’t have anything against you. you’re just his sister’s hot friend.

he knew it was just a matter of time before you cracked and flew off the handle at him, pounding on his chest and squeaking out every insult under the sun after he ran off a guy you’d finally planned a date with. your little meltdown falls right into his lap, right where he wants you to be. “never wanna see your face again, rafe. GOD you’re such an asshole!” your manicured nails claw at the fabric of his polo shirt.

your brain goes all fuzzy and short circuits when his veiny hands wrap around your wrists with a squeeze hard enough to bruise the skin, his jaw clenched and his eyes dark. “never wanna see my face again, huh?”

you saw plenty of it that night while you bounced on his dick whining and crying to cum. he does a really good job playing the part of the enemy, treating you like a little toy as he lifts you by your hips and fucks you like a fleshlight. “see, just like i told the guys. beggin’ me. for what?” he pants and cocks his head to the side. “all for some dick? little fuckin’ slut.”

definitely cums on your face and takes a picture for safe keeping. you feel degraded, ashamed that you let a man that “hates” you do something like this. ashamed that you want more. he feels like he’s marking his territory.

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

taglist: @stepbrorafe @bunnycvnts @hewwokitti3 @pinkribboncoco @rafesgiirl @beautifuldisaster88 @mousie101 @laniirackssss

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callingmelili · 8 months

Text

A deal (part 2)

https://www.tumblr.com/callingmelili/740888816139796481/a-deal-part-2?source=share Part 1 here!!

Right where I am.

I can't believe he has the gall to tell me that, I don't think before bracing myself on the floor and forcing my shaking thighs to cooperate in lifting me off the damn dildo. However hard my cunt is gripping it, it's slick with my juices and I've almost managed to find my balance on my knees when Mark shows up on the doorway. He tilts his head to the side as he strides towards me. "Did I happen to stutter, Mia?"

"Fuck you." I spit out, moving to get a foot underneath myself. He's faster, thoguh, so much so that I don't realize what he plans to du until his hands have pushed me down by the shoulders, driving the dildo base-deep into my cunt again. A ragged moan escapes my throat as it bottoms out and mark laughs. "You could at least pretend you're not enjoying this. See how easy you are with just a little help?"

I struggle against his hold, but between my exhausted legs and his physical superiority, I simply can't overcome the strength with which he's got me impaled by the dildo. "Let me go! What the fuck, Mark? This wasn't part of our agreement!" I look up at him, the distance between our eyes seeming even larger than it even is. Mark is a tall man, much taller than me when I'm standing up and a veritable giant right now, as I kneel in front of him. "Hey! Are you even listening, let me go!"

His mouth stretches into a smile. "Oh, sorry." The strength with which he's pushing me down diminishes, and I take the opportunity to surge forward before wondering why he didn't take his hands off my shoulders completely.

"I- Ah!" In a second I find myself right back where I started, speared open and writhing on the floor. Mark pushed me back down, and in the same movement he came closer, when I glare up at him I find my nose knocking into his hard, clothed cock. "Mark!" I wish it sounded less like I'm begging him for something and more like I'm annoyed but it's the best I can do at the moment.

Mark only stares down at me for a second before he bursts into laughter, hands tight around my shoulders. "Oh, you should see your face right now. You would make a good thumbnail in a porn site Mia." He grins and releases one of my shoulders to pull his phone out. "Now, smile."

I definitely don't smile, but he grabs my hair and forces my head back before snapping the picture anyways. My eyes prickle with humiliated tears as the gesture forces my center of gravity to shift and I grind down into the dildo that is spreading me open. "You're not getting away with this, you asshole."

"Yeah, yeah. You know, you can't prove you sent me that last picture. And even all the others… have you considered the fact that I could report you for prostituting yourself? Tsk, you've been so bad? I'm sure no one is going to look kindly upon this, so why don't you fill your mouth with something before it gets you into even more trouble." He glances pointedly at his own pants and my mouth falls open in realization. "Hurry up, do you want to be reported for soliciting?"

"Oh-" This time a tear does slide out of the corner of my eye. "You were-- You were planning this."

He rolls his eyes at me. "Of course I was. You've never been very smart, I guess I should have expected that you wouldn't catch on." He unbuckles his belt and glances pointedly at his thick, long cock, the imprint of which I can see pressed to the fabric. "Get with the program, will you? This is embarrassing."

"I hate you, I'm not a whore," I say, but my hands seem to have already resigned themselves to what is going to happen and undo his fly before taking out his cock. Realistically I don't have another choice. Well, I do, but it means losing my career and my future. "Do you think I don't have pride? Or dignity?"

"I have a whole camera roll that says you don't." He grips himself and slaps my cheek with his length, leaving a sticky trail to my mouth. "Don't make me mad Mia. I have a lot of patience but this is getting ridiculous. Use that dignity and pride to suck me off properly."

This is happening. I can't help but thinking incredulously as I open my mouth. This is happening, and Mark has his phone ready to document every second I spend sucking him off. This is happening and I can't stop it, this is happening and I'm so wet.

"Oh, that's a good whore. You've got a well trained mouth, don't you?" He pushes in, holding me tight by the hair. I'd initially thought of drawing it out but Mark is relentless, pushing me down on his cock until it's hitting the back of my throat. It takes all my willpower to not gag around it and let it slide in further. "C'mon baby, relax." He pulls back a little and thrusts back in. I'm dimly aware of the phone pointed at my face. "Shake those hips, alright? It's going to feel good."

Again, he thrusts in, again and again and I refuse to move until he slaps my cheek, cock still stuffing my mouth. "I said fuck yourself on that dildo, Mia. Now." He returns to fucking my face, hard enough to make my eyes water as I start clumsily grinding back on the dildo, whining around his cock at the sensation of being filled on both ends. "You look good like that." He grins, the hand that remained on my shoulder finally moving over to my head. He grips my pigtails like handlebars. "I'm going to tell you how this is going to work, you're going to nod and suck and keep fucking yourself or there will be consequences, understood?"

Wetness runs down my cheeks as I nod, somehow it's only then that I manage to nail the movement that has the dildo in my cunt hitting just the right places. My head is fuzzy, all I can hear is the wet sounds of my holes being filled again and again and Mark's voice. "That's a good whore. I expect this after every class, got it? You'll come wearing no panties and with one of your holes stuffed, when everyone's gone you're going to sit under my desk and keep your mouth around my cock unless I tell you otherwise." My eyes widen, he has office hours after class. Not that many people come by but there's no doubt I'll be sucking his cock at the same time my peers ask for academic advice. "I like to think you know your place, so from now on you will be sending me a picture of you naked in the bathrooms at college before every class. Make sure to write on your tits the time and where you're going."

His thrusts grow erratic, as do mine. I've already come once and my oversensitive cunt is clinging to the dildo."Nhhhhh" Saying no is about as useful as saying yes.

"That's right baby." he strokes my cheek. "I have a lot of ideas but we're starting gradually. You brought this on yourself by cheating after all. If you're good this will be fun but I can also make it difficult. You wouldn't want to have to dye your hair blond or get those huge tits pierced, would you?"

I'm so close, I whine around him as my hips stutter on the dildo. "Or maybe yes?" He laughs. "How about getting your lips filled? Or huge whore eyelashes? You should have just told me you were into that. We'll work it out." He groans. "Fuck I'm close. Ha. Be a good cunt and come with me, won't you Mia? It might not be as easy for you to get any sort of orgasms in the future."

It's degrading, it's terrifying. One misstep and I'll lose my career and everything I've worked for anyways on top of people considering me a pervert. He is turning me into a thing for his own amusement and I'm about to orgasm from it.

I feel Mark pulsing in my mouth at the same time that my cunt clenches around the dildo, and I feel a rush of wetness between my legs that soaks the floor while I shake int he throes of the best orgasm I've ever had.

After it passes I am mindless, still speared into the dildo as Mark tucks his cock away and wraps something around my neck. Something rich and thick that smells like him. "Fucked the words out of your head, didn't I?" He leans down to grab my tongue from where it's hanging out from my mouth. i don't remember sticking it out. His fingers pinch the soft flesh and force me to turn my head to the side, towards my mirror and then I see.

I see a whore with her owner, sitting in a puddle of her own juices, a dildo deep inside her cunt and her hips still thrusting back onto it with pathetic, little aborted movements. Mark has his belt wrapped around my throat like a leash, he's fully dressed where I'm only wearing socks and he's holding my tongue outside of my mouth, making my facial expression a sort of slutty surprise that only grows more degrading when paired with my bare breasts and pigtails.

Mark turns to press a harsh kiss to my temple and releases my tongue before lifting his phone and aiming it at the mirror. "Smile if you like our new deal, Mia."

This time I do smile as the shutter clicks.

#breeding toy #dumbification #corruption kink #mind control #bimboification #attention wh0r3 #blackmail #suckhoe #edging my mind away #women are inferior #men are superior #bd/sm pet

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ashrayus · 26 days

Note

PLSSSS MORE FANFIC RECOMMENDATIONS OF JASON TODDDD!

