#nondescript smut

[wedontdeservethestars]

JOHNNY CAGE X SHORT CHUBBY READER I TELL YOU HE LOVES HIS WOMEN THICC

ANON I'M NOT EVEN GONNA SAY THIS A CORRECT OPINION BECAUSE IT'S SO CORRECT THAT IT'S A STRAIGHT-UP FACT. Johnny prefers his girls chubby change my mind!!!!!!!!!!! (Hint: you cannot)

Anyways I know I say that I never write smut but I uh. I did this time. Congrats anon you got me to come out of my shell for Our Boy

Content: reader has female genitalia, smut, fluff, body worship, overall just a Lovely Time between you two

(Pspspsps I also put this on AO3 if anyone would like the link for that teehee)

You had no idea what it was about red carpet events that made Johnny up act but, but every time he invited you out to accompany him, it was a constant fight not to let the paparazzi see his hands all over you. Not that you minded much, but hey, one of you had to have some decency. Maybe it was the stream of complementary alcohol, maybe it was seeing you all dolled up in a pretty silk dress, maybe it was the inherent nature of red carpet events essentially being an excuse to say, “Hey, look how pretty I am, look how pretty my partner is,” or maybe, just maybe, it was a combination of all three. 

Never mind, you thought as Johnny pushed you up against the front door. It’s definitely the dress. 

Just like they had been for the past few hours, his large hands were grabbing and squeezing ever part of you he could manage like a fucking kid in the pillow section at Bed, Bath & Beyond. And the more he felt each curve, the more excited he seemed to be getting, attacking your throat and shoulders and face with his mouth.

“Hey,” you chuckled breathlessly. “Easy.”

“Don’t know–” Another kiss on your neck. “What you’re talkin’ about–” This one landed on your soft jawline. “Doll–”

“Can we at least get to the couch or something before I’m fully nude this time?” you whispered, a smirk playing on your lips. Johnny looked at you very seriously and shook his head.

“No shot.” He grabbed he straps of your dress and, with a not-too-unhappy sigh, you slipped your arms out of them. Your puppy of a boyfriend knelt in front of you and slowly, teasing both you and himself, pulled the front of your dress down. He really did love how it looked on you, the tight material hugging every single rondure and roll, the deep red shimmering in each crease of the fabric. But even more than he loved you in that dress, he loved you out of that dress. 

You let out a soft sound as his hot sigh of breath tickled your skin when he saw you standing there just in your bra and panties. Without fail, he always acted as though he was seeing you for the first time whenever you were in any state of undress. 

“Fucking goddess,” he murmured, and then his lips were all over your front. He was hugging your thick thighs like they were the only thing that would save him. His mouth dragged all around your belly and chest, pausing on occasion to kiss more deliberately or nibble a piece of soft skin. Each pause earned a small gasp or sigh from you.

“Johnny,” you whispered. 

“Huhm?” He glanced up at you, midway through giving one of your love handles a hickey and not bothering to stop. 

“You’re…” Your thoughts swam madly. The only thing you could focus clearly on were the warm tingles coursing through your nerves. You could hardly put a sentence together. “I need you on top of me…”

A smirk fell upon his lips and he pulled away from your tummy, admiring his work for a moment. Then, he grabbed your ass with both hands and squeezed hard, humming. 

“I can do that.” 

In a flash, he was lifting you into his arms. You couldn’t stop a smile from coming across your lips–somehow it always surprised you when he carried you, even though you knew that he was more than strong enough to support your weight. All that time spent building up his muscles wasn’t just for show.

Your bedroom was an agonizingly long way away up a whole entire flight of stairs. Clearly, Johnny couldn’t wait that long, because he brought you to the nearest couch instead (well, technically it was a fainting couch; Johnny said he needed it for dramatics, whatever that meant). 

Johnny wasted no time in unhooking your bra and discarding it on the floor. Your panties were next. The velvet sofa felt foreign against your bare skin, but not unwelcome. He took a breath as he straddled you and began to unbutton his dress shirt. The whole while, he stared down at you. His brown doe-eyes gleamed with adoration. 

“Look at you,” his voice rumbled like distant thunder. 

“You’ve been thinking about this all night, haven’t you?”

“Ohhh, longer than that,” he chuckled. His hands were tracing you again. He couldn’t seem to help himself. “I’m always thinking about this, stardust.”

“It’s so hard to tell,” you teased, your own fingers dancing along his toned thighs. His skin felt hot, and you didn’t think it was just because of the Californian summer heat. 

“Like it’s my fault?” He leaned down and peppered kisses all along one of your breasts. Pausing before continuing on, he grinned up at you, “How’m I supposed to keep it in my pants when I have the most gorgeous girl on earth around me all the time?”

A moan slipped out of you as he pulled your nipple between his teeth and grabbed the other between his thumb and forefinger. You squirmed beneath him and tried to get a coherent response out. 

“Can–God–can you–” Your breath was short. “Need you to touch me…”

“Yes, ma’am.” Johnny gladly slid himself down, taking the time to admire and graze your belly with his mouth. You could feel how hard he was against your plush thighs, one of which he grabbed and hung up over the back of the couch while the other he spread so it swayed over the floor. 

“God damn, you’re so fucking wet already, aren’t you?” he grinned, running a finger up your folds. You felt it all the way through your spine and it made you buck your hips up. 

“Uh-huh,” you nodded, dazed.

His tongue was next, pressing hard against you and flicking expertly between your sensitive lips. A sound that you had never made in your entire life escaped your throat. It only seemed to encourage Johnny as he quickened his pace. For once, he was completely silent save for the occasional grunt or groan, and for the absolute most blissful reason possible. You wanted to praise him, tell him to keep going and that you loved him and that you were in heaven right now, but your words wouldn’t work. Fortunately, the way you were moaning was probably sending the message pretty clearly.

You grabbed a fistful of his hair, watching his head bob beneath you. From the way his own hips moved, you could tell he was rubbing his bulge against the couch as he worked on you. His hand, not to go unexercised, gripped one of your thighs–the one propped up on the backseat–and began to massage it. In turn, you yanked on his hair, making his groans vibrate against your pussy. You did it again and again, feeling your heart race. Warmth built up in your chest, and your stomach, and especially your nethers.

After a bit, you pulled his hair more gently, guiding his mouth away from you. Johnny seemed confused and hazy, like he’d just been pulled out of a dream. “I don’t wanna cum yet,” you whispered. You were too close, and too fast. You needed this to last. 

“Can do, babe.” He flashed a smile and sat up. “Gives me some time for this…”

You watched as Johnny finally pushed his slacks down and pulled his length out of his boxer-briefs. He was throbbing and hard, and as he began to stroke himself you could see his tip glistening with precum. 

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he groaned, leaning his head back as he ran his thumb over his slit. 

Suddenly, you decided that you did need to cum. Right now, in fact. You grabbed his hips and guided them forward, an eager look in your eyes. Immediately, Johnny understood.

“Yeah?” he breathed, his lips curving into a smirk.

“Please,” you nodded. Johnny spat into his hand and rubbed it along himself. He tilted your rear up a bit and positioned himself at your entrance. He paused and looked down at you. He smiled.

“What?” you breathed.

The smile, mischievous and greedy, widened. He didn’t move. You let out a whine and pouted. 

“Johnny! Don’t—don’t tease, I can’t right now—“

“Then tell me,” he murmured. “Tell me how much you want it.”

“Please?” You looked up at him with shiny eyes. “Please fuck me…”

He pushed forward—just enough to brush up against you. “I’m not convinced.”

“Please!” you cried out again. “I need it so bad, you feel so good, and—and I wanna cum, please?”

Johnny chuckled and leaned down, pressing a kiss to the center of your chest.

“Only I can make you feel like this. Right, baby?”

“Right,” you nodded quickly. “Yes. You’re fucking—amazing, and, and so hot…”

“Yeah, I am,” he whispered, and then without warning he slid right into you. You let out a whimper so loud that you clapped a hand over your mouth afterwards, your cheeks turning bright red at whatever that was. Johnny chuckled breathlessly and took your hand away, pinning it behind your head.

“No, no, babe. I gotta hear all those pretty little sounds my gorgeous goddess wants to make.”

On cue, the remark made you moan. He rewarded you with a firm thrust against your soft hips. His unoccupied hand sank into your side as he pumped over and over again.

“God—so pretty—“ he muttered. His face was growing several shades darker as he continued.

“Please, please,” you begged again, curling your fingers into fists.

“You close again?” His soft voice broke through.

“Mhmm…” You writhed for a moment before letting your body flow with his, both of you bouncing back and forth. Your eyes fluttered open every now and then. Each time you did, you saw Johnny gazing down at you, his eyes lusted over but filled to the brim with complete obsession with this. With you.

“Oh–” you whispered soon, squeezing your eyes shut. “Johnny, I–I’m gonna—”

“Go ahead, princess,” he nodded, his voice husky and low in a way that you only ever heard during times like this. It drove you over the edge. With one last cry, your legs quivered and you felt yourself close around him, causing a similar moan from him, and each nerve in your system was full of warmth and complete euphoria for a split second. Your breaths began to even out. Your muscles relaxed. Johnny pulled out as you lay there, panting, and finished the job for himself above you. A warm spray landed on your tummy as he grunted and groaned, and then it was over.

Both out of breath, both smiling like idiots, both completely satisfied. 

“Oh, babe,” Johnny sighed about nothing in particular. He sat back and let you shift into a more comfortable position. Everything felt warm and sticky, but you didn’t really mind. 

Johnny trailed a hand up your still-wet stomach and rubbed it gently across all your belly, coating the front of it with his cum. You gave him a shaky sigh at the gesture. It felt strangely nice. 

“I’d offer to clean you up, but you look so pretty like this,” he admitted, giving you a half-hearted shrug. You laughed softly as he stood up anyway and, after nearly forgetting to tug his boxers up, wandered down the hall to one of the first-floor bathrooms, leaving you to bask in the veil of after-arousal. 

You didn’t even notice he’d returned until you felt the towel touch your skin, damp with warm water and no doubt imported from some European country. Once you were all cleaned up, you reluctantly sat up and noticed the dark velvet of the couch was stained where you two had been before.

“Oops,” you chuckled, feeling a little guilty for ruining the luxury fabric but not enough to regret anything. 

“Eh, that’s what the maids are for,” Johnny shrugged, taking a seat beside you. He rested his head against your chest, sighing contentedly.

“I’m so tired now,” you mumbled. “We didn’t even do much…”

“Minus the whole night of drinking and partying?”

“I guess.” You rolled your eyes and rumpled his hair. The pomade he’d slicked it back with had come loose a few hours ago, leaving several strands hanging down in his face. It was cute.

“You’re pretty,” he said suddenly. 

“So you’ve said.” But it still made you blush.

“I know. But I mean it. You’re the prettiest…ever,” he decided on. 

“Hun,” you laughed softly. “Well, thank you.”

“I’m lucky.” He pouted for a moment as he thought. “People always say that. I get lucky breaks and lucky with auditions and lucky with all the deals…but that’s not luck. It’s charisma and talent and whatever. Lucky is, is meeting someone like you out of the blue. Finding you out of seven million people on this earth.”

“Billion.”

“Huh?”

“It’s seven billion people.”

“Whatever.” He buried his face in your chest, muffling is speech. “You get my point.”

“I do,” you whispered. You stroked his hair again and smiled as he gave you a big squeeze. You said, “I love you, too.”

[txt-trash]

⋅˚₊‧ secretly dating TXT ‧₊˚ ⋅

3.2k words. headcannon. boyfriend!txt x fem!reader, nondescriptive smut scenes. light jealousy. friends to lovers. mentions of phone sex, mutual masturbation, oral sex, riding

ᯓ★ YEONJUN

He’s real cheeky about it, always has a little smirk on his face when you step into the room and he’s so sure no one knows what’s going on but he’s also so obvious about it. Even if they don’t think you’re dating, they definitely think there’s feelings there.

Yeonjun is always the type to try and impress you too, has to show off how good he is at things and makes sure you’re watching when he does.

Anytime you go out with them, he’s going to make sure you’re by him or if you split off into groups he’s going to be with you. Every now and then he tries to hold your hand and has to remind himself to chill out until he sees Beomgyu or someone take your attention then suddenly he’s snatching you away with some excuse.

“We’re gonna go get drinks,” Yeonjun says as he practically drags you away from Kai who had been trying to take a selfie with you, “Who wants something?”

“I’ll come wi—“

“We don’t need everyone, the line’s already long,” he argues, making sure to pull you behind him, “We’ll be quick.”

“Could you make it any more obvious?” You ask him once the two of you are far enough from the others. He smirked, interlacing your fingers together, “I can if you want me too.”

If it isn’t obvious yet, Yeonjun is not good at keeping it a secret. He is confident in his ability to keep it on the low until he gets in too good of a mood, then all he wants to do is put his hands on you.

Especially when you go out for drinks and you’re wearing one of his favorite outfits dancing to some song you like and swaying your hips with just the right amount of rhythm that he feels hypnotized.

Usually, he’ll have to distract himself talking with the others but after one too many drinks, he’ll make his way toward you and push away whoever you’re dancing with so you can focus on him and him alone, hands playfully tracing the curve of your hips, sliding under the hem of your shirt and smirking when you push his hand away.

By the time you call it a night, it’s hard to keep your boyfriend off you and you end up barely making it past the door of your apartment when he’s already pushing you up against the wall with his mouth on yours.

He likes taking his time with you, he swears, but something he gets a little too eager. It’s difficult ‘keeping it a secret’ and sometimes all he wants to do is get down on his knees and show you how much he appreciates you.

He has one of your legs thrown over his shoulders, teasing your inner thighs with soft bites that make your breath hitch.

“Don’t be a tease,” you tried to sound playful but it was hard when you felt breathless from the way he pinched your thighs, getting closer and closer to where you needed him the most.

“Oh, like how you weren’t being a tease in front of everyone?” He asked, kissing your clit softly, earning a light moan to fall from your lips.

“Not on purpose,” you sighed, head back against the wall as you closed your eyes to soak in the feeling of his tongue between your wet folds. Yeonjun knew exactly what to do with your body. Maybe it’s because you started off as friends, learned everything it was about each other that when it came to getting intimate, it didn’t take long for him to know what to do to make you moan his name.

And he loved the sound of your voice when you moaned for him so lovingly. His tongue does wonders between your legs and when paired with his long fingers, you can’t help but let yourself fall for him harder every time.

ᯓ★ SOOBIN

Nervous boyf to the core. We know he likes to joke around with TXT and technically speaking you are their friend but when you start dating Soobin…

Oh it’s like a schoolboy crush he’s got to hide. He used to be just as playful with you as before but now he’s scared to get too close because what if he kisses you? Oh my goodness, how would he hold himself back if he gets too close?

Sometimes when you’re around everyone he’ll sit down next to you and spread his legs a little further so that nobody else can squeeze in between you and he’ll make sure that his leg touches yours. If he’s feeling extra bold he might put his hand on your thigh, squeeze it a little and try to cover up his teasing by doing the same to Taehyun or Kai under pretense of joking around.

But let’s not forget about jealous boyfriend Soobin.

“No, Y/n, this is a serious question,” Yeonjun reached for your hand and gave it a tight squeeze, “Who do you think is hotter? Me or Soobin.”

You made the mistake of jokingly saying, ‘You’ thinking Soobin would obviously know you’re only saying it to make Yeonjun feel better but boy were you wrong.

He was upset, visibly upset to the point that when you looked over at him, he would give you a side eye and look away. Everyone noticed it too and found it damn near comical that he was so bothered by it but of course they didn’t know why. He didn’t even talk to you about it till later that night.

“I was joking, Binnie,” you clung to him from behind, “Of course I think you’re so much better looking than anyone but if I said you, everyone would think somethings up. They already think I favorite yo—“

“As you should! I’m your boyfriend, you should favorite me,” He would argue with a cute pout.

He's never an angry type of jealous, usually he gets pouty and thinks about it for days which in turn leaves you wanting to prove to him how much you prefer him over anyone else.

“Jagi,” Soobin had to bite down on his bottom lip to keep his voice down but it was getting hard—well, he was, “Everyone is w-waiting for us.”

“So?” You asked, kissing down his chest as you pushed his shirt up and without being told to, he held it up with the hem between his teeth. He even lifted his hips to help you pull his jeans down, “I’ve missed you.”

Your hand teased his growing bulge, palming his erection over his briefs as you got more comfortable in the backseat of his car. The parking garage was dark and almost empty but he still looked out the windows nervously.

You were supposed to be meeting your friends for a game night and he had told them all he was going to pick you up since you were ‘on the way’ to the dorms, but in reality he needed a little more time with you alone. He just didn’t think that meant you’d ask him to meet you in the backseat so you could show him how much you missed him with your lips around his cock.

And what was he supposed to do when they texted him asking where you were? Was he supposed to tell them that he was moaning your name while hiding down in the parking garage? His hands in your hair, head thrown back with pleasure and abs tightening every time he took a deep breath.

“So good,” he sighed blissfully, eyes threatening to fall shut when your tongue traced the vein that traveled down his length, “Don’t wanna go see them anymore.”

“We have to,” you released him from your mouth, stroking him teasingly, “Or else they’ll get suspicious.”

And by the time you made it upstairs, Soobin couldn’t bother to care about the complaints from everyone about your tardiness. Not when it was taking everything in him not to just pull you into his lap and kiss you for everyone to see.

ᯓ★ BEOMGYU

He’s probably the only member who’s actually good at hiding the fact that he’s dating you.

He jokes with you the same way he jokes with everyone else so no one would ever know that when he touches you under the table, he likes to tease too.

They don’t know that when he says he’s going to play an arcade and sneaks away from the dorm, he’s actually going over to your place when no one’s around and hanging out with you.

In all honesty, he’s probably the best ‘friends to lovers’ of them all. You’re his best friend and have been for a while so when the two of you started dating, it just became like an added perk.

Not only does he get to game with you and crack jokes but now he gets to kiss you and make you feel good too.

It’s great, seriously, and the only downside to it is how serious he comes off to you. Sometimes you struggle to remember he's more than just a friend and sometimes he forgets to remember he doesn’t like it when the others get too close to you.

It’s only okay when he gets close to you, not Soobin, Beomgyu, Taehyun or even Kai. He’s made it clear he’s your ‘best friend’ so yes, he does feel like he has a right to get jealous sometimes.

“What does it matter, Gyu? You got up so I took your seat,” Kai laughed, making himself comfortable next to you on the couch, “The movies about to start just sit next to Jun.”

“But I was sitting there first,” Beomgyu practically stomped his foot in a tantrum, “I went to make Y/n and I popcorn, how are we supposed to share if you took my seat?”

Meaning: how am I supposed to cuddle with Y/n under the blanket if you’re in the way?

“Kai, don’t be mean, he was sitting there first,” you laughed, glancing over at Beomgyu who was pouting now, “Maybe you guys should ‘Paper, Rock, Scissors’ this and the winner gets to sit next to me.”

You gave them both a cheeky smile which made Kai roll his eyes and cringe, “Ew, I don’t want to sit next to you anymore.”

“Then move,” Beomgyu said, already forcing himself down next to you and pushing Kai out the way.

Even when the two of you are all alone and you get too touchy, it’s always playful. There’s always giggles here and there and jokes that make you both stop and laugh.

And after a while he gets lazy with his excuses. He stays out later and when he doesn’t make it home some nights, everyone knows by this time that he’s probably just hanging out with you.

“I’m going to the arcade.”

“With Y/n?”

“No, by myself.”

“Right, I thought you’d be with your best friend tonight.”

It’s only when neither of you answer the phone that the rumors start circulating.

“Oh my god, just ignore it,” Beomgyu groaned as your phone rang for the third time. Soobin and Kai were blowing up your phone after you promised to play them online tonight. Meanwhile you’re naked in bed with your boyfriend who just looks so pretty under you.

He even knew you were supposed to be gaming and that’s why he came over to keep your attention from drifting to anyone but him.

“So greedy, all the time,” you moaned softly, raising your hips against his member and sinking back down to feel the way he stretched your walls for you, “Always want my attention. I thought you wanted to keep it a secret.”

“I do,” he nearly whimpered, fingers digging into your thighs with pleasure, “But it’s hard.”

ᯓ★ TAEHYUN

He’s even worse at hiding it than Yeonjun. He’s just too clingy and he can’t really hide that even around the other members. He’s already touchy with the others but when it comes to his girlfriend? Boy, oh boy.

He likes to touch your thigh under the table or trace your spine whenever you stand in front of him and no one’s looking. When you run your fingers through his hair while watching a movie, he tends to get a little lost in the feeling and starts to doze off with his head practically on your lap.

The others ignore it for the most part but every now and then Kai will try to make a comment about his touchiness toward you and suddenly Taehyun has to act out.

One time the two of you almost got caught getting a little too close while at the bar and he literally pushed you off him before Yeonjun could see you try and kiss him. He ended up paying for that in the end.

“Jagi, just one kiss,” Taehyun begged later that night when you rejected his second attempt since you got back to your place. You weren’t actually mad at him but he liked messing with you so what was wrong with it’s you doing it back?

“Well I tried to give you a kiss earlier and you pushed me away, remember?” You asked, hiding your smirk and turning your back to him. Taehyun didn’t like that at all, and practically pounced on your bed to hold you.

“But I want it now.”

Hes a jealous guy too, a quiet, introverted jealous guy. He won’t say anything but there’ll be signs. He’ll keep his eyes on you and whoever you’re with and have no shame about it.

One time you asked Soobin to help you reach something instead of Taehyun and he couldn’t hide how annoyed he was by it. He even went as far as mocking you for it later that night.

Whenever you’re more distracted by your phone than him, he’s always gotta try and get your attention back on him.

Usually, if you’re alone, it’s with little touches here and there.

He likes playfully pulling at your shirt to bring you closer to him, smile on his face when you whine at being exposed.

You’ll try and escape his affection but you always end up giving in and you end up making out on your couch when you’re finally alone.

He’s handsy too, he loves the way you feel under his fingertips especially when your skirts rolled up and he’s gotten your panties off.

“So soft,” he always reminds you when he traces a finger along your clit, massaging into it with some of your slick. He’s always gentle when he touches you, always kisses down your sides and aims to please you first.

“Mhm,” you moan lightly, hand brushing his soft hair back so you could see his big boba eyes look up at you while he kisses your navel. They distract you from his hand until you feel his middle finger tease your entrance.

“It’s so hard to keep my hands off you,” he always makes sure to remind you when he’s making you feel good with those hands. He’s never shy when it comes to touching you either, always knows just when to curl his fingers or rub your clit while he does it. When he can tell you’re close, he likes to kiss you, swallow your moans and feel your tighten around his fingers.

ᯓ★ KAI

He thought it would be easy at first but he quickly realized how wrong he was.

In the beginning, he did his best to treat you like a friend and nothing else. He would talk to you like he talks to the other members and he wouldn’t make a scene whenever you talked too long to someone else.

He would only get nervous when you would look at him for too long, or wink at him, talk about how he’s your favorite or sit close to him.

And you loved to get him riled up when no one’s looking.

You’re the one to usually initiate something, like when you casually trace your fingers through his hair.

How is he supposed to act unbothered by it?

When you’re out with them all and someone tries hitting on you, and you have to quietly explain that you’re kind of seeing someone which leads the others to ask who, how is Kai not supposed to shout out that it’s him?

How’s he supposed to just join in with the interrogation and act like he doesn’t know anything either?

“Wait, have we met him?” Yeonjun asks you and none of them seem to notice how you look over at Kai and smile so innocently while he’s sweating billets.

“I don’t kiss and tell,” you always say, half laughing at how annoyed they all look and Kai has to pretend to be just as annoyed when in reality he wants to smile too.

“I don’t think we’ll ever know,” he’ll try and pipe in, trying not to smirk and when they’re not looking at him, he winks at you and enjoys the little secret you share.

To be honest, you’re the one who fell for him first.

For some reason his cringey jokes and over the top laugh really pulled you in and when you made the move on him, he hadn’t known what to think.

For the longest he thought of you as a friend so the night you were on video call playing a game together and you were laying on your bed, barely covered by the blanket… he kept getting distracted.

Then you would say something flirty while shifting around and showing the little shorts you wore to sleep and how they barely covered anything, along with your tank top. He would remind himself that you’re just a friend and he’s probably reading too into it

So everything was on the low to begin with. None of the others knew how the two of you would spend almost every night on the phone together and Kai could tell them but why would he? So that they could think they could call you too and take your attention away?

Plus, did he really want them to know about how you looked fresh out the shower on the phone with him? Or how you sounded when you whispered softly with your hand down your panties asking if he’s touching himself too?

And it was known Kai had such a nice voice that you couldn’t help but encourage him to let you hear it when he stroked his stiff member in his bedroom late at night.

“I can’t hear you,” you would remind him, hand touching down your body and showing the camera what he can’t see in person.

“They’re going to hear me,” he whispers, letting out a small moan when you pull down your top and tease him with a view of your bare chest.

“Everyone’s asleep,” you say, “Please? It’s not fair, I don’t ever get to see you alone.”

Your words always got to him, and he would stroke himself just a little faster and whisper, “I want to see you too.”

::.

I’ve been gone for months and I needed something kind of quick and easy to write so hope you guys liked it 😭should I do more of these?

[zyafics]

PLAY FAKE | Rafe Cameron | 01

MASTERLIST (Series)

Pairing — Rafe Cameron x Female Reader .ᐟ

Summary — When Rafe needs to secure a girlfriend for his father to see him as a viable candidate for Cameron Development, he enlists the help of a bartender who wants nothing to do with him.

Content — 18+, smut, angst, depictions of jealousy + aggression, emotional turmoil, mild descriptions of violence, and usage of drugs.

Who knew Rafe Cameron is a blabbering drunk?

Working as a bartender on the docks, near Heyward's Seafood, you have your fair share of stories about the people who come in. Most of them are locals from The Cut, with the occasional tourists who wander the streets, settling for a clean place to eat.

But it's very rare to have a Kook.

It's been a visit for the past couple of weeks. You don't understand what caused him to come here. There's plenty of bars near Figure Eight—some of which you are sure caters specifically to the Camerons—but you don't question it. Lately, business has been slow, a couple of locals in and out, and with the majority of your income relying on tips, you take it.

Locals don't tip.

Rafe does, however. When he settled down and ordered the largest and most expensive liquor you had on hand, he slipped a fifty into your hands and asked for the bottle as a whole. You don't know if he doesn't have prior tipping etiquette—or because he tips extra for you to keep quiet about his presence—but you gladly take it. Sitting at the end of the counter, his hand cradles a half-empty glass he sips from.

Despite having the whole bottle set in front of him, he still makes you serve him.

Why?

Because he's an asshole.

"You know what he wants to do?" Rafe slurs from across the counter, his eyes flickering to find your presence behind the bar. "He wants to give the company to Sarah."

You hum in response, drying the washed glasses in your hands with a towel as you listen to his nondescript rambles. You knew most of the people he's referring to Sarah Cameron, Ward, and the occasional Pogue you don't know the name of. But, that's how Rafe sees the world: his family, the Kooks, and then everyone else.

"She's nineteen and going around OBX with her fucking Pogue boyfriend and he sees her as stable?" Rafe scoffs, shaking his head as he brings the edge of the glass to his lips and takes a long sip. "Fucking bitch."

Listening to drunk customers vent about their home lives is part of the job description. While it’s dark outside and Rafe is the only customer left, you are technically free to kick him out and make him go about his day elsewhere.

But, there's a rule in your family regarding business: don't go home until the last customer leaves. There's no such thing as kicking someone out at closing time; you were there to wait, serve, and hope they spend a couple more bucks on some more booze. It's a cheapshot of handling enterprise, but that's the way you need to do business and survive as a Pogue.

Rafe taps his empty cup in his hand, eyes pinned on you. "Refill," he mumbles, to which you resist the urge to roll your eyes, and walk over to do exactly as he asks. Lifting the bottle set in front of him to pour him another shot, he watches you as you watch.

"You think it's stupid, right?" He asks, his gaze lifting to study your face. "He thinks Sarah is more equipped to handle Cameron Development because of that Pogue. Because he ties her down. Is that some bullshit?"

His gaze is intense and you don't know whether to answer or not. While you don't know much of the story, of the background behind his persistent rambles, you pieced together enough that it's about Ward deciding to give Sarah the family company because of her stability as a person. Because she's reliable.

You shrug, "I don't know." Because you don't. You don't want to get involved in whatever problems Rafe is dealing with. You don't want to offer unsolicited opinions because who knows if it'll come back to bite you in the ass.

He scoffs, then releases a bitter laugh. "Of course you don't," he leans back against his seat, almost swaying against the backless stool, before shaking his head, disciplining himself. "You're a Pogue. I must be losing it if I'm talking to you."

You roll your eyes, turning away from the Kook and settling on the rest of your tasks. You're used to Kooks putting you down like that, seeing you as nothing more than the bottom of the chain because you don't have some fancy degree from UNC or because you aren't floating on a yacht somewhere.

Just as you're returning bottles back on the shelf, you hear Rafe mumbles to himself. "Does he want me to be tied down or something?"

You let out an abrupt laugh, before quickly stiffening the sound. However, it was too late. When you look back over, you see his blue eyes set on you, a hard expression on his face. "Sorry," you mumble, wishing you had better control over your tongue. "I thought I heard something funny."

You wished you could blame it on the TV, but unfortunately, you had turned that off a while ago.

"You laughing at me, sweetheart?"

"No," you clear your throat, but the look on Rafe's face makes it seem like he's in no mood to hear lies right now. You rectify the answer. "Yes."

"What's so funny?"

"The idea of you getting tied down," you answer slowly. You carefully study his expression to see if anything you say could trigger a bad reaction. "It just seems amusing to me."