DUDEE!!!! really happy u asked but also omg this got long agaiN who would have thought (!) i added summaries this time tho :)

here is part one of my fic recs XD

andd heres the new ones!! pls give them some love if u read them :D

Dick and Jason:

how lonely to be something that nothing wants to kill by sunlitlemonade

There were blood drops dripping down his fingers to the ground. The puddle was big enough for it to have spread around more than half the tub. His breaths shuddered, they were shallow and waning. But he was breathing and Dick’s world centered around that.

starting strong with Angst go read all of sun’s fics i always die and get revived <333 pls mind the tags on this one

cast on/cast off by hellsreluctantheir

“This is surprisingly non-destructive for Jason,” Dick comments, lightly. In the parking lot, Jason pulls a grenade out of one of his pockets, yanks the pin, and tosses it through the roller door and out of sight, before tearing out of the parking lot in chase of the truck. “Well, for a minute there,” Dick amends. He takes a step back towards the alley the batmobile is parked in, giving Bruce a quick glance. “We following? “No,” Bruce says, as the grenade goes off. “He’s cleared the warehouse. We can get into the office.” Dick sighs again. But Jason knows he can call in if he needs help.

time loop!!! read most of this writer's fics and fell in love with them all,, go read fr

bloodstained by hellsreluctantheir

“I know where the clinic is, asshole,” Jason said. The wad of gauze he was using to keep pressure kept slipping against his shoulder. The knife had caught the space between two panels, split to allow movement. Lucky shot. “Ok, let me make sure you get there without passing out from blood loss,” Dick said, a deliberate evenness to his tone, like he was doing his best to accomodate someone who was being completely unreasonable. Shithead. “I’m not going to pass out,” Jason said, ignoring the fact that he was actually feeling pretty unsteady on his feet. He caught himself with his good shoulder on the entry to the bathroom, took a deep breath. “What would Daddy Bats think if he knew you were here, trying to help me?” “I assume something like, ‘Wow, Dick, you’re such a good brother, trying so hard to make sure Jason is ok even when he’s being a complete idiot about it,’” Dick sniped.

heres another one from them. jasons scars and dick. andd another one next

brothers in arms by hellsreluctantheir

It wasn’t like none of them went undercover. Jason practically lived there. And he’d punch anyone who tried to make it a sob story for him, to cluck over the times he’d been alone in a pit of vipers, act like it was some tragedy. But given half a minute to think about it, Dick somewhere completely cut off from everyone but Bruce, no allies on hand, surrounded by enemies. Angry as he was at the lie, there was something about that he just fucking hated. or Thinking your brother is dead and then finding out he's been alive the whole time really has a way of making you rethink the relationship.

Shelter by Ptelea

Two safe houses, two nights dealing with the aftermath of fear toxin, multiple conversations, several meals. Written for Sholio's September 2020 Comfort Fest for a prompt from Musesfool. Warning-wise, there's nothing graphic here but there are definitely references to past canon trauma for both the characters.

the way they are written here <33

Rotten Fruits by couldyoublameme

“I’m fine,” Dick assured gently, sitting up slightly. “Just a bad night, is all.” It’s a familiar phrase he has used so often. Whenever the addiction crawls back into his mind, a parasite he can never truly get rid of. The family knows what it means. Knows what the ‘bad’ is. Knows what to do. “Oh,” Jason says. “Why?”

absolutely murdered me. pls do mind the tags

You Can Do Better Than That by AlexaAffect

All Jason could hear was his own ragged breathing. He desperately gasped for air, each breath more exhausting than the last and his lungs and throat burned with the effort. In. And, he needed a second longer with every breath he took, out. His arms had been suspended for the last… 15? minutes? Jason had quit keeping track of the time, he’d been too preoccupied trying to hold himself upright, trying to ease his position, switch it up, anything to prolong the guaranteed death. “Red Hood?” That was Dick’s voice. Huh. So they had found him fast enough. Or alternatively; Dick finds a kidnapped Jason shortly before he asphyxiates.

this fic is just oddly comforting to me idk. very precious

Equivalent Exchange by Lysical

Apparently favors don't expire on death. --"What do you want, Dick?" "For you to be happy, Jay." Dick leaned over and pinched his cheek. Jason reached up and swiped at him, scowling. "And world peace."

ADORABLE and fun

Just for Now by Lysical

Jason was back in Gotham and the timing couldn't be worse for him to need assistance on a case. He didn't want to see any of the Bats and he was sure the feeling was mutual. Nightwing was the worst option for Oracle to pick to help him out.

To Reconcile by CasualDanger

“Babs slapped me at your funeral.” Jason goes to laugh, but it’s just a cough and his mouth barely even twitches up. “She hated me in that moment. I mean, really, really hated me, like I did Talia after I found out Damian had died. And I wondered,” his voice cracks, eyes glassy now, “did you hate anyone when I was gone? Because I was gone?”

he ain't heavy, he's my brother by someplacewarm

Dick's been putting off meeting with Jason for a while now, but when a distress call comes through, he has no choice but to answer. Or the one where Dick and Jason talk, fight, get high and cuddle. In that order.

making gold out of it by vmkhoney

Dick talks himself back down on the bathroom floor, clinical and detached. (For someone whose primary skill is manipulating his body, it’s not very often that he feels connected to it.) - Or, five years after Blockbuster, Dick begins teetering on the ledge of processing what Catalina did to him.

a wonderful dick grayson fic, and jason is there being a good brother. mind the tags

What Hurts You by blueyeti

Dick comes to Jason's aid when he's injured in a fight, or at least he thinks he has.

jason has no scars!! and thats also sad

at me, too, someone is looking by bacondoughnut

Dick Grayson knows he's got problems when the Red Hood's busted leg somehow becomes his concern. aka; How Dick Grayson finds out Jason Todd is alive. A story about healing.

a rather long one for my standards XD (very short attention span) but this made me sit down and read. very fun jason

Bruce and Jason:

Saltwater and Desperation by bacondoughnut

Jason's not sure how he even manages to get himself out of the harbor. He's just glad Bruce is there when he does. Not that he'll ever, ever admit as much out loud.

same writer, love this jason (and bruce) so much

Insomnolence by navree

It's not like he slept much as a kid anyway; this is just a return to the status quo. He's not overly tired, and even if he's been sleeping less than his already limited amount throughout April, that's still not any of her business. Bad memories are already bad enough even before they spend the next few years in the aftermath becoming nightmares.

navree being The bruce and jason writer for me all of their fics are so o(- (

Ash Into The Wind by navree

This is his dad in there, the first man he ever called Dad, at any rate, and even after everything, booze and jail and Bruce and death and then death again, there's never going to be a part of Jason that isn't gutted that he's dead. One night, a wraith in a red helmet slips onto the grounds of Blackgate Penitentiary to steal one specific thing.

another one from them

Trapped by lurkinglurkerwholurks

BatFam Week 2018, Day Two. Prompt: Trapped Yes, the prompt is "trapped" and it's a Jason fic. I'm so, so sorry. (Not really, though.) Please see tags for potential triggers.

binge read this writers fics recently they write them so nice

Overcoming Our Antecedents by Batbirdies

Bruce swallows, closing his eyes for a brief moment before he takes another, steadying breath and presses both hands to his face. He just needs a moment. Needs to remember where he is, what year it is, that Jason is not actually fifteen, he only looks like he is. This is temporary. This is just a temporary problem that needs to be contained until they can change Jason back. This is not a repeat of events already passed. This is not a second chance.

Jason and Batfam:

Names and Neapolitan by Muddell

“Goddamnnit Robin,” Hood is there, pulling him into his arms. Robin sees that helmet, he sees the green eyes, the dark hair, he sees open, gray, Gotham sky, and hears tires squealing, and then he sees stone. He sees the cave. Bruce is there. Alfred is there. Dick is there. And Hood is there. Robin rolls in and out of consciousness. He reaches out, snatches the smell of copper and the touch of leather, and he holds Hood’s hand and he does not let go. He’s allowed to say it now. “Jason,” he says. “Don’t leave.” Or, following Dick telling Tim about his older brother, to Tim actually knowing him.

read a couple fics from this writer all so good!!!

Six Ways to Sunday by Muddell

Jason catches Duke hiding a headache and says, is anyone going to deal with that?

same writer!! really love their jason

Settle Down and Sleep by OberonBronze

A series of vignettes about seeking comfort. Damian tries his hand at being a comfort animal; Tim shows up at Jason’s place for an impromptu sleepover; Jason bonds with his older brother after a damaging fear toxin trip; Dick and Bruce have a long-overdue conversation.

really liked jason and dick in this :)

Tuck Me In by OberonBronze

Bruce Wayne and his long-standing habit of tucking his kids into bed.

think how great it is to fall asleep (and how terrible it is to wake up) by mikkal

Jason was fifteen, barely five foot, and underweight for his age when he died. When he came back to his body, suddenly he was too tall, too scarred, too much, too different. And he just... never got used to it. (Or: 5 times a Bat noticed/discovered his body dysphoria post resurrection)

Stranger Danger by alchemistsarego, whumpinaheartbeat (alchemistsarego)

There was never one particular moment that Damian registered that he was losing consciousness. Everything simply flashed from one thing to the next, even though some part of him understood that time had been passing in between. He had been sitting upright, rolling his eyes at something someone had said, then he was on the ground being pinned by some unknowable weight. All at once the weight was gone again, replaced instead by something not only lighter, but much warmer too. A blanket? No, a jacket.

jason and others:

Past Experience by Rookblonkorules

He thinks he might be dying. Again.

clark and jason :)

Bats in the Belfry by endlessnepenthe

Hal idly wonders how long he has before he's found. Probably not very. The Bat's freaky like that. (Or, Hal goes to Gotham and discovers that Batman's brand of freaky isn't exactly one of a kind.)

jason and hal jordan??! and slade? and magic.

#jason todd #dick grayson #bruce wayne #dc #jason todd fic #fic rec

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dilatorywriting · 2 years

Text

Heroes vs. Villains : The Staff

Platonic GN!Reader x NRC Staff vs. RSA Staff Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: Woe to the Ramshackle Prefect, being caught up in the drama between the Disney Villains and their respective heroes. NRC Staff Version (Part 1: Crewel and Crowley)

ie. Headmaster Crowley is a nightmare, and Professor Crewel is, well, cruel. And to be perfectly honest, after meeting another dog-loving professor who doesn't treat you like absolute garbage, the Royal Sword Academy is starting to look a lot more appealing.

[PART 1] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4]

‘Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me!’

Crowley had chirped that very sentiment to you ad nauseum, with all the enthusiasm of an old raven eyeing a shiny penny.

“Do you really believe that?” you sniffled, angry, as you sat slumped over in one of his rickety office chairs.

People at this stupid school were mean. And yeah, school yard insults and casual accusations of being the House Wardens’ little bitch were one thing—but these assholes would go right for the throat. All of your insecurities—your fears—all laid out like a nice spread of hors d'oeuvres ready for the picking. You had endured enough sharp barbs for a lifetime, and the fact that your glorious Headmaster and self-proclaimed parental figure kept writing it all off as a ‘learning experience’ was driving you mad.

“Of course I do, dear child!” he beamed. “What sort of educator would I be if I didn’t practice what I preach! Words are but the wind, as they say!”

You nodded, sage, and shot him a smile so sugary sweet it could rot the teeth right out of his skull.

“I wish I’d never met you and I hope that all your feathers fall off one by one,” you chirped. “And I use the ‘Number One Child’ mug you gave me to scoop water out of the toilets when the plumbing fails.”

Crowley’s mouth fell open with a nearly audible clunk, and if he weren’t so wrapped up in all kinds of immoral, black magic, bull-shittery, you would have liked to imagine that maybe that had been the sound of his heart cracking in his stupid, embroidery-covered, chest.

You popped up from your chair and breezily made your way to the exit. You propped yourself up against the intricate, wooden, frame and clapped your hands together like a bubbly preschool teacher addressing a room full of particularly dull children.

“I’m glad we could get that out in the open in a completely pain-free way. Words really can’t hurt anyone!”

You managed to slip the door closed just as he started to wail.

That afternoon you made your way to Professor Crewel’s office, as had become your routine. It was nice. Sometimes you would help him grade papers, sometimes you would just nibble on fancy cookies and listen as he ranted about the incompetence of certain staff members which shall not be named.

Sometimes his dogs were with him in the afternoons—a pair of giant, lithe, wolf-like beasts that were most certainly of a very proud and expensive lineage. Jasper was the black one and Badun the white, and each had a coat so glossy and well-maintained that they could put your own hair care to shame. Badun was enthusiastic, charismatic, and would bound to greet anyone who entered. Jasper was more quiet, reserved, but he was secretly your favorite of the duo. Whenever you stopped in after classes, the shadowy hound would lumber over and rest his giant head in your lap.

“No puppies today?” you called when you were greeted with silence rather than a wave of happy kisses.

“They’re in for their groom,” Crewel mumbled, busy at work with his head bowed over some lab reports or other. Normally he would grouchily correct you that his two precious pooches were adults. Dogs. And should be addressed as such. He must have been really distracted today. Or maybe you were just wearing him down.

You settled into the lovely, plush, chair off to the side that you had long since claimed as your own, and set your bookbag on the floor by your feet with a thump.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence with nothing but the sound of scratching ink over paper to break up the monotony, Professor Crewel dropped his head into his hands with a miserable sort of sigh.

“You should not have spoken to Crowley as you did.”

You blinked, startled. “What?”

“I of all people understand how frustrating the Headmaster’s antics can be,” Crewel continued, firm. “But you are still a student of this Institution—and one in a precarious enough position as it is. So you need to be mindful of your tongue.”

Indignation roiled through your gut, followed by a sharp prick of disquiet that you couldn’t quite place.

“Then he should be mindful to treat me like a student and not some—some pet project,” you huffed, kicking irritably at your patched backpack for want of nothing else to do. “And besides, what’ll he even do? Expel the one person in this entire college who mops up every single one of his messes? And I mean, it’s not like he’s running around the school crying or anything. I wasn’t that mean.”

Crewel pinched the bridge of his nose and you paused, mouth parting in surprise.

“Oh come on, he did not.”

“In the name of preserving our esteemed leader’s dignity I will say no more on the matter,” he grit out, and you fought the urge to immediately whip out your phone to message Ace, and Cater, and every other rabid gossip you could think of.

“Well, maybe he deserved it,” you snipped, crossing your arms stubbornly across your chest. A bit of cautious warmth spread through you and you nervously plucked at one of the loose threads on your uniform sleeve. “And besides,” you mumbled. "He can cry about me calling him a shitty father all he wants. You’ve been way more of a dad to me here than he could ever try to be.”

“I beg your pardon.”

You froze, fingers locking in place around the picked-apart edges of your jacket. The ice in his voice was unfamiliar and entirely unpleasant. It sent a frigid wave of worry curling through your veins. Had you overstepped? You’d thought—You’d just thought—

“I-I mean,” you spluttered. “I only meant that, well… Uhm… You’re really nice to spend time with. A-And, I just…” He made you feel like you were home again. Like even though Ramshackle was empty and cold, that you could still walk into this little office and say ‘I’m back!’ to an actual, real-life person and not just the shadows that lived in your foyer.

“Let me be perfectly clear, Prefect,” he sneered. There was an undercurrent of hostility running so sharply through every word that you were left wondering frantically if you’d unintentionally trampled over a sensitive topic. You hadn’t thought it was a big deal. You just—you just really, really looked up to him. And felt safe with him. And—And—

‘I’m sorry,’ you wanted to say. But instead you just let out an odd kind of choked squeak.

“I have no intention of playing parent to anyone,” he snapped. “Let alone an untrained brat who can’t even be bothered to play civil with the people who do attempt to care for them.”

Ouch.

“R-Right,” you spluttered, swallowing around the burbling lump in your throat and the warmth prickling along your lash line. “O-Of course. I’m sorry for assuming. I—I… uhm…”

‘I’ll just go then.’

But just like with failed apology, those four little syllables just couldn’t seem to make it past your lips either. So instead you just shakily snatched your bag from the floor and bolted from his office, burrowing your stinging cheeks as far into your collar as they would go. The last thing you needed to do was give anyone at this stupid school any more ammunition against you. And ‘Cry Baby Prefect’ sounded like another nasty nickname that would stick to you like gum to a flat-heeled shoe.

It’s fine, you whispered to yourself, voice wobbling far more than you would have liked. Grim hated when you came back smelling like dogs anyways.

“My goodness, are you alright?”

You blinked, harried, and glanced around yourself properly for what felt like the first time in hours. You were… not on campus anymore. Huh. What a trip. You’d never been so upset that you’d blindly run off into an entire new town before. But you supposed there was a first time for everything. You did remember feeling too nauseous to return to your little hovel for the evening, but you hadn’t really expected your frantic pacing to take you quite this far out of the way.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

Oh. Someone was talking to you, weren’t they?

Standing in front of you was a tall, lanky, man in a tweed jacket. He was stooped down a bit to make eye contact with you, and those hazel eyes were creased with worry. His blonde hair was pushed half-off his forehead in a style that looked more haphazard than intentional, and the hand he was offering you was littered with splotches of ink. There were patches of white and black dog fur littered across his entire outfit like some horrible fashion statement, and the thought of puppies made your throat tighten up all over again.

“My name is Cliff Rogerson,” he said, steady and kind. “I’m one of the instructors at the Royal Sword Academy. Are you lost? Do you know how to get home from here?”

Do you know how to get home?

You laughed once, manic, and then promptly burst into tears.

“Oh, dear,” he sighed, his heavy brow furrowing low with concern, and patted you consolingly on the shoulder. “Oh, dear.”

You were herded into a nearby café and directed into one of the quiet, corner, booths. The lights were soft and fuzzy in here, and the pleasant warmth of fresh pastries brushed gingerly along your frayed nerves. Mister Rogerson pressed a steaming mug of hot chocolate into your hands, and placed a delicately wrapped muffin off to the side of it. It was a tempting offering, and you decided to unbury your head from your hands long enough to partake.

“So how did you end up out here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’m a student at Night Raven,” you mumbled into your cocoa.

You could tell he was doing his best not to look shocked, which was at least a dozen steps above the way the rest of your stupid school would just gawk at you in outright consternation.

“Forgive me,” he smiled, gentling his apprehension into something that was more polite curiosity that anything. “But you don’t really seem like one of their usual pupils.”

So you explained your situation—the Mirror, and the magiclessness, and the homelessness. You talked about your friends, and your new demon cat/evil baby, and how much you missed stupid things like good shower pressure and fuzzy socks. Mister Rogerson listened to all of it with an attentive sort of sympathy that you hadn’t seen since, well, probably since you were dropped face-first into a school full of burgeoning war criminals.

“That sounds like a time and a half,” he said once you’d finally tired yourself out. “I’m sorry you’ve had to go through all that.”

You picked at your muffin. It was ridiculously fluffy and eating it felt like pulling bits and pieces out of a cloud. A very, very delicious cloud.

“Forgive me for saying so,” he hummed, pensive. “But your situation doesn’t sound particularly safe.”

You laughed. “That’s one word for it.”

Mister Rogerson frowned, another twitch of that uneasy worry playing across his face. He ruffled around in his jacket pocket for a moment and pulled out a neat, cream colored, business card.

“It may be overstepping of me to offer, but at the same time I do think as an educator it’s my duty to try and help every student that I can,” he smiled, kind. It crinkled the skin around his eyes. “The RSA is not overly far from Night Raven College. If you ever want to stop by—if you ever need an ear to listen, or just a space to get away from it all—my door will always be open to you.”

You took the little piece of paper carefully, like it was something precious. There were swirls of colorful music notes splattered across the backdrop of it—raucous bursts of neons that were as endearing as they were ugly.

‘Tacky,’ spat a too-familiar voice in the back of your head. ‘What sort of statement was this lowlife trying to make?‘ You could practically feel the phantom distaste emanating from wherever a certain two-toned professor had camped out for the evening.

Probably at home, you thought bitterly. Because he has a home, right? And you are not at all upset that you will never be welcomed into it. And that you will probably never get to cuddle his puppies ever again. Nope. Not at all.

You swallowed the little burst of unpleasantness that accompanied the train of thought, and pocketed the card with a smile.

“Thank you. I’ll definitely have to take you up on that.”

Divus Crewel was many things, and unfortunately, being as cruel as his namesake was often one of them. He glanced back to the clock ticking on his wall for what was perhaps the dozenth time that hour. You hadn’t been by since his—ah—outburst a few weeks prior.

He had perhaps reacted a bit more unpleasantly than he normally would have. You’d just… caught him off guard was all. It was a bold declaration you’d made, and what? Had you really expected him to be overjoyed by the idea of forced parenthood? To swoon over the notion that someone had decided to latch onto him and his perfectly pressed suit like a leech despite the fact that he was so obviously thriving in his life of solitude?

And it wasn’t that he expected you to take his biting comments lying down. Oh no. You were fierce, and determined, and were most likely on your way here to bang down his door demanding recompenses for all your suffering. There was a tray of those too-expensive cookies you liked tucked away in his top drawer. Just in case you did show up and throw one of your tantrums, and he needed something quick to pacify you. That… That was all.

But each day that he waited for you to sneak back into his office was another spent in quiet solitude. Badun had taken to whining at the door and Jasper hardly got up from his bed at all—just tucked his black nose into his equally black paws and stared straight into Crewel’s soul. Like he was judging him.