Because it is. Rafe is known around Outer Banks as the reckless prince, the one who hosts parties, gets shit-faced drunk, and hooks up with every woman within his proximity. The idea of him losing all of that—the parties, the drinking, the women—was not something you could picture in your head.

"What about it?" He challenges, an edge to his tone. "You think I can't fucking do it?"

From your experience as a bartender, you know he's coming close to unraveling. What you say next could cause him to erupt or calm down, and while you would love to sell him some lies, to get him to back down and leave, something in you doesn't let it pass. All night, he's been nothing short of an asshole to you. To act like he's above you because you are nothing but a Pogue meant to serve him. Why would you pass up an opportunity to deliver some harsh reality?

"Look at yourself," you gesture to him, "you're here, drinking at my bar after an argument with your father. He's trying to tell you that you aren't dependable enough to rely on and the first thing you do is turn to your vices. What do you think?"

Even if you intended it to be harsh, you said it nicely.

He stares at you, hard. You don't like it. You heard the rumors of what happens when he gets pissed—where he throws chairs and smashed bottles. You don't want to be a recipient of that.

"Never mind," you shake your head, returning back to your task. "Just forget it. I'm misreading the situation."

"No," he says with a shake of his head. "You said it. Might as well own it with your chest. Dancing around it wouldn't make you anymore likable."

You clench your jaw. On top of being a blabbering drunk, Rafe is cruel.

Not answering him, you walk over to where he sits and take the glass from his hand, right as he's about to take another sip.

"What the fuck?"

"I think it's time for you to leave."

He scoffs, not moving from his position. "Just because I said I didn't like you?"

"No, because you're acting like an asshole and frankly, I don't want to put up with it anymore," you say, pouring the rest of the content down the sink. "You can take the bottle with you. But other than that, you need to leave."

Rafe stares at you for a few seconds, contemplating what to do, but he doesn't have any grounds here. He may be a Kook, but that means shit when he's in the south side of Outer Banks. When his opponent is a bartender. Instead of responding to you, he slides off the stool and grabs the booze by the handle.

Just as he's about to set out of the door, you shout behind him with a mock farewell, "'pleasure doing business with you!"

—

That day, you thought would be the last of your interactions with Rafe. After all, most people don't want to continue doing business with someone who calls them out on their bullshit and kicks them out of their shops.

But, a couple of days later, Rafe comes through the door of your family-owned pub.

You paid little attention to him. You were trying to log the tips into the cash register, not catering to some entitled prick who has no means being here. Plus, there's another bartender on hand who's more than willing to help Rafe with anything he needs.

You didn't care.

Your coworker can get his tips.

As you're filing in the last of the receipts, Miranda comes over to tap you on the shoulders.

"Rafe wants to talk to you."

You stare at her for a few seconds, as if she was speaking another language. You thought she did. Why in the world would he want to talk to you? You were unpleasant to him. You were nothing of the customer service attitude your parents drilled into you as a child. You thought it was clear grounds for him to look the other direction.

"I'm busy," you say to Miranda, who shifts uncomfortably in her stance, not leaving.

"He said he's willing to wait."

That means he was expecting you to say no.

You scoff. "Tell him I'm not going to be free until closing time."

"But..." Miranda starts again, and you are starting to lose your patience with her. "We don't have a closing time."

You smile at that. "Exactly."

Despite the harsh undertone, Miranda still relays the message back to Rafe. You watch as she does, his eyes briefly pans over to you as you offer him a forced smile with a wave of your fingers and his jaw visibly tense. You thought that would be the end of the conversation but, to be proven wrong again, he slides into the bar stool he previously occupied the other night and orders a drink.

Then another.

You did your best to avoid the area he occupied, but it was proven to be difficult as he spent his time right in front of you. You got busy, running around and assisting locals and tourists who came in to get a taste of the infamous and historical Sailor of Outer Banks. While you're running around, placing orders, making drinks, and trying to navigate the cramped space behind the bar—Rafe remains.

He remained until he was the very last customer.

You sigh as you glance at the clock. Miranda has since left and you're left carrying the shop ever since. All you want to do is go home and relax, but that will be proven impossible until Rafe leaves the establishment.

With a strong reluctance, you step forward to where Rafe sat, his eyes on the TV screen hung on the wall, while his hands occupied another glass.

"Fine," you sigh, causing Rafe to tear away from the screen. The corner of his lips lift into a self-satisfying smirk. "I'm here."

"You finally ready to talk to me?"

"You ready to stop being such a prick?" You quip back, just to see his expression broadens at your snark. You can't lie and say the movement didn't make him more attractive. "What do you want?"

For a moment, you thought he might be here to apologize for asking like an ass the other night.

But, you were too hopeful.

"I came up with a solution," he begins, his words a subtle slur that contrasts the intoxication of the other night.

"For what?" You entertain the conversation, crossing your arms over your chest.

"My dad." He answers. "He wants me to be stable."

"I remember."

"And from when he was talking about Sarah, one of the reasons he thinks he can rely on her is because she's with that Pogue." He explains, "that it somehow makes her dependable. I don't fucking know, the logic is flawed."

"And old-fashioned, but continue."

His blue eyes dart to your face, before he utters the next words. "That means I need a girlfriend."

You nod, glad to see that he came to his conclusion. You thought this was another one of his ramblings, a need to vent to someone he doesn't think matters in the long-run, just to get it off his chest. Now that it is, you're about to step back and turn around to start your night tasks before he holds out a hand.

"Wait," he commands, causing you to stop on your tracks. You raise a brow at him. "I want you to be my girlfriend."

You laugh. It truly is a bad habit of yours but the idea came out as total lunacy and shock. You thought he would join. But, when you look back to his face and have the striking realization that he is serious, you start to sober up. "You're serious."

"Yeah," he says, clenching his jaw, like the moment of wonderful ideas was truly something he was proud of and you struck it down like lightning.

"I'm sorry but," you shake your head, not having the ability to wrap your head around the suggestion. "You barely know me. Isn't there a line of other people who would love to become the next Mrs. Cameron?"

You know that's true. You also know if he had told Miranda this, she would've jumped to the idea before he concluded his brilliant plan. So, you can't, for the life of you, figure out why he's choosing you out of everyone else.

"Yes, but I don't want them." He answers with a shake of his head, leaning closer to the counter. You don't know why but something about that makes your chest warm. "I don't want a real girlfriend. I just need you to pretend to be."

Just like that, the feeling in your stomach dies.

"Pretend?" You repeat.

"Yes," he nods. "It's just like you said. I still have my vices. I don't want to give them up. I just want my dad to think I did."

"I still don't understand how this has anything to do with me," you furrow your brows together.

He sighs, out of frustration or impatience, you don't know. But, he goes to explain, "my dad once told me that John B was a reliable person. That he was a Pogue who was hard-working and determined. That's why he likes him for Sarah—because he hopes it would rub off on her too."

You nod slowly, connecting the dots as he continues. "You're a Pogue," he says with a huff, the title left his tongue with an ounce of disgust you were ready to throw him out of the bar again. "He likes to go on his good samaritan bullshit and employs people from The Cut for certain events. You were one of them."

It takes a second to remember what he was talking about. He's right. A couple of years ago, when you were eighteen, you got a catering job from the Camerons for some big business event. It was the most you made in your lifetime, from all the tips and drunk Kooks who wanted to give back to the poor.

But, he never employed you again.

"Do you see where I'm going now?"

You do, but you hate the attitude he's giving you. Like you were a Pogue who couldn't string together simple facts. Like you should've known what he's talking about.

"I do, but why the fuck you acting like I would've known the whole thing with John B?" You snap, and this surprises him for a moment. Taking a breath to cool the anger in your chest, you calm. "This doesn't explain why it has to be me."

His next statement comes off more nice. "My dad wants someone like that. I doubt he would approve of anyone else, and plus, I don't have to worry about you wanting something more. You clearly despise me."

That isn't true, but you do understand where he's coming from.

"So, let me get this straight." You start. "I'm basically an arm candy for you to parade around in front of your father while the rest of the time, you are free to drink and fuck whoever you want."

"I'm glad that Pogue brain of yours is catching up."

You glare at him, but say nothing else. Picking up the dirty rag off the counter, where you were planning on using to clean, you turn back to Rafe, "as much as I would love to play house with you, I don't have time. Unlike you, I have bills to pay and a job to do."

You turn your back to him but he stops you.

"I'll pay you."

You scoff. "It's not that," you say, because truly, it isn't. A few short-term payments for a couple of missed shifts isn't going to help you in the long-run. You're trying to revive Sailor, to make it a place where it can stand on its own. What is a couple of bucks going to do for that? "I'm sorry, but I don't have the time for it. You're going to have to find someone else."

"I don't want someone else."

He looks at you desperate, as if you would give in, and for a moment, you might. Perhaps it's because you're so used to helping others, or because you were raised to cater to people—to people like him—that your stomach cower at the thought of saying no. But, you have to stand firm on this. You don't have time to go out and party, much less spend your free-time parading around in his arms as some sort of trophy.

You were serious.

"I'm sorry, I truly am."

Your voice is filled with sympathy, and it softens him for a moment. But, that quickly passes as Rafe Cameron has to recoil with the idea that he didn't get what he wanted. Probably for the first time in his life.

With an annoyed huff, he slams the cash for the drinks he's been nursing and leaves.

You thought it would be the end of it.

Not knowing, by the end of this week, you will be known as Rafe's girlfriend.

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Navigation — Part 02

[passingnotions]

On Set | Jihyo

smut, 900~ words

You find yourself balls deep in Park Jihyo and in front of a DSLR camera with a very, very bright studio light setup. You both have your knees up on the cheapest couch imaginable—white, tacky, stiff—as your arms hook and pull around hers. Her back has been arched like this for the better part of two minutes, tits presenting (and bouncing) for the camera as dictated by the director. When you finally let go, she moans. It’s performative, satisfactory. But you also know it’s real.

See, you and her go way back. A few years worth. Jihyo has been in the industry for so much longer than you and, despite it having been your first scene together all those years ago, you blew her back out like she fucking deserved—her words, by the way. Phew, that was new. What’s your name again? It stuck with her and you’re vainly proud of that, so much so that every time you’re arranged for a new scene together, she brings in gift baskets and goodies; pampers you in hopes that you fuck her the only way you know—the right way.

As if you’d ever disappoint.

And it’s funny that you’ve never hooked up off the clock—a shame. There’s always a point in conversation, during prep time, where you both laugh at the thought. You have always thought it’d be disastrous in the best of ways. Have to keep the magic on screen, however. 

Something important to note, to digress: this crew sucks at everything. Your agencies both wanted in with a new fledgling studio, your manager called it. Their content is good, consistent, but you’ll be damned if it’s not generic. However it goes and however trite their camerawork, they’re making bank, and you’re there to profit off both of your names alone. 

There’s a before, during, and after to things. The latter two are good: a pretty girl with a pretty face gets railed by some nondescript cock and some part of her ends up glazed white. The former, however, leaves a lot to be desired. Best summarized? Solid creative vision. Near-zero technical prowess.

So, the sound guy needs another break. Something’s off again, he says as you’re mid thrust. The director yells cut for the umpteenth time and you bury yourself to the base to check in with your costar.

“You’re fucking kidding.” Jihyo says under her breath, head turning back to you. She sets her toned arms on the backrest of the couch and lays her head. “How long has it been?”

“Two hours.” 

It should have taken three, but the timer will count four by the end—

You take another long back-and-forth drag inside of her warm, tight cunt.

—Not like you mind.

Jihyo starts pushing back onto it; an experimental one-two, hips bucking ever so slightly with the majority of your cock still inside her folds. You figure she likes the way your balls brush against her clit. You do, too.

“It’d be a shame if—” She shimmies a little side-to-side. “You filled me up and the cameras weren’t rolling.”

Edging for the last hour. How would you say the question lands?

Jihyo snakes a hand under her body to reach for where you’ve started to fuck, slowly, slowly, purposefully. She runs circles with her middle finger, and with a very serious tone: “Keep going.”

Your hands land right where her ass overflows onto her hips when she spreads the knees a bit further apart. Her arch settles. With a long drag back—and a tight grip of that muscled frame—you fuck into her. Once. This firm thrust that makes her whole body shudder. You catch her profile as her lips curl a smile.

“Keep going.” Her fingertips move faster.

And when Jihyo’s asking—“sure”—you keep fucking going.

Okay, the shoot does end up taking four hours, but not because of the staff’s lack of equipment know-how.

You are fucking. Truly, unequivocally, fucking. Like you’ve missed her (you have—she’s fun), like she’s missed you.

The sheer force it takes you to not cum right then and there—to help her reach that ever sought-after climax—is the same force with which you pound Jihyo into the cheap, faux leather couch. You’d swear, later on, how she near melded with the piece of furniture: nail scratches on the surface, the imprint of the seams on her skin. She loves all of it. It’s guilty-pleasure levels of abrasive. You don’t fuck like that on camera. Authenticity can’t be quantified on a payslip.

And for that short amount of time, the set dissipates; the crew vanishes.

Jihyo is cumming—you know this, her tells. Goosebumps all over her skin, from the top of her thighs up to her rippling, reddened cheeks, and the way her moans turn to breathy coos and needy whimpers. You revel in knowing you can split her apart. That same satisfaction ends you in tandem.

Because there’s no other way you would have it, without a doubt. This short burst of fire burns right through your core. Your hands grasp her skin for dear life as your legs cease and stiffen their motion. All of it—the money shot—coats Jihyo’s pulsing cunt in an instant. It sends ripples through you both as you struggle to maintain a semblance of composure. The load washes over your length in this pleasing warmth that has Jihyo shivering through the remainder of her orgasm. Slow quivers. A bit of contented laughter.

“Fuck yes,” escapes her lips before the crew fades back in, curses and yells accompanying an attempt to catch whatever’s left of your unsanctioned stunt.

You’ll take the extra hour.

[ellecdc]

I absolutely love love love your writing! I have a request if you’re up for it?

Can you write a possessive/ jealous wolfstar x reader. Reader is always wearing baggy clothes so when shes wearing a tight dress that hugs her curvy body for yule ball and the boys in school wont stop staring at her got remus and sirius very jealous?

thank you baby! and thank you for your request. it’s not a whole lot of jealousy, but this is my take on it; hope you like it!! 🫶

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader who looks so good in a ballgown CW: no smut but mention of dicks/horniness, catcalling

There were some things that not many people knew but Remus did.

One thing not many people knew was that Sirius – in all his cool bravado – was the most sensitive person Remus knew. Sirius would cry during any and every movie, he once cried when he saw a baby chipmunk because it was ‘way too small, what the fuck?’, and those closest to Sirius knew that one must watch their tone lest the long-haired boy believe you were mad at him.

Another thing that not many people knew but Remus did was how fucking hot you were. And that’s not to say people didn’t know you were beautiful – your beauty was undeniable. 

But Remus (and Sirius) knew a secret.

Under the Hogwarts uniform? Under the boxy dress shirt, plaid pleated skirt, and woolen jumpers and cardigans, was one banging body. 

What helped keep this fact to be widely unknown was that when not in your uniform, you could usually be found in Sirius’ quidditch jersey, or Remus’ jumpers, or your own loosely fitting clothes. Your style was simple and understated, usually consisting of loose-fitting shirts and jeans or corduroys. Comfy, cozy, nondescript. It also helped that Sirius’ style was nearly the complete opposite – loud, demanding, and bold - so people spent most of their time ogling him. 

It seemed, however, that this secret would be revealed to all of Hogwarts tonight. 

“Holy shit.” Peter muttered under his breath as the Marauder’s stood dressed in their best awaiting their dates for the ball. You and Lily traipsed down the stairs in your heels and dresses whilst Peter was bombarded with various whacks to his arms and an ‘oi!’ or two from James, Sirius, and Remus.

But Peter was right, you looked fucking stunning. You were wearing a beautiful satin gown, the fabric spilling sinfully over your body like water and cascading to your ankles. Your shape and figure were further accentuated by the way the lights refracted off the shiny material, leaving nothing to the imagination. He was surprised to see how thin the straps were; there had to be some magic holding the gown to your body, surely.

Remus felt conflicted; he both wanted to throw you over his shoulder and rush back up to the dorms to ravish you and parade you around shouting ‘look at what this poor, scarred werewolf managed to pull!’.

There was one issue.

Sirius.

“What is she wearing!?” He whispered shouted to Remus.

“Pads, don’t upset her.” He murmured into his boyfriend’s ear. “Don’t make her feel self-conscious.”

Sirius let out a sound between a pained moan and a growl but nodded all the same.

You offered the boys a soft smile, shoulders migrating towards your ears proving to Remus that you were indeed feeling a little vulnerable.

“Hey beautiful!” Remus greeted you, taking your hand that adorned the charmed corsage Remus and Sirius had given you that matched the one’s pinned to their lapels and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. 

“Hi boys.” You smiled, looking between the two of them. “You look very nice.”

Sirius scoffed, and Remus prayed to every deity possible that Sirius kept his wits about him. “Not half as good as you, babe! Come on, give us a spin.”

Remus let out a sigh of relief whilst your shoulders migrated impossibly higher, though you obeyed Sirius’ demand, nonetheless.

Remus dick twitched embarrassingly in his pants, and based on the pained groan emanating from Sirius, he was sure his did too. Thinking about Sirius’ dick made his own dick twitch again; this was going to be a long night. 

“It’s not too much?” You asked sheepishly as you turned back to face them, embarrassment painting your features as you looked timidly between your two boyfriends. 

“No!” Sirius shouted, but his voice came out painfully high. “No.” He corrected, clearing his throat. 

“You look stunning, my love.” Remus said more eloquently. 

You smiled beautifully albeit shyly at the two boys before your moment was interrupted.

“Circe’s tits, L/N! Where’ve you been hiding that body!?” Barty Crouch Jr called as he let out a wolf whistle, either completely forgetting or ignoring the fact that he was walking arm-in-arm with his boyfriend who only offered his brother and his brother’s dates a simple eyeroll.

“Keep walking you fuckin’ wanker.” Sirius barked.

Remus’ heart clenched when he noticed you start to ring your hands together nervously.

“I don’t know... Lily told me to go with this one, but I have another dress upstairs – maybe I should-”

“Absolutely not.” Sirius cut you off, levelling you with a look that spoke no nonsense. 

“It would be a sin to deny the world of such a sight, love.” Remus encouraged pulling you towards him and massaging at your tense jaw with his thumbs. He hoped he was giving you his softest smile possible, and the way your own expression softened in response told him he had.

“Wear what you want, dollface; I can fight.” Sirius added, causing the two of you to break eye contact, looking over to see that he was already tying his hair up pre-emptively. Remus scoffed out a laugh and you whimpered a pained ‘Sirius...’. 

“Let’s go, sugar.” He said when he was done, winking at you teasingly. “Let’s show these tossers what they’re missing.”

Remus thought you looked nervous as you allowed Sirius to hook your arms together, though he didn’t know why. You didn’t have to referee Sirius’ tussles; Remus did.

[reidmarieprentiss]

Like Real People Do

Summary: After you fill in for JJ, Spencer has to deal with seeing you everyday at work.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: angst

Warnings/Includes: nondescript smut (16+), sexual tension, suggestive content, angst, arguing, ignoring feelings, repressing emotions, consumption of alcohol, Jemily, bisexual Penelope, brief discussions of cases and danger

Word count: 13k

a/n: the asked for part two to Too Sweet !!! will also be writing a part three oops lmao

main masterlist

part one part three

Spencer avoided you as much as possible during your first week with the team, and it pissed him off relentlessly that you didn’t seem to care. Every time he caught a glimpse of you, you were chatting easily with Emily, sharing a laugh with Derek, or diving into casework with the kind of enthusiasm that made everyone around you smile. You treated him just the same as you treated everyone else on the team—detached, professional, and completely unfazed by the tension he was sure hung between you. Spencer hated it.

He found himself watching you out of the corner of his eye, searching for any sign that you were affected by his presence, by the shared history that he couldn’t seem to forget. But you remained infuriatingly composed, your demeanor perfectly neutral. There was no awkwardness, no hesitation, no trace of the woman who had shared an intimate night with him only to disappear without a word. You were the perfect liaison—competent, friendly, and utterly professional. Spencer hated it.

One afternoon, you approached his desk with a bright smile, holding out a case file. “Hey, Doctor Reid, here’s the case file Hotch asked me to pass out. He specifically wants you to work on the geographical profile.”

“Thanks,” Spencer muttered, barely looking up as he took the file from your hand. His voice was clipped, his tone dismissive, but if it bothered you, you didn’t show it.

“You got it!” you replied cheerfully before turning to Derek’s desk, completely unbothered by Spencer’s curt response.

Spencer watched as you handed Derek his file with the same effortless professionalism. “Derek, here’s your file. Hotch asked that you look at the victimology.”

Derek grinned, leaning back in his chair as he took the file from you. “You bet, sweetcheeks,” he said with a wink, clearly pleased with the new nickname he’d given you.

Spencer bristled. He hated that you already had a nickname, that you’d integrated so seamlessly into the team. Everyone loved you, and why wouldn’t they? You were a lovely person—to them. You were always friendly, always helpful, always the first to crack a joke or lend a hand. To them, you were the perfect addition to the team. But to Spencer, you were a constant reminder of the hurt, confusion, and anger that had been gnawing at him for weeks.

He couldn’t understand how you could be so detached, so unaffected by everything that had happened between you. It gnawed at him, fueled his frustration every time he saw you laughing with Penelope or discussing a case with Hotch. How could you be so calm, so professional, when he was struggling to keep his emotions in check every time you were in the same room?

It made him furious, how easily you seemed to fit in. The way you spoke to him was exactly the same as how you spoke to Derek or Emily—there was no trace of recognition, no hint of anything beyond the professional. You didn’t flinch when he was cold, didn’t react to his clipped tones. If anything, you treated him with the same detached politeness you offered to everyone else. And that, more than anything, drove him crazy.

As the week dragged on, Spencer’s frustration simmered beneath the surface. He couldn’t shake the feeling that you were doing it on purpose—that you were deliberately pretending nothing had happened, just to get under his skin. Every time you walked past his desk with a smile, every time you handed him a file with that same calm demeanor, it was like salt in the wound. And the worst part was that you seemed completely oblivious to the effect you were having on him.

But Spencer wasn’t going to let it go. He wasn’t going to let you off the hook that easily. He’d confront you when the time was right, make you face the mess you’d left behind. But for now, he had to swallow his anger and focus on the case, even if it killed him to be in the same room with you.

As you moved on to distribute the rest of the case files, Spencer’s eyes followed you, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He couldn’t stand how professional you were, how detached, how much he wanted you to acknowledge him in some way that wasn’t wrapped in pleasantries and polite distance. The unresolved friction hung heavy in the air, and Spencer knew it was only a matter of time before it boiled over.

—

It was a typical Friday afternoon in the bullpen, the atmosphere lighter as everyone looked forward to the weekend. Spencer sat at his desk, his eyes flicking over the case file in front of him, though his mind was far from the details of the case. He was hyper-aware of your presence across the room, the sound of your voice carrying just enough for him to catch snippets of your conversation with Derek.

“Hey, sweetcheeks, you got any plans tonight?” Derek asked, his tone playful as always.

You grinned at him, clearly enjoying the banter. “Hello, Derek,” you replied with a teasing lilt in your voice. “I do, actually.”

“Ohhh, what’s up, a hot date?” Derek continued, the playful edge in his voice making it clear he was just having fun.

Spencer’s ears perked up at that, his focus shifting entirely to your conversation. He kept his eyes on his file, pretending to be engrossed in his work, but he was listening intently.

“Oh yeah, super hot date,” you smirked, your tone dripping with mock-seriousness.

Spencer’s jaw clenched involuntarily, and an unexpected wave of jealousy surged through him. The idea of you with someone else—laughing, smiling, sharing moments like the one you had with him—made his chest tighten with a mix of anger and hurt. He kind of wanted to slap you, though the rational part of his mind quickly reminded him that he would never do such a thing, especially not to a woman.

“Damn, Y/L,” Derek said with a chuckle, leaning back in his chair. “Wish it was me.”

You laughed, leaning in slightly as you replied, “Oh, I know, and it could be easily.”

Spencer’s stomach twisted at that. He couldn’t take it anymore. The easy way you flirted with Derek, the way you brushed off everything that had happened between the two of you as if it were nothing—it was too much. Without another word, he abruptly stood from his desk and took off, leaving the bullpen in a rush, his emotions boiling over. He was pissed, hurt, and tired of pretending like everything was fine.

Meanwhile, Derek tilted his head, intrigued by your response. “How do you mean?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“My hot date?” you replied with a mischievous grin. “Is my bathtub with salts and bubbles, baby.”

Derek burst out laughing, clearly amused by your response. “Ah, I see how it is. Gotta pamper yourself, huh?”

“Always,” you winked, feeling pleased with yourself for the playful banter.

But, of course, Spencer didn’t hear that part. He was long gone, too caught up in the idea that you were going on a date, too overwhelmed by the emotions he couldn’t seem to shake. He didn’t know the full story, didn’t realize that you were just playing around. All he knew was that you seemed to be moving on without a care in the world, while he was stuck in the unresolved mess of his feelings.

As you and Derek continued your conversation, completely unaware of Spencer’s reaction, the tension in the bullpen grew. Spencer’s departure didn’t go unnoticed by the others, though no one quite knew what had set him off this time. 

—

The team was gathered in the precinct in Atlanta, waiting for Hotch to hand out assignments for the day. The atmosphere was tense, everyone on edge due to the gruesome nature of the case. Hotch’s voice was calm and authoritative as he began assigning tasks.

“Reid, you go with L/N to speak with the family,” Hotch instructed, his tone leaving no room for questions—at least, that was usually the case.

“What? Why?” Spencer blurted out before he could stop himself.

The sudden outburst caught everyone off guard. Derek, Emily, and Rossi all looked at him with surprise, their eyes widening slightly at his uncharacteristic challenge to Hotch’s authority. It had been a long time since Spencer had questioned Hotch like this. Something was clearly wrong.

Hotch’s gaze narrowed slightly, his expression hardening as he addressed Spencer. “It’s your assignment, and you will take it. Go.”

The finality in Hotch’s tone left no room for arguments. Spencer knew better than to push further, but the pressure in the air was palpable. His frustration was obvious, and it didn’t go unnoticed by anyone, especially you.

You knew things were tense between you and Spencer, but you hadn’t realized it had reached the point where he would openly question Hotch. 

“Uh, I can drive if you want,” you offered, trying to bridge the gap. You had noticed that Spencer preferred not to drive, often handing over the keys to someone else.

For the first time, Spencer saw a crack in your usually cheery demeanor. You looked a little sheepish, almost uncertain, as you made the offer.

“Great, let’s go,” Spencer said curtly, tossing the keys to the SUV at you without another word.

The drive was awkward and quiet, the strain between you almost suffocating. Spencer sat in the passenger seat, his eyes glued to the file in front of him, while you focused on the road, trying to ignore the uneasy silence. The only sound was the occasional rustle of paper as Spencer flipped through the case notes, the quiet hum of the engine filling the space between you.

After what felt like an eternity, you broke the silence. “I can go in alone,” you offered, your tone neutral, almost indifferent.

Spencer looked up from the file, narrowing his eyes in confusion. “Why would you do that?”

“Well, you clearly didn’t want this assignment,” you replied, glancing at him briefly before returning your attention to the road.

“That had nothing to do with speaking to the family,” Spencer snapped, his voice tight with frustration.

“Ah, got it,” you said, your tone calm, almost detached, as if you were simply acknowledging the fact and moving on.

Your nonchalance in that moment, the way you brushed off his anger like it was nothing, made Spencer’s temper boil over. He couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“What is wrong with you?” he demanded, his voice rising with frustration.

“I'm sorry?” you responded, genuinely taken aback by the sudden outburst.

“You should be!” Spencer retorted, his words laced with bitterness. “How are you acting like everything is fine?”

“Did I do something to upset you, Doctor Reid?” you asked, your tone still calm but now tinged with an undercurrent of confusion.

“Uh, yeah, you did,” Spencer shot back, his voice trembling with the intensity of his emotions. He could feel the anger bubbling up, hurt and frustration that had been festering for weeks.

You pulled the car to a stop at a red light, turning to face him with a steady gaze. “Then tell me what it is,” you said, your voice no longer as detached as before. 

Spencer hesitated, his mind racing. Part of him wanted to lay everything out, to tell you how hurt he was by the way you left him that morning, how angry he was that you acted like nothing had happened between you two. But another part of him was conflicted, unsure if it was even worth bringing up now.

“You left,” Spencer finally said, his voice lower but filled with raw emotion. “You left without a word, without even a note, and then you just show up here like it meant nothing. And now, you’re acting like we’re strangers. Like none of it mattered.”

You stared at him, processing his words. The light turned green, and you started driving again, your grip on the steering wheel tightening slightly. For a moment, you were silent, weighing your response.

“It wasn’t nothing,” you said quietly after a long pause. “But it wasn’t something I thought needed to be addressed. We had a night, Spencer, and that’s all it was. I didn’t think it would turn into… this.”

Spencer shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “You really don’t get it, do you? You just left, Y/N. No explanation, no closure. And now I have to work with you every day, pretending like I don’t care, when it’s driving me crazy.”

You exhaled slowly, the tension in the car thickening as you both realized how deep the wound had become. The professionalism that you had clung to suddenly felt like a flimsy shield, barely holding back the storm of emotions between you.

“Spencer,” you began, your voice softer now, almost apologetic, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought… I thought it would be easier for both of us to just leave it behind.”

“Well, you were wrong,” Spencer replied sharply, his voice trembling with the effort to keep his emotions in check. “Because I can’t just leave it behind.”

Silence fell over the car again, but this time it was different. It was charged with unresolved feelings and the weight of words unspoken. The friction that had been simmering between you had finally boiled over, and there was no going back to how things were before.