He caught himself glancing at the clock again and forcibly turned back to his work.

This was ridiculous. You were ridiculous. And stubborn. And so, very, danger prone. Had something happened maybe? Was that why you’d disappeared—because you’d gotten caught up in some sort of trouble again?

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick—

He looked back at the clock.

Tick. Tick. Tick—

His office door flew open with a BANG and he swiveled in his chair, ready to chastise you for making such a ridiculous entrance. Instead, he ended up nearly nose-to-nose with a weeping Dire Crowley. The man wailed into his clawed hands, looking very much like he might accidentally stab himself in the eye all the while.

“HOW AM I SUCH A FAILURE OF A PARENT?!” he bawled. “WHAT COULD I HAVE DONE TO PREVENT THIS?!”

“What?” Crewel gaped, head spinning. “What’s happened?”

Crowley let out another inhuman squawk and shoved a piece of parchment into the alchemist’s crimson-gloved hands. It was torn at the top, likely from where it’d been pinned to something before the raving Headmaster had swiped it. Crewel read over the familiar script with narrowed eyes, something unpleasant twisting in his belly.

‘The Ramshackle Prefect kindly sends their regards, but unfortunately has other commitments for this evening. Please contact Professor Cliff Rogerson of the RSA music department in case of an emergency.’

“MY BABY LEFT ME!” Crowley sobbed, nearly inconsolable. “WHO’S GOING TO DO MY TAXES NOW?!”

The leather of Crewel’s gloves groaned in protest as his hands tightened into fists—his nails biting into his palm even through the sturdy material.

“What do we even do?” the old crow lamented, sounding so genuinely crestfallen it was almost unnerving.

Jasper and Badun circled their master’s ankles wearily, eyes bright and lips twitching with nervous whines.

“I think,” Crewel grit out, the note crumpling between his fingers, “that it’s well past time that we have a chat with the Prefect about the importance of personal safety. And of the consequences of running off with strangers.”

#twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #My Writing #NRC Staff #NRC Staff x Reader #Divus Crewel x Reader #Dire Crowley x Reader #The NRC Staff's Horrible Parenting #Heroes vs. Villains #Crewel x Reader #twisted wonderland OCs #twst ocs #Divus Crewel #Dire Crowley #Heroes vs Villains The NRC Staff Part 1

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nadvs · 2 months

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What if Rafe and his friends goes to a party at her college and a fight happens 😄

Maybe its after a game and Max is jealous because he sees them flirting at the game and then he sees them at the party. Maybe he says something to her and Rafe cant hold back.

omg i LOVE this. protective rafe throwing punches always gets me 👀

based on this fic

» au masterlist

the first time she invites rafe to a party on her campus, especially after he just won a game against her college’s team, he doesn’t even have to think about it. it’s an automatic yes.

but because it’s rafe, he’s casual in his response, giving her a simple, “sure. text me the address.”

he brings a couple of his teammates to the loud frat house, loving the fact that he’s getting dirty looks from some people.

they recognize him as the guy who mercilessly antagonizes his opponents on the court. and if there’s anything rafe likes more than being known for how good he is at his sport, it’s being feared.

when he sees her, rafe approaches her and ducks to kiss her cheek.

he can see that idiot max hammond’s eyes on them. he noticed him scowling at them when rafe was chatting with her after the game. she recently told rafe how just a few days ago, her ex switched up from begging her for a second chance to shit-talking her to school’s team and cheerleaders.

in small, almost imperceptible moments, he’s seen the frustration flash on her face whenever she mentions how max has affected her reputation.

so, his hand slides down her hip and grabs her ass, making her laugh against his chest.

“you know your asshole ex is still hung up on you, right?” he murmurs in her ear over the music. “fuckin’ staring daggers.”

“is that why you’re grabbing my ass?” she says with a smirk.

“that’s part of it.”

she laughs again and shifts to take his hand.

“i’ll take you to the keg,” she says.

he follows her as she walks deeper into the crowded house, her fingers linked around his.

it’s odd how much comfort rafe simply being here brings her. she didn’t think the person to make her feel better after a messy break-up would be a common enemy, the guy known for playing dirty and shouting insults on the court, but she’ll take it.

this thing with rafe did sort of start as a revenge plot, but she stopped caring about that before she even walked out of the bar the night she first spoke with him.

as they fill up their solo cups, she sees max in her peripheral vision. he’s getting closer. and he’s clearly drunk.

“what the fuck are you doing here?” max mutters.

rafe turns, looking down at him. he’s got a few inches on him and he loves to show it.

“celebrating,” rafe replies with a self-assured smile. “we won. did you forget?”

“you can celebrate somewhere else,” he says.

“give it a rest, max,” she sighs.

“nobody’s talking to you,” he says.

“really,” rafe says, his smile disappearing. “you were pretty fucking desperate to talk to her a few days ago, weren’t you?”

max is clearly embarrassed. she’s satisfied.

“that’s none of your business,” max mutters. he looks over at her. “what kind of bullshit have you been spreading?”

“me?” she laughs. “you’re embarrassing yourself. just leave us alone.”

max’s jaw hardens in frustration. she could tell he had quite a few drinks, but when he says his next words, she realizes just how out of his mind drunk he is.

“why are you being such a bitch about this?” he mutters.

within a second, rafe throws a punch, his fist colliding with max’s cheek. the crowd splits in mania. rafe lands another punch. then another.

max lunges low to tackle rafe onto the floor. max’s friends jump in. then, so do rafe’s.

she’s overwhelmed. in shock. frozen. she watches in disbelief. thankfully, a few guys pull them apart.

she’s been at this house before and knows the layout, so when she grips rafe’s bicep, she pulls him towards the door past the kitchen, leading into the backyard away from the chaos.

rafe is heaving, spitting out blood onto the grass. the music is muffled once the door shuts behind them.

“piece of shit,” he mutters. “he’s fucking lucky they pulled me off of him.”

she stares at him with wide eyes. she’s never felt this way with any man before. protected. safe.

so, she gives into her adrenaline-fuelled impulse and hugs him. his chest rises and falls quickly against her cheek. she can feel his pounding heartbeat.

“nobody’s stood up for me like that before,” she admits. “thanks.”

rafe doesn’t say anything for a moment. his reaction wasn’t solely out of hatred of max. it was because he genuinely likes her as a person. and someone upsetting her pisses him off to a ridiculous level.

finally, he places a firm hand on her shoulder. they’ve hooked up countless times now, but this sort of gesture feels out of their element.

“sure,” he says tensely.

she steps back, her eyes on the ground.

“there’s another party down the block if you want to go there instead,” she says.

“alright,” rafe replies.

“hopefully nobody calls me a bitch there.”

his lips pull into a small smile.

“alright,” he echoes. “let’s go.”

#ask #swteblurb

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empresskylo · 2 years

Text

[part 1] part 2 of touch-starved where Ghost and you have been distant ever since that night. you do not have to read part 1 in order to understand this part btw

a/n: you guys, i am down so incredibly bad. my entire pinterest and tiktok is covered with this stupid mask-wearing man. and i don’t even play the game so it has everyone around me like 🤨 also super annoyed that part 1 glitched or sumn because it posted my unedited version. edited version is on my ao3. anyways, enjoy the smut <3

masterlist

cw: ptsd, smut, p in v, reader described as small and referred to as a woman and blushes once

simon “ghost” riley x afab!reader

wc: 3.3k

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐓

It was late in the compound, the silent night echoing through the hallways. Ghost and you had, in fact, been awkward the moment you released one another from your embrace. You had shuffled uncomfortably beside him as you both stood up. Ghost cleared his throat and his eyes danced across your face, his eyes unreadable. He shied away and motioned you to follow as you continued heading to base.

It was weeks after that mission and you hadn’t really seen all that much of Ghost since. You had come up to train with Soap while Ghost was in the room. He swiftly exited, grumbling in annoyance as he left. Soap had raised his brows, noticing the (extra) grumpiness in Simon.

You tossed and turned in your small room, a tiny bed and a chest of your things filling the space. You usually shared the room with another woman on your team but she was offsite at the moment.

You grumbled, shoving your boots on as you got up in the dark. You decided you needed to walk it off. Maybe then you could sleep.

In just a tank top and tight black leggings, you left your room.

You immediately collided with a large, firm object. You tripped, off balance from your boots not being tied, and fell backward. Two strong arms caught you, making you finally look up and coming face to face with Ghost. “Oh. LT,” you said embarrassed.

Ghost set you upright then removed his hands from around your arms, leaving a lingering warmth in their absence. Ghost was busy making his rounds as usual when your small frame came bustling into him. Always so clumsy.

Ghost’s blue eyes scanned your face. He was about to walk away and continue what he was doing, but halted. “Have you been cryin’?”

You felt your face warm. Why did he always have to be so blunt?

You shifted uncomfortably between your feet. He tried to get a glimpse of your face but you had shied away, staring at your boots. He could see the dark circles around your eyes from exhaustion. The same that he saw in his own reflection every morning. “Oh, uhm…” You rubbed the back of your neck.

“You still thinkin’ ‘bout that night?” You looked up at him and gave a meek nod. Of course, Ghost was referring to the close call a week ago where you almost got Gaz killed. You all had made mistakes that night, but Ghost had watched as your hand slipped from Gaz’s grip because you had failed to properly secure the rope holding you up. He had seen the horror spread across your face.

Honestly, you were surprised Ghost hadn’t kicked you off his team yet. Soap and Gaz had reassured you that you were a crucial part of the team and any one of them could have made that mistake.

But they didn’t. You did.

You watched as Ghost rolled his eyes and gripped his gun on his hip tighter before pushing you back into your room and closing the door.

He sat on your roommate's bed and pointed at yours. “Sit,” he commanded.

You did as you were told and closed your eyes. Here it was, the big moment where your Lieutenant finally ripped you a new asshole for being such a fuck up.

Ghost’s husky voice filled the already cramped space, threatening to overfill it. “I lost one of my best men back in the beginning.” Your eyes opened. You could see him in the faint glow of your room’s light. His eyes were heavy, surrounded in black, as he looked at you. “It was because of me.” Ghost felt his fist squeeze harder. You stared at him, realizing he was trying to make you feel better. To tell you how he had done something similar in the past. Though, he wasn’t great with words. You smiled at Ghost’s first kind words to you. “What?” His voice boomed with annoyance.

“Nothing.” Your smile sank as you thought of Gaz and you felt tears begin to well in your eyes again. “I’m not used to all this,” you said, gesturing around you.

“The military?”

“Being alone.” Your voice was quiet. You had always had your family. Friends. And for all of it to be taken from you destroyed you. You felt a strange sense of relief finding family with these men. They filled the void that you tried to stuff with whatever you could. But there was always that one part that never quite filled.

Your knees brushed against Ghost’s. He reached out without thinking and grabbed your hand. No. You weren’t alone. They were your family now. This was your home.

Ghost was solely wearing his balaclava mask without his usual hard skull addition, which felt more intimate. You could see the instant regret in Ghost’s eyes when he realized what he was doing. As he retracted his hand, you reached out and stopped him. Just like before, your name left his mouth in a faint whisper. You slowly stood, still gripping Ghost’s gloved hand, and pushed him back onto the cot. Maybe it was the way you now knew perfectly well that Ghost was feeling the same absence you were. Or maybe it was the darkroom that gave you confidence. You slowly crawled up beside him, your heart pounding in your ears. You moved dramatically slow, like you were attempting not to spook a feral cat—and in a weird way, you were.

Ghost’s eyes were burning a hole through you as he just let you touch him like this. He had half a mind to push you away, but his body knew how alone he felt as well. He craved this.

You rested a hand on his chest and Ghost felt your touch burn him through his clothes. He gently moved his shoulders so he was sliding his tactical gear off. Your small fingers helped, throwing his vest onto the floor. In one swift motion, Ghost decided what he wanted and he pulled you on top of him, your body flat against his. A small yelp had escaped your lips. You were afraid Ghost could feel your heart racing. His arms tightened their grip around you, suddenly overflowing with the need to connect with another human. To have your delicate hands caress him. To feel the warmth of your body against his.

He slipped his gloves off and he placed his calloused hands on your exposed arms. You held in a tight breath as he gently touched you.

You felt his chest move as he let out a painful breath. You peered up at him finally, faintly making his eyes and mask out in the dim light. Ghost looked down at you as he felt your eyes lock onto him. You gulped, unsure of what your next moves would bring.

You trailed your hands up, making Ghost’s own slip from your arms and rest on your waist. You propped yourself up slightly as you reached out to Ghost’s mask. He flinched backwards before stilling. Taking that as consent, your fingers pulled the bottom of his mask up from its spot under his black shirt. Ghost was breathing loudly through his nose as you edged the hem of it up slowly. You finally pushed it up, just enough to expose his jaw and the tip of his nose. You stopped there to much of Ghost’s relief. If you had tried to remove his mask any further, he would have likely thrown you off of him.

“I get it,” he said softly.

“Hm?” Your eyes traced his lips as he spoke, his thick accent pooling from his mouth that you could finally see. He had quite a bit of stubble coming in. “Being alone,” he finished.

“And do you like it, LT?” Your eyes darted up to his, almost challenging him. Did he like being alone? He had told himself yes for years. Every void he felt didn’t matter. He filled it with violence and bloodshed from striking down his enemies.

But now, having your warm body flesh against his own, your tiny fingers brushing against his jaw as you pried his mask up, he wasn't so sure. He wanted you. Desperately.

Ghost’s silence was deafening as he contemplated. Finally, he pulled you up into him, a small “Wha—“ leaving your lips before they were locked with his. Ghost didn’t begin to move until you reciprocated. Then, he deepened the kiss. His mouth attacked yours fervently. Your hand slid up to his chest to hold yourself steady. One of Ghost’s hands tightened on your hip, the other moving into your hair. He pulled you closer, his tongue sliding against your lips. His fingers clenched your hair, a feeling he hadn’t felt in so long.

As fast as it began, it ended. Ghost pulled back, both of you breathless. His hand didn’t leave its spot behind your head as he spoke. “No. I don’t fucking like it.”

Your eyes widened in reaction to something you couldn’t quite explain. Your body tingled as he stared at you. You moved your fingers to the hem of his t-shirt, edging it up. You wondered if you were going too far. Before you could finish your thought, Ghost pushed you back onto his thighs and tore his shirt off, careful to not catch his mask in the process. At this angle, you could make out the details of his partially exposed face. You saw old, faded scars that trickled across his face. One slid down his neck to his shoulder.

You pulled your tank top off, your breasts exposed, though he could hardly see in this lighting. You tentatively leaned forward, your chests colliding. You hugged him as close as you could, your body flat against his once again, but without the fabric. Ghost’s arms came up to wrap around you, pulling you into him. You felt a sigh of relief escape his mouth as you held each other, your fingers tracing smooth circles on his side.

You could hear his heartbeat. You smiled lazily. How much you had missed having someone you trust this close.

You turned to him and leaned up to kiss again. You could see his hesitation, but he concluded his thoughts by softly kissing your lips. You felt a chill run down your spine. This was the man who could scare a grown man with just a look. The man who gave you orders. The man who couldn’t be killed. A man filled with such rage that it came out in bursts of humor here and there. A man who hadn’t shown anyone his face is God knows how long.

And then here he was, pressed against you, kissing you so delicately like you might break. His rough fingers ran along your back, the heat from your body making him sweat.

He should be worried about what this meant for the two of you. How wrong this was since he was your lieutenant. But Ghost’s mind was so preoccupied, he wasn’t sure he had the strength to think about anything other than the way you were consuming him in this moment.

He felt your fingers fiddle with his belt. A wave of heat ran to his crotch. He pushed you back and you pouted, suddenly embarrassed. You had gone too far. Of course, Ghost wouldn’t want to—

You were cut off when you saw Ghost lifting his hips to push his pants down. You gulped, a blush spreading across your chest.

He reached out for you. He knew how pathetic he was acting, but he didn’t care. He was drunk off your touch and fuck, did he need more. He wouldn’t let himself ruin this.

His fingers played with the hem of your leggings and he tried to pull them down. You stood up and tore them off before settling yourself on his thighs once again. Your hands rested on his strong shoulders, looking into his eyes shyly. He was breathing deeply as he stared at you. Both of you were shocked at what you were doing.

“We can stop if…” he started, but you reached out and dragged your fingers along his scruffy jaw, making his words get trapped in his throat. Your finger pads tickled him as they slid down his slightly hairy chest and traced over his faded scars.

“Do they still hurt?” You asked timidly, afraid you were really pushing things now. Maybe all he wanted was the feeling of a woman in his bed after not having one for so long. You bringing up his battle scars was sure to kill the mood.

“Not physically.” You felt goosebumps rise on your skin, his voice far deeper than you’ve ever heard him before. You leaned down and placed a kiss against them. Peppering him with your soft lips. Ghost felt his eyes shut as he focused on the way your lips felt against him. Your wandering hands tracing his side and thigh.

You looked back up at him and his hands immediately went to you. His hand slowly skimmed your thigh, edging closer to your throbbing core. He hesitated before stroking his knuckle against your underwear, making you bite your lip. He was so slow with his movements, wanting to be gentle with you. Shit. Had it really been this long since he got laid?

He watched as your eyes squeezed shut, your nails digging into his shoulder as he continued to drag his knuckles against you.

Ghost had reached his breaking point when he saw your face drowning in pleasure. He grabbed your hips and flipped you around so you laid sprawled beneath him. You let out a tiny yelp, your eyes wide open now as you stared at a hovering Ghost above you. His hands gripped your panties and slid them down your legs and threw them on the floor. He looked down at you, his mouth all but watering. You tried to squeeze your thighs together feeling flustered at his gaze. He pried your legs apart and settled himself between them so you couldn’t close them again. “Don’t get shy on me now, pet.”

You took in a sharp breath at the name he just called you. Unsure if you liked it or not, Ghost halted movement before you were prying at his waistband. His husky chuckle vibrated through his chest.

He pushed his underwear down just enough to free himself and he rubbed himself against you. You gasped and grabbed onto his shoulders again. You wanted to look down and see if he was as big as you thought but it was too dark in your room to tell. You’d find out soon enough.

Ghost’s pupils were blown as he pressed against your soaking entrance. He crashed down on top of you and held himself up with his elbow, his chest pressing against yours, his other hand lining himself up. As he began to push himself into you, his hand came up, getting lost in your hair.

You both groaned as he stretched you out, slowly filling you. He really was big.

After a few painfully long moments, he bottomed out, his breath hot on your neck as he panted against you. His hands continued to wander across your body, grabbing the fat around your thigh and hips every so often. Then moving up to caress the swell of your breast. Ghost pulled out and then pushed himself back in rather roughly. “Simon,” you gasped. His name in your voice had his eyes honing in on yours. He sounded gruff as he spoke, “Am I hurting you?”

You shook your head, desperate for him to slam into you again. You bucked your hips against him and he got the message.

Simon began at a steady pace, growling each time his cock hit your cervix. You dug your nails into his back, Simon painfully stretching you out.

Simon’s face sank into the crook of your neck, leaving little kisses against your skin as he rutted into you. He smelled of mint and gunsmoke. His hand slid along your body and up into your hair, giving it a slight pull. You mewled, your eyes fluttering. “Like all the lil’ noises you make,” he grumbled between grunts.

Your walls clenched against him and he swore under his breath, his hands gripping you tighter. His body laid flat against yours, your nipples pressing against him. You were completely engulfed by this large man; you never felt so safe.

You began muttering incoherent words as he filled you up, completely drunk off him. Ghost pulled away and looked down at you. Your eyes met his. Your face was glowing with sweat as the two of your bodies intertwined in the small quarters.

Ghost gripped your thighs and pushed them towards you so he could get a better angle, all while never breaking eye contact.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he moaned. Your hands clenched the bedsheets, your walls tightening in on him. You both were dangerously close.

One of his fingers began to rub circles on your clit. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as you repeated his name again and again. “Look at me,” Simon demanded. Your eyes flew open and locked back with his as you came, your walls clenching Ghost’s cock painfully tight. He moaned as he watched you gasp in ecstasy.

“Fuck. Simon,” you mewled. That was enough to push him over the edge. He pulled out of you before stroking himself and coming against your lower belly, leaving ropes of his come dripping down you.