The rest of the drive passed in heavy silence, both of you lost in your own thoughts, unsure of how to navigate the mess that had been laid bare. The case awaited you, but the real challenge was the emotional minefield you were both now walking through.

One thing was clear: this conversation wasn’t over, and neither was whatever it was that had started between you and Spencer.

—

When the case was finally closed and the team arrived back in Quantico, Hotch’s voice cut through the noise, calm but firm. “Reid, can I see you in my office?”

Spencer froze for a moment, then nodded silently and followed Hotch into his office, bracing himself for what he knew was coming. As soon as the door closed behind him, Hotch turned to face him, his expression stern.

“Do you want to tell me what has been going on with you?” Hotch asked, his tone leaving no room for deflection.

“Nothing is going on,” Spencer replied, his voice clipped and defensive as he tried to brush off the question. He avoided Hotch’s gaze, focusing instead on a spot on the wall just over his shoulder.

Hotch’s eyes narrowed slightly, clearly unimpressed with Spencer’s attempt to deflect. “We both know that’s not true, but if you’d like to ignore it, that’s fine. Just stop letting it affect your work.”

“Yes, sir,” Spencer responded, his tone stiff as he nodded, eager to leave the office and put this conversation behind him. He turned to leave, his hand already on the doorknob.

“And Reid?” Hotch’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Yes?” Spencer replied, turning back to face his unit chief.

“Give Y/N a chance,” Hotch said, his tone softening slightly. “I know you don’t like change, but she’s doing a great job. Don’t be so hard on her.”

The words hit Spencer like a punch to the gut. He felt a wave of anger surge through him, his emotions boiling over once again. Without a word, he turned on his heel and slammed the office door behind him with more force than he intended.

The sound echoed through the bullpen, drawing the attention of his teammates, but Spencer didn’t care. He stormed away, his mind a whirlwind of frustration and conflicting emotions. Hotch’s words replayed in his head, only serving to fuel his anger further. 

It wasn’t just about Y/N doing a good job or fitting in with the team. It was about the unresolved mess between them, the feelings he couldn’t shake, and the fact that she seemed completely unaffected by it all. He knew he was being irrational, but that only made him angrier.

—

The team was out for dinner, a well-deserved break after the grueling case in Atlanta. Everyone had already gathered around the table, chatting and laughing, when you and Spencer arrived—separately, of course. But as fate would have it, you walked in at the same time, an awkward coincidence that neither of you could avoid.

Spencer, despite everything, was still a gentleman. He held the door open for you, and you offered him a polite smile and a nod of thanks. The gesture was small, but it was the first sign of normalcy between you two in weeks. For a brief moment, you both seemed to fall back into your natural roles—Spencer being courteous, and you being gracious.

But when you reached the table, you both quickly realized that the rest of the team had already taken their seats, leaving only two spots open—right next to each other. The air between you immediately grew tense as you took in the situation. Spencer’s eyes went wide, his face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and frustration, and he heaved a deep sigh. He quickly moved to sit in the seat closest to Emily, hoping that sitting next to her would be a safer option than being near Derek, who was sure to stir the pot.

Unfortunately for Spencer, this left you next to Derek. As you settled into your seat, Derek flashed you a playful grin. “Hey, sweetcheeks. You clean up nice,” he said, his voice full of flirtatious warmth.

Before you could respond, Penelope’s voice rang out in mock indignation. “Derek Morgan, are you openly flirting with another woman in front of me?” she demanded, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

You laughed softly, turning to Penelope with a wink. “Oh, it’s okay, Pen. I won’t take your chocolate thunder. But maybe you can spare me a taste?” Your playful response sent a ripple of laughter around the table, everyone enjoying the lighthearted banter—everyone except Spencer.

Emily, who had been quietly observing the interaction, noticed the way Spencer’s shoulders were tense, his posture stiff as he stared down at the table. “You good, Reid?” she asked, her voice gentle with concern.

Spencer snapped out of his thoughts, blinking rapidly as he looked up. “Hmm? Yeah, just trying to decide what to get,” he mumbled, clearly distracted.

Emily raised an eyebrow, glancing pointedly at the unopened menu in front of him. “You haven’t even opened the menu…”

The observation made the rest of the team go quiet for a moment, all eyes subtly shifting to Spencer. It wasn’t like him to be so off-kilter, especially with the team. The strain between you two hadn’t gone unnoticed, and now, with everyone watching, it was clear that something was bothering him.

Spencer quickly realized that all eyes were on him, and he felt his face heat up even more. He fumbled for the menu, flipping it open with a little more force than necessary. “I’m just… still thinking about the case,” he said, his voice sounding a bit too forced.

Derek, always one to poke fun, leaned in with a grin. ��C’mon, man. We closed that case days ago. What’s really on your mind?”

Spencer’s eyes darted to you for the briefest moment before he looked away, but it was enough for Derek to catch. The playful grin on Derek’s face widened as he put two and two together. “Ah, I see,” he said with a knowing nod, but he didn’t push further—at least, not yet.

The tension at the table eased slightly as the team returned to their conversations, but the underlying pressure between you and Spencer remained. You could feel his discomfort radiating from him, and though you tried to focus on the conversation around you, it was hard to ignore the awkwardness.

As the night wore on, you couldn’t help but wonder how long this uneasy dynamic would last. The team was clearly aware that something was up, and sooner or later, it would come to a head. 

Derek had noticed Spencer’s mood throughout the evening, and when it was time to leave, he realized that Spencer had taken the bus to dinner. With a casual smile, Derek offered him a ride home, which Spencer accepted, grateful for the gesture. But as soon as he climbed into Derek’s car, he began to regret it.

They had barely pulled out of the parking lot when Derek broke the silence with a teasing grin. “So, you got it bad for the new girl, huh?”

“What?” Spencer bit out, his voice sharper than he intended. He turned to Derek, his eyes wide with surprise and irritation.

“Oh, come on, we can all tell there’s some tension there,” Derek continued, clearly enjoying himself. “Why don’t you just ask her out?”

“I don’t like her like that,” Spencer snapped, his tone defensive as he stared out the window, avoiding Derek’s gaze. The street lights flickered by in a blur, but his mind was still racing with thoughts of you.

“Oh no?” Derek’s voice was laced with amusement, but there was also a hint of curiosity. “Then what is it? Just want to sleep with her?”

Spencer’s jaw clenched, his hands tightening into fists on his lap. “Drop it, Derek,” he said through gritted teeth, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“Alright, alright,” Derek said, holding up one hand in a gesture of surrender while keeping the other on the steering wheel. “I’m just saying, kid, you’re a catch, and she’d be lucky to go out with a guy like you.”

Spencer couldn’t help the snort that escaped him. The idea of you being “lucky” to go out with him was laughable. As if you hadn’t already shown him exactly where he stood by leaving him behind without a word. As if you weren’t the one who had made him feel like a fool for even entertaining the idea that there could have been something more between you.

“That’s absurd,” Spencer muttered, shaking his head. “She’s not interested, Derek. Trust me.”

Derek glanced over at Spencer, noticing the bitterness in his voice and the tension in his posture. Something deeper was going on here, something that went beyond the usual awkwardness Spencer displayed around women he liked. But Derek knew better than to push too hard, especially when Spencer was clearly on edge.

“Alright, man,” Derek said more gently this time. “But if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here. No judgment, just listening.”

Spencer nodded stiffly, grateful for Derek’s attempt at understanding but unwilling to open up about the tangled mess of emotions he was dealing with. He appreciated the offer, but this was something he wasn’t ready to discuss, not with Derek or anyone else.

—

“So, we’ve got to set them up, right?” Emily asked conspiratorially, leaning in close to Penelope as they sat together at the end of a busy day. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and she was already imagining how this little plan could unfold.

“Obviously!” Penelope giggled, her enthusiasm bubbling over. “Spencer has it so bad for her. It’s like watching a rom-com, except the leads are way too awkward to realize they’re in one.”

“But does Y/N even like him?” Emily asked, frowning slightly. “I mean, she’s nice and friendly to everyone, but I’ve never seen her look twice at him. What if she doesn’t feel the same way?”

Penelope paused, tapping a finger thoughtfully against her chin. “You’re right, she’s hard to read. But maybe she’s just being professional, you know? She’s still new to the team—maybe she’s keeping her cards close to her chest.”

Emily nodded slowly, considering the idea. “True, but if we’re going to play matchmaker, we need to know where she stands. We can’t push them together if she’s not interested.”

A mischievous grin spread across Penelope’s face as an idea struck her. “What if we have a girls’ night?” she suggested, her voice full of excitement. “Get to know her better, loosen her up with some drinks, and ask about boys!”

Emily’s eyes lit up at the suggestion. “Yes! That’s perfect. We can make it a casual thing, just us girls hanging out, and see if she spills anything about her love life.”

“And if she does like Spencer, we’ll know exactly how to help them along,” Penelope added, already planning the evening in her head. “Plus, it’ll be fun to get to know her better. I’m sure she’s got some interesting stories.”

Emily leaned back in her chair, already imagining how the night would go. “This could be great. We’ll find out what makes her tick, and who knows? Maybe we’ll get her to admit she’s got a thing for our favorite doctor.”

Penelope clapped her hands together, practically vibrating with excitement. “Operation Girls’ Night is officially a go! We’ll plan it for this weekend—drinks, gossip, and maybe a little matchmaking.”

The two women exchanged a conspiratorial grin, pleased with their plan. They were determined to figure out what was going on between you and Spencer, and they weren’t above using a little friendly interrogation to get the answers they wanted. After all, if there was even a chance that you liked Spencer back, they were going to make sure you both got the push you needed.

—

The jet hummed softly as it cruised through the night sky, the team returning to Quantico after wrapping up another tough case. The mood was subdued, everyone lost in their own thoughts, until Emily decided to break the silence.

“Hey, Y/N,” she called out casually, her tone light as she turned to face you. “Do you have any plans this weekend?”

You looked up from the book you were reading, slightly surprised by the sudden question. “Uh, not that I can think of,” you replied, offering a small smile. “Why, what’s up?”

Before Emily could respond, Spencer, who had been unusually quiet during the flight, mumbled something under his breath without looking up. “No dates?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

The question hung in the air for a moment, the friction palpable as everyone exchanged glances. It was a rare moment for Spencer to say something so directly, and the team silently noted it, but decided to let it slide for now, choosing not to address the awkwardness.

Emily quickly picked up the conversation, steering it back on track. “Well… Garcia and I were thinking we could have a girls’ night!” she said brightly, her tone full of enthusiasm. “You know, just us ladies—drinks, snacks, maybe some bad movies?”

Your face lit up at the suggestion, your smile widening. “Oh, that sounds fun! I would love to!” you replied, genuinely excited at the idea. The past few weeks had been intense, and a girls’ night sounded like the perfect way to unwind and bond with your new teammates.

Penelope, who had been sitting across from you, perked up at the mention of girls’ night. “Yay! I’m so glad you’re in, Y/N! We’ll have the best time—trust me, you won’t want to miss it.”

Emily and Penelope exchanged a quick, satisfied glance, their plan already in motion. Spencer, on the other hand, remained silent, his eyes still fixed on the book in his lap, though his mind was clearly elsewhere. The subtle tension in the air didn’t go unnoticed by the rest of the team, but they all pretended not to notice, keeping the atmosphere light.

—

You arrived at Penelope’s apartment armed with pajamas and a bottle of wine, ready for a much-needed girls’ night. The warm, welcoming atmosphere was exactly what you needed after the intense cases and whatever had been brewing between you and Spencer. As soon as you stepped inside, you were greeted by the delicious scent of snacks, the soft glow of string lights, and the comforting sound of a movie playing in the background.

Penelope, Emily, and you quickly settled in, surrounded by cozy blankets, a spread of snacks, and plenty of wine. The conversation flowed easily, punctuated by bursts of laughter as you all relaxed into the evening.

“So, Pen, how are things between you and Kevin? Still awkward?” Emily asked with a teasing grin as she took a sip of her wine.

“Oh yeah, not touching that again. Messy!” Penelope replied, wrinkling her nose in mock disgust. “We’ve officially moved on to the ‘friendly but distant’ phase.”

Emily chuckled and leaned in with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Anyone else tickling your fancy?”

Penelope’s face lit up with a shy smile, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Well, there’s this girl… I met her at my book club. She’s new, and she asked me out!”

“What! Penelope, that’s great!” you exclaimed, joining in on the excitement.

“Thanks, you guys,” Penelope said, beaming with happiness. “It’s still early days, but I’m really looking forward to seeing where it goes.”

Penelope turned her attention back to Emily. “How about you, Em? Anyone special in your life?”

Emily laughed softly, shaking her head. “Hmm… well, JJ is at home with our child right now, so I’m pretty set in that department.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. “What?? I didn’t know you and JJ were together!”

Emily grinned, clearly amused by your reaction. “Yeah, we’ve been together for a while now. We don’t talk about it much at work; we try to keep it professional, you know?”

“Of course, I just can’t believe no one mentioned it,” you replied, still a bit stunned by the revelation.

Penelope giggled, taking another sip of her wine. “I guess it’s common knowledge around the team. We forget not everyone knows.”

You leaned back against the cushions, feeling more comfortable now that the ice was broken. “Is it hard working with your partner?” you asked, genuinely curious about how they balanced their personal and professional lives.

Emily and Penelope shared a quick look before Emily answered. “No, not at all. If anything, it makes work easier, knowing I get to be with her all day, every day. And she motivates me to do better too.”

“Wow, that sounds amazing,” you said, smiling at the thought of such a supportive relationship. “It must be nice to have someone who understands your job so well.”

“It is,” Emily agreed, her eyes softening as she thought about JJ. “We’ve had our challenges, but in the end, we’re stronger for it. And it’s definitely made me appreciate how important it is to have someone who’s in your corner, both at work and at home.”

A comforting silence fell over the three of you, the kind of quiet that only comes when people feel truly at ease in each other’s company. The sound of the movie playing softly in the background mixed with the occasional clink of glasses, creating a cozy atmosphere that wrapped around you like a warm blanket.

After a few moments, Penelope broke the silence with a gentle, curious question. “What about you, Y/N?”

“Me?” you replied, looking up from your glass, slightly caught off guard.

“Yes, you!” Penelope grinned, her eyes twinkling with interest. “Any suitors in your life?”

You let out a small laugh, a mix of amusement and self-deprecation, as you tried to shrug off the question. “Oh, hah… none that last longer than one night,” you joked, though there was a hint of uncomfortability behind your words that you couldn’t quite hide.

Emily and Penelope exchanged a quick glance, both of them picking up on the undertone of your response. The lightness in the air dimmed just a little, the laughter fading into a more contemplative mood.

“Ah, the elusive one-night wonders,” Emily said with a wry smile, trying to keep the mood light while acknowledging the hint of vulnerability in your voice. “They can be fun, but they’re not exactly the stuff of fairy tales.”

Penelope, ever the compassionate one, leaned in a bit closer, her voice soft and reassuring. “You know, Y/N, there’s nothing wrong with enjoying those nights, but if you’re looking for something more… well, you deserve that too. Sometimes it just takes time to find the right person.”

You smiled gratefully at Penelope, appreciating her kindness. “Thanks, Pen. I guess I’m just not even sure what I’m looking for.”

“What do you mean?” Emily asked, her tone gentle but curious as she leaned in a little closer, genuinely interested in what you had to say.

You sighed, trying to put your swirling thoughts into words. “I don’t know… I thought I knew what I wanted, but then something changed, and now I’m even more confused than ever.”

“What happened?” Penelope asked, her curiosity piqued. There was no judgment in her voice, just a soft encouragement that made you feel comfortable enough to share.

You hesitated for a moment, gathering your thoughts before speaking. “Well, I met a man, and we spent a night together. It was… amazing, not just the sex, but the conversation, the connection. It felt different, you know? Like it could have been something more. But I’ve got some stuff—baggage, I guess—and my mind is a mess. I think I might have ruined it by running away before it could become anything. But the thing is, I’m not even sure if I would want anything more right now. It’s just so complicated.”

Emily and Penelope exchanged a quick, subtle glance, both of them piecing together what you were saying. Given the recent tension between you and Spencer—his unusual behavior, your guarded interactions, and the awkward moments when you were in the same room—it wasn’t hard for them to suspect that Spencer might be the man you were talking about. 

They had to play this cool and casual, though. If you were talking about Spencer, the last thing they wanted to do was push you too hard and make you shut down. But if it wasn’t Spencer, they needed to know that, too, because it would affect how they approached their little matchmaking plan.

Penelope leaned in slightly, keeping her tone light. “It sounds like you’re in a tough spot. But it’s okay to feel unsure, Y/N. Sometimes things are complicated, and it takes time to sort through what you really want.”

Emily nodded in agreement, adding, “Exactly. And no one’s saying you have to have it all figured out right now. It’s okay to take things slow and figure out what you need for yourself.”

You looked at both of them, feeling a sense of relief that they weren’t pushing you for more details or making assumptions. “Thanks, you guys. It’s just hard when you feel like you’ve found something special, but you’re not in the right place to pursue it.”

Penelope gave you a warm smile. “Whatever you decide, just know that we’re here for you. And if it’s meant to be, it’ll find a way to work out, even if it’s a little messy.”

You smiled back, feeling a bit lighter after sharing your thoughts. “I hope so. I just need to figure out what’s going on in my head first.”

The conversation shifted to other topics after that, but Emily and Penelope couldn’t help but keep an eye on you, silently wondering if Spencer was the man you were talking about. If it was him, they knew they had to tread carefully. But if it wasn’t… well, their plans might need some adjusting.

As the night went on, the three of you continued to bond over wine, laughter, and shared stories. But beneath the surface, both Emily and Penelope were already plotting their next move, determined to either help you sort through your complicated feelings or figure out if you were talking about someone else entirely.

—

The team had been called out to Florida to investigate a string of brutal murders that had the local authorities stumped. The unsub had a specific and chilling pattern: targeting young, straight, white couples, forcing the boyfriend to murder his girlfriend before disposing of the bodies. The case was as gruesome as it was urgent, and the BAU knew they had to act quickly to prevent more lives from being lost.

After reviewing the case details, Hotch gathered the team in the conference room of their makeshift command center. “We believe the unsub is selecting his victims from a specific nightclub in the area,” Hotch began, his voice steady. “He’s likely using this location as a hunting ground, identifying couples that match his preferred victimology. We need to draw him out.”

Hotch turned to Spencer with a serious expression. “Reid would you be comfortable playing the part of the boyfriend in an attempt to get the unsub’s attention at the club?”

Spencer hesitated for a moment, his mind racing. This was far outside his comfort zone, but the urgency of the situation left him with little choice. “If it’s what’s needed, I’ll do it,” he agreed, though his voice was a bit tighter than usual.

Hotch nodded, appreciating Spencer’s willingness. “Thank you, Reid. We’ll ensure you have all the backup you need.”

Hotch then turned to Emily, intending to ask her to be Spencer’s counterpart. “Prentiss, I’d like you to play the role of the girlfriend. We can work on the cover story and—”

Before he could finish, Emily shook her head, interrupting him. “Hotch, I think I’m too old to fit the unsub’s victimology. He’s targeting younger couples, and I wouldn’t blend in as well as someone closer to the profile.”

Hotch paused, considering her words. She had a point—the unsub’s victims had all been in their twenties. He needed someone who could convincingly pass as a target (Emily could let’s be real). His eyes drifted toward you, and though he was hesitant, he knew you were the best option given the circumstances.

He turned to you, his expression serious. “Y/N, I know this isn’t what you signed up for as a liaison, and I don’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position. But with Prentiss being right about the victimology, you’re our best option. I can give you a quick debriefing and some coaching if you agree.”

You blinked, taken aback by the sudden request. You were used to working in the field, but this was different—this was personal and dangerous. The thought of working so closely with Spencer made your stomach tighten. But you also knew how high the stakes were. If your participation could save lives, you couldn’t refuse.

Taking a deep breath, you nodded. “If you think it’s the best course of action, I’ll do it. Just make sure I know what I’m doing.”

Hotch offered you a reassuring nod. “You’ll have all the support you need. We’ll work through the cover story and logistics before you head out. And remember, the entire team will be watching your backs.”

With the plan in motion, the team began preparing for the undercover operation. The pressure in the air was thick as Hotch pulled you aside for a quick but thorough debriefing. You could feel the weight of the situation settling on your shoulders, but you steeled yourself, determined to do whatever it took to help catch the unsub.

“Okay, Y/N,” Hotch began, his voice calm and authoritative, “this is what you need to do.”

He handed you a small earpiece. “You’ll be wearing this the entire time. We’ll be in constant communication with you and Spencer. The team will be monitoring everything from the van outside, so if anything feels off or if you sense any danger, just signal us, and we’ll intervene immediately.”

You nodded, slipping the earpiece in and adjusting it. The idea of being so closely monitored was both reassuring and nerve-wracking, but you pushed those feelings aside.

Hotch continued, his tone serious. “When you get to the club, you need to act naturally—like a couple out for a night of fun. The unsub is methodical, and he’s likely watching for couples who fit his victim profile. You and Spencer need to blend in, but you also need to be aware of your surroundings. Stay close to Spencer, and don’t let your guard down.”

He paused, looking you in the eye. “Remember, the unsub likely approaches the couples he targets with charm and subtlety. You may not recognize him right away, so trust your instincts. If anyone seems too interested in you or Spencer, report it immediately.”

You swallowed, feeling the gravity of the situation. “What if he tries to separate us?”

“That’s unlikely at first,” Hotch replied. “He’ll want to gain your trust before making his move. But if he does try, make it difficult. Stay close to Spencer. Your job is to make sure the unsub believes you’re a real couple. Your cover story is that you’ve been dating for a few months, and this is a special night out for you.”

You met Hotch’s gaze, feeling nerves and determination. “I understand. I won’t let you down.”

Hotch gave you a reassuring nod. “Good. We’ll be right there with you every step of the way.”

With that, the briefing was over. You felt the weight of the mission settle more heavily on your shoulders, but you also knew you had the full support of the team behind you. As you walked back to where Spencer was waiting, you mentally prepared yourself for what was to come. 

You approached Spencer with hesitation and resolve, knowing that this conversation needed to happen before you both went undercover. The tension between you had been simmering for weeks, and now you were about to put on an act that required you to be convincingly in love. The irony wasn’t lost on you.

“Spencer…?” you began, your voice cautious.

“Yes?” he replied, his tone clipped, already on edge.

“This is going to be awkward, and I’m sorry for that,” you continued, trying to break the ice. “Can we just keep this professional? We can act like we like each other to save lives, right?” You attempted a light-hearted joke, but it fell flat.

“Of course, Y/N. I’m not a child,” Spencer snapped back, his irritation clear. So much for pretending to like you.

You winced slightly at his tone but pressed on. “Okay…um, I also wanted to say that—well, nothing is off the table. Whatever it takes to catch this guy, get his attention, make him believe we’re a desirable couple in love…let’s do it.”

Spencer’s eyes softened just a fraction as he realized you were serious. He took a deep breath, nodding. “Okay, I agree. We’ll do whatever it takes.”

The conversation was brief and tense, but at least you had established some ground rules. There was still a thick layer of unresolved emotion between you, but you both knew that when it came down to it, the mission took priority. 

—

You and Spencer had gotten ready separately for the club, knowing that you needed to look the part if you were going to convincingly play a couple that the unsub might target. Emily had been by your side as you prepared, her encouragement and sharp eye ensuring that you looked hot as hell. She may have had a hidden agenda, hoping that something real might spark between you and Spencer tonight, but she kept those thoughts to herself.

When the time came, you both met in the hotel lobby, the plan ready to be set into motion. But as soon as you laid eyes on each other, the seriousness of the situation was momentarily forgotten, both of you sent mildly for a loop by each other’s appearance.

Spencer’s gaze swept over you, taking in the way your outfit hugged every curve. The tight, red top and matching skirt, revealing just enough to be teasing, had his mind reeling. He was suddenly, and quite vividly, reminded of the night you’d spent together, the memory of you beneath him flashing in his mind. The sight of you now, looking so effortlessly sexy, made his throat go dry.

Meanwhile, you were having a hard time picking your jaw up off the floor. Spencer, who usually favored his vests and button-ups, had ditched the formal wear for a more relaxed look. The simple gray t-shirt clung to his lean frame, accentuating the lines of his shoulders and chest. The addition of the chain around his neck was enough to make your heart skip a beat. You had always thought Spencer was attractive, but seeing him like this—so casual, so effortlessly confident—had your pulse racing.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, both caught up in the unexpected surge of attraction. It was clear that the night ahead was going to be challenging in more ways than one. But as the mission loomed over you, the strain between you simmered just beneath the surface, threatening to bubble over.

Finally, Spencer broke the silence, clearing his throat as he tried to regain his composure. “You… uh, you look great, Y/N. Ready for this?”

You forced a smile, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest. “Thanks, Spencer. You clean up pretty well yourself. Let’s do this.”

With that, you both turned toward the exit, the air between you charged with unresolved feelings and unspoken words. The night had just begun, and already, it was clear that the lines between your undercover roles and your real emotions were going to be dangerously blurred.

—

Inside the club, the pulsing beat of the music and the flashing lights created an atmosphere that was both exhilarating and nerve-wracking. The energy of the place was infectious, but your nerves were on edge. The thought that someone in this very crowd might be eyeing you as their next victim sent a shiver down your spine. You tried to keep your cool, but it wasn’t easy. The low light, the thrumming bass, and the knowledge that you were essentially bait made the situation feel far more intense.

But it wasn’t just the case that had your nerves frayed. As soon as you and Spencer stepped out of the car, you felt his big, warm hand press gently against the exposed skin of your lower back, guiding you toward the entrance. The contact was electrifying, sending a fire through your entire body. You weren’t sure if it was the nerves, the proximity, or the tension between you two, but every nerve ending felt like it was on high alert.

“Alright, Y/N, stay calm,” Spencer’s voice cut through your thoughts, his tone soothing yet firm. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear as he spoke just loudly enough for you to hear over the music. “Let’s go to the bar. We can get some non-alcoholic drinks.”

You nodded, trying to focus on the task at hand. But it was hard to concentrate when his hand stayed firmly on your back, the warmth of his touch grounding you even as it sent your pulse racing. You reminded yourself that this was all part of the act, but the effect it was having on you felt far too real.

As you made your way through the crowd, the lights flashing in sync with the music, you did your best to play the role. You leaned into Spencer slightly, letting yourself appear relaxed, as if you were just another couple out for a good time. But inside, your mind was a whirlwind of anxiety and an unexpected attraction that you hadn’t anticipated.

When you reached the bar, Spencer ordered two non-alcoholic drinks, keeping his voice low and calm. He was good at this—better than you’d expected. His demeanor was confident, protective, and even though you knew it was all part of the cover, it was hard not to feel a sense of comfort from it.

As the bartender handed over your drinks, Spencer’s hand finally left your back, and you couldn’t help but miss the warmth. You took a deep breath, focusing on the mission. You needed to look natural, to draw attention without appearing out of place. It was all about selling the image.

“Here,” Spencer said, handing you your drink. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, there was something unspoken between you. “We’ll just hang out here for a bit, see if anyone takes notice.”

You nodded, taking a sip of your drink and trying to ignore the way your heart was still racing. The club was filled with people dancing, laughing, and flirting, and for a brief second, you almost wished you were here under different circumstances—no case, no danger, just you and Spencer, enjoying a night out.

But the reality was far from that. You were here to catch a killer.

“Baby, do you want to stand at that high top by the dance floor?” Spencer asked, his voice louder to be heard over the thumping music. The term of endearment threw you off guard, your mind momentarily blanking at the unexpected sweetness in his tone. It sounded so natural, so right, coming from him, and it sent a flutter through your chest.

You quickly recovered, trying to keep up the act. “Uh, yeah, babe—let’s go,” you replied, the word feeling a bit foreign on your tongue but surprisingly easy to say. Spencer responded by taking your hand, lacing his fingers with yours as he led you toward the high-top table near the dance floor. His grip was firm, comforting, and despite the circumstances, you couldn’t help but notice how well your hands fit together.

Once you reached the table, you positioned yourselves so that you had a good view of the club. It was all about the mission—watching the crowd, spotting anyone who might be a threat—but Spencer leaned in closer, his voice low and intimate as he spoke.

“You look so beautiful tonight,” he mumbled, his words almost lost in the din of the music. “No one can keep their eyes off of you. This is going to be difficult.”

His compliment was unexpected, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if it was part of the act or something more. The way he said it, with that soft, almost shy tone, made your heart skip a beat. The intensity of his gaze, the way his eyes lingered on yours, made you wonder if there was more truth to his words than he was letting on.

“Thanks, Spencer,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, and you hoped the dim lighting would hide it. 

He nodded, his expression serious again as he scanned the room, his hand still holding yours. “Let’s just stay close and make sure we don’t separate. If anyone approaches, we stick to the story—dating for a few months, here for a special night out. We can’t let our guard down.”

You agreed with a nod, though your thoughts kept drifting back to the way his hand felt in yours, how effortlessly he was playing the role of your boyfriend. The line between acting and reality was starting to blur, and you found yourself getting lost in the moment, despite the danger lurking somewhere in the club.

But you quickly refocused, reminding yourself of the stakes. This was about catching a killer, not exploring whatever confusing feelings you might have for Spencer. Still, as you stood there, fingers intertwined with his, it was hard to ignore the fact that pretending to be in love with him didn’t feel like much of a stretch at all.

As you stood at the high top with Spencer, you couldn’t help but notice how close the other couples around you were. Some were practically glued together, their bodies pressed intimately against one another. A few had their arms wrapped around each other, sharing whispered words and secret smiles, while one particularly bold couple was making out with such intensity that you were sure they’d forgotten they were in public. The contrast between their closeness and the polite distance you and Spencer were keeping was glaringly obvious.