You both struggled to catch your breath. Simon rubbed his cock against your slit, riding out both of your highs.

Your orgasm floated away as you came down from your high, relaxing into the pillow. The dark makeup around Ghost’s eyes were smudging from the heat, but it just made his eyes even more captivating.

Before you could speak, Simon leaned over and grabbed his t-shirt, wiping his mess off your belly.

Ghost’s eyes analyzed your face, trying to read your expression. He pulled his mask back down and silently got dressed. You did the same.

You looked up at him as he towered over you, he seemed a lot shorter when you were both horizontal. He had everything on except his shirt, which he held in his hand. You’d be lying if you said the sight of Ghost’s exposed chest wasn’t sending a rush of warmth between your thighs again.

He stood there, lost for words. You shifted between your feet as he intently watched you.

“I, uhm. If you want, you can…well. You can lay here with me. For a bit. If you wanted.”

Your face was red hot as you babbled like an idiot. But you desperately wanted Simon to lay down and hold you as you fell asleep, so you didn’t care about acting like a fool at this very moment.

Simon pushed off his tactical gear instantly as if he was just waiting for the invite. He loomed over you before pulling you down with him into your tiny bed. Ghost took up most of the mattress so you were forced to lay flat against him, his arm gripping you close like he never wanted to let go. Your back pressed into his chest and your eyes felt heavy at the rise and fall of his breath.

You felt him reach up and take his mask off, clutching it in his hand as he held you, his mouth next to your ear as he shared your pillow. You fell asleep to his warm breath and nose nuzzling you. You’d worry about the awkwardness tomorrow, especially when you realized Ghost would have to somehow exit your room without getting caught.

Ghost’s hand clutched you against him the entire time he slept. He hadn’t slept this well in years.

#ghost #simon riley #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #cod #ghost cod #ghost fanfic #simon riley fanfic #ghost mw2 #ghost call of duty #fluff #angst #ghost angst #cod mw2

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flor4de4amor · 5 months

Note

may we please PLEASE PLEASE please get more aviator!abby???? she’s so yummy & i need her so bad..

welll if you wannttttt ofcccc!! this is totallyyy not based off of today’s events. if only i had abby around </3

click for palestine | don’t buy tlou | read b4 engaging

the toilet is broken and it's been ruining your fucking day. the stupid handle is too loose and you're determined to fix it yourself. it's far too embarrassing to ask the other wives on base to use their toilet. word spreads far too fast. everyone's gonna think abby doesn't care for you. and that is far from true! she cares about you so much, you think you're gonna suffocate in her love.

which is part of the reason you wanna fix this stupid waste of space in your bathroom. abby takes care of you everyday, and she works hard and long all day. it wouldn't be fair for her to come home to a broken toilet. (sometimes she sits there doing buisness, while playing wordle, and keeping conversation with you as you shower. you'd hate to break routine.) but you've been knelt over twisting screws, fiddling with pliers, and banging your head against the wall for the past few hours. for a matter of fact, youtube is not helpful! in fact, when abby gets home, you're informing her of a the anderson housewide youtube ban. stupid fucking site. waste of space on the web. killed away at your day with useless hacks anyway.

you're so caught up on cursing at the tablet, your cat pawing at your toes, the stupid fucking toilet, and don't forget swearing the wind, that you don't hear abby's heavy footsteps. you normally greet her at the door with plenty of love. whenever you're not waiting for her, it normally means trouble. means that she better make your stiff couch, real comfortable tonight. and no, she cannot steal any souvenirs from your normally shared bed. she must make do with some throw pillows and a teensy tiny blanket.

you think that you've almost got the issue sorted out when she catches you redhanded. her arms snake around your waist from behind causing you to drop your tools and squeal. your cat screeching at the commotion. abby clicks her tongue at the grey streaked animal. bane of her existence. you thrash in her arms for a minute, until she kisses your cheeks and you're able to inhale her scent. "relax pretty, it's just me."

you huff, and turn around facing her sweet face. "you're an asshole." you don't mean it. but, she's just made you almost shit your pants while your toilet is totally broken. fair reaction, if you may say so yourself.

"you don't mean that," she smiles. her thumb goes to wipe sweat off your forehead. "what's going on here that you're wielding serious machinery?" she eyes the discarded plier and screwdriver.

you slide up to the sink, settling your spine against the cool faucet. your cat following in suite, jumping up into your lap, effortlessly. you coax, him, in your laps, scratching behind his ears, while speaking to your wife. "toilet's fucking broken." you groan, "i've spent all day trying to fix it." abby eyes the loud video playing in the counter of the bathroom corner. she goes to shut off the tablet, sensing your agitation.

"why didn't you call me? or a plumber?" her hands rub your thighs gently, trying to soothe you.

"despite what the haters say," you laugh softly to yourself, "i can do things."

she looks you up and down with a look of doubt in her eye, "i know you can." she plants a sweet kiss on your lips to reassure you before planting the real stuff. she pulls away stroking your cheek, "just not this type of stuff."

you roll your eyes and scoff. "ok well, a girl can try."

she smiles, "yeah lets, not anymore." she smiles and leans away slightly, eyeing the damage you've done to the commode. you pinch her bicep for her sly comment. she grunt in a pained response. her hands grip your wrist, not too tight, she'd never hurt you. "listen here girly," she threatens emptily, before releasing your wrist. her fingers tickle at your sides with carefree joy.

"is it fixable?" you ask. you feel awful.

that cocky smile of hers finds its way to her dopey face. "for the average joe? meh," she shrugs her shoulders. "for me?" she boasts, "definitely fixable, pretty. don't worry." she plants another kiss on you. when she pulls away, abby wipes her hands on the sides of her uniform khakis. she kneels to the base of the toilet, and assess the damage closer. "i think i found the problem baby."

"what is it?" you stroke the feline in your lap.

"you've been using all the wrong tools hon," she remarks offhanded while digging around blindly for her toolbar that's got her initials monogrammed onto the front.

"you're a tool," you say under your breathe.

"heard that!" abby says from down below. she chuckles softly, but doesn't let you hear.

"love you baby!" you reply back, a smile fixed to your lips.

"suck it, anderson," she grunts back while tightening a bolt or something. whatever the hell she was doing down there.

"maybe later," you laugh sweetly.

"sounds good to me," abby replies rather quick.

"shut up and fix the toilet anderson!" you say in a fit of giggles.

"yes ma'am," your cornball of a wife replies, while making a complicated task look easy. she's impossible to hate, and so easy to love.

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tkaulitzlvr · 1 year

Note

Hiii luv !! Could you do an imagine where Tom is flirting with a girl, and the reader gets angry and there’s lots of angst and she is petty and the story end with yk 😭

JEALOUS - T. KAULITZ

synopsis: after tom flirts with a girl right in front of you, you display your anger towards him. eventually, he has to make it up to you, but you don’t make it easy for him.

content: angst & smut

a/n: thank you for the request, i hope u enjoy!! and there’s no cliffhanger this time so you guys can’t yell at me for a part 2, this took FOREVER😭

i watch from a few metres away as she playfully hits his shoulder, batting her eyelashes at him, my body seething with rage. a flirtatious smile tugs on his lips whilst he signs her autograph, her hand rested on his upper arm, cleavage basically spilling out of her small crop top, so tight that every curve is on show, my eyes narrowing as i silently observe the encounter, tom not doing anything to stop it. in fact, he seems to be enjoying himself.

the incoherent screams of horny teenage girls sound throughout the street, their outstretched hands reaching out past the barriers which hold them in place, tom and his band mates rushing to sign anything shoved in their faces - paper, CDs, posters, photographs: some even bold enough to pull their t-shirts down slightly, pushing their chests outwards and waving a marker in the boys’ faces, squealing in disbelief once the ink marks their skin, an autograph signed by their biggest fantasy himself now spread across their front.

yet i am able to drown out the noise, focusing in on tom and this girl, just about ready to rip the blonde extensions from her head, losing any remnant of cool once she reaches into the pocket of her low rise jeans, pulling out a small slip of paper and handing it to tom, winking suggestively at him. i decide that i have seen enough, storming over to him from the tour bus that i had been leaning on, reaching him just as she is leaning in to whisper something in his ear. snatching the small piece of paper from his hand, i scrunch it up into a small ball, pushing it flat against the girl’s chest as she scoffs, a sarcastic smile on my face.

“we’re done with autographs now, goodbye!” i state, my voice high-pitched and angry. i don’t wait for a response, shooting tom an angry glare, roughly grabbing his hand and dragging him over to the tour bus, hundreds of girls that he hadn’t yet gotten to screaming his name desperately.

“woah, what the fuck? are you good?” he shouts over the crowd from behind me. i refuse to turn around, pulling him up the stairs and slumping on one of the seats, tom standing in front of me, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“sorry did i interrupt your little moment there? did i get in the way of you both? i am sorry, it’s not like i’m your fucking girlfriend or anything!” i scoff, my voice raising as i yell in his face, my chest heaving up and down once i finish.

“what?” he blurts out, his mouth falling open in complete shock, as if he hadn’t just been caught flirting with someone else, and i had made up the entire thing.

“are you fucking serious? you let her have her hands all over you, eye-fucking her, and if that wasn’t enough, you took her god damn number! the fuck do you mean ‘what’?” i shout, pushing him backwards forcefully, a small groan leaving his lips as he stumbles backwards.

“hey, hey, can you calm down? i do that-”

“calm down? fucking calm down? wow tom, you’ve really outdone yourself this time! you flirt with some bitch right in front of me, in front of everyone, and you want me to calm down? get fucked, fucking asshole!” my voice falls to a whisper as i continue pushing him, digging my fingers into his chest as the tears fall down my cheeks, tom taking each hit.

“i didn’t want to be rude, i always take their numbers, they just end up in the trash! you’re acting like i kissed her in front of you!” he yells, his own voice raising now as he towers over me, straightening his shirt and standing upright after i take a few steps away from him.

“what and that makes it okay? that you didn’t kiss her? that you planned to throw her number in the trash? wow, thank you! so fucking kind of you! such a gentleman. really, what an amazing boyfriend you are, i’ll put it on a fucking cake or something, since that’s all you want to hear, about how perfect you are!” i shake my head, scoffing in complete disbelief of how he can’t understand where he went wrong, feeling completely humiliated.

“i don’t know what you want me to say. i can’t fucking win.” he says, his voice much quieter now as his fingers massage his forehead, a tired sigh leaving his lips.

“i don’t know, maybe sorry? do you know how fucking embarrassing it is to be in a public relationship, and your boyfriend decides to flirt with someone else right in front of you, in front of a giant fucking crowd? do you realise how ridiculous that makes me look? of course you don’t! all you care about is you and your shitty image, and what people think about you. ‘cause that’s all that matters, right? and you don’t even see how you’ve done something wrong, you selfish bastard!” i shout, venom laced in my words, my hands balled into fists as they continue to hit his chest, looking to let my anger out in any way that i can.

salty tears cascade down my cheeks as my punches become pathetic and weak, the sound of my sobs taking over. tom grabs my hands gently, attempting to pull me into a hug, his hands stroking my hair. for a second, i almost melt into it, my anger momentarily fading away as he holds me, planting soft kisses on my forehead, whispering small ‘i’m so sorry’s against it. but i roughly pull back, tom’s eyes narrowing in confusion.

“no. you don’t get to do that. you don’t get to hug me and expect me to forgive you. it doesn’t work like that anymore. it shouldn’t take me getting like this.” i trail off, referring to my distraught state - tears cascading down my face, eyes bloodshot, face red, entire body trembling in pure rage. “for you to apologise. i’m tired of this tom, i’m sick and tired of you acting like this. you can’t keep flirting with other people when you have a girlfriend. if you want to break up just fucking say it-”

“what, are you insane? of course i don’t want to break up.” he quickly says, cutting me off.

“sure fucking seems like it. now fuck off and go flirt with some other bitch out there or something, seems like you’re pretty good at it, and i’m sure there’s a line of them already waiting.” i mutter through gritted teeth, looking at him one last time before turning around and walking to the back of the bus, closing the door of our shared bedroom and locking it behind me.

a string of muffled curses can be heard through the door, followed by a few loud bangs as tom’s fists collide with the table. my sobs soon stop, replaced by nothing but pure anger, this settling within the pit of my stomach as i stay locked in the bedroom, listening to the high-pitched screams of the fans still outside, not knowing whether tom has left the tour bus and, in the moment, i no longer care, tired of scolding him for something he clearly doesn’t see an issue with.

༻❦༺

his eyes burn into me from across the bus, the rest of the band discussing something to do with their next show in berlin - this where we are headed from paris. i am sandwiched between bill and gustav, georg sat on the other side of the bus beside tom. neither me or tom are listening to the conversation, too focused on each other, staying silent as i shoot him a nasty glare, not wanting to speak to him after what happened earlier. we hadn’t said a word since i had stormed into the bedroom, staying in there until the rest of the band came back, announcing that we were hitting the road once again.

i had emerged from the bedroom, tom quickly turning in my direction, coming towards me to speak, yet i turned away, walking straight past him, not interested in whatever it was he had to say.

and since that moment, his gaze hadn’t left me, his eyes remaining fixed on my own, filled with a strange mix of anger and regret. he stayed quiet, though, not daring to speak to me, probably knowing deep down that i would just shut him down again. i had always been stubborn, and right now, i stick to that trait, proving that i wouldn’t speak to him unless he actually tried to make an effort, and right now, he was failing miserably.

“we’re gonna head to bed. we’ve had a long day, come on babe.” he announces, looking at me when he says the last part, holding his hand out for me to take, a hint of desperation in his eyes. my jaw clenches in annoyance at the way he speaks for me, making the unshared decision for me, completely aware that i am far too angry to comply. the pet name rolls off his tongue, only fuelling my anger as he says it so nonchalantly, knowing that he is in no position to call me that right now.

“i’m fine here.” i state bitterly, my eyes fixed on the table opposite, refusing to look at him.

i hear him groan loudly, everyone quickly stopping their conversation to look at the pair of us, their eyes flickering to me and tom repeatedly as they sense the tension between us, the entire atmosphere soon becoming awkward. tom still holds his hand out, hoping that i will take it, yet i remain still, my eyes fixed on my lap.

“fucks sake.” he mutters, shaking his head and bringing his hand back to rest at his side, storming through the bus and to our bedroom, closing the door with a rough slam.

we all stay silent, my head turning to look out of the window as i try to act casual, not wanting to create a scene - i had been humiliated enough today. but, everyone else clearly has questions, confused by the clear friction between tom and i, the two of us usually attached at the hip. if it wasn’t for the argument, we would probably be making out on one of the couches, the band becoming used to our PDA. so it is fair to say that they are all shocked, staring at me with raised eyebrows, almost ushering me to speak.

“don’t look at me like that.” i groan, sinking downwards into the couch and covering my face with my hands.

“you and tom don’t act like that everyday.” bill laughs, turning to face me with a slight smile on his face. “what did he do this time?”

“i caught the bastard flirting with some girl, back when you were all signing autographs.” i sigh, my voice low as i avoid tom being able to hear me, feeling the irritation come flooding back to me as if the incident had just happened.

a small gasp escapes bill’s mouth as he covers it with his hands, georg and gustav raising their eyebrows in shock. i smile in satisfaction, glad that i have gotten everyone else to be mad at tom, before sitting up in my seat, ready to pour out my frustration, the wound still fresh.

“and that’s not even the worst fucking part!” i laugh, shaking my head and watching the look of confusion on bill’s face as he wonders how his brother could have possibly made this situation any worse. he nods his head, signalling for me to continue.

“the girl held out a piece of paper with her number on, and he fucking took it!” my voice is raised now, no longer caring if tom can hear me or not.

“oh my god.” bill gasps, shaking his head in utter shock, georg and gustav shooting each other a few awkward glances as i shake my head, gritting my teeth.

“i swear once i see him, i’ll slap the shit out of him! sometimes he’s the biggest asshole i’ve ever met, it’s humiliating to call him my brother.” bill scoffs, his face pasted with a mix of frustration and disbelief, a small smile on his face. his voice is loud, tom definitely able to hear every word.

“and he couldn’t seem to understand why i was so fucking angry with him! i swear he’s such a dick sometimes, like why does he have to be so hot? i swear the most attractive boys are the biggest assholes.” i groan, throwing my head backwards as bill chuckles beside me.

“keep ignoring him.” bill shrugs, a playful smirk tugging on his lips. “it’ll drive him crazy. look how frustrated he is now, he won’t be able to last much longer. the two of you fuck like rabbits.”

i shove him to the side as he continues laughing, my face turning a light shade of red. though he phrases it in an embarrassing way, bill is right. tom is horny literally 24/7. i didn’t think that it was possible for a boy to be so obsessed with sex, until i met tom. at least five times a day, probably more, he needs me, quickies extremely common in our relationship. it had been hours since we had spoke, and he was bound to be craving something, even if he knows i am angry at him, my chances of agreeing next to zero.

“anyways.” bill begins, clearing his throat and standing up. “i’m gonna go to bed, i’m exhausted. i hope you lovebirds resolve it and, if you do, please, at least try to be quiet.”

georg chuckles beside me, quickly closing his mouth once i send him a glare, before turning to face bill once again.

“yeah thanks for that bill, goodnight.” i sigh, giving him a quick hug as georg and gustav follow, leaving me alone in the main area of the bus.

the bus is silent, besides from the low hum of the engine as we travel on the highway, nowhere near our destination yet. much to my frustration, i cannot ignore how tired i am becoming, knowing that i will have to go to bed and face tom, something that i have been avoiding for hours now. i stand up slowly, trudging towards the bedroom, complete silence on the other side.

my hand clutches the door handle, pulling it gently and forcing it open. the room is dark, my eyes squinting to make out tom’s body sprawled across the bed. he is still, yet i can tell by his breathing patterns that he isn’t asleep. i walk over to my suitcase, pulling out a t-shirt and some panties, taking my clothes off and putting them on. i turn back around, noticing that tom has shuffled over to his side of the bed, making room for me. my feet trudge over towards it, silently climbing in, my back facing him as i move to the edge of the bed, as far away from him as possible.

the tension between us both is almost palpable, the air cold and thick as it carries thousands of words left unsaid, the atmosphere strangely awkward. i hated it, wishing that tom wouldn’t have flirted with that girl, knowing that if he hadn’t, we wouldn’t be in this situation. no matter how much i long for things to be okay between us, i stay silent, refusing to make the first move, reluctant to let him get away with this.

“you still mad at me?” tom mumbles from behind me, his voice low and groggy.

i ignore him, rolling my eyes and closing them, trying to fall asleep, not wanting to waste my breath answering such a stupid question. the bed creaks as he turns around, his body now facing my back. i stay still, turned away from him as he tries to get closer, inching towards me.

“you’re being really stubborn you know.” he whispers, much closer to me than he was when he first spoke.

“and you’re being a dick.” i shoot back, my tone cold and unforgiving.

“i know i messed up. but come on schatz, you know that i only want you. she was just a fan, she didn’t mean anything.” he replies, thinking that that is a good enough excuse.

i tut in response, questioning how he can even be serious right now, so oblivious to his mistakes. “looked like it. cause i take people’s numbers who mean nothing to me.”

“her number would’ve ended up in the trash, just like the rest of them.” he repeats, his voice still soft despite my reluctance to accept his apology.

“you still took it tom.” i state, his excuse not good enough for me as i am unable to forget the way he looked at her, actively engaging in whatever she thought she was doing. “you let her touch you, and you were smiling about it. that’s not fair.”

“i was trying to be nice. you know how many girls i see everyday, hm?” he asks, staying quiet as he waits for my answer. i remain silent, my back still facing him. “a lot. hundreds probably. they’re all screaming my name, they’d probably sleep with me in a heartbeat.”

“if you’re trying to make me feel better you’re doing a pretty tragic job.” i snap, failing to understand where he is going with this, the only outcome of his words right now is making me feel insecure, knowing that my boyfriend could leave me at any second, for a girl ten times prettier than i am.

“let me get to the point.” he sighs, gently placing his hand on my shoulder, applying a small amount of pressure and using it to turn me onto my back, allowing him to make eye contact with me. “what i’m saying is i have plenty of opportunities to find someone else. but i haven’t, you want to know why?”

my lack of response invites him to continue as he props himself up beside me, resting his head in his hands.