You knew you had to sell the illusion more convincingly. Taking a deep breath, you dropped Spencer’s hand and moved in closer, turning so your back was pressed firmly against his chest. The move was bold, and it had the intended effect. Your ass brushed against his crotch, the contact sending a shockwave through both of you. You could feel his body tense behind you, the sudden intimacy making your pulse quicken.

“What the hell are you doing?” Spencer whispered harshly in your ear, his voice low and strained as his hands instinctively gripped your hips to keep up the charade. The warmth of his breath against your skin sent a shiver down your spine, but you did your best to ignore it.

“Acting like a couple,” you murmured back, keeping your tone casual despite the rapid thudding of your heart. “Look around.”

Spencer glanced around the club, taking in the other couples who were much closer, more intimate, and clearly far more convincing as lovers than the two of you had been up until this point. He realized you were right—if you were going to catch the unsub’s attention, you needed to sell the act. Still, the sudden proximity was rattling him in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

He swallowed hard, trying to focus on the mission instead of the way your body felt pressed against his. “Okay, fine,” he muttered, his grip on your hips tightening just slightly. “But don’t go too far.”

You couldn’t help but smirk at his discomfort, but you knew he was right. You needed to maintain control, but you also had to look convincing. Leaning back into him, you let your body relax against his, your movements slow and deliberate as you adjusted to the new position.

Spencer’s hands remained on your hips, his thumbs brushing against the fabric of your skirt as he tried to ignore the way your warmth seeped into him. Despite the uncertainty between you, there was an undeniable connection in the way you moved together, a rhythm that felt strangely natural.

The music thumped around you, the lights flashed in time with the beat, and as you swayed in time with the music, the line between act and reality blurred even further. It was becoming harder to remember that this was just a cover, just a mission. And from the way Spencer’s grip on your hips lingered a little too long, you wondered if he was feeling the same way.

“Reid, L/N, five o'clock, guy in a gray hoodie, looked past you. Step it up,” Hotch’s voice crackled through your earpieces, snapping you both out of the momentary haze that had settled over you. The reminder of the mission sent a cold shiver down your spine, the gravity of the situation crashing back into focus. This wasn’t just an act; this was a dangerous game with real consequences.

You blinked, forcing yourself to stay calm. The intimacy of your position was suddenly charged with a different kind of tension. You could feel Spencer tense behind you, the same realization dawning on him.

“Spencer…” you began, your voice soft, trying to keep the fear out of your tone. “Can I turn around? We can dance?”

He hesitated for the briefest moment, then nodded. “Sure,” he replied, his voice a bit strained.

You slowly turned to face him, your heart beating fast in your chest. As you did, you were met with his intense gaze, those pretty hazel eyes locking onto yours. The club lights flickered across his face, casting shadows that only seemed to make him look more striking. 

“Hi,” you whispered, the word slipping out before you could stop it.

“Focus, Y/N,” Spencer gritted out, his jaw tight as he forced himself to stay on task. His hands slid back to your hips, pulling you taut against his body with a firmness that was more grounding than intimate. He wasn’t playing around anymore—he was in full profiler mode, and he needed you to be too.

You swallowed hard and nodded, pushing the swirling emotions aside. There was no room for hesitation or distraction now. You both began to sway to the beat, your bodies moving together in a way that was meant to draw attention, but also to look like a couple deeply connected.

As you danced, you could feel the tension in Spencer’s body, the way he was torn between the necessity of the mission and the undeniable pull between you. The pressure of his hands on your hips was both reassuring and unsettling, grounding you in the moment while reminding you of the line you couldn’t cross.

But even as you tried to focus on the task, the proximity, the warmth, and the intensity of his gaze made it difficult to separate the act from reality. You were dancing for a purpose, but the way your bodies moved together felt far too natural, far too easy.

The man in the gray hoodie lingered in your peripheral vision, and you knew the stakes were high. You had to sell this, had to make him believe you were just another couple in love, completely unaware of the danger lurking nearby.

“Hotch, you can see us, right?” you asked into the earpiece, trying to keep your voice steady despite the nerves gnawing at your insides.

“Of course,” Hotch’s calm voice responded. “Morgan and Prentiss are inside too, keeping an eye on everything.”

The reassurance helped, but only slightly. You knew the team had your back, but that didn’t make the situation any less intense. You glanced up at Spencer, noticing how his eyes kept darting around the room, scanning for threats.

“Okay, Spencer, look at me,” you said firmly, your voice just loud enough for him to hear over the music. “Stop looking around—you’re in love with me, remember?”

Spencer’s gaze snapped back to you, and he gave you a playful glare, clearly annoyed by the reminder but unable to argue with the logic. You didn’t give him a chance to respond before wrapping your arms around his shoulders and tangling your fingers in the back of his hair. The move brought you closer, your bodies pressing together in a way that was far too reminiscent of your last intimate encounter. You could feel the tension coil tighter between you, but you ignored it, focusing on the mission.

“Y/N…” he warned low, his voice strained, the memory of that night flashing in his eyes. The way your fingers brushed against his scalp was too familiar, too charged with unspoken emotion.

“Just doing my job,” you whispered back, your tone light but your heart pounding in your chest.

“Mhm,” he hummed, clearly not convinced but playing along nonetheless.

Before either of you could say more, Derek’s voice crackled through your earpieces. “Reid, grab lower—you look too stiff.”

Emily smothered a laugh from where she stood across the club, clearly enjoying the situation more than she probably should. But Spencer, ever the professional, did as he was told. His hands slid down your back, settling on your ass with a firm grip. The sudden, bold move sent a jolt through you, and you couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped your lips.

“Payback,” Spencer mouthed, a mischievous glint in his eye as he held your gaze, not wanting the others to hear the exchange.

You narrowed your eyes at him, biting back a smile despite yourself. He was getting into the role now, playing the part of the devoted boyfriend with a bit more enthusiasm than you expected. But there was still that undercurrent of uncertainty, that sense that the line between acting and reality was growing thinner by the second.

You took a deep breath, trying to stay focused. The man in the gray hoodie was still in the corner of your eye, and you couldn’t afford to let your guard down. But as Spencer’s hands remained on your body, his touch far more intimate than necessary, you found it increasingly difficult to keep your own emotions in check.

The moment you heard Spencer’s voice through the earpiece, directing, “Prentiss, Morgan, keep your eyes on gray hoodie,” you barely had time to register what was happening before Spencer’s lips pressed down on yours.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was intense, full of urgency and purpose, catching you completely off guard. His hands tightened on your ass, pulling you even closer. The heat of his body against yours made your head spin and you let out a whine that Spencer felt more than heard. There was nothing hesitant about the way he kissed you—his mouth moved against yours with a fierce determination, as if he was trying to communicate everything he couldn’t say out loud.

Your initial shock melted into the moment as you found yourself kissing him back just as fervently. The crowded, noisy club seemed to disappear, leaving only the two of you locked in this sudden, passionate embrace. It was more than just a distraction for the unsub—it felt real, too real, like all the friction that had been building between you both had finally erupted.

Your hands fully fisted his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as you let yourself get lost in the kiss and Spencer’s deep groan. There was a desperation in the way Spencer’s lips moved against yours, a need that mirrored your own, and it was impossible to tell where the act ended and the truth began.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathless, your heart pounding in your chest. Spencer’s eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide as he looked at you, still holding you close. There was a moment of silence between you, the world seeming to stand still in the aftermath of what had just happened.

But then reality came crashing back in. The club’s pounding music, the mission, the danger—it all returned in an instant. You blinked, trying to steady yourself, reminding yourself why you were here.

“That should do it,” Spencer muttered, his voice low and rough as he glanced over your shoulder, checking for any reaction from the man in the gray hoodie.

You swallowed hard, nodding, though you couldn’t quite find the words to respond. The kiss had shaken you, and you could tell it had affected Spencer too, though he was doing his best to remain composed.

“Good job, gray hoodie is making his way over. Prepare to talk to him,” Hotch’s voice came through your earpieces, calm and commanding as always.

You barely had time to catch your breath, trying to shake off the lingering effects of Spencer’s kiss. But there was no time to dwell on it now—the mission was moving forward, and you needed to be ready.

“Nice work, pretty boy,” Derek added, his voice laced with amusement. You could practically hear the smirk in his tone, and you knew he’d have something to say about that kiss later. But for now, all you could do was roll your eyes and focus on what was coming next.

Spencer’s grip on your waist tightened slightly, a subtle reminder that he was right there with you, in more ways than one. He leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “Remember, we’re just here to have a good time. Stay calm, and let me lead the conversation.”

You nodded, your heart still racing but your mind sharpening as you prepared to interact with the man who could very well be the unsub. You glanced up at Spencer, his eyes meeting yours with determination and something else—something unspoken, lingering just beneath the surface.

The man in the gray hoodie approached you and Spencer, his eyes scanning the area before focusing on you with a predatory gleam. Sensing his intent, you and Spencer stayed close, maintaining your cover as he made his move. As he began to get aggressive, subtly trying to lead you away from the crowd, Spencer tightened his hold on you, ready to react.

But before the situation could escalate further, Prentiss moved in quickly, her handcuffs at the ready. The moment the unsub tried to take control, she was on him, expertly restraining him before he could do any harm. The takedown was swift and decisive, with the unsub barely registering what had happened before he was secured.

“Great job, you two,” Hotch’s voice came through the earpiece, filled with genuine praise. You could almost hear the relief in his tone as he acknowledged how smoothly the operation had gone.

“Yeah, nice work, lovebirds,” Derek interjected, his playful tone impossible to miss. You could practically see the teasing grin on his face, and you knew he wouldn’t let either of you forget this night anytime soon.

“Who knew our boy genius could lay it on thick?” Emily added, a laugh in her voice. “Maybe we should send you two undercover more often.”

Rossi, who had been observing quietly from the sidelines, simply smiled knowingly. His eyes twinkled with understanding, as if he could see right through the situation, recognizing more than just a job well done. There was something in his expression that suggested he knew this was more than just a successful operation—that perhaps there was something else between you and Spencer.

As the team began wrapping up, gathering evidence and securing the unsub, you felt a strange sense of relief and uncertainty. The mission was over, but the kiss, the tension, the way Spencer had held you—it all lingered in the back of your mind.

For now, you pushed those thoughts aside, focusing on the successful outcome of the case. But as you glanced at Spencer, you knew you couldn’t ignore what had happened between you two forever. There would be time to address it later, to figure out what it meant, but for now, you were content to let the night end on a high note, with the unsub in custody and your team’s playful banter filling the air.

—

The night was still, the only sounds coming from the occasional hum of the air conditioning unit in your hotel room. You lay there, unable to sleep, your mind replaying the events of the evening over and over. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t stop thinking about Spencer—his touch, his kiss, the way he had looked at you as if there was something more.

Then, just as you were beginning to drift off, you heard a soft knock at your door. It was so faint that you almost thought you imagined it, but then you heard it again, followed by your name whispered in a voice you knew all too well. Spencer.

You shot up in bed, your heart racing, quickly and quietly making your way over to the door. You opened it, and there he was, standing in the dim light of the hallway, his expression unreadable.

“Spencer? What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

But Spencer didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward, his hands reaching for your face, pulling you into a fierce, urgent kiss. The force of it took you by surprise, and you stumbled back into the room, the door shutting softly behind him.

His hands were on you, impatient and demanding, as he began to strip away your clothes, tossing them aside as he moved with purpose. You knew deep down that you should stop this, that it was dangerous to blur the lines between your professional and personal lives even further. But the need in his kiss, the desperation in his touch, made it impossible to resist.

Before you knew it, you were both undressed, and he was pushing you down onto the bed. Your thoughts were a whirlwind, but the words tumbled out before you could stop them. “Spencer?”

His response was immediate, his tone firm, almost commanding. “I really don’t want to hear you talk.”

And then you felt it—a fabric pressed against your tongue. You recognized the taste, the feel of it. Your underwear. He had stuffed them into your mouth, silencing you as he leaned over you, his eyes dark with intent.

Your body reacted to his dominance, a mix of fear and desire coursing through you as you surrendered to the moment. Whatever this was between you two, it was undeniable, unstoppable. 

You nodded quickly, the realization of what was happening sinking in fast. You were ready to submit, ready to give in to Spencer completely, knowing that, in some twisted way, you owed this to him after everything that had transpired between you. The strain, the unresolved emotions, the unspoken words—all of it led to this moment, and you were helpless to resist.

You let Spencer maneuver you with ease, guiding you until your head was resting on the pillows, your body laid out beneath him. His touch was firm, deliberate, as he held your wrists above your head in one of his hands, his grip possessive yet reassuring. There was a weight to his movements, a sense of control that sent a shiver down your spine. 

As he began to enter you, the sensations overwhelmed your mind. You felt the warmth of his body, the intensity of his focus, and the way his presence filled every inch of the space around you. For the night, you allowed yourself to believe in the fantasy that you were still dating Spencer, still wrapped up in that intoxicating bubble from the club where the world outside didn’t exist. It was a dangerous illusion, but one that you clung to, desperate to feel something other than the emptiness that had plagued you for so long.

You knew, deep down, that this was temporary, that you would regret it when the sun rose and the reality of your situation came crashing down. The intimacy, as fulfilling as it was in the moment, would leave you more vulnerable than ever before. But for now, you pushed those thoughts aside, letting the connection with Spencer fill the void that you had been ignoring for years.

In the quiet darkness of the hotel room, with only the sounds of your shared breaths and the gentle rustling of the sheets, you gave yourself over to the moment. The rawness, the passion, the way Spencer took control—it all felt like an escape from the complications of your real life, a brief respite where nothing mattered but the two of you.

But even as you lost yourself in the sensations, a small part of you knew that this night would leave a mark. The ache in your chest would linger long after the pleasure faded, and the distance between you and Spencer would only grow wider once the night was over. Yet, despite the inevitable pain, you couldn’t bring yourself to stop. Not tonight.

—

When you woke up the next morning, the sunlight filtering through the curtains, you found yourself caught in a strange, bittersweet limbo. There was a part of you that wanted to laugh at how absurd it all was—how quickly things had escalated, how out of control it had felt. But there was also a part of you that wanted to cry, to let out the frustration and the hurt that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long.

You had fallen asleep in Spencer’s arms, his warmth and presence offering a comfort you hadn’t realized you craved so desperately. In those moments, nestled against him, you had felt something—an undeniable emotion, one that was both comforting and terrifying. It was a feeling you weren’t ready to admit, not even to yourself. But it had been there, undeniable and potent.

But now? Now you were alone. The space beside you in the bed was empty, the sheets cold where Spencer had been. He had left, and the realization of that hit you harder than you expected. You sat up slowly, your heart heavy with the weight of what had transpired. The room was eerily quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic outside, and it only amplified the hollowness inside you.

You glanced around, half-expecting to find some sign that he hadn’t really gone, but there was nothing. No note, no trace of him. The memories of the night clung to you, the way he had kissed you, the way he had dominated you, the way he had made you feel. But those memories were all you had left. The reality was that he was gone, and you were left to pick up the pieces of whatever this was.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair as you tried to make sense of your emotions.  In the end, you took a deep breath and pushed the emotions down, burying them deep where they couldn’t hurt you—at least not right now. There was no time to dwell on what had happened, no time to analyze the why and the how. The team would be leaving soon, and you needed to get ready, to put on the facade of professionalism and normalcy.

—

On the jet ride back to Quantico, you had slipped seamlessly back into your professional persona. You weren’t ignoring Spencer, but you were treating him just like everyone else on the team—polite, distant, focused on the job. The mission had gone well, and the team had hoped that the tension between you and Spencer might have eased after last night. But as the hours passed and you continued to keep your interactions with him strictly business, it became clear that whatever barrier was between you wasn’t going to crumble that easily.

Once back at Quantico, you quickly packed your things at your desk, eager to get home and sleep in your own bed. Hotch had given the team the day off, and everyone had cleared out quickly, tired from the case. The bullpen was nearly empty, save for you and Penelope, who was still working in her batcave.

As you were turning to leave, your thoughts occupied with getting home, Spencer suddenly appeared in front of you, startling you.

“Spencer! Jeez, hi,” you said, your heart skipping a beat at his unexpected presence.

His expression was unreadable, his eyes hard as he looked at you. “How did it feel?” he asked, his voice low and cold.

You blinked, confused. “What?”

“To wake up alone?” he repeated, his tone sharp and biting. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” And with that, he turned on his heel and left the bullpen, leaving you standing there, stunned and reeling from his words.

For a moment, you were too shocked to move, the tears welling up in your eyes as the weight of his accusation sank in. He knew exactly how to cut you, and his words had hit their mark, reopening the wound you had tried so hard to ignore.

“Y/N…?” Penelope’s voice broke through your thoughts, gentle and concerned. She must have heard the exchange, though you hadn’t realized Spencer’s words had carried.

You turned to look at her, the tears spilling over as your emotions finally broke free. You tried to hold them back, to keep it together, but it was no use. The pain, the regret, the guilt—it all came crashing down at once.

“Can I have a hug?” you choked out, your voice trembling.

Penelope didn’t hesitate. She crossed the room in a heartbeat, wrapping you in a warm, comforting embrace. Her arms were strong and steady, grounding you as you let the tears flow. She didn’t ask any questions, didn’t push you to explain. She just held you, letting you cry in the safety of her embrace.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Penelope murmured, rubbing your back soothingly. “You’re not alone. I’m here.”

You clung to her, grateful for the comfort she offered, even as the ache in your chest remained. Spencer’s words still echoed in your mind, a painful reminder of the distance that had grown between you. But for now, in Penelope’s arms, you allowed yourself to grieve—to grieve the connection that had been lost, the pain that had been caused, and the uncertainty of what the future held.

—

The next workday at the Bureau felt oddly normal—too normal. Spencer walked in with a knot in his stomach, dreading what he might face after his outburst the previous day. He knew what he had done was wrong, petty, and incredibly immature. But in the moment, the release had felt good. It had felt like a small, bitter victory, even if it was at your expense.

But as he walked through the bullpen, he couldn’t shake the unease. He hadn’t seen you yet, and the thought of running into you now, after everything, made his chest tighten. He hesitated as he passed the liaison office, taking a deep breath before stealing a glance inside. To his surprise, instead of seeing you, he spotted a familiar blonde head bent over a file.

“JJ?” he said, his voice filled with confusion as he stepped into the doorway.

She looked up with a bright smile, her blue eyes warm and welcoming. “Hey, Spence!”

Spencer blinked, still trying to process what he was seeing. “I thought you were on maternity leave for another month?”

JJ laughed softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was, but I just had to come back. I was going stir-crazy at home. You know me—I can’t stay away for long.”

“That’s—well, that’s great,” Spencer stammered, caught off guard by her unexpected return. “It’s really good to have you back.”

JJ’s smile softened as she looked at him. “Thanks, Spence. I missed you guys. But don’t worry—I’m not back full-time just yet. I’m just easing back into things.”

Spencer nodded, still trying to wrap his head around the sudden change. “Well, it’s good to see you. We missed you too.”

As they exchanged a few more pleasantries, Spencer’s thoughts kept drifting back to you. If JJ was here, it meant you were probably somewhere else in the building, avoiding the BAU office. The realization filled him with a mix of relief and guilt. He knew he should apologize, should try to make things right, but he wasn’t sure where to begin.

For now, though, he focused on the small comfort of having JJ back. It was a welcome distraction, even if it didn’t erase the tension that still lingered between you and him.

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

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[homiesexuallaj]

Hands

Pairing: Eric Draven x reader

Genre/Warnings: fluff, domestic fluff, nondescript smut, hands, possible hand kink, possible hand fetish

Request: A piece about Eric Draven’s hands

A/N: For @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler !! I also used one of their gifs from their gifset.

———

Eric is so gentle with his hands. He always has been, no matter the situation.

He’s handsy too. He loves to be touching you at all times, no matter what’s going on. If you’re out and about, he’s either asked you to wrap a hand around his bicep or hold his hand. Or when he’s guiding you somewhere, there’s always a hand on your lower back.

When you’re out at a bar or in a club dancing, he’s always got his hands on you. He’s either in front of you and holding your hands while you mirror each other’s dance moves or got his hands on your hips while you both sway to whatever beat is on. When he’s behind you, there’s a guarantee he’s either hugged himself around your waist or crowding into your personal space with arms wrapped all around you and a head on your shoulder.

Eric never doesn’t not have his hands on you.

When you’re alone and domestic, you’re never not within arms reach, if Eric even lets you sit away that far. When you’re relaxing in bed or on the couch, Eric is swirling patterns into your skin with his fingertips or following the curves and dips of your skin. When it’s your turn to make dinner, Eric likes to watch with either a hand on your lower back or hugging himself into you from behind. Or when Eric is playing piano, he insists that you’re sitting and pressed up beside him. There’s no way you’re in the way of his playing. You’re right where you’re supposed to be.

When you’re in bed, it really shows how gentle Eric is.

Eric loves to grope and grab. He’s not one to slap or leave bruises or throw you around. He loves to help you get in position though. And his hands are always touching you, all over. He covers as much area as he can in the moment.

The man never pressed to hard or tugged to harsh, just enough to make it feel good. He only ever grabs hard enough to leave temporary indents in your flesh, something that’ll last for a few minutes at the least.

Whenever or wherever Eric is trailing kisses, his hands aren’t far behind. They always smooth down goosebumps or grab at any excess flesh.

When the deed is done with, Eric insists that you lay on chest bare chest. Both of your bare bodies are pressed into each other. Your hand traces over the black ink that’s etched into his skin and his trace shapes and swirls into yours.

Eventually, Eric ends up lulling you to sleep with his hands. And he rubs you back until Eric is off to dreamland himself.

———

A/N: The request v v

[ki-yomii]

down on you | jjk

➥ pairing | jeon jungkook x f!reader ➥ word count | 4.5k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; dirty talk, pet names, mild praise kink, squirting, hair pulling, standing missionary, rough sex, porn w/ plot, mafia!jk, detective!reader, established relationship, mild angst, mild violence ➥ summary | It’s true, he owns you: blood, bones, and all. ➥ notes | the mafia!jk au no one asked for aka an excuse to write smut w/ feeling lol.

💚 masterlist | inbox | AO3 💚

On his knees staring down the barrel of a loaded gun with a mouthful of blood, he knows this is the end of the line. He’s going to die like a rat in the gutter - no mercy to be found, loopholes to exploit or bribes to be made.

This is the real deal, and there’s no coming back.

Judgement Day comes in the form of a man with dark eyes and a dangerous smirk: Golden, the deadliest guard dog of the underground.

Credited with dozens of hits, you won’t know he’s there until it’s too late. Trying to keep him pinned is like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands, or a whisper on the wind.

And you won’t know he’s coming until you feel the breath on the back of your neck, hear the crack of a bullet ringing in your ears.

Belonging to one of the most powerful men in the world: Kim Namjoon, he’s more war machine than man.

“Go ahead, do it!” He spits at Golden’s feet, a mess of blood and drool staining the crisp leather of his combat boots. “Killing me won’t change a goddamn thing.”

A coy smile tugs at Golden’s mouth, his grin all sharp teeth and violence. He stays where he stands, his silhouette haloed by distant streetlights.

Water laps at the docks, the tang of salt heavy in the mid-summer Seoul air. There’s no rush; they both know he’ll be dead and dumped just like all the rest of the garbage in this rotting city.

“Come on, you prick! Pull the fucking trigger already.”

Golden cocks his head, and hums in the back of his throat. 

“Tch! I hope you’ve got a lot of bullets - we’re gonna knock the crown off Kim’s head one way or another.”

Golden thumbs at the safety of his gun, the barrel glinting through the shadows. “Ahh, is that what you think?” He shrugs, a lazy ripple of muscle. “Well, I have to say: I’d love to see you try.”

The night is shattered by the resounding crack of a gunshot and an echoing splash of something heavy dropping into the water below.

You climb out of the nondescript government-issue car. The faintest tremble of your fingers nearly gives you away but you’re able to reign in the impulse to smooth your hands over your clothes at the last second.

Showing weakness is the last thing you need to be doing right now.

Especially here.

Right in front of where you’ve parked - shoved between two looming apartment complexes - sits a quaint, vintage building. The rough brick face is at odds with the sleek surroundings, but tinted windows keep prying eyes at bay while the classy signing hanging above the door reads The Red Bullet written in caps.

If you didn’t know better, it would be hard to believe this otherwise mundane storefront is a cover for one of the most dangerous international organizations based out of South Korea.

Not only do they hold the keys to the kingdom, but their success is largely in part because they spearhead operations from government espionage all the way to simple blackmail.

Even though it’s been several months since you darkened its doorstep, the familiar sight is enough to steal the breath from your lungs. Send your heart galloping into a tailspin as your stomach swoops.

While time away helped clear your head of stolen kisses and promises whispered in dark rooms, it also drove the longing bone deep.

In those quiet moments to yourself, when you have nothing else to distract from how lonely you are, you miss this place like one misses a limb.

You didn’t realize how attached you were to these four walls until it was too late: the hazy air filled with whorls of smoke, the overhead lights that bathe everything in red, the plush chairs you spent many nights sprawled across, the glossy black stages.

You don’t know how, you don’t know when but at some point it (he) started feeling like home. A luxury you can’t afford. Not again. After all, if you give in, any progress you made outside of his gravitational pull will be for naught.

Which puts you in a dangerous position as you find yourself back where it began; feelings at war with duty, mind vs heart. Because even if it leads you to a place you could go a million years without ever seeing again, you have to follow the trail of bodies.

A bouncer grants you access, the heavy door slamming shut behind you like a death knell as he herds you towards the back of the club.

It’s outside of official operating hours but it’s no less busy inside, men and women alike in scattered conversation as you pass through.

“It’s nice to see you again,” the bouncer murmurs, chancing a quick glance at your profile. “Been a while.”

You swallow, gaze darting down to your shoes. “Ah - yeah… Got busy with work. It’s - it’s nice to see you too.”

The small talk fizzles out, a snuffed candle as you arrive at a cordoned off room, “Here we are. Mr Kim is already expecting you.”

Any further pleasantries grow stale on your tongue as you enter the private booth, fighting against the lump in your throat to manage a hoarse ‘thank you’.

And then you find yourself left alone with the man himself, Kim Namjoon. He’s as intimidating as you remember, lounging back into the leather booth with his ankles crossed.

A lukewarm smile stretches across his lips, the slightest hint of a dimple peeking out from the valley of his cheek. Standing at attention on either side of his reposing form are two massive bodyguards. Their hands rest on the butts of their guns, daring any who enter to try and make a move.

“It’s good to see you again. But I gotta ask - what’s the occasion, Detective?” Namjoon hums. “I thought we were past all this.” He waves a nebulous hand between your bodies. “After all, you’re practically family.”

You ignore the hidden barb with a wince. “Mr Kim, you know why I’m here.”

“I used to know why a long time ago.” A well-groomed brow raises, his gaze glacial as it spears you in place. “But now I’m not so sure.”

“Please, Mr Kim. I don’t want to make this more difficult than it is. I just need to know about the man they fished out of the harbor, and then I’ll be on my way. So… who was he?”

Namjoon scoffs. “What makes you think I know more than the police?”

There’s a flash of a smirk, barely noticed, before his face returns to its neutral expression. As calm and cool as a placid river. “A john’s a john. What I do want to know is why you care so much?”

The underlying question is clear; why are you really here?

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss such matters with civillians.”

“Oh? So I’m a civilian now.” His expression is not unlike the cat that caught the canary: vicious and delighting in the discomfort his evasions are causing. “Gotta say that’s a new one for me.”

Sighing in defeat, you say, “Alright, enough. I get it. I’m wasting my time with you. Let me ask this instead: where is he?” 

“He doesn’t know any more about this than I do,” he says, waving a blase hand towards a door off to the left, “But if you insist, you can find him in the office. Oh, and Detective?”

“...Yes?”

“Take your time, I’ll be out on business all afternoon.”

With a curt nod, you flee the room amid low-throated chuckles and enter the office. Standing near the desk, his broad back turned towards the door, you find the man you simultaneously want to see the most and run from the fastest.

He turns around, the muscles of his back rippling with the movement. Your breath stutters in your chest, and you nearly swallow your tongue as your eyes trace over the cut of his body.

The moment your eyes meet, those many months spent cultivating time and distance turn to ash. You forgot how even the mere sight of him affects you, any resistance to his many charms virtually nonexistent as the world falls away.

Rich, coffee dark; his gaze sucks you in until it’s all you can do not to reach out, to brush your fingers over his edges and feel them soften beneath your palms.

Rocking back on your heels, you clear your throat and glance to the side as you remain standing in the entryway, more than a little off-kilter.

Coming back after so long apart, only to find him the same as the day you left… How do you reconcile everything that’s changed with everything that was?

“Well, hello there.” Jungkook croons, leaning his hip against the corner of the desk with a roll of his shoulders. His arms cross over the trunk of his chest, accentuating the bulk of his chest, the flex of inked bicep. “Long time no see.”

Shifting, you gulp. “Ah - yeah…”

The burn of his gaze - a palpable sensation prickling across your skin - tracks a path from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes as he gives you a thorough once-over.

“You’re looking good,” Jungkook hums in approval, “real good. I’ve missed those pretty eyes of yours.”

“You - you too.”

Your attention doesn’t know where to settle: drifting from the curve of his shoulders to the jut of his bloody knuckles, the tuck of his trim hips to the thick-soled combat boots.

Tiny hairs at the back of your neck stand on end, and your palms slick with sweat.

“I mean, you look… y’know, uh, good too.”

A flash of a crooked smirk, the raising of a pierced brow gets your blood pumping, your heart tattooing a rhythm against your ribs. Emboldens you to reach back with shaky fingers to turn the lock. The sound grates down your spine, bolts of anticipation slicing through you.

It was dumb to think coming here, seeing him again, would end any other way than his taste on your tongue and his cock in your cunt. Hope makes fools of us all.

Should’ve known better but you’d been hopeful those days were long behind you. Now you realize it was inevitable.

After all, Jungkook is magnetic.

The black hole at the center of your universe, consuming everything in its path until he’s what remains in your head, your heart. You’re helpless, ceaselessly drawn to him like a moth to flame.

And try as you might, you can’t say no to a face like that.

Never could, in fact.

Failure to extract yourself from his orbit during your not-relationship is nothing new. That doesn’t mean you can’t make it difficult.

After all, you still have some dignity intact.

So try, try, try again.

“Ahem.” You try to banish the heat from your cheeks, guiding the conversation into the correct territory. “I’m not here on a-a social call, Jeon. I need to know: were you the one that killed and dumped the john in the harbor?”

Stalking closer, a lazy jungle cat on the prowl, Jungkook crosses the distance between you. He only stops once your bodies brush with every labored inhale. Heat radiates from him, and you’re achingly aware of every point of contact.

The light scent of his cologne teases your nose, and his eyes - god, his eyes. They’re shaded and hungry, devouring your expression with single-minded possessiveness. 

“What makes you think I know anything about that?”

“Jeon -- Jungkook.”

He hums.

Your heart thrums, pulse rushing hard through your head until you feel faint, blood surging the longer you stay in close contact. The shameful clench of your cunt makes your cheeks burn all the brighter.

The last time you were looking up at him like this, his hand was on your jaw while his cock thrust balls deep.

“C’mon, you know that isn’t going to work. This is me you’re talking to, not some rookie.”

“Mm,” he purrs, “it is you I’m talking to, isn’t it?”

You manage to bite back the groan but can’t stop your eyes from rolling even if there’s the slightest hint of a stutter when you reply, “Please, I just need to know if you killed him.”

Jungkook looms tall and proud, crowding closer. “And if I did, baby?” he asks.

Instinctively you back up, only to be followed step by step. A game of cat and mouse that finds you pinned against the wall before long. With nowhere to run, you watch, heart in your throat, as Jungkook dips his dark head.

His nose runs along the length of your neck, breath puffing across your sensitive skin as he inhales the pleasant scent of your perfume.

“I - I…”

“Would you see me in handcuffs?” His lips caress the underside of your jaw, a soft groan escaping him. “… C’mon, answer me. Would you?”

“I would - if I had to.”

As much as you wish that was true, you know in your heart of heart's you would do everything in your power to make sure that never happens.

No matter how much you like to think you’d do the right thing when push comes to shove, you’d choose him a thousand times over.

His eyes dance playfully. “Careful, I might like it.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” you say with a snort.

Jungkook chuckles low and warm, using the arm around your waist to tug you into the safety of his body. The softness of your breasts presses into the hard planes of his chest, your nipples pebbling through the thin cotton shirt you wear.

With a deep-throated groan, his hands encircle the curves of your hips as a thickly muscled thigh slots between yours.

An answering quiet sigh gets his blood pumping and his cock twitching.

“Mm, something tells me you’d enjoy it just as much, Detective.”

The use of your title is a rude awakening.

“Jungkook,” You warn, moving to push him away. Only once you start touching him, you can’t stop. His muscles flex beneath your curious fingertips. “We really shouldn’t.”

You’re sure if he could, Jungkook would spend days worshipping between your thighs, velvet heat wrapped around his tongue and hands in his hair as he brings you to peak again and again until you’re a sobbing, sopping, boneless mess beneath him.

“Come on, I know you want me - that you’ve missed me. I can see it in your eyes.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, tongue flickering out for a brief taste before a rough thumb skates across your bottom lip, tugging down to expose your teeth, the glitter of your tongue as it darts out to flick over the pad of his finger..

“I’ve certainly missed you, baby. Want me to show you?”

Even though you refuse to admit anything out loud, you can’t help but angle your throat back and grind into his hips pressed against yours.

Jungkook tsks, “That’s alright. I’ll get that pretty mouth open one way or another.”

Before you can retort, a mouth swoops down to fuse with yours in a fierce, all-consuming kiss. A low, broken moan punches from your chest.

Reaching up, your fingers sink into the mane of dark hair that brushes the cut of Jungkook’s jaw. Soft, thick, and wavy in your grip; you tug at the roots.

Jungkook hisses. 

Teeth nip at your lip, kittenish licks soothing away the string as blood bursts across your tongues. The thigh shoved between yours grinds up with every wet, sloppy pass of your lips.

Thick muscle spreads your pussy open through the thin slacks of your work uniform. Sparks of pleasure dance down your spine with every rock against your swollen clit.

“S-Shit!” Your shoulders curl in, a shudder jerking through you. “K-Kook, I… !”

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me.” Jungkook growls, rutting his cock against the jut of your hip. The wet patch you’re making on his jeans grows larger with every filthy grind. “You’ve been gone too fucking long. Never again, you hear me?”

You claw at his shoulders, stuttering out, “there’s noth-ing you can do t’stop me.”

“If you don’t come back to me,” his eyes are dark and stormy, voice whiskey rough, “I’ll find you.”

It’s not a threat - it’s a promise.

“Then make sure I never want to leave,” you challenge breathlessly, staring into his blown out pupils, “Make me want to stay.”

Above all else, you think.

The words are barely past your lips when Jungkook accepts your challenge with gusto (just like you knew he would). Without delay, he thumbs open the button on your pants.

Refusing to let you look away, Jungkook yanks them to your feet and swings you up into his arms one-handed. They hang from your ankle like a chain.

Your surprised squeak is quickly swallowed up by a moan when he settles you over the bulge in his pants, your cunt hovering over his erection.

The heat of his skin sinks through the thin cotton of your panties, so, so close to where you need him. Slick soaks into the fabric, and clings to your inner thighs.

Every shift is a smooth, sticky glide of folds that stirs, and stokes the ember of desire smoldering behind your navel.

“Kook,” you breathe. “Please.”

Your head rolls back, and you sag into his chest. Your hips twitch in pathetic little attempts, trying to get pressure where you need it. Having him hot and hard and all for you; any distance between you is suddenly unbearable.

He needs to spread you wide and stuff you full with every inch of his thick cock until he’s so deep you won’t be able to walk for days.

“Shh baby, I’ll give you what you want,” he says, gaze heavy and possessive. “I’m gonna ruin you so good, you’ll have no choice but to come back. You’re mine.”

“Says who?”

“Hmm. You don’t think you are?”

Nibbling on your ear, Jungkook slips a finger under the hem of your panties. He smirks when you keen, rubbing his knuckle up and down your sloppy folds with teasing pressure.

“How about I show you what your body already knows?”

Wasting no time, he lifts you off his cock, the scrap of cloth fluttering to the ground. His free hand dives between your bodies. Then comes the clink of a belt, the sound of a zipper pulling down.

Your heartbeat thunders in your ears, your body coiled with anticipation as your stomach swoops at the brush of his fingers along the underside of your thigh.

“Look so pretty like this, baby.” Jungkook twists his wrist, hips arching back. “And it’s all for me. Fuck, I can’t wait to get inside this pretty pussy.”

Any response dies on your tongue, brain short-circuiting as the slick, fat cockhead rubs along your slit. Pressing against your entrance the slightest bit before slipping up to nudge at your clit - coating himself up in your sticky juices.

The ultimate tease - something Jungkook’s always been overly fond of doing until you’re out of your mind with desperation.

“Please, please, please,” you chant, cheeks on fire and eyes half-lidded as you circle your hips. “Stop playing around. I want it - want you, Kook.”

“Oh, baby,” he smiles, ducking down to kiss your forehead. “You’ll take whatever I give you.”

You can’t stifle the broken sob, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. Liquid fire surges through your veins, a thousand bolts of lightening crackling beneath the surface of your skin. Your pussy is tender, swollen. Walls fluttering in time with your heartbeat. 

“Ha, you’re so needy for me.”

Jungkook’s lips brush away the moisture around your eyes, his thumb drawing soothing circles into the base of your spine. All the while, his torturous grinding never ceases.

“Aren’t you?”

You croak, “I can’t – Kook, please. Anything, I’ll do anything you want just fuck me.”

The flash of his eyes is your only warning before he’s right there, your walls embracing the girth of his erection inch by inch. Every ridge, every jerk as he seats himself as deep inside your silken heat as he can is absolute heaven.

The stretch as you take him to the hilt sends you careening towards the edge, eyes rolling back and toes curling in your shoes.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit!” you whimper.

“Shit!” Jungkook grits his teeth, squeezing the base of his cock as you tighten  around him. With every deep inhale, his pelvis brushes your swollen, needy clit. “Forgot how good you feel wrapped around my dick, baby.”

“Me too,” You gasp, tightening your legs around Jungkook’s hips.”Me too, Kook.”

Dropping his forehead to yours, he says gruffly, “‘m not gonna last long.”

Making a noise of acknowledgement, you wiggle your hips. Sinking your teeth into the side of Jungkook’s jaw, you bite and suck at his skin, wanting to leave a mark to remember you by. His reaction is instantaneous, releasing the grip on his shaft to grab a fist full of hair.

He yanks back.

The long, elegant line of your throat is exposed to his butterfly kisses and scolding love bites.

“Now you’ve really asked for it,” Jungkook huffs out with a dirty chuckle.

“Then give it to me.” You lick your puffy lips, looking up at him from beneath your lashes. “Show me who I belong to.”  

The brewing hurricane in his eyes is unleashed. Wide palms and strong fingers grip your hips so tight you feel bones grind together. His stance widens, his unwavering gaze locking onto your face, brow pinched, and mouth slack.

His lip piercing glints in the light, his tongue sliding out to wet his bottom lip. Dark curls tussle about his head, a wild halo that sweeps down into the burning umber of his eyes.

Helpless, you succumb - enchanted by the darkness peering at you from behind those dangerous eyes. He’s ethereal; a siren song that threatens to drown you, swallow you whole.

You’d happily let him, you realize with a shiver.

It’s true, he owns you: blood, bones, and all.

“Hold on tight,” Jungkook says, hooking his hands under your bottom. 

And then, he’s jackhammering into your cunt so hard and fast all you can do is hold on for the ride. Punch drunk and moaning as he manhandles you how he likes, spreads you wide and stuffs you full until you’re panting for breath and clinging to sanity by your fingernails.

“Fuck yes, that’s it. Look how well your pretty pussy always takes my fat cock.”

His low voice whispering filthy praises in your ear makes you whimper, whine, and writhe as the band of pleasure coiling tight in your belly comes close to snapping. It’s the fastest he’s ever fucked an orgasm out of you, and it feels so good you don’t even care.

The pace is brutal, slamming into you so hard you’re sure you’ll have bruises on your hips come morning. But it’ll be so fucking worth it. You’re going to cum hard and long, you just know it.

About to melt as Jungkook fucks the slick out of you, groaning as you drip down the base of his cock, his balls - his very own pretty little mess.

“Yeah, you gonna cum, baby?” he laughs, pressing a sweaty kiss to the side of your face. “Can feel how - haaah shit - how tight you’re squeezing me.”

“Uh-huh,” you cry, holding onto the tops of his wide shoulders. Every thrust has his cockhead dragging over the spongy patch of your g-spot, sending fissions of pleasure rocketing through your nervous system. “So - so close, baby. Just a little more, I--”

Balancing yourself, you lift up only to slam back down, meeting Jungkook’s thrust with all the force of gravity. “Oh fuck, oh fuck!”

Crashing over you like a tsunami, your orgasm shoots through your limbs and zips down your spine. A warm rush of cum soaks Jungkook’s shaft, the wet and messy sound of your squirt splashing against the floor secondary to the cry that claws its way out of your throat.

“K-Kook!”

Jungkook grunts, his fingers digging into the fat of your hips as he helps you keep bouncing up and down on his erection. “Yeah, that’s it - keep going, baby. Wanna feel you keep cumming all over this cock.”

Aftershocks slice through you like lightning, tiny jolts of electricity. As you come down from your high, your gummy walls pulse, milking at Jungkook’s thick shaft.

He groans softly whenever your muscles tense, release; your body a worn-out rubber band as your breath stutters from you.

Then a hand pets down your flank, your skin shivering with hypersensitivity at the tender touch. “S’okay. Just breathe, baby.”

Peeling open your heavy eyes, you look up at his face. Take in the crinkle of his brow and the ravenous expression. Even floating on a sea of bliss, white noise fills your ears, you want more.

You slur, determined, “Kook, baby, please. Cum in me, want you s’bad.”

“Fuck! Can’t just say shit like that to me or I…” Jungkook bites down onto the tender crook of your neck, muffling his grunts in your flesh. “Shit - ’m so --”

You cry out, nails digging into the meat of his shoulders, “A-haah, K-Kook!”

Snapping his hips forward one last time, Jungkook grinds as deep as he can get and lets go. The fat head of his cock kisses your cervix, his length throbbing in time with his heartbeat as a rush of cum floods your insides.

“Yeah, just like that,” he grunts, rutting once - twice into the cradle of your body, “take it like a good girl.”

He croons when you whine at the press of his pelvis against your oversensitive clit. Thready sparks of pain shoot down your legs that hang limply over his forearms. Every breath stutters from your lungs, slow and deep.

“No more, can’t - can’t…” Shifting, you arch your spine and burrow your head into his chest, nearly catatonic in his arms. “S’too much.”

“Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” Fingers brush over your closed eyelids, smoothing over the arch of your brow. With every kiss dropped to the top of your head, he mumbles in dulcet tones, “I really have missed you, you know.”

You mewl in response as strong fingers knead the backs of your thighs.

“You’re not allowed to go anywhere.”

“Oh,” you can’t muster up enough energy to say anything more, body tender and trembling with little aftershocks, “s’that right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.” He chuckles. “You’re staying here - right where I want you.”

In lieu of a response, you pick your head up off the pillow of his chest and seek out his gaze. Liquid soft; he’s looking at you like you hung the world on a string.

“I’ve missed you too, Kook,” you say with a gentle smile.

You’ll allow yourself this moment of weakness when there’s no space between your bodies or hearts. Titles don’t matter much when he’s cradling you to his chest like a piece of precious china.

Between the two of us, you’re the one who hung the moon and stars, you think while combing back his sweaty bangs.

And I think I love you, you whisper voiceless against his lips.

[dix0nvix3n]

A Peaceful Moment

-`✮´- Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Pregnant!Reader

-`✮´- Media: The Walking Dead

-`✮´- Warning: None really besides nondescriptive smut and describing reader getting horny lmao, other than that this fic is pure fluff. Oh, and mentions of cum, oops (During aftercare.)

-`✮´- Summary: Daryl catches you working on your baby's crib when you shouldn't be so he helps you finish it and you can't help but get turned on by him in the process and he helps you with that of course and you fall asleep in his arms after. You also see a glimpse into your future of your kid with Daryl.

-`✮´- Word Count: 2.1K

You're standing in front of a changing table, looking down at a miscellaneous selection of tools that you took from Daryl's toolbox in the garage and a larger than a newspaper-sized instruction manual on how to build a crib that currently was in multiple parts on the floor surrounding you. 

 

Your morning brain was having a hard time making sense of the instructions, but you needed to figure it out somehow. A few days ago you hit the eight-month mark in your pregnancy, and you were currently in fully crazed nesting mode. This crib was the last thing in the nursery that needed to be done before the room could finally be finished; you needed it to be perfect. 

 

Daryl had come home late from a run late last night, and you wanted to let him sleep in since he rarely ever does, so even though you needed help, you weren't going to wake him up and ask for it. 

 

All of a sudden you hear footsteps behind you and a "What are you doing?"

 

You turned around to face Daryl, who had a playfully stern demeanor on his face. You knew Daryl didn't want you working on the crib, but you did it anyway.

 

Daryl wouldn't let you lift a finger during your pregnancy, so scared that you may overwork yourself and harm the baby. Having waited so long to start your family together, it was a blessing to find out you were finally pregnant just two months after the war with The Saviors had ended and Daryl wasn't going to let anything happen to your baby. 

 

Every time you and Daryl worked on the nursery, you technically never worked. Daryl would have you sit down in the rocking chair in the corner and tell you, "You direct, I do." 

 

"Shit, sorry." You ran your hands through your hair and let out a stressed sigh, looking down at the parts that surround you. "I know you want me to relax, but the baby is almost here, and I can't relax knowing this nursery isn't done. This crib is the final thing that needs to be done to finish the nursery, and I can't relax until it's finished."

 

Daryl can instantly tell how stressed you are; he knew when you were focused on something you couldn't know peace until it was done, just like him many times. 

 

"Hey, look at me." He reaches a hand out and gently places it under your chin, turning your head so that you're looking him in the eye now. "I'm gonna finish this right now so you don't have to worry about a damn thing."

 

His close proximity made your cheeks heat up; every word or action this man bestowed upon you always made you feel entirely loved and cared for. "Really?" You looked up at him, smiling softly. 

 

Daryl notices the shift in hue in your face, so he gently brushes his thumb against the apple of your cheek, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

 

"Mmhm," he hums affirmitively, "you just sit over there lookin’ pretty for me, okay?" 

 

He steps a little closer to you, his hand now moving from your face to gently rest on the top of your bump, a protective and loving gesture. 

 

His actions sent a sudden and unexpected pulse of arousal straight down to your core. With the constant changing of your hormones through your pregnancy, it was hard to not get turned on by everything your husband did. It was basically impossible to not constantly be craving him. 

 

You placed your hand on top of his before your daydream was ruined by a swift kick against Daryl's hand. You were so down bad that even for just a moment you considered pushing all of the crib business to tomorrow. 

 

A small chuckle escapes Daryl's lips once he feels another kick, a feeling that he'd never get tired of. He gently rubs his thumb back and forth, crinkling the fabric of the old Motörhead shirt of his that he'd let you wear all the time. 

 

"Okay. I guess I'll just get to work folding some more of the clothes we got. Thank you, hon." You looked up at him with an appreciative smile. 

 

He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead before he gently turns you around, ushering you towards the rocking chair in the corner of the room as he begins to look at the selection of tools you brought up.

 

Once you sat down, you grabbed the black garbage bag that sat on the floor beside the chair. It was filled with various clothing items found on runs or were gifted from other communities from families whose children didn't need them any more. 

 

Most of the clothes you and Daryl had for the baby were gender-neutral because you and Daryl had no idea what you were having. It was just your luck when you found out you were pregnant that you were never able to get any ultrasounds done because somehow both the machines in Alexandria and at Hilltop had stopped working and no one has been able to find a new one since. 

 

Daryl glances over at you every so often as he puts together the crib, his eyes shifting from the task at hand back to you. He watches as you fold a onesie, using your belly as a space to fold it.

 

Despite the fact you had no idea if you were having a boy or a girl, Daryl for a few months now has had an inkling it was going to be a girl. He had no concrete reasoning, just an almost always right intuition. 

 

"Y'know... I know we won't know until the baby's here, but I feel like we're gonna have a girl... just a feeling though." You hum fondly at the thought, placing a stack of clothes on the dresser beside you. 

 

Daryl grins at your statement and nods, "I was just thinkin' the same thing. Just a hunch." He said as he pieced together a whole section of the crib. 

 

You smiled back at him before you returned to your work, pulling out another pile of clothes and placing them on your lap. You grabbed a shirt from the pile that you flipped around so the front faced you, smoothing out the fabric against your belly to flatten it. 

 

Once you smoothed the shirt out, you realized that it was a size meant for a toddler before you read the words, "Birthday Girl," which had an image of a birthday cake under them. 

 

"Babe, look." You let out a little giggle as you held up the shirt to show Daryl. 

 

"Well, damn, that sure feels like a sign."

 

“If we have a girl, we'll keep it for when she fits it; if not, I'll give it to Aaron for Gracie to have.” 

 

After a bit more time, Daryl had finished the crib and stood up, pushing the crib against the wall as you folded the last item in the bag—a pastel green onesie with a pattern of rabbits leaping throughout—and placed it with the other stacked clothes up on the dresser. 

 

You stood up slowly, adjusting to the movement as you held a hand on your bump to help stabilize yourself, and walked over to beside Daryl at the crib. 

 

You looked at the crib and then at him, “It's perfect,” as you traced your hand along the smoothly painted white finish, “Thank you.” 

 

“It's no problem, hon.” He replied as he wrapped his arm around the small of your back. 

 

“Oh, wait! One more thing!” You ran out of the embrace of his arm and ran towards the dresser, pulling open one of the smaller drawers and pulling something out. 

 

“Can't forget this.” In your hands, you held up a Winnie the Pooh-themed mobile that hung little plushes of the characters, honeybees, and jars of honey, of course gifted by Rick when he got super excited to finally be an honorary uncle. 

 

You stood back beside Daryl and hooked the mobile onto the crib's extended attachment that could hang one over the crib. 

 

You watched Daryl touch it, gently spinning it around, imagining the view your baby would soon get to see. Your baby would soon be lulled to sleep as they look up at the spinning objects and beyond it to the many glow in the dark stars scattered along the ceiling that you had Daryl stick on. 

 

Once the mobile stopped turning, he looked at you as you beamed at him, deeply taking in the moment of this side of Daryl no one gets to see—something special just for you. 

 

He brought his hand to your face again, brushing his thumb against your cheek, causing you to gently shiver. 

 

You looked up and crinkled your nose sweetly at him, a soft smile graced upon your lips. “You better make love to me right now.” 

 

Daryl quickly grabbed your hand, walking fast towards the bedroom as you giggled in toe behind him. Once your bedroom door was shut, he instantly freed you of his shirt before gently helping you down onto the bed, littering kisses along your chest and onto your tummy. 

 

This far along into your pregnancy, side sex became a favorite position for you and Daryl. It was easy on your body so you'd feel comfortable and also not strain yourself, but it also always felt perfectly close and intimate as Daryl held you in a cocoon of loving warmth as he'd bring you to your peak, safely wrapped in his arms while he filled you with another warmth, softly muttering his praises into your ear and against your neck as his hips stuttered, eventually coming down from his own high. 

 

Once you were done, he'd pull out, making you mumble out a groan, missing the feeling of him being inside you as you tiredly blinked your eyes shut, exhausted from having woken up early. 

 

One moment you hear Daryl turn the sink on in the bathroom, and the next you hummed contently at the feeling of a cool washcloth wiping away yours and Daryl's combined fluids before your pair of sleep shorts were slid back up your legs. 

 

Daryl forced you to get up and go to the bathroom before you could go back to sleep. Once you got back from the bathroom, he already had shoved the massive pregnancy pillow he had found you under the blankets so it would circle the both of you in a loving hold—a nest of sorts. 

 

You tucked your back tight against his chest, and he placed a hand on your belly, and soon you were out like a light, both of you falling asleep into a nap that ran into the late afternoon. 

Here you are, two years later, as you and Daryl sit in your dining room, beside your two-year-old daughter, Willow, surrounded by the people you've come to know as family over the years, still missing Rick and imagining him there like you did on her first birthday. 

 

She had just gotten done blowing out her two candles, and Willow stared down at the chocolate cake, mesmerized by the specially made sweet treat for her birthday, amazed because it was rare to have desserts to this degree as it was much harder to come by the ingredients to make a dessert of its size, but your pride and joy deserved a cake on her birthday. On her first birthday, you were only able to make her a cinnamon muffin, the one-year-old didn’t know what cake was so she had nothing to compare the muffin to, she just knew she was enjoying sugar for the first time, blinking excitedly at her parents who watched her eyes light up as she ate a bite of a muffin you gave her.

 

It took a lot of reading, but you finally found a recipe book in Alexandria's library that had a recipe for chocolate cake that you could actually have all of the ingredients for. 

 

Willow picked up her spoon, shoveling up a big bite of her slice before holding the spoon out to you and saying, “Mama, try.” as she pressed the spoon against your lips. 

 

“No, baby. It's your birthday; you get the first bite. Mama will have her own slice.” You smiled at her and redirected her spoon back towards her. 

 

She looked down at her spoon and then at Daryl as he smiled at her, waiting for her to take a bite before she held the spoon up to his lips. 

 

“Try, daddy.” Daryl was about to oppose and tell her the same thing you did; before Willow giggled and shoved the bite past his lips and into his mouth. 

 

You and the entire room lit up with laughter as Daryl swallowed down the bite as a few crumbs fell onto the birthday girl's shirt, the same one you found her two years ago. 

 -`✮´- Extra Author's Note: This is my first ever finished oneshot, please be gentle! Also does anyone want to be tagged in an everything tag, I'm a slow poster so you won't be spammed or anything. I'm surprised I actually finished something for once cause I randomly started this last night even though I have many wips I can't finish. Sorry readers for my series if you're waiting for chapter 2, writing is hard 😭. Also! Dividers by cafekitsune!!! Follow them!!!

[p0orbaby]

Stress Reliever

summary: important matches call for unorthodox methods

warnings: SMUT 18+, fingering, sex in a random room in a stadium? i have no clue, don’t judge

a/n: i really enjoyed writing this one, so kudos to whoever requested it !

word count: 2.7k

-

You’re in the stands, sipping a warm Coke that tastes like pennies, watching as eager fans filter into the stadium. It’s an hour until kickoff, and you’re trying not to panic because you have the seat of death. The one directly behind the pole. And not just any pole—oh no, you get the thick, structural support beam that’s been placed there by some sadist with a vendetta against sports fans. You can already feel the crick forming in your neck as you angle to see the pitch, bobbing and weaving like you’re on the world’s worst first date.

“Are you—?” A voice interrupts your internal monologue, startling you so much you nearly throw your Coke onto the unlucky person next to you. You look up, expecting to see a security guard, someone here to accuse you of something you definitely did do (sneak in a flask) but absolutely won’t admit to.

Instead, it’s a woman with a headset, wearing an expression of mild impatience—like she’s had to ask someone the same question three times. Which, judging by the size of this place, she probably has.

“Yeah?” you ask, because that’s the only word your brain can offer in the moment. Well, that and hotdog but you keep that one to yourself.

“Are you—” she checks her clipboard, which you find oddly official, like you’re about to be quizzed on the periodic table or something, “—the girlfriend?”

There’s a beat where you consider denying it because the word girlfriend still sounds weird in your ears. Like you’re not old enough for it or something. Like someone’s going to come along and snatch the title away from you because you got it out of a vending machine or a cereal box.

But then the woman’s staring at you, one eyebrow slightly arched, and you realise you haven’t answered, which is definitely making this more awkward.

“Uh…yes?”

“Great.” She doesn’t even wait for you to elaborate (which is good, because you definitely wouldn’t have). “Alexia needs you”

She says it like Alexia needs you is a normal sentence. Like you’re supposed to understand what that entails, as if you’ve been through this before.

“Oh.” You blink. “Now?”

“Yeah.” Another short answer. She’s probably fun at parties.

Your brain’s processing speed is at dial-up levels right now, but you eventually nod, clambering over knees and feet, mumbling apologies as you spill half your Coke in your lap. It’s warm, wet, and uncomfortable. The perfect metaphor for your life at this moment.

The woman with the headset leads you through a labyrinth of corridors, down staircases that don’t look like they’ve been used since the stadium was built, past signs that say things like “AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY” and “NO ENTRY,” which really do wonders for your anxiety. It’s as if you’re being led to the dungeons, or possibly to a secret basement where you’ll be quietly murdered before kickoff.

“Is everything…okay?” you ask, partly because you’re nervous, partly because you’re still in shock that Alexia asked for you. The Alexia Putellas, captain of Barcelona, Spanish football’s golden child. The one who should be doing pre-game rituals or eating her eighth banana by now, not…whatever this is.

“Yup,” says Headset Lady, who clearly graduated from the one-syllable academy of small talk.

You’re about to ask a follow-up question (something like are you a hostage negotiator on the side?) when she stops abruptly in front of a nondescript door that looks like it’s seen better days. There’s a small sign taped to it that reads “MEETING ROOM.” Creative.

“She’s in there,” Headset Lady says, handing you the clipboard like it’s a ticket to a secret club. You take it because refusing might lead to her finally using the taser you’re convinced she’s got hidden somewhere.

“Uh, thanks,” you say, because manners.

She gives you a curt nod, spins on her heels, and walks away without a backward glance, leaving you alone with the door, the clipboard, and a creeping sense of dread.

You’re about to knock when the door swings open and you’re pulled inside by a very strong hand. You barely manage to keep your balance, though your dignity is less fortunate.

“Jesus Christ, Alexia, a little warning?” you gasp, clutching your chest like someone’s ancient grandmother.

But Alexia isn’t listening. She’s pacing, her boots tapping out a nervous rhythm on the floor, her expression a fusion of frustration and something you can’t quite place—like she’s trying to solve a really tough maths problem but someone keeps changing all the numbers.

“Babe?” you try again, this time a little softer, hoping to break through whatever spell she’s under.

She finally stops, turning to face you, and that’s when you notice it. The way her eyes are slightly glazed, her hands twitching at her sides. She looks like she’s about to combust from the inside out, like she’s been plugged into the world’s worst electrical socket.

You know that look. You’ve seen it before, but not like this. Not with this intensity, this…desperation.

“What’s going on?” you ask, though you think you already know. You’re just not sure you’re ready for the answer.

“I’m fucking freaking out,” she says, her voice low and tight, like it’s taking everything in her to hold it together. “I can’t—I can’t focus, I can’t think—I just—fuck!” She runs a hand through her hair, tugging at the ends like it’s their fault.

You step closer, cautious, like you’re approaching a wild animal. “Is there anything I can do?”

And that’s when she looks at you. Really looks at you. Her eyes narrow slightly, and you can practically see the lightbulb go off above her head. It’s not the comforting moment you were hoping for. It’s more like the moment in a horror movie when the killer realises the protagonist is hiding in the wardrobe.

“Actually…yeah.” Her voice drops an octave, and you swear the room temperature does too. “There is”

Oh no. You know where this is going. You’ve been here before. This isn’t the first time Alexia has decided that the best way to deal with her pre-game jitters is to channel them into something else. Something physical. Something that, once upon a time, you thought was a great idea.

You were wrong.

But it’s too late to back out now. You’re trapped, like a mouse caught in a particularly horny mousetrap.

“Here?” you squeak, glancing around the dimly lit meeting room, which is as unsexy as a room can get. The walls are beige, the carpet is a hideous shade of grey, and there’s a whiteboard in the corner with some sad-looking, lidless pens. It’s as if the universe decided to create the least erotic environment possible.

“Here,” she confirms, and you can’t help but notice the way her voice drips with something dark and dangerous. Something that makes your pulse quicken and your palms sweat.

“But what if—”

“No one’s coming in,” she interrupts, and there’s a note of finality in her voice that tells you this is happening whether you like it or not. “It’s locked”

“How did you even get a key?”

“Does it matter?”

It doesn’t, but you feel like you’re owed an explanation anyway. Because what if someone does come in? What if they see you—two responsible, adult women—going at it in a meeting room like hormonal teenagers? You can already see the headlines: “Football Star and Girlfriend Caught in Bizarre Pre-Game Ritual”

“Alexia, I—”

She’s on you before you can finish the sentence, her hands gripping your waist, pulling you against her. Her lips crash into yours, and suddenly the room isn’t so cold anymore. It’s like being hit by a freight train made of pure sexual frustration, and for a moment, all you can do is hang on for dear life.

But then the reality of the situation hits you. You’re about to have sex in a room that smells faintly of wet dog and failed business deals. This is not how you pictured today to go. You imagined something more…romantic. A win celebrated in a plush hotel room, or at the very least a place with a bed.

But Alexia doesn’t seem to care. She’s already pawing at your clothes with a speed that’s both impressive and alarming, like she’s done this a thousand times before. Which, now that you think about it, she probably has. Just…not here. Or so you hope.

“Wait, wait,” you pant, pulling back slightly. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Nope,” she says, but she doesn’t stop, and neither do you, because you’re weak and she’s hot, and who are you kidding? You’re definitely going to do this.

It’s not graceful. It’s not even sexy, really. It’s more like a frantic scramble to get clothes off while trying not to knock over a stack of chairs. You’re pretty sure you elbow her in the ribs at one point, and she steps on your foot twice, but neither of you cares because there’s a bigger issue at hand.

You think about saying something witty, something to break the tension, but then she’s on you again, and words are suddenly the last thing on your mind. All you can do is hold on and hope the table doesn’t collapse under the weight of your combined bad decisions.

She pushes you back onto the table, her hands firm on your shoulders, and suddenly the wood beneath you feels a lot harder than it looked a second ago. It’s all happening too fast, but not fast enough, and when her mouth finds yours again, it’s all teeth and urgency. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask permission because it knows it’ll get what it wants anyway.

Her hands are everywhere, pulling at your shirt, fumbling with the buttons like they’re some kind of cruel joke. You help her out, batting her hands away, only to struggle just as much. It’s like your fingers have forgotten how to work, each movement clumsy and desperate. When you finally manage to yank your shirt over your head, you feel a brief, victorious rush, like you’ve conquered a small but significant mountain.

She barely gives you time to breathe before she’s back on you, her mouth hot and demanding against your neck, her hands sliding up your sides. You gasp as her fingers slip under your bra, her thumbs brushing over your nipples with just enough pressure to make you arch against her.

“Fuck,” you whisper, because it’s the only word that makes sense right now.

She grins against your skin, clearly pleased with herself, and you know you’re in trouble. Alexia knows exactly what she’s doing, and she’s doing it well. Too well, actually. The kind of well that makes you forget where you are, why you’re here, and who you are as a person.

Her hand trails down your stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of your jeans, and you suck in a breath, half expecting her to stop, to clock on how ridiculous this all is. But she doesn’t. She just keeps going, popping the button on your jeans with a quick flick of her fingers, pulling the zipper down in one smooth motion. You lift your hips to help her slide them down, and suddenly the cold air hits your bare legs, making you shiver. But it’s not the temperature that’s getting to you—it’s the anticipation.

She’s back on you in an instant, her fingers finding their way inside your underwear, brushing against you in a way that makes your breath catch. Her touch is light at first, almost teasing, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. She’s not in the mood for games, and neither are you.

“Please,” you murmur, not entirely sure what you’re asking for, but knowing you need it.

She doesn’t make you wait. Her fingers slide inside you with a confidence that comes from knowing exactly what you like, how you like it, and how quickly she can drive you insane. And she’s doing it now, the slow, steady rhythm making you forget all about the uncomfortable table beneath you, the smell of stale coffee in the room, the fact that someone could walk in at any moment. None of it matters. All that matters is her, and the way she’s making you feel like you might come undone right there in that drab, fluorescent-lit room.

You cling to her like she’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality, your hands digging into her back, your nails leaving marks that you know take back to the changing room with pride. The table creaks beneath you, protesting with every thrust of her hand, but you don’t care. You can barely think, let alone worry about the state of some cheap office furniture.

When she curls her fingers inside you, hitting that spot that makes you see stars, you have to bite your lip to keep from crying out. The last thing you need is for someone to hear you, but fuck, it’s hard. Especially when she starts moving faster, her thumb brushing over your clit with just the right amount of pressure to push you closer and closer to the edge.

You’re so close now, teetering on the brink, and she knows it. You can see it in the way she’s watching you, her eyes dark and intense, like she’s savoring every moment, every gasp and moan she pulls from your lips. It’s almost too much, the way she’s looking at you, like she’s claiming you, owning you in a way that goes beyond this moment, this room.

And then you’re falling, your body tensing as the wave crashes over you, pulling you under. You bite down on her shoulder, muffling the sound of your release, and she groans at the feeling of your teeth sinking into her skin. It’s raw and primal, and at this point in time, you don’t care about anything else but the way she’s making you feel.

She doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow down, working you through your orgasm until you’re trembling beneath her, your breath coming in ragged gasps. When she does finally pull her hand away, you feel the loss of her touch like a physical ache, but you’re too spent to do anything about it.

For a moment, neither of you moves, the only sound in the room your heavy breathing and the distant roar of the crowd outside. The game is about to start, but for once, it’s the last thing on your mind.

When she finally pulls back, you expect her to say something, but she just looks at you, her expression softening in a way that makes your chest warm. There’s something unspoken in her eyes, something you’re not sure you’re ready to acknowledge, but it’s there all the same.

“Better?” you ask, your voice shaky, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips.

She smirks, that familiar, cocky grin returning as she reaches down to adjust her shorts. “Much”

You laugh, weak and breathless, but it’s genuine. Because despite the absurdity of it all—the meeting room, the table, the fact that you’re still half-naked in the most unromantic setting imaginable—it was exactly what you both needed.

You sit up, wincing as your muscles protest, and begin the awkward process of getting dressed again. Alexia helps, her hands lingering a little longer than necessary, and you swat at her playfully, even though you’re secretly glad she’s not ready to let go just yet.

“We can’t make this a thing,” you say, though you know it’s a lie the second it leaves your mouth.

“Sure we can,” Alexia replies, already pulling on her shorts like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just defile a piece of office furniture.

“You owe me,” you grumble, trying to smooth down your hair, which now looks like you stuck your finger in an electrical socket.

“Add it to the list,” she says with a wink.

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. Because yeah, it was reckless and stupid and definitely not sanitary, but damn if it wasn’t one hell of a way to start a match.

“Good luck,” you say, and you mean it.

She gives you a look that says I don’t need luck, and you believe her. Because if she can handle you, she can handle anything.

As you walk out of the meeting room, legs still a little shaky, you can’t help but wonder if this will become a regular thing. You hope not.

Then again…maybe you don’t.

[caninepoetryrelator]

Liquid Luck

Carl Grimes x Reader (16+)

Aged up Carl Grimes x Reader soft smut

Synopsis: Carl and you are not friends. So what’s gonna happen when you’re locked in a room together with a bottle of whiskey?

Warnings: Dick, dick getting sucked, no fully blown sex just oral, Carl is a cutie, also it’s a zombie apocalypse there’s gonna be zombies, plus various weapons and very brief nondescript violence.

Words: 3,843

It all started with a bad raid. We figured we could sneak into the pharmacy, get the medicine for Hershel, and then get out without attracting any attention.

Rick and Daryl stayed outside and kept watch while he sent you and Carl to take care of the rest.

That was it, straightforward, in and out.

Or at least it had been.

A week prior Glenn had put a boombox on the rooftop of the place to attract the walkers out and up instead of prowling the streets and the building.

The windows were almost all broken. Either by walkers or raiders, we didn’t know. But it sure was convenient when the door turned out to be locked.

You watched Carl adjust the brim of his hat and narrow his eyes at a broken square window a few feet above his head.

“I think I can fit,” he stated firmly, casting you a sidelong glance, quickly looking back at Rick when you made eye contact.

He had never been outright rude to you; he had never been anything to you. He had only introduced himself with a short greeting and a tight smile. He seemed much more open with everyone else yet standoffish around you.

“The kid can fit too,” agreed Daryl, nodding towards you. He’d always called you that despite you being the same age as Carl.

Carl’s face dropped as he glanced at you again. “I can do it by myself.”

“No, you can’t,” ordered Rick. “We don’t know how many walkers are still in there. You’re taking her with you.”

He sighed. Did he really not like you this much?

Before you had come to a conclusion Daryl had laid a leather jacket over the jagged glass in the frame before he and Rick boosted Carl into the window.

“I’ll make sure it’s safe!” He hollered from inside the building. There was some scuffling inside for a moment before he yelled “It’s clear!”

Next thing you knew you were standing in their respective interlaced fingers and they boosted you up to the window. You grabbed the edges and dove in. It wasn’t until you let go of the window frame that you realized that you, unlike Carl, were falling face first instead of feet first.

Luckily, you were met with the last type of relief you expected. Carl grabbed your waist, slowing your descent enough to use your own momentum to turn you so you landed on your feet. His hands linger on your waist as you stand chest to chest with him. You look up at him through your lashes, breathing heavily. His face is red, probably from exertion.

Just before you can thank him he pulls quickly away, looking down nervously. You lower your head into his line of sight so that he makes eye contact with you.

“Thank you,” you say with a smile.

He nods shortly before taking out his knife and heading towards a door. “This way.”

You follow him, Michonee’s old sword she had given you in hand as you follow him closely, checking your surroundings avidly. Both of you continuously glanced up at the ceiling, which creaked under the weight of anywhere from fifty to one hundred walkers.

Your shoe nudged something on the ground— a bottle of whiskey. You quickly stooped and picked it up, putting it in one of the pockets of your oversized cargos.

You make your way to the back of the building, into the section where the pills are stored.

“What are we looking for again?” You ask.

“Promethazine, it’s anti-nausea medication for throwing up. Hershel’s worried the vomit from people with the flu in town could make it more contagious.” He replies, examining bottles instead of looking at you.

With a soft frown at his bland attitude, you wander to the ‘P’ section, browsing for promethazine.

You found five prefilled prescriptions made out to various, probably now dead, people.

“Carl,” you call, holding up a handful of amber pill bottles.

“Nice one,” he says, a genuine smile on his face. The first time he’s smiled at you. It was a nice smile. You felt your face heat up as you smiled as well.

Carl turned around for you to put the meds in his backpack. You brush his hair out of the way and he whips his head around immediately.

“W-what’re you doing back there?”

“Making sure your hair doesn’t get caught in the zipper,” you reply simply.

He relaxes as you unzip the bag and place the medications inside.

Just as you were zipping the beg, a loud creaking sound resounded from the ceiling. Carl and you glanced at each other with wide eyes.

“This way,” he commanded, taking your hand and leading — practically dragging — you through the pharmacy. The thumping on the roof was becoming more prominent and you could hear gunshots from outside.

You were practically running now as the sounds became nearly overwhelming. You were near the doctor's office section of the building when the ceiling began to give.

“Shit,” you muttered as the ceiling tiles began to fall.

Carl’s hand was on your waist again, this time snatching you out of the way of something falling— a walker, collapsed on the ground where you had just been standing.

Everything was happening so fast, and next thing you knew the ground was littered with walkers, all focused on the two of you. Your sword could only do so much as you slashed at the hoard, managing to take out two in one blow as you attempted to keep them at bay.

When Carl’s hands were on your waist again this time you didn’t question it— he snatched you backwards and into a room, where he slammed the door closed and locked it.

It was a check up office; it contained white brick walls and linoleum tile. In the corner was an oak desk with a monitor and sanitary supplies stacked on it. There was a cot against the opposite wall and various equipment hanging from the walls.

The thudding at the door where Carl stood jarred you back to reality, spurring you to grab the desk and shove at it. It had to be at least four hundred pounds. Carl pulled from the other side and together you managed to use it to barricade the door. He collapsed against the cot, panting.

You joined him, holding up your hands in a calming gesture as he looked at you with a shaky, nervous expression.

“Well, shit,” he muttered with an ironic chuckle.

“Probably gonna be in here for a while,” you sighed.

“Yeah,” he muttered bitterly.

Why don’t you like me?

The words almost came out of your mouth, but it wasn’t the right time. Instead you just looked at him, with a resigned expression.

You take the whiskey from your pocket and open it, taking a swig. After drinking with Daryl it didn’t phase you too much anymore, but he stared at you with a shocked expression, cheeks dusted pink.

“Where did you get that?”

“Store,” you replied simply, holding out the bottle to him.

After a moment of hesitation he took it, taking a swig with a grimace. “How do you drink that shit?” He laughs.

He laughed. A real laugh. It’s your first time hearing it. You want to hear more of it.

“Daryl,” you explain simply and he nods with a groan.

“I see,” he takes another drink and passes the bottle back to you.

It’s called liquid courage for a reason, you think. That’s all the convincing it takes for you to start chugging the bottle. You get about five swallows down before Carl’s hands, one on the bottle and one on your jaw, stop you from going further.

“Don’t overdo it,” he chides you gently.

You nod dumbly, watching a drop make its way down his neck, tracing his adam’s apple as he takes another drink. You notice the way his lips pucker around the mouth of the bottle and you force yourself to look away.

After a moment of silence he speaks again.

“Wanna play truth or dare?”

You look at him in surprise, hesitating for a moment.

“Only if you want to—” he starts nervously before you cut him off with a simple statement.

“Sure.”

He looks at you in relief, clearly afraid to have overstepped before smiling, a bit anxiously. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” you don’t hesitate; they really do call it liquid courage for a reason.

He glanced around the room before his eyes land on the stethoscope. “I dare you to give me a checkup?” He phrases it as a question so you don’t feel forced. Cute.

You grab various medical equipment, wrapping the stethoscope around your neck with a drunken grin. “I’m your doctor, I’ll be giving you your physical,” you say in your best attempt at a deep voice. You were clearly already drunk. Normally you would’ve felt stupid but with the heartwarming giggle he let out paired with an over dramatic eyeroll, you felt nothing but at ease.

As you begin measuring his heart rate he swallows hard, his pink cheeks darkening to red. His heart thumped steadily; quickly.

“Truth or dare,” you murmur as you measure his vitals.

“Uh…” he swallowed hard, eyes flickered from your hands against his chest to your face, feigning focus. “Dare.”

“Take your shirt off,” you say with an innocent grin. He blanches, surprised. “To check your vitals better. Only if you want to.” You assure him sweetly.

In a moment he was struggling to pull his shirt off, disoriented from the alcohol.

Next thing you know your hands are running down his sides to the hem of his shirt. Halfway through struggling out of his shirt he looks up at you from his sitting position, face still read and panting. You gently tug his shirt upwards, prompting him to pull his arms through the holes and you pull it over his head.

You giggle at the state of his hair, correcting it without hesitation.

“Real soft,” you muse as you gently sweep his hair out of his face. The poor boy looks overwhelmed as he stares up at you, arms wrapped around himself nervously.

You gently move the arm he has wrapped around his chest, pressing the stethoscope there once more. His heart is beating almost worryingly fast.

“You okay hon?” You ask gently.

“Mhm,” he manages, seeming to have a hard time speaking.

“Okay,” you murmur, putting the stethoscope on various places around his chest, pretending to know what you’re doing.

“Truth- uh truth or dare,” he chokes out.

“Dare,” you repeat, this time even more sure than the last.

“Can you uhm.. touch my hair again?” He wasn’t making eye contact at all now, seemingly fascinated by his jeans as he stares down, still adorned by that bright blush.

In a second your hands are in his hair. Even when you hadn’t been talking you were fascinated by his hair. Rick had caught you staring several times and always met you with a soft smile or a laugh, whereas Daryl arched his eyebrow with a slight grin.

His hair really was soft, soft as hell. You rubbed a single strand between your fingers before trailing your fingers from his roots to the ends of his hair. You secure your hands around his scalp, threading your fingers through his hair as you continue to play with it, enamored.

You hadn’t even noticed his face, eyes closed, mouth open, breathing deeply.

You lean in closer and murmur by his ear. “Truth or dare.”

His eyes flicker open and he breathes for a moment. “Truth.”

“Why do you avoid me back at camp?” He froze.

“I-I don’t,” he lied, resulting in a small tug to his hair. He draws in a sharp breath, looking up at you surprised.

“Don’t lie,” you chide.

“You make me nervous,” he admitted after a moment of silence. “People usually don’t make me nervous, but you do.” He was once again apparently entranced by his jeans so you cup his jaw gently, bringing his gaze up to meet your own.

“I like making you nervous. But not all the time. I like talking to you, Carl,” you explain in a soft voice.

He looks up at you with a genuine involuntary smile.

“Really?” He breathes.

“Yes,” you whisper, realizing how much closer you had gotten, your hand still settled on his jaw.

“Um… truth or dare?”

“Dare,” you repeat, adamant on forcing him out of his comfort zone.

“Is it okay if I— can I please, uhm—“

“Do whatever you want, Carl,” you interrupt him. “I trust you.”

His eyes widen at that and he finally rises to his feet. A familiar feeling. His hands on your waist. His grasp is awkward this time, less sure of himself when he’s not saving your life. When it’s a choice to be touching you.

He tugs you a bit closer and his eyes flicker to your lips. You know what he’s trying to do and you know he’s scared to do it.

Your hands are still in his hair and you use that to your advantage, pulling him towards you and letting him close the distance, giving you a hesitant kiss. His lips are a little chapped, but they’re plush and soft. He tastes like whiskey, and you’re sure you do too. He’s inexperienced; this might be his first kiss, you realize.

You follow that kiss with another chaste one pressed against his lips ever so gently.

“Feel good?” You murmur, forehead resting against his with your eyes closed.

“Mhm,” he hums, barely audible as he lets out another shakey breath. You know his eyes are closed too.

You’re both reveling. In each other's presence. Just breathing each other in as his arms move to loosely wrap around your waist instead of simply placing his hands there.

There it is. That’s right.

His hands on your waist were sweet but his arms encircling your waist was just right.

You pull him in for another slow kiss, heads tilted, mouth moving and prompting his to do the same, teaching him as best you could without saying a word.

“Wow,” he gasps against your lips. You try to give him a chance to explain his exclamation by pulling away, but he pulls you back in.

You slide your tongue over his bottom lip, hoping for him to part his lips a bit more and in response he gives your tongue a light suck, pulling it into his mouth and letting out a soft whine as he does.

Your kiss evolves in passion as his hand starts traveling over your body. It slides up your waist and onto your ribs, just shy of your boob. The other stays securely wrapped around your waist as though he’s attempting to anchor you to him.

As much as you adore the feeling of his lips, you pull away. His brow furrows, eyes still shut as he leans forward for another kiss, his lips chasing yours with a small sound of displeasure after you pull away.

You tug his hair, gently prompting him to tilt his head to the side to give you access to his neck. You start by pressing soft kisses there, a trail from his jaw to the base of his neck, before retracing your steps with parted lips, allowing yourself to taste the sweet musky skin of his neck.

He lets out a choked whimper before covering his mouth with his hand. Not on your watch. You immediately grab his hand, pulling it down to your tit. He lets out a shakey gasp as he grasps at the soft flesh, groaning softly as he squeezes experimentally.

“Thank you..” he murmurs, eyes still screwed shut.

“Of course sweetheart,” you smile against his neck. He shivers at the nickname, giving you a minor power trip.

You begin sucking the flesh of his neck into your mouth where you begin biting gradually before biting harder to leave dark marks. You leave one by his jaw before remembering Rick, and what his reaction would be. You press a quick kiss to the mark before shoving him down on the cushioned exam cot, straddling him.

That’s when you notice the tent in his pants. He glances down at the point where your crotches met, biting his lip nervously. “S-sorry—” he started.

“Don’t be,” you assure him, leaning down to begin littering his chest with kisses.

You start the marks by his collarbone, before moving down to his chest. He was whimpering without restraint now, back arched.

His hand was moving up your body, down your arm, and to your hand. He held your hand, giving it a soft squeeze before simply holding your hand.

“Can I.. can I have—” he cut himself off with a small whimper before you stopped your ministrations.

“Use your words sweetheart.”

He groans slightly at that. “Can I— I wanna kiss.” He squeezes your hand again.

You lean up and meet him halfway with a soft kiss. He’s better now. He’s more prepared. You run your tongue along his bottom lip and he gladly parts them, granting you entry. He opens his mouth a bit too wide, but you don’t mind. You pull back slightly, pulling away and following it with a chaste, soft kiss before continuing where you left off– his chest.

You continue sucking dark hickies along his chest, leaving a trail of bites and kisses down to his belly. A faint covering of dark hairs spreads from just about his belly button, trailing down to below the band of his jeans.

You let out a soft sigh of desire, lightly caressing his happy trail with the tip of your fingers. He shudders softly and you watch his cock twitch through his jeans. He begins to apologize again, cutting himself off with a soft groan when you plant a firm kiss to where his happy trail disappears under his jeans.

You tug softly at the button on his jeans. “Can I?” You ask, looking up at him through your lashes.

He blinks in shock, looking down at you with wide eyes and a flushed face, mouth agape. “A-are you sure?”

“Yes,” you chuckle.

He responds with a small nod, still clearly shocked. You make quick work of undoing his pants, tugging them down before looking up at him with a small nod, prompting him to climb to his feet and shed his pants, quickly clambering back onto the bench. You swing your leg over the base of his thighs, straddling them.

You’re quick to feel him up, groping at his straining cock.

Freeing his cock you glance up at him in surprise, He’s packing. Six, maybe seven inches, not too wide – you could probably fit your hand perfectly around it – with a pretty pink tip, practically dripping precum. You test your earlier theory by experimentally wrapping your hand around his cock, eliciting a whine from him.

He swallows hard before looking down at you. “Are you s-sure? You’re comfortable?”

You nod. “I want to do this for you sweet boy.”

He smiles softly, letting his head fall back and his eyes flutter shut. “Thank you,” he sighs happily.

You lean down and kiss the head of his cock, causing him to jolt slightly. After lapping at the slit of his cock you take the head into your mouth. He gasps, bucking his hips.

Without warning you grab him by the hips and force him back against the cot which draws another whimper out of him as he pathetically attempts to squirm his hips closer to your mouth. You tut your tongue and pull away until he stops moving.

“Please,” he whines, struggling.

You decide to grant mercy on the poor boy, taking his head into your mouth once again. One arm forcing his hips against the table, you wrap the other hand around his cock and gently squeeze. He sighs happily, breath hitching as you begin moving your hand. Rotating it gradually as you move your hand up and down, you allow some of your saliva to drip from the head of his cock into your hand.

You use it as lubricant to begin pumping your hand up and down his cock faster, limp wristed as you continue lapping at the head of his cock. He arches his back more and whines.

Just as you begin taking more of his cock into your mouth his hand flies to the back of your head, threading his fingers through your hair before squeezing, clearly doing his best to hold back from pulling your hair too hard.

“Mmh..” he moans softly, gripping at your hair firmly and applying slight pressure.

Suddenly you take as much as possible into your mouth, deepthroating him without warning. He lets out a sharp moan, gripping your hair tighter before releasing his grip in a slight panic as he realizes what he’s doing– it’s cute how hard he’s trying to hold back.

You use your tongue mostly, swirling it around his cock to the best of your ability as you begin bobbing your head up and down. You use one hand to massage his hard balls, ready to burst already. With that you remember that he’s a virgin, and you probably shouldn’t be teasing him so much.

This whole time he’s been making the most lewd noises, moaning and letting out small whimpers to the rhythm of you bobbing your head. His cock twitches in your mouth, prompting you to go faster to help him through.

You release his hips and meet his eyes when he gives you a confused glance, silently giving him permission. Experimentally, he bucks his hips, moaning before falling into a steady rhythm, his hips rising and falling shakily against your mouth.

He grips your hair even tighter, bringing tears to your eyes as you gag on his cock. After less than ten seconds he releases his load down your throat. Despite your attempts to swallow it dribbles out of your mouth and down his cock.

The low groan he had released had tapered off into a moan, sighing as he finally collapsed from his high. As he lays there, chest heaving, you slowly climb on top of him, collapsing there and cuddling into him.

He turns and kisses the top of your head, his wide smile unknown to you.

“I think I’m less nervous around you now,” he murmurs into your hair.

You smile softly as he places his hand on your waist once again. “Good,”

Thank god for liquid courage.

They cleared the pharmacy of walkers eventually, and by the time they reached you the two of you were cleaned up.

You came out swinging, having to run to the truck.

The two of you ended up so battered and bruised Rick didn’t even think to mention the bruise at the base of Carl’s jaw, and the one on his collarbone, just visible when he wore tank tops.

You saved the whiskey for next time.

[comfortless]

Offering you a prompt because I know you could make it perfect! ( ๑‾̀◡‾́)✨ You know about Minoan Bull Leaping? What about that with a hybrid Köni?

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. König is a man here!!: ears and a tail and a set of horns but that’s it!, fem (afab) reader, nondescript animal death, codependency and a little possessive behavior, reader gets injured, historical inaccuracies, one-sided worship, mentions of violence, reader is a virgin for three seconds, cunnilingus, smut.

word count: 11.5k.

  You’ve practiced this, and still the tension and nervousness bleeds through you, courses like a steady river under skin and curves around bone. The bulls are so much larger than the fallen trees and heavy stones you’ve danced around and over for practice, and the nights spent tempting them with treats had never been enough to prepare. Twigs and jagged edges are nothing in comparison to the horns of very alive and breathing beasts; petting their heads is far simpler than prancing over their horns.

 The bulls wait in the field, grazing, sturdy monoliths amidst a sea of green below the warm light of the sun. It kisses every inch of skin, highlights the determination and giddiness on the faces of others and lines your frown in shadow. Three feral bulls for two men and a woman far more practiced than you; a rugged, adolescent thing with his horns barely poking through waits just for you, misplaced from the herd and huffing indignantly some distance from the rest. 

 You watch the others go, one by one, as they skip and somersault toward their gruffer partners. Your hand rises up the expanse of your robe to brush over the jewels layered along your throat. Their movements are rushing water, fluid and perfect, so elaborate and pretty that you fear even blinking will cause you to miss the most important details. 

 And then they reach their bulls. 

 Some huff, one tilts his head in curiosity. An attempt to gore, perhaps, except… these things are not vicious, only happy creatures. They know the importance of the dance just as you do. When the curious one does accept the grasp of a man’s hands over his horns, you feel yourself beginning to walk, possessed by the need to claim your own bull and perform just as they do. 

 The show that you put on is less graceful, but does not lack heart. A trip on your first somersault that sends you into the grass, righted immediately when you hear your bull huff only paces away. You laugh, coo, and chirp as you approach with more balance. The sparkling jewels dance over your skin just as the others dance over their bulls, leap after leap, and the animals remain calm. 

 Yours is no different. He allows you to graze your fingertips over the soft fur of his back, does not so much as flinch when your press your palms flat over the sides of his face. The horns poking out of his skull are rounded at their tips, not yet properly grown in. You kiss the dip between his eyes and tell him how special this performance must be. To tame a wild animal is something divine in itself, but to tame a bull takes someone truly virtuous. 

 The grass tickles along your calves, the sun feels so warm and lovely against your face. You sigh in contentment as your steps lead you back, arms raised in preparation to jump. The others cheer you on, guide you with their voices as they wait next to their animals. The scent of nectar and pine lulls you to comfort, allows you the courage that you lacked initially; knees bend and arms raise, your eyes locked on the sprouting horns. 

 With your posture immaculate, you take your first leap.

 The sun catches on something tar black and glimmering waiting in the trees just out past the pasture. Two tall horns springing from either side of a head, the stature of a man, just as your fingers curl over the calf before you’s much smaller horns. 

 The heart in your chest ceases its pounding for a moment, and your eyes must have widened the very same as a child’s would when encountering something sweet or shiny to treasure. 

 There’s a man attached to those horns in the tree line. Though you could not make out his face beneath all of the shade and foliage, you were so certain that it must have been a man.

 A man larger than any man in Crete. Impossible and imposing. 

 The tumble that follows this reverie is what breaks away any hope of this being a lovely day. 

 Your concentration was broken the very second that the creature showed itself, and it was far too late to stop even when you were no longer a part of what was occurring between you and your sable-furred calf. The animal senses the not-right about the situation, takes it as a cue to move just as you were lifted over him and sends you sprawled out into the blooming wildflowers. The earth at your back, the sky to your front, and the pain takes its time to trickle in like winter chill and crawl up from your soles to the base of your neck.

 The thin gold of your necklace must have snapped, because one of the jewels lies over your middle now, and several others have been left for dirt and birds to claim in the grass. 

 It’s your bull that comes to worry over you first, his wet nose nudges at your cheek when the scent of blood from broken skin taints the air with iron. It’s just a scrape along your palm, sullied by the peak of a jagged rock lying buried just below the soft soil of the pasture. The blood runs in small streams when you marvel at the wound, held up keeping sun from your eyes. 

 His coarse tongue finds its way to your hair, retrieves the flowers from it as if his stomachs could not wait for the consoling to be done to be fed. In your stupor, you almost want to call the poor thing stupid, but you only tell him that he’s done as well as you hoped. 

 You’ll dance with him again, you promise. 

 The injury takes time to recover from, even with the most patient of healers seated at your bedside. He reminds you that a woman of your standing is something special in herself. Proud, noble, and meant to be wed in the coming months each time he layers salve over the scrapes and the expanse of bruising along your back. Your linens are changed by the slaves of your household, new jewels provided in abundance and placed around your neck as though you even need to look presentable now, bruised and stuck in your bed.

 No one knows what you saw, not really. You aren’t even certain what that vision was. They whisper of madness when you bring it up. The Minotaur remains in the labyrinth, far away from here and bedded down in the dark. Men don’t possess the horns of bulls, and you must have damaged your head too, because no one believes a word you speak about it, about him.

 Your mistake, you learned, was probably what spurred your poor calf to be chosen for sacrifice. A bad omen forfeit, maybe. So young and gentle, and now gone. The soft fur off his ears and the quivering of his nose wouldn’t be felt again, and worse still…What if you were not meant to leap with them at all?

 There is fruit and barley served up onto a plate made of bone as you’re ordered to eat by your healer. People can be crueler than bulls, you think to yourself; you haven’t even got the desire to eat after hearing such a thing. You’re bleeding from the heart when the first bite is forced into your mouth, gut twisting and fingernails digging into soft linen. 

 “I promised…” Your voice is muffled by a particularly fat portion of plum. It goes ignored by the withering old healer that tilts your head back and strokes your jaw with a soft palm to encourage you to swallow.

 “Eat.” 

 And when you don’t, when you spit it back onto the plate, you’re rewarded with another bite and further encouragement as your sobs fill the room. It should be expected, not as hard as bone or as tough as the skin of the fruit when you’re finally offered sweet wine to swallow it down. You shouldn’t be a mess over an animal who served his purpose well and would be heralded as some savior for giving some clumsy woman trust and a chance.

 It’s just that there’s so much more to it, for you. Patches of purple and swelling are much easier to spot than guilt and other turmoils. 

 Your first should have been beautiful, should have left those watching with stars dancing in their irises. You couldn’t even handle a calf, and you feel more pitiful and helpless the longer that you harp on those thoughts. 

 You rest and have dreamless bouts of slumber. You walk alongside the healer, leaning against the old man for support when you find the pain is still very much there, stinging and vile. The people about the city always smile to you, offer you flowers and sweet fruit and ask when you’ll be well enough to dance again. 

 Often, it even soothes the ache that they can’t see well enough. Provides some hope that, yes, you can return to what you’ve always hoped to do, display your grace and strength and find some place in a flowery pasture before the day of your wedding. You’ve heard of women tearing a place that makes them bleed on horseback, how getting the pain over and done with then has made consummation far easier when that day comes for them. Maybe that could happen for you too. 

 You ask to hear the story of the Minotaur more times than should be appropriate from the slaves of your household. Some of them are foreign, not entirely sure of just how it should be told. You find yourself especially fond of one of them who twists her words to make everything seem honey. 

 “…I like to think that he wasn’t alone down there,” she finishes on her second retelling of the night. The first had ended with a separate possibility altogether, one that saddened you to the core. 

 “Do you?”

 “Yes,” she laughs, taking the comb of carved bone to your hair, gently running it through each tangle provided by your pillow from lying in bed for the entire day. “Maybe he had friends or…”

 “A wife?,” you question in amusement. Bulls didn’t take wives, even if they were part man…

 “He is a man. Surely he had a woman,” she laughs again, bright and giddy, and follows it with a shrug.  “You said that you saw him. Maybe it’s a sign.”

 “I didn’t say it was him,” you almost wail in embarrassment. It was true that you had endlessly questioned and pondered for the past few weeks, speculated on what may or may not have been there, beneath the trees when you took your fall. For some odd reason, your fascination with that creature had ignited a flame someplace in your chest, growing ever brighter with each day that passed. “He didn’t have a bull’s head. Only the horns.”

 She plucks at your hair with the comb a little longer in silence before setting it aside and casting you an almost fretful glance. “That sounds scary…”

 “Oh,” you sigh. She’s right, of course. There were plenty of terrible things described with those attributes. But… if bulls didn’t scare you, then surely bullmen could not be any worse. “He didn’t hurt anyone though.” 

 “But you did get hurt,” the girl reminds you sympathetically.

 You swallow dryly, and at last decide to put these fantasies aside. Your injuries were almost healed in full, and the last thing that you needed was for everyone to think that you were not simply wounded, but crazy too. A mad woman wouldn’t find a husband, and you were not a cow meant to be fantasizing over bullmen. The place you were given since birth was that of noble standing, a woman worth her weight in pearls and gold, not meant for fields and horns.

 When morning rises and the yellow-red glow of the sun pokes its way through your window, you find you’re able to stand properly without the old man’s help to keep you upright. 

 You wash your face with the water from the clay pot in the corner, smile to yourself when you dab carmine onto your cheeks and smear it with the palm of your hand to look the part of some blushing dove.

 Your robe is clean and soft when its pulled over you and fastened, delightfully comfortable when there’s no more bruising to irritate. Incense is lit, and you immerse yourself in what is before you rather than in shadow. 

 There’s a clamoring in the street below your window as you finish preparing for the day, both cheers and shouts of fear that stir both confusion and trepidation in your belly. It takes some time before you can coax yourself into taking a peek, find the strength in your trembling legs to look upon what may very well be the final march for a man deemed worthy of execution or perhaps some other misfortune. 

 Everything is painted honey and gold over the chalked clay of the buildings and the smooth stones layered over the streets.

 There are women fleeing, a few cowardly men accompanying them. Children walk backwards or affix themselves to high walls to stare back at what’s being led by soldiers clutching thick lines of woven rope. 

 The thing that follows behind them leaves your heart in your throat, because it… he, is no prisoner or omen.

 The bullman from your endless daydreaming walks with his arms fastened behind him, thick tail flicking in irritation at his backside, soft auburn ears fold back against his head. 

 The face, closer now, intrigues you the most, because as you’ve claimed endlessly: he only looks the part of a man. Some rugged barbarian, for certain, but still he does not bare any resemblance to the Minotaur or any other beast from the tales and songs. Though his nose is crooked, and pale scarring layers in abundance over tanned flesh, he looks almost sweet. There’s a gentleness about him that betrays the strangeness of his silhouette from before.

 And he bleeds crimson like any other man, from a wound dug out in his shoulder where a spear must have pierced him. The blood along his chest has not even had the time to dry. 

 The poor man is bleeding and naked, not a scrap of cloth to conceal him any place, not even where his hair curls above his loins.

 You imagine what the healer and slave girl must think now, when the subject of your endless ramblings is out on display for the entire city. Whether monster or forgotten god, the bullman is here, and in your haze of thought you will yourself to storm out into the street. There are hisses of confusion and fear all filtered and feathering on the air, many voices, but what is worse are the screams. 

 He doesn’t even possess it within him to look afraid, only terribly annoyed or maybe even somber. It was difficult to tell by the lack of expression on his face. His eyes are sad, but his lips are pressed into the barest line. The only indication that he feels anything at all is the swishing of his tail, a tell of anger in bulls. Maybe in men baring their resemblance, too.

 “Where are you taking him?,” you demand, a shrill cry from your doorstep. 

 No answer comes your way from the soldiers at his side. 

 “Please…”

 The words fail you as you find yourself stepping in front of this march. Ten soldiers to keep one man in a hold, it was ridiculous. Though he towered over them and possessed horns sharp enough to gore, to see him like this… It all stirred so much emotion within you that you almost think you must have really injured something in your skull, because the city spins around you and your eyes sting fiercely. 

 Every step halts when you begin to sob right there in the street like a bereaved wife finding out her husband has been tortured or killed in some distant land. Even the bullman seems intrigued by your tears. The quiet blue of his eyes flits from what stands beyond you to your face, puffed and slick with tears. Why cry for a man you do not know?, he seems to ask wordlessly. Why throw yourself out in the midst of danger? 

 “… my bull is dead, so I would like to…” To dance with this one. To see past the abomination of what he was and maybe cherish him in the way he deserved without deserving.

 His ears prick forward, and he huffs something whispering and foreign in his tongue. Just one word that you’re uncertain of the meaning of, probably demeaning considering that you had called him an animal, not man. But he speaks. He speaks and that is enough for the soldiers to exchange cautious glances from the titan they lead to the curious display of the crying woman in front of them.

 “You want to dance with this bull?,” one asks, both amusement and disbelief painting each syllable. 

 You nod your head, weak but fiercely resolute in your wish. 

 Not “this bull”, but perhaps “this god”.

 You’re both stripped bare of any defenses, fates left in the hands of men who only know to kill and fuck. Somehow luck shimmers through, because you’re presented with one of the ropes a soldier carries. It’s offered to you with a stiff, callused hand, dropped unceremoniously into the palm that rises up to wait. 

 You walk beside your bull, not where you would rather lead him but where the other men urge for you to go. People watch on with curious stares, and you know most assuredly that when your healer hears of this new derangement, you will suffer another fortnight in bed with herbs and prayers over your head.

 The bull watches you the entire time with a stare that lacks any emotion. The beast could be grateful, humiliated, or considering ripping you apart the moment his binds were undone and you wouldn’t have the slightest idea of it until he was upon you. What’s stranger still is that you don’t fear him. He looks to you the entire time and your hand clutching the rope does not tremble. Your pulse races, but only with something beyond fear, something an ordinary man has never gifted to you.

 The gated pasture is bears a cool breeze when you enter, you watch as one of the men ties your new bull to a post and tells you that he is wicked, but the only crime he’s being accused of is being what he is. 

 “You’re hurt,” you assess a little dumbly when everyone has paraded away. The grass stains the white linen you wear as you sink to your knees at the titan’s side. 

 You’ve nothing to tend to his wound with. Dirt is smudged into the divide in his flesh with gentle swipes of your thumb, a strip ripped from your robe when you try to stop the bleeding further. He hisses when you fasten it tight, shoots you a glare that both makes stars fall in your eyes and sets a stampede to rush in your heart. Your heart, you think, but really it’s something else. You feel hot all over and it’s the stupidest thing. 

 “I know, I know..,” you mumble as you tie the cloth, straighten yourself out and cover the expanse of your thigh that’s been revealed as you settle back into place. “Can you move it?”

 “Yes.”

 It hardly registers that he’s freed himself somewhat until a massive hand curls tightly around your wrist. The touch is not at all gentle, it’s probing, the tip of each digit leaving small curved indentations in your flesh, intent on keeping you thoroughly in place.

 “Why aren’t you afraid?” His voice comes as an odd grumbling, seemingly unused for some time. It isn’t deep, either, which comes as the most jarring thing about all of this. It’s so pleasant, that even with his iron hold you find yourself smiling as a flurry of affection stirs between your breasts.

 Because I was right, you yearn to say, but hold your tongue for fear of seeming too brazen and less subservient than you should be, catering to a god you’ve never even heard of. Both man and bull, something divine and strikingly handsome even with his soft features. 

 “Should I be? Will you curse me..?,” you ask, softening your grin to glance up at him through your lashes. Demure and flirtatious before you even think to catch yourself. A maiden should be more cautious dealing with ordinary men or things not yet known, but even when your expression reverts to one of mere curiosity, it seems too late. 

 His nostrils flare as he regards you; then, his hand shifts upward to stroke at your bare shoulder, fingertips move to dance over your clavicle. The hand comes to rest beneath your jaw, a thumb carefully brushing over your chin. Then, he withdraws all at once, turns his head with a huff of breath. He doesn’t bellow as the other males in the pasture, does little to seem more cow than man in your presence. Perhaps it’s a practiced courtesy: to appear more human than the additions crowning his head suggest. 

 “Dummes mädchen.” He doesn’t tell you what that means, and his voice canters off to silence when you push and prod to ask.

 He doesn’t budge when you ask where he’s come from, some distant land across the sea you even speculate. You ask him what he is in name, and in turn his ears seem to lower, flatten further, as though he were trying to hide them altogether. There wasn’t much he could do about the horns, though. 

 The bull barely even returns your shy glances, the only indication that he knows and rather likes that you’re still seated at his side is the flare of pink that rises from his throat to settle upon his cheeks, the way his jaw tightens and loosens when you speak. 

 “What is your name?,” you ask him when the silence grows too much. You’re starting to feel beads of sweat prick at your skin from the glow of the summer sun above, and more than anything you want some closeness, some proof that maybe your listless life is not a total loss. Earning a god’s favor would only be too lovely, the perfect cure for the unnamed thing that ails you. “So that I might worship you properly?”

 That prompts a response. 

 He turns to you with a forced stoicism, one that does little to subdue the way his eyes widen and his face burns. Being jabbed at and held captive like an animal would make any man more than a little unhappy or wary, but your words dissolve that into smoke in an instant. He tells you his name in a keening sort of voice, one reserved for wolves or agitated horses.

“König.”

 You repeat it, once, twice.

 It sounds funny and foreign, too simple for what he appears to be. You tell him your own when he doesn’t ask, repeat it just the same so he remembers his only acolyte. Someone so cute for a god of beasts or maybe even good harvests.

 You wanted to pry further, have every secret expelled from his tongue, unite in words and quell that horrid, demanding passion. It’s why men run way to brothels, you supposed. Excitement and the allure of something pretty to stake a claim into… but you’re a maiden rather than some feather-headed soldier.

 “When you’re better, we will dance,” you declare with a hope that he might understand. “My first offering to you.”

 König stirs, rumbles someplace in the expanse of chest. His hair curls there in the widest patch, you note, trails down right to thighs that make brick resemble only soft clay. You’ve never openly ogled a man like this, and it doesn’t feel shameful, not when you’re convinced you already have an understanding here. 

 You couldn’t imagine he would crawl on his knees for you to prance over him like a yearling deer, bellow like a proper animal when you took his horns in hand. The ugly, ivory prongs about his head looked too dangerous anyhow. One slip… you didn’t want to imagine what would happen then. 

 “… Richtig.” Then, “What do I give to you?”

 His question confuses you fully, because the way he speaks it does not seem curious at all. As if there’s already a resolution in the words. No clothing, no weapons, not even a coin. The only thing present and available is what sits between his thighs, a daunting pillar. He asks only for a consent to what he does not bring out in words, only hinted at from the way his gaze drags up from your throat to your eyes.

The strangest mating rite from the strangest man of all…

 You don’t ask him about that.

You let the words hang in the air for a stretch of time. Then, you fetch him some water from the creek just past the field. You untie the binds still shackling him to the fence post as he drinks from the shallow bowl. He laps at it like a dog, furrows his brow a little when you’re caught staring again. 

 There’s too much to look at to entirely separate yourself from him. And he speaks so oddly it’s difficult to distract him with conversation. So you settle to admire, and he does so in turn. When you find yourself watching the way his chest puffs with each intake of breath, his stare only maps you the same, mimicking or appraising.

He grunts, too; flicks an ear when he stares down at your lap and embarrassment immediately floods you when you realize that his senses are not entirely human, either.

 You fold your hands into your lap and part your lips to speak again, to maybe ask him why he came here at all to serve as some distraction from the way he appraised your hips with that dreadful stare.

 “When?,” he interrupts immediately, casting his dish aside and straightening up to look down upon you. Exacting some misplaced wrath, you assume. Let a woman leap over him and maybe have his freedom after. He just wants it over with, and you can’t blame him at all.

 “I told you… when you’re better.” 

 That must not have been the right thing to say, because his injured arm is the one he gathers you with, brings you up and over him to press your chest to his and glare down at you. The glow of the setting sun seems dull by comparison to the ember in his eyes.

 “I am fine.”

 The calendars have been a blur since you fell. You huff and pout in thought, trying to think in spite of the way the closeness has you feeling dumb and dizzy. 

 “A few days..,” comes your answer, quiet and apologetic. “I’m nearly certain.”

 König sighs and you feel it flutter your hair, the warmth on your neck. His arm drifts from around you, as if to signal that you could depart at any moment. Whatever had possessed you now leaves you in place, flustered and miserably infatuated. It pains you that he only seems exasperated by this entire ordeal rather than enthused, but he seems to soften somewhat when you don’t bolt away immediately. The tension leaves his shoulders slowly, and the summer sky of his eyes is placid instead of burning.

 He could strike you down at any moment, leave you gored out here in the grass with common bulls, destroy the fence and maybe all of the people in the city too… but he seems intent on just keeping this silly oath and having you seated here.

 “They caught me when I came to find you,” he says, blunt and careless, as if seeking out a woman he saw once from across a field is just a common thing to do. The very same as worshiping some creature driven out from the forest. “I saw you. Then you fell.” 

 “You were looking for me?” Your words are expressed with shaky intakes of breath, nerves alight with both love and caution. Led toward you by want, a thing you both seemed to feel. 

 He goes utterly stiff at that, but grits his teeth softly as his gaze casts down to where you’re seated in his lap. 

 A chance meeting… or maybe it was something as wonderful as fate after all. 

 You looked the part of lovers already, and perhaps that’s made him shy… but bulls don’t get shy, and König is no exception here, because his hand immediately rises to lift the robe covering you, drifts the linen up to reveal the soft fabric of your loincloth.

 “Yes,” he grunts, staring down at the prize between your legs. A reward he’s already promised to himself, one you freely give when you don’t give him a smack or shove his hands away. 

 He smells of the forest: of wispy pine nettles, water from a spring, juniper. Of a man, whose closeness you had yet to have entirely. No bristling comes; you don’t close yourself off. He’s the loveliest thing you’ve ever seen— sad cow eyes and the bulk that only comes from a life rich with work and fighting, survival and instinct.

Had he ever even had a woman?, you wonder. Did he find you lovely, too? 

 König huffs appreciatively, lowers his head to your chest to bump his nose against your breasts. You release the breath that was caged unbeknownst to yourself, and your arms come around him naturally, cradle him there. Maybe he had never even been held… So, you pet him, trail your hand along the nape of his neck, up and through the messy strands of hair atop his head. 

 “You are injured too,” he hums into plushness, breath washing over thin fabric and causing your nipples to rise in answer. He must have felt the scab on your palm, healing, but still coarse and stiff. Even in what you perceive must be some sort of courtesy, worrying over your scrape, he doesn’t peel himself away from what entices him most here. His hands descend to stroke at your sides, trail down lower until both palms are fitted against your backside. 

 He squeezes, slow and intentional, weighs your flesh in hand. Explorative and further appreciative when another hiss leaves his lips to filter out along your clothed sternum. If he were not seated on his tail, you imagine it would have swayed fiercely, excited by the earlier fight and now the prospect of breeding some silly woman. You don’t have that indicator to read his thoughts, but the throb of the mighty weapon between his legs is enough to know. It’s warm and hard beneath you, gives a slight jump when your fingers dance over the base of his horns.

 “I got hurt because of you.”

 “Little maiden… I would never hurt you. Only please you,” he declares, sounding prideful. Just as a bull should, even in such a predicament. Like a god, proper and true. Surely this city would be cursed for what they’ve done to him. He will fuck their virgins and leave everything else scorched and ruined. And a part of you is almost giddy to know the very first would be you. 

 You’ve yet to touch men, but you knew well enough what the wetness down there meant, what his erection meant. Why men grope and fondle just as he does to you now, when a hand rises to tug down the top of your thin dress, when his head lifts just enough to lick at the side of your tit.

 The air around you both thrums, pulses as though there are thunder strikes surrounding. And the sky is still clear when your head lolls back to face it in full as a nipple is enveloped by a hungry maw. He suckles at you, pushes his hips upward and strokes at your ass when you whine and pant. The cover of nightfall grants you some mercy, because no one is around to hear those cries or the way he grunts into your flesh, greed pouring from the both of you. No gods or stable hands, only a glassy moon and a blanket of star shine amidst murky sable like sea water. 

 When he lies you back, viciously lapping at your breasts, sucking your skin to grind between his blunt teeth, you take the horns into your hands again to tug him close. He groans, bellows like a man starved into your chest, drool and bruises layered over your skin. You should be in bed, waiting for some droning dullard to wed you first… not allowing a beast of a man to lower you into grass and dine upon you like this. 

 The gods would probably find this humorous… even if he might very well be one of them. How easily mortals could be swayed, even virtuous women, at the appeal of some miserable thing to save with an ugly, big cock. 

 But one or two bullmen was more than enough for this world, surely. No spawn of yours would be sent to a labyrinth deep below the earth, dark and desolate, and you’ve already bled this moon…

 It pains you to push back against the face that sends pure fire through your belly with each swipe of his tongue, but you do. König seems both dumbfounded and frustrated when he separates from your flesh, the moon in his eyes eclipsed in full. 

 “I can’t..,” you try to explain, to tell without telling that you don’t want to push some horned infant from your cunt just because you like him a little. You wet your lips and stare up at him, hopeless and lost here. 

 “Why?” Your bull doesn’t understand, because of course he doesn’t. He’s trying to give you the only thing that he has to offer. Maybe he’s fucked other women before, women who took him gleefully and sang pretty beneath him, coated that raging thing between his muscular thighs in their essence and left lovely pictures in his memory. You don’t know why that thought alone is enough to make your head feel cloudy with wrath. 

 He asks again when you tug your bottom lip between your teeth. Bulls may be sacred, but no one’s ever said that they were not stupid. 

 König only pulls away enough to hover over your sex instead, panting gruffly like something starved and prepared to plunder an unsuspecting hen. Still, he waits for an answer, and you don’t think to spare yourself enough to close your parted thighs. 

 “I thought we would… after we danced,” you try, and maybe that would have worked if you didn’t have your softness and every treasure laid bare to him like a submissive vixen. 

 The beast only shakes his head and raises your legs to rest over each of his bare shoulders, corded in muscle and heat. He doesn’t nick you with his horns, careful even as he pushes his face right to your womanhood. The loincloth remains in place, but it’s the most fragile barrier. His breath makes your toes curl as it hits your sex, sends a wave of pure want swooping from your chest right to your cunt. 

 “You smell..,” he muses quietly, trails off as though drunk on just a whiff of you. When a thick finger tugs the cloth aside, you squirm from panting breath arcing over sensitive flesh. It’s the wettest you’ve ever been: little fantasies did nothing by comparison to the real thing, presented right before you and inspecting you down there. 

 He flattens his tongue over your entrance and relishes in the way that makes you squeal, draws back just to repeat the motion and watch you with pupils blown when your chest begins to rise and fall rapidly. 

 “You have not been touched.” His ears flick as he speaks, gaze dragging down, back to the pussy that calls for him. 

 “No… that’s why- ah-“ 

 The ideas of children and expectations are long forgotten when his tongue presses to a spot that sends you shivering. It circles over it, too warm and heavy to bear. Your back arches, breasts heave, and he laughs into your cunt knowing he’s found the very spot that would make you forsake all but him. 

 The torture grows delicious and lovely, what he had done to your breasts is exactly what he does there. He suckles at the bud, scrawls his name over it with a wet, lapping tongue. You feel as though you truly have gone mad, fingers curling into the earth to keep you in place, because not even the gods could tear you away from this moment, not now…

 It’s when your trembling thighs begin to tense and your voice grows further pitched that König decides to probe at you with a finger, too. It slips in with resistance, and the intrusion is strange… both horrible and ethereal at once. The titan finds a space inside of you, one to curl his finger against. It’s clumsy, uncertain until he finds that that is what makes you cry the loudest. 

 There’s a blinding white as though the sun has seared its way into your skull, sent the rays of its warmth into your very veins. It brings about a haze, leaves you quivering and panting as bliss rolls over you in steady waves. He gives you another lick, from your slit down to your ass before sitting up. Not an ounce of hesitation is weighed in his stare or his actions when he brushes the thick cockhead through your labia. 

 “I am going to fuck you,” he declares in a groan, already feeding you a fat inch of him. There’s still lingering resistance, but the honey that drips there now is in abundance, coats him with each shallow thrust. 

 You choke on the pain of such a sudden stretch, but find yourself only leaking more at the sight of him: a god laying claim to some mortal girl, you, above you, in you. The sounds he makes only ripen the elation. There’s desperation in each grunt, and his eyelids flutter as though he’s found something truly holy. 

 He drops over you, an arm to either side of your head when he sinks in fully. As if to dull the ache of your womanhood, at the loss of your title of maiden, he licks your cheek, the corner of your mouth, any place to soothe. When you capture him in a real kiss, your taste still lingers there upon his lips.

 He seems even more delighted that you would show him affection than what’s occurring between you. The press of his hips comes to a halt, because he savors that display of what is or isn’t love. It’s almost shy, the way his mouth molds over yours, the way a hand drifts to your hair to pet at you. The other lowers to take your thigh and draw it up and keep you pinned in place. 

 You think to hold him now, too, when he breaks away from the kiss to gaze down at you with a shimmering stare, one that speaks more substance than anything he’s given you in your entire conversation. Your nails stay bedded down with the dirt, though, knowing with a fierce certainty that once he moved again it would be the only tether to dull the ache of a vicious fucking. 

 Except, he’s only gentle. 

 The cock inside of you takes a slow drag out, teasing and tentative as though trying to memorize every ridge inside.

It’s agony, because it feels like lovemaking.

Beasts don’t make love, they only have violent ruts and part ways entirely. König fucks like a man devoted. His eyes never stray from your face when he pushes back inside, all too careful. It must feel better than the being amongst his kind in the mountain he descended from, because the sounds he makes are fragile, barely contained whines that seem foreign from a man of his stature. 

 “I have been… watching you for so long, little..,” he huffs, burying his hand into your hair and dropping his head to press his forehead to your own. The words barely register, hardly make sense when the thick tip of him pushes right into the softest part of you again. It’s better than a finger… better than anything you’ve ever felt, and with everything so doughy and hot what you want to say only comes in a keening whine.

 “Gods,” he continues when your sounds are smothered and blanketed by the filthy, sloppy sounds of your own wetness. You must be soaking the very earth you lie upon, dewy and warm. “Better than I dreamed.”

 The slowness paves way for a heady, brutal thrust when he realizes that he isn’t hurting you. It only feels better the more that he moves, with each thick vein along his cock felt, with how he repeatedly spears against that spot that brings tears of rapture to the corners of your eyes. That new pace does not relent. You squeeze him the most like this, savoring in how he carves his way inside, molds you to take shape for him in what looks like pure violence but feels like love. 

The sounds of impact and the scent of sweat and arousal surround you, the moon above and everything beneath it seem of so little importance now.

 König does not silence himself even though you wished that he would. He pants against your face in his mother tongue, babbling endlessly as pleasure spikes for him. It wouldn’t be long until he filled you to the brim with thick spurts of seed, you could feel it in the way he throbbed against your walls, how each thrust was more prolonged and deep. Your mind swims, pleasure so intense its as if you’re drowning in the deepest depths of the sea itself. 

 “I came from the valley..,” he tells you in a feverish whisper, only now recalling that you didn’t know a thing about him before offering your cunt, maybe even your heart…

 “Not a god… not anyone…” 

 It’s too much when his hips press in faster, when his cock reaches the end of you, over and over in frenzied repetition. Overwhelmed and stuffed to capacity, you sob and quiver, taking him into your arms and clawing at his broad back. The pain only seems to make him more feral, because his hands leave your thigh and your hair to grasp at your face instead, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he bares his teeth and spears into you relentlessly. 

 “Little one… I want this for the rest of my life,” he growls. “Promise me…”

 The words sit on your tongue, fully prepared to surrender yourself to some beast of a faraway valley, chased and poked with spears or fire… Any hope of a cozy life would be forfeit here, already has been the moment you allowed him between your legs. It’s a horrible secret, one surely only Pasiphaë must have known of… how wonderful it felt to be bedded by a man like this. Not old enough to have fathered the Minotaur, but surely bred to be something akin to him. 

“…I promise,” you whisper, perhaps desperate for this torturous copulation to end… or continue. Feeling so whole, full, right. Your offering is beating warm and overflowing in your chest, and König only looks as though he’s about to break at your words. The blue of his eyes grows glassy, translucent waves painting over each iris, but those tears don’t shed. They’re only dismissed with more needy rasps.

 He growls, hooks his teeth into the sensitive flesh of your throat when his strokes begin to stutter. Your bull comes with a muffled howl, pumps pearly ropes of seed as deeply into you as he can manage. Your hiss of surprise is stifled with a blazing kiss where he moans into your open mouth, delves his tongue as deeply as his cock. He pumps several more times, intent on spilling every last drop inside, none wasted.

 It seeps to earth when he parts from you, when he inspects the milk and honey of successful union between your legs. He looks surprised, confused almost when that stare is guided back up towards you as his chest continues to rise and fall swift with exertion.

You raise yourself up on your elbows, draw your legs shut. Not in shame, but… apparent embarrassment, your former courage is diminished when he looks at you as though you’re the most peculiar thing beneath the stars, when you’ve revealed yourself almost entirely and had him fuck and take apart all of it. 

 Maybe it’s the same for this beast, because his surprise and unshed tears are so evident here. He no longer looks the part of a god, but a lost man.

Not anyone, he had said. Is that what he felt? Or only what he had been told..?

 “You’re not a monster,” you whisper. The chill of night settles over your skin, but there’s still warmth here, blooming like a flower in volcanic soil; the sun itself was incomparable to this peculiar thing that had taken root here. 

 He snorts at that and shakes his head. The ears there are cute and pluming with fluff, a reddish brown that suits him so remarkably. He’s kissed by the sun, even bathed in moonlight here. The prettiest of monsters, if he’s fooled himself into believing he is one. 

 “You should not have given yourself to me,” he tells you as his eyes narrow. The threat holds no weight, if it were one at all, because he grasps at you and pulls you in close; brings your cheek to his chest, right over his pounding heart. “I will not leave you alone.” 

 “Good.”

 Maybe he’s speaking through the haze of a good fuck after being the cause for screams or raised weapons for so long, but you pray it comes from a truth. You’ve offered him a full meal of you, a treasure that none other has had, left yourself weak and aching all for one. His grip only tightens around you, refusing to let go as if to confirm your belief.

 You’re brought back to the earth with your bull curled at your back, two powerful arms snaked around your middle with his nose pressed into your hair. 

 “After your dance, you will come with me.” There’s no longer a request, only an order. You’ve accepted him as both your man and mate, and it seems to please him greatly. His chest puffs against you, pride and contentment harbored there. 

 “To where?,” you ask him dreamily. The sea is what you’ve seen the most of, and the foothills and mountains seem a distant place. You imagine that maybe where he’s arrived from must have had others like him, maybe the women there were what he had had before… And maybe that makes you more precious somehow, different and coveted because you hadn’t run, only charmed him with questionable nursing and a request to prance over his back. 

 “Everywhere,” he answers immediately, stroking at the dip between your breasts. “I will never let you go.”

— — —

You’re separated from your bull come morning. It’s heart wrenching and terrible after a night of such passion, but you couldn’t allow for anyone to see you out there with your clothes in disarray and sperm slick and running down your legs. You had waited for him to sleep, for his dreaming to give way to raucous snoring before you slipped away, casting him a woeful glance. The giggling on the way from the pasture would have been terribly humiliating had anyone been awake to hear, but you were fortunate last night.

Come morning, there’s a pain between your legs and traces of blood in your loincloth. You hastily cast that from your body, hide it beneath your mattress before crawling back into bed with your thoughts a whirl. Candied fruit and precious stone, everything sap sticky and sad all the same… because as much as you would like to venture there, to see him, it was most rational to keep away.

If you were caught, you could only imagine the trial or lack thereof. The spears that would have come then wouldn’t miss their target. He would be deemed something far worse than a monster for daring to touch a lady such as yourself.

You bide your time tending to your duties and praying that your loss of virginity isn’t as apparent as it feels to you; when the thoughts drift back, the warmth upon your face only grows and your thighs immediately press together.

And you ponder his offer of leaving the temples and people behind to haunt someplace else with him, away from all else.

It's mad.

You barely knew him, of even what he was. He didn’t even have the sense to keep secret that he had been stalking you for some time, before you ever even noticed, with his fat cock buried inside of you. His ways of courtship lacked any shame, and maybe that’s why the passing thought of a normal man being in your future seems only lackluster. König could hunt, build, provide far better, you assumed, given his stature… And the gods gave him the knowledge of the most tempting tricks with his tongue.

The days leading up to what would call you back to him pass in a tortuous crawl. Even distracting yourself with thoughts of him in lonely silence with a hand between your thighs seems too little. You’ve even asked every slave woman here just how she gets the thoughts of men out of their heads. The advice is merely that sex does not always lead to marriage and children; they part ways like the animals in the forest and leave little room for love in their dens.

You hoped that he was thinking of you, too.

It would be ridiculous to say you’ve missed him, but seeing him in that field bound by rope again once you return is exactly what you want to shout. The birds call from the trees, singing beautifully and everything seems to glow, all except for König.

There are shadows beneath his eyes, cast long and dark from a lack of sleep. He does not even look your way when you take your place next to the others.

He’s forlorn. Maybe even pissed at having been gifted a warm meal only to have his face tugged away and a rope secured to hold him back from tasting or touching again. You should have warned him, about customs and etiquette, reassured him with your words that a little distance was fine because you’ve already made up your mind… but it seems too little and too late to peep your objections now.

The beast is led toward the other bulls by a man half his size, looking as though he’s on the brink of soiling himself from fear. The screams from before are not present now from onlookers, but König seems far less comfortable here than he did in the streets of your city.

Flowers are brought and tossed to both the hooves of bulls and the feet of dancers, yet none are presented to your partner at all. Even with green springing up below his feet, the area he waits in seems barren by comparison. It’s miserable and sad, all of it, and you once more long for being so winded against him that you two seemed to be the only things alive beneath a night sky.

You call to him when the man holding his lead gives it a sharp tug, and it’s dropped instantly as if you really hold some power over what becomes of him… You only hoped that whatever fate lay in wait for him would be coupled with your own. A passive life in a cave or something like that, where you could call him your husband, even… watch the sweat drip down the muscles of his back as he coaxed a fire to life.

Your bull tilts his head towards you, and though he tries to force the very same indifference from before his inner thoughts betray him. His brow remains furrowed, his expression grim, but his ears perk up and he immediately marches toward you. His gait is more of a charge, and had those horns been pointed to you, peril would await.

Punishment only comes in the form of a large man staring at you as though you’ve just wounded him terribly. You remind him there are no blades here with the gentlest touch of your hand along his bicep, swept down to curl at his wrist. It’s the most you could do here, and you could only pray to Aphrodite that your love would be understood regardless.

“You left,” he gruffs, raises a hand to tilt your chin up just enough to face him, though his gaze averts the second that you lock eyes. Shy, definitely not, but with so many watching, he seems entirely out of his element. The hand that graces beneath your chin even trembles, but it’s not fear you find when you search his eyes again.

Hurt.

It’s unmistakably hurt.

“I’m surprised that you did not,” your answer is a whispered one. He should have freed himself, whisked you away like an unsuspecting bride. You recall the other women’s ramblings from before, of men and how little what you experienced together may have meant.

“I do not wish to be apart from you.” He speaks as though it’s the most common knowledge of all, as though you’re a silly thing for ever believing that your want and his are one in the same. “Come with me.”

He doesn’t belong here, amidst people that cast their judgment yet herald the animals that he bears a small resemblance to.

Neither do you belong, you realize. You haven’t belonged since the day you spotted him amongst the trees.

The odd looks that follow König are cast upon you now, too. They see this peculiar beast with one of their women and think of her as sullied down to the marrow in her bones. You must smell of him, marked without a proper mark at all. He hasn’t branded you with any more than soft bruises from kissing your breasts and fitting the length of himself inside of you.

You take your risks and call them offerings, and he greedily accepts each and every one you bestow. You allow it when the hand cupping your jaw drifts lower, graces your breast with the softest touch before taking your fingers between his own.

“You have to be patient.”

He snorts at that.

Bulls are not patient creatures.

The ceremony has already begun. There are real animals here: beasts even larger than König that chew at the grass below them, flick their tails and ignore all that happens around them. There’s prancing and singing, elaborate acrobatics and leaps that must have taken years of practice.

And when you dance with your bull there is none of it.

He stands in place as you twirl around him, weaving around behind and before him as you bend to collect fallen blooms from the ground. Yellows, blues, flowers with no name or place, scavenged from fields further than the pasture. Your laughter pulls even a smile from his hardened face, a face you’ve found handsome since seeing, but must provoke terror in most men…

He’s so horribly endearing in his own ways. It’s the fastest you’ve ever fallen, or anyone in the whole world has, even… The legends and stories speak of love that shoots straight and strikes true like feathered arrows, singing on the wind until they prick their targets. You honor them just as he seems to, and you would tell them to him if only he asked.

Your head and heart are muddled and sick with love, melted down like precious metal within your body. He twists and brings you back together and whole when you’re taken up in his arms and lifted.

“I could touch the sky,” you laugh, clinging to an ivory horn. Pressing a kiss to the pointed tip of it, you swear you detect the heat from his face on your belly.

“Little one… I will take the sun for you, if you ask.”

“You would burn,” you warn.

He drops you then, cradles your body close to his chest instead and carries you as though you’re nothing more than a small dove with broken wings, something to be cared for.

“You make me burn already.”

“König…”

“No, not…” He shakes his head, smushes your cheeks between a thumb and the rest of his fingers as you’re forced to lock eyes again. The giant’s hand is careful with you, more gentle than his teeth or his…

“Call me something else. Something better.” There’s a keening to his voice, a fervent desperation there. A need to be not simply wanted. Wherever your titan has come from with his constellations of scars, the wound still there on his shoulder and all the pain he masks in behind a forced grimace… it has all led him here.

To the woman he watched practice taming bulls for weeks or months, to the only person he believed could accept what he is.

He only wanted to hear it, to have the most shattered wish answered with a tender chime. To bed you wasn’t enough: it could never be so simple. Your heart has been what he’s after all along; he reassures you in self just in voicing this.

“You’re lovely… my love,” you breathe. “You’re mine.”

His throat bobs as he swallows thickly, and the pools gathered in his eyes do seem to shed. Your face is released as he rubs away anything that may shed. The dark circles are coupled with red rings now, but still no part of him seems weak or broken. He hides that away with everything else, bottles perceived weakness and sets it out to sea and gives you the grin of a proper brute instead.

“Ja… you are mine too.”

You’re set down only as the bull leaping comes to a close, when the people retreat and König seems content in knowing that no one is left to whisk you away. It’s all that he’s waited for, to have you alone after this tradition he did not quite get. He played his part well enough, even if you hadn’t had the chance to climb onto his back as the others had with their bulls.

Only then does he begin to tell you of a life bought and sold without end, of the fighting pits you’ve only heard of and never seen. His tongue does not spare you details of chains and spears, what they do to men like him. There are hundreds of scars, each with a misery attached, some still carrying pain that never heals. Promises were always in abundance to keep him contained, weapons were smithed and placed into his hands since before he could remember…

The life you had imagined for him has never existed. There’s never been love there: he spares you the nature of the women he may have been fortunate enough to touch before, but he whispers that you’re the only one who has ever kissed him.

Your heart breaks for the wounded boy he’s buried inside, and you weep when he tells you he’s only ever prayed for a woman like you. Someone soft and cute, who didn’t run or wail… Who craved him just as terribly if not more, gashes and teeth, horns and all the rest.

And he comforts you when you cry, pulls you in so tightly that your breath catches and the tears do sob. You whisper apologies into the hair on his chest, for all the awful things you would never imagine doing to him, and he scoffs at the pity in your voice.

“Do not cry for me,” he whispers into your hair, leaves a trail of kisses along the crown of your head before dropping to his knees before you and pacifying the best he can by stroking along your back. “I have you now, hm? My little maiden, richtig?”

“Yes. Yes, always,” you promise. Another gift.

You’re led away from the pasture under the veil of nightfall, your arms curled around one of his own. There are men about carrying sharpened steel, thieves and drunkards hiding out in the dark as well, but not an ounce of fear trickles through you to diminish what’s already felt. The stars above are in abundance, brighter somehow on the night you forfeit all.

König speaks unguarded now, each question is met by a response. It’s the first time he’s ever been asked about himself, he tells you this when you express your satisfaction at finally hearing more than a few words at a time. He’s terribly cute when all of the praise and attention cause his face to ripen like summer fruit, red and shimmery with sweat rather than dew.

You’ve brought nothing for a journey, but he swears to you that there is pilfered honey, wine, fruit and furs in his den, some dark place he describes as special. It’s the only place he’s ever called home, so surely it must be.

König doesn’t warn you that the trek takes weeks, nor that the mountains are even more beautiful up close. The foliage is wild, the air fresher and free of the smell of cattle and people, and each climb seems steeper than the last. He doesn’t tell you of the wolves or bears, but you hear them at night when he pulls you even closer to him. The wild things won’t hurt you; the wildest of them all considers himself to be the king here, a ruler that they respect or dread rather than dare to cross.

It isn’t a cave that greets you when you come to rest after days and nights of exertion, but a hut built of cut wood and clay. Built as well and thoroughly as any builder from the city would have done. He tells you of where he learned such things, watching men work after sparring with animals and their own kin in pits; how they would promise to rear families in structures like this, how he hoped in crafting all of this that one day he might have the same.

“It’s wonderful,” you tell him, crossing the threshold to find just what he has already told you was waiting here, so far off from common roads that none of it has been pillaged.

The gifts come aplenty, too: a new comb make of bone for your neglected hair, jarred honey and trinkets from his travels or pulled away from a former captor’s corpse. There’s even a weapon for you here, a blade sleek and shimmering, some foreign sword that astonishingly reminds you of a part of him.

“I will find a prettier one for you,” he says as you examine the blade, heavy even when held in both of your hands. It’s only a mercy that you are not the provider here, because there would be no deer or even rabbits slain when even holding it makes your movements sluggish.

“… I like it. All of it.”

He plucks the blade from your hands with ease and casts it aside. The sound of it tapping, then clattering against the wooden boards rings out loudly before he’s upon you. The trek to the mattress seems an eternity, longer than even the venture here. Cloth and jewelry, the only lasting remnant of your former life follow suit, piling over the sharpened steel.

There’s a bear’s pelt beneath you to soften the stiff straw, less wild and ferocious than it may have been in life, now smothered by the lingering scent of him. The lonely nights spent here must have been terrible and tragic. Did he allow the shield to fall and weep then? In the comfort of bear skin and the calling of night birds outside, tears and wasted seed.

The urgency is a looming beast on the air, prevalent and fierce when you’re pulled into König’s lap. Your bull lacks the patience to prepare you with his mouth or a curled finger now, only pivots your hips to take him with a prod as his head lowers for his mouth to latch onto your breast.

“I am in love with you,” he whispers against your flesh. You’re left at his mercy as he guides you with one large hand placed upon your thigh and an arm curled around your back. It’s slow, always slow when he begins, when he’s drunk on the feel of you surrounding him and every new feeling that floods his head.

The ears prick forward when you sing for him, whimpering as he buries himself further. As though it’s the most pleasant sound he’s ever heard in the span of his life. The only thing more beautiful is the acceptance and surrender you offer. There’s never been a shield in place, no guards to watch over you… he’s the only thing; he’s broken through every gate or wall to steal you away from those perceived defenses.

He knows, too, when your panting mouth repeats his own words.

He bucks into you with more haste, slips his tongue into your mouth and groans when you take it between your teeth. Skyward and earthly with each motion, the sea and the mountain tethered as one. And maybe you’ve never leapt with the cattle from your city, but you dance with this bull so naturally that it vanquishes any doubt of where you’re meant to be. What you’ve yearned for was not the taming of animals, but maybe a man…

Your orgasm comes sudden, a wave of wet heat that drools from your core, aids in the glide of the feverish pace he guides your hips into. König’s head tilts back, bliss painted upon his expression from how you close in around him.

You take your chances and press your face to the column of his throat, biting down on him just as he had you. The salty sweat on his skin leaves its taste on your tongue as you lick over the freshly painted mark. The sounds of his own pleasure are cast away; he goes silent and still, and you almost fear you’ve made some terrible mistake here… But König comes undone at that, desperately gathers you in his hold as he pulses within you, writhes beneath you.

He refuses to release his grip even when his cock grows soft, just rolls you onto your back and covers you like the thickest blanket.

“You didn’t fall this time,” he huffs into your hair.

Though your lips part to try and order him to be quiet, he grinds his hips against your own as if to make the obscenity of his comment even more apparent. It only heightens the warmth you feel sweep up into your cheeks.

“Little dancer…”

And finally he rises above you, another wild grin slowly gracing his scarred face. A thumb brushes against the pulse in your neck until his hand rests right over the heart tucked beneath your breast. It’s better than any promise of a lofty field or a mountaintop, even covered in sweat and come, to see the way that his eyes light up with pure mirth when he feels it’s beating.

“You feel it… you didn’t lie,” he mutters, and you try your best not to allow that comment to claw amongst the others he’s made that left wounds in your heart, gashes that bleed for him.

“Why would I?,” you ask, voice so thin and soft you would think it unheard if not for the flick of his ear.

“I did not think anyone would ever…” He rubs at his face as he falls to your side, only to pull you in close again. The defenses raise in those words, but lower as they do time and time again when you nestle into his chest, pet at the curls of hair there.

“They said no one could ever love me.”

The tears in his eyes finally are laid bare. They roll down his cheeks, and he does nothing to hide them this time. You accept his silent crying without comment, the only indication you share that you know, see, is in the way you press a kiss to his jaw where they gather and spill.

“Fools, they were..,” you whisper to him, just as quietly as before. The sanctity blooms further as his chest rumbles, a contented hum coupled with a squish to bring you even closer to him.

“Ja… just fools,” he answers you in a voice not broken, only softer than it has ever been. “Like you. For this… giving so much.”

“And you are greedy.”

He nods once before reaching for your hand; his own curls over it, still splayed out over his chest. He’s no cocky, rough brute now. He pets at it with a trembling thumb.

“I will never let you go.” He speaks it as though it is a curse, rather than the blessing you’re certain that it is. Most women would fear a lustful beast raised up to kill even gladiators, yet there’s only the sweetest consoling to be found with him for you. “You will suffer me until we both die.”

“I could not imagine a better fate.”

[candycandy00]

Once Upon a Time - A Sukuna x Reader Fanfic Part 1

Retold fairytales featuring the JJK men! This is Sleeping Beauty featuring Sukuna! After your parents are killed, leaving you as the young queen, you hire the mysterious and violent Sukuna to be your Captain of the Guard to protect you from an evil fairy’s curse. You’re in love with him, but he just keeps refusing you!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Read Gojo x Cinderella Here!

Smut. 18+. Fem Reader. AU. Reader as Sleeping Beauty, Sukuna as her Captain of the Guard. Violence/Blood. Rough fingering.

Any feedback is adored! Dividers by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more and @benkeibear.

It’s a beautiful day in town again, the weather warm, the sky blue with fluffy clouds drifting by, birds singing… and a would be assassin rolling on the ground, screaming in agony as blood pours from his wounds. 

The nondescript man had posed as a villager, smiling to you as you walked by and holding out a peach to you. Villagers often give you small gifts like these. You’re now their queen after the very recent deaths of your parents, themselves killed by an assassin just like the man wailing before you. 

As you reached out to take the peach, thanking him for his generosity, his hands were suddenly sliced from his arms, causing the peach to fall to the now bloody dirt. You looked around in alarm, spotting your Captain of the Guard standing nearby. You hadn’t even seen him draw his sword. 

The Captain, named Sukuna, strolls over and picks up the bloody peach, ignoring the assassin quickly bleeding out beside it. He pulls something tiny, almost invisible, from the fruit. “A needle,” he says, holding it up so that it glints in the sunlight. 

How did he notice that? Oh well, that’s why you made him Captain of your personal guard. “Thank you, Captain. Your vigilance has saved me again.”

The other townsfolk are whispering and looking at the assassin with scared, worried faces. Sukuna raises his leg and brings his boot down on the man’s head, crushing it into a gooey mess. You wish he’d found a more tactful way of disposing of the would be killer. 

You address the townsfolk in your most soothing voice. “I apologize for the trouble. I’ll send someone to clean up this mess as soon as possible. Please continue about your business!”

No more explanation is necessary. Everyone in town knows why a needle is as big a threat to you as a sword. 

When you were an infant, a wicked old fairy laid a curse upon you. If you ever prick your finger on a needle, you will immediately die. Supposedly, a good fairy altered the curse so that you’ll fall into a deep sleep for a hundred years instead of dying, or until certain conditions are met to awaken you. But you’re not certain of that part, and you want no part of any of it either way. 

Your parents were desperate to save you, so they took every precaution. They banned all needles from the castle and refused to allow you to go into town, even after you turned eighteen. Now at age twenty, you’ve been forced to take the role of queen after your parents were murdered three months ago. 

The old fairy of the woods apparently held a grudge. She’s been sending assassins to try to get you to prick your finger, and you highly suspect she’s responsible for what happened to the king and queen. 

Newly without your parents’ protection, your first order of business was hiring a Captain of the Guard who could keep you alive until you found the fairy and put her to death. And as it happened, you met Ryomen Sukuna on the day your parents were buried. 

Bandits attacked your carriage as you were riding back from the cemetery, killing your coachman and two of your best guards before a mysterious man in a cloak appeared. With seconds, he’d cut down seven bandits with his sword, as if they were made of paper. The hood of his cloak fell back, revealing a handsome face lined with black tattoos, and a feral smile as blood sprayed from the bandits and colored him red. 

When finished with the bandits, he approached you, his sword still drawn, his crimson eyes burning with a strange intensity. He was going to kill you. He wasn’t there to save you, but to settle a score with the bandits. As he stepped closer, a bizarre thought entered your mind: I hope he has his way with me first. 

You shook your head to cast the thought aside. Then stared him down, using your most regal voice to say, “Your skills are impressive. I want to hire you to be my Captain of the Guard.”

He paused, a look of amusement on his face. “And why would I want such a job?” 

Ah, his voice was like satin. 

“You would be paid exceptionally well, would live in the castle with all the luxuries that it can provide. Your own private room, all the best foods, authority and power over others…”

“And all I have to do is babysit a princess?” he asked, grinning. 

“Actually,” you said, somewhat haughtily, “I’m a queen now.”

He accepted your offer, and you returned to the castle that day with a new Captain. All your advisors thought it was a terrible idea to give such a position to a man you knew nothing about, but they hadn’t seen his skill, his raw power. If he kept you alive, you didn’t care who he was. 

There’s just one problem. You’re insanely attracted to him! You’ve wanted him from the day you met him, and despite him being so close in proximity to you, he remains frustratingly out of reach. 

On multiple occasions you’ve made it clear that’s he’s welcome in your bed, but he always has the same response: a condescending grin while smugly saying, “You couldn’t handle me, Princess.”

Each time you remind him you’re a queen, not a princess, but by this point it’s obvious that he’s teasing you. 

Now, you find yourself walking through the gardens of your castle after returning from the town, sighing as you look over the sorry state of the roses. Your parents had gotten rid of every rose bush, afraid a thorn would somehow have the same effect as a needle. But you’d accidentally pricked yourself on a thorn at your parents’ funeral, where some well meaning townsperson had given you some roses, and nothing had happened. 

The next day you planted several rose bushes in the gardens, but they’re not doing well. They grew in pots but had not done well enough to be transferred to the ground. 

As you look up from your plants, your heart nearly stops. Two strange men are approaching, already too close to effectively flee from. You turn your head, to call for your Captain, but you remember that he went to wash off the blood from the previous assassin. Still, there should be four other guards nearby, two at each entrance to the gardens. The fact that these men waltzed in and don’t even seem to be in a hurry tells you that all four guards are probably dead. 

And, these men are skilled fighters. 

“Who are you? What are you doing in my gardens?” you ask, trying to get them talking, trying to buy time until Sukuna returns. No matter how skilled they are, he would utterly destroy them. 

One of the men, tall with long shaggy hair and beard, chuckles. “I think you know what we’re here for, Your Majesty.”

The shorter of the two, who looks like he hasn’t bathed in weeks, looks you up and down like a piece of meat. “She’ll really fall asleep if we stick her with a needle?” he asks the other man. 

The taller man shrugs. “Either that or die. The old witch isn’t sure.”

The shorter man looks at you with excitement. “Remember what you promised! I can do whatever I want with her afterwards!”

Your skin crawls with horror. The thought of this disgusting man touching you, even if you’re dead, makes bile threaten to rise in your mouth. 

And it makes you wish even more strongly that Sukuna had lain with you. At least then the first man to touch you would be someone you loved. 

Wait… loved? Do you love him, or just feel lust for him? You suppose it doesn’t matter now. 

“I can give you riches,” you tell them, “beyond anything the old fairy has promised.”

The men glance at each other, then laugh. “She hasn’t promised us any riches,” the taller man says. “I just enjoy killing, and that one there only has one thing on his mind.” He reaches out and grabs your hand, pulling it close while holding a needle in his free hand.  

The shorter man’s face is getting red with anticipation as you struggle to pull your arm free. He licks his lips. “I just want some royal pussy!”

“No!” you shout, slamming your eyes shut as the needle gets closer. 

*************************

Sukuna walks down the lavish hallway, freshly bathed with a new set of clothes. He doesn’t really mind being covered in blood, but his delicate little princess seems bothered by it, even if she doesn’t say so. 

He finds it amusing that she tries so hard to seem strong and in charge. Maybe she thinks she is. Somehow she’s convinced herself that she wants Sukuna to fuck her. He finds the idea laughable. While she is lovely to look at, and he’d enjoy nothing more than splitting her open on his cock, he knows for certain that his tender princess would break too easily. He enjoys this job, this position, far too much to give it up now. 

If he were to act on his desires, he would end up destroying her, and so he keeps himself contained. For now. 

The biggest challenge was when he went into her chambers one night to check on her, moving quietly to avoid waking her, only to find her pleasuring herself in her bed. The sheets were thrown back, her legs spread wide, her back arched as she moaned his name. 

She never realized he was in the room, or how close she came to being absolutely ravaged that night. He remained in a darkened corner, watching, until she finished with a cry of pleasure. He snuck back out as soon as she fell asleep.

Lately she’s been occupying more and more of his thoughts, and he doesn’t like it. He’s been with countless women, never getting attached or even remembering their names. Outside the protected castle town, Sukuna was infamous for being a violent murderer who could never be tamed or subdued. Even he didn’t know why he accepted her offer to be Captain of the Guard in the first place. It was far more like him to slit her pretty throat and leave her bleeding out on the ground. 

But the more time he spends with her, the more times he watches this weak little royal try to be brave, the more endeared she becomes to him 

As he nears the gardens, trying to dispel all these thoughts from his mind, he notices something up ahead: the two guards who were watching the entrance are lying on the ground in pools of blood. Knowing exactly what this means, Sukuna breaks into a sprint while drawing his sword. 

Running through the gardens, he spots his princess, desperately struggling against two men, one of them gripping her hand. 

He hears one of them say, “I just want some royal pussy!” and suddenly his blood is boiling. He sees the needle in the other man’s hand, getting close to one of her fingers, and he wonders if he’ll reach her in time. 

Suddenly his princess kicks a pot by her feet, holding a withered plant. The pot hits the man in the leg, distracting him enough to loosen his grip. Sukuna grins as he watches her pull free and turn to see him running toward her. 

“Captain!” she calls, relief evident on her face. 

The other two men notice him just before he reaches them, and they turn to flee, but they’re too slow. He catches up to them in seconds, swinging his sword in an arc that cuts both of them down. 

As they lay on the ground bleeding, Sukuna stands over them, his red eyes flashing with anger. “You fuckers thought you could touch her?” he asks, stabbing into the shorter one’s stomach and twisting the blade. The man howls in agony, but Sukuna doesn’t stop. “What were you saying? That you wanted some royal pussy?” He pulls the sword out and stabs it into the man’s groin, drawing another scream. 

Finally the man dies, and Sukuna turns his attention to the other man, who is lying helplessly in a pool of his own urine. Sukuna is so disgusted, he finishes the man off quickly with a stab to the heart. 

He turns to his princess, wondering what sort of expression she’ll be wearing. This is the closest assassins have ever came to actually pricking her finger. 

Her face looks passive, calm, as she huffs and crosses her arms. “You’re late, Captain.”

She can’t fool Sukuna. He sees the way her hands tremble before she balls them into fists, hears the way her voice quivers even as she tries desperately to project nonchalance. 

He remembers hearing from a servant that the princess refused to cry when her beloved parents were murdered. She had immediately realized she was queen now, and she has a duty to hold this kingdom together in a time of turmoil. And so she pretends to be made of stone. 

For over three months straight, she’s been wearing a steel mask, never letting it slip even once. Watching her stand there, clearly shaken and afraid, he wants to rip that mask off. But he won’t. At least not here and now. 

“Didn’t expect two attempts in the same day,” he says, mimicking her casual tone. “The old bitch must be getting impatient.”

“I’m going inside,” she says, walking past him quickly. He follows behind, stepping over the guards’ corpses. She had only stopped for a moment to look at them, her face blank as she gave a small bow of respect. Now she’s walking swiftly to her chambers, and once inside, Sukuna shuts the door behind him. 

She looks up as if surprised to see him. “I wish to be alone for a moment,” she says. “Please wait outside my door.”

He steps closer until he’s right in front of her. “You’re trembling,” he tells her, placing one hand on her shoulder. 

A tiny flicker of panic flashes across her face, but she quickly recovers. “I am not trembling! I’m just… I just…”

He looks down at her, his face softening. “You don’t have to feign strength with me, Princess. In all the world, the one place you can let yourself be weak is by my side.”

Her eyes are becoming wet as they stare up at him. He moves his hand from her shoulder to her face, his fingers gently grazing her cheek. 

“I was terrified,” she whispers. “The things they planned to do to me… I can’t bear the thought!”

Sukuna feels the powerful urge to comfort her, to draw her into his arms, but he maintains his control. Instead, his hand slides down a bit, caressing her jaw, his thumb rubbing over her plump, painted lips. He leans in closer. He wants to kiss her, to claim her, but he won’t. He pulls away, deciding he needs to put some distance between the two of them, lest he do something he’ll regret. 

A look of hurt passes over her features as he turns away from her and walks a few steps away. 

That’s when he hears her voice behind him, still fragile and raw, say, “Coward!”

He freezes. The word sends a spike of anger through him, bordering on rage. He stomps back to her, not knowing if he wants to kiss her or hit her. She’s looking up at him defiantly. 

“You don’t even know what you’re saying,” he says, his voice low, dangerous. “You want a man like me to fuck you, a dainty virgin princess? I’d tear you apart.”

Her expression doesn’t change. “Stop acting like I’m some lovesick teenager. I’m a grown woman. And I’m a queen, not a princess.”

Something in him snaps. He moves forward, closing the small distance between them in three steps, and roughly turns her around to face the tall window in her bedroom. His hands yank up her dress, diving under the layers of satin and lace, finding the flimsy panties beneath and ripping them off. She makes a sound, something between a gasp and a cry, clearly surprised. 

One hand shoves between her soft thighs, squeezing and groping the delicate flesh there, feeling how wet and slippery she already is. His callused fingers, the fingers of a killer who never should have been anywhere near this woman, part