“they aren’t you. it doesn’t matter how many girls flirt with me, how many people give me their number, it won’t change how much i love you. i get that i messed up today, and i won’t take anyone’s number ever again.” he finishes, leaning in to kiss me.

i stop him, my hand meeting his chest, planted firmly against it. he tilts his head in confusion, most likely at the fact that i haven’t pushed him away completely, his face inches away from my own. rather i have stalled his movements, opening my mouth to speak.

“say it.” i order, still hesitant to believe him, wanting to hear him say the words. though my barriers have worn thin, knowing that it isn’t just me that enjoys tom’s high sex drive, aware that we would’ve fucked at least twice in the space of our argument, becoming sexually frustrated.

“say what?” he asks, attempting to dip his head downwards to kiss me once again. i shake my head, pushing his chest backwards once again.

“that you’re mine. say it, please.” i beg, desperate for his reassurance, unable to ignore the insecurity nagging in my mind once i saw him looking at her, questioning whether i am good enough for him.

“oh baby...” he starts, his voice sympathetic as he almost feels sorry for me, the guilt truly setting in, the realisation of how big of an impact his actions had hitting him quickly. “you know i’m yours, all yours, schatz.”

it is that simple act of reassurance that prompts me to let my walls down, tom wasting no time in connecting his lips with mine, the kiss sloppy and desperate, still filled with passion. his hands move to either side of my head, propping him up as he moves on top of me, his lips moving desperately against mine.

my arms wrap around his neck, moving him closer to me as he deepens the kiss, biting down on my lips gently as i let out a quiet moan, allowing him to slip his tongue into my mouth. his hands find the hem of my t-shirt, moving underneath the soft material as his fingers trace the skin of my back, tracing soft patterns as he lifts me upwards a little, holding me carefully whilst his lips work against mine.

“need you so bad baby.” he mumbles against my lips between kisses. “you gonna let me fuck you, yeah?”

i nod vigorously in response, humming lowly, cupping his face and continuing to kiss him. he smiles against my lips, happy with my lack of refusal, his hands gradually inching upwards, dragging my shirt from my frame at an agonisingly slow pace, his fingers running over the skin, my body shivering at his touch.

he pulls back for a second, only to lift my shirt over my head, smirking once he realises that i am wearing no bra, my upper half completely on show.

“all mine, yeah?” he groans, cupping my boobs in his hands, his fingers running over my nipples and squeezing them a little, a low whine escaping from my lips. “only i can touch these, right beautiful?”

just as much as i want to hear him say that he is mine, knowing that i belong to him brings me just as much satisfaction, wanting him to take my body, every inch of it, and claim it as his own. i hum in response, lost in the way his hands toy with my breasts, soon replaced by his mouth as his lips run over them, biting, sucking, anything that he can do to draw noise out of me.

“that’s it baby. let me hear those pretty sounds.” he coos, applying more pressure with his mouth as my hands reach for his head, pushing it downwards a little, encouraging him to carry on.

the coldness of his lip ring stings the skin, the sensation along with his teeth nibbling providing a dangerously addictive mix of pain and pleasure, though i cannot help but long for more, the way my hands clutch onto him, my quick and desperate breaths showing him what i really want.

“please…” i whine, reaching downwards to fiddle with the waistband of his boxers, these the only thing in my way, his body already bare as he usually sleeps in only his underwear, this playing to my advantage right now.

“shhhh, patience my love. tell me what you want, use your words baby.” he ushers, his head coming upwards from my chest to peck my lips a few times, waiting for me to verbalise my needs, knowing that he won’t proceed until i do.

“need you inside me...please.” i whine out, my cheeks turning a light shade of pink, slightly embarrassed at my desperation, though it only seems to encourage tom more, a smile creeping across his lips.

“good girl, since you asked so nicely…” he trails off, tugging his boxers down, his dick springing upwards, hitting his lower abdomen. the sight itself is almost enough to make me cum on the spot, longing to feel his length moving in and out of me, desperate for him to ruin me in every way possible.

he returns to his position on tom of me, hooking the strings of my panties around his fingers, maintaining eye contact as he slowly rakes them downwards, letting them pool at my feet.

he takes his finger, running it slowly down my folds, collecting my wetness, my eyes falling shut at the feeling. “all this for me, hm?”

he smiles downwards at me, dipping his finger into my entrance a few times, watching the way my face twists in pleasure, unable to handle his teasing. he brings his finger upwards, now glistening with my wetness, opening his mouth and licking it clean, a low groan sounding from the back of his throat.

“taste so good schatz.” he mutters, removing his finger from his mouth, bringing it towards my own, slowly running it down my lips, coating them with his saliva, letting them spring back into place, my breathing quickening at his actions, way beyond desperate now - i need to feel him.

he senses this, taking his hand and moving my legs apart, getting between them, pumping his dick in his hands a few times, his mouth falling open. a quiet whine escapes his lips, this soon reciprocated once he positions himself at my entrance. my eyes close, squeezing shut when i feel his tip enter me, already stretching me out as i clench my walls, moaning at the feeling. my hands fly to his back, gripping harshly, nails digging into the skin a little, yet he didn’t seem to mind.

he continues to push into me, inaudible groans sounding from the back of his throat as he manages to keep his eyes open, studying my expression, watching my mouth fall open.

“doing so good baby…you can take it, fuck-” he grunts, continuing to slowly push his way into me, feeling the way my walls stretch out, struggling to become accustomed to his size. with one final thrust of his hips, he bottoms out as i hiss in a sickly mixture of pain and pleasure, feeling his tip hit that spot inside of me.

i open my eyes, tom’s face a few inches apart from my own, a proud smirk etched upon his lips. i nod my head, signalling for him to move, the pain soon subsiding. he wastes no time, pulling his hips backwards, his dick almost fully out of me, before slowly sliding it back inside.

“ohhhhh…” he groans out, throwing his head backwards, tongue swiping over his lips, his hands finding their way to my hips, squeezing the flesh. he uses them to snap his pelvis backwards, a small whine leaving my lips at the emptiness, yet the feeling is temporary once he moves back inside at a much faster pace.

once he senses that i am comfortable, he picks up a faster pace, his thrusts quick and sharp, hitting all the right spots inside of me. with a small change in angle, his tip drills against my g-spot, repeatedly hitting it as a chorus of loud moans spill from my lips, chest heaving up and down in pure pleasure. my nails continue to claw down his back, tom hissing at the feeling, yet he chuckles lowly, using the pain to encourage his movements, plunging into me deeper than before, so deep that i can almost feel him in my stomach.

my lips attach themself to his neck, biting harshly at the skin, sucking after for a moment, repeating the motion all over his neck, leaving small purple marks in place of my lips, running my tongue over them after.

“just like that, show them who i belong to.” he mutters, groaning lowly as my lips continue to work on his neck, hitting the sensitive spots that only i know, his body something that i can pleasure better than anyone else, aware of all the places that elicit sounds slightly louder than usual. i pull back, my lips stuttering against his neck once he circles his hips, discovering an entirely new angle as my head plunges into the pillow.

his eyes drift downwards, looking at where we are attached, proudly watching his dick move in and out of me. his hand grabs my face, forcing me to watch his cock move into me, emerging and disappearing at a fast pace, a sadistic smirk tugging on his lips once he notices my eyes roll back in pleasure. he squeezes my cheeks a little, returning my focus to where our bodies meet, watching in awe at the same time.

“you feel that baby, hm?” he asks, using his free hand to firmly press against my abdomen, further showing the outline of his cock moving in and out of me, so deep that it is visible in my stomach. “you see it? that’s all for you. all of it schatz, it’s all yours.”

i moan in response as he release his hold on my face, allowing me to throw it backwards, my eyes squeezing shut as the familiar knot begins to form in my stomach, my walls clenching around him. he grunts as i do so, taking my legs and wrapping them around his waist, drawing him even deeper into me as i can feel every part of him moving inside of me. i can no longer speak, unable to let him know that i am close, instead i squeeze his upper arms tightly, watching the way his muscles flex with each strong movement.

“i know baby, you’re doing so well. just hold on a little longer for me. can you do that?” he breathes out, speeding up his thrusts, chasing his own release as i nod my head, restraining myself from cumming, knowing that i won’t be able to last much longer.

he reaches downwards, his finger moving to rub slow circles on my clit, my mouth falling open as the pleasure becomes too much, my climax seconds away, tom knowing exactly what he is doing.

“don’t cum yet, hold it.” he says, removing his fingers from my clit, instead moving his head towards my boobs, planting rough, open mouthed kisses there, his tongue running over the skin soon after to soothe it.

“i- i can’t.” i breathe out, clenching against his dick to try stop myself from cumming, kissing his lips desperately, doing anything to stop myself. he kisses back, my moans muffled into the kiss. his thrusts start to become sloppy, choked moans sounding from his throat, signalling that he has reached his climax.

“fuck- cum for me. let go baby.” he demands as my orgasm washes over me, vision fading as i grip the sheets, my knuckles turning white. his own release soon follows, spurts of his hot cum shooting into me, his hips snapping against me as he fucks it into me, his head falling backwards, a string of curses leaving his mouth, his dick twitching as he continues to work through his release.

small whimpers fall from his lips, his name a mantra as i moan it over and over again, his dick still moving in and out of me at a slow pace, riding out our highs as he whispers words of praise, his hands running up and down my sides. he stops his movements, his body falling on top of me, his dick remaining inside of me.

he cups my cheeks, slowly capturing my lips in a soft kiss, moving his lips tiredly against mine. he pulls away, his breath fanning against my face, remaining inches away from mine as he slowly pulls out, a low groan leaving his lips. i whine at the emptiness, longing to feel him inside me again.

his hands run through my hair, fingers untangling any knots within it as we lay silently, our heavy breathing all to be heard throughout the room. he kisses my shoulder repeatedly, my eyes slowly falling shut.

“you did so well baby, fuck. so good for me.” he praises, his voice low and lethargic. “meine liebe, only mine.

i smile lazily at his words, humming in response, my body too tired to form proper words as i soon drift off to sleep, any insecurities that i had now long gone, fading away as tom holds me, his eyes closing seconds later.

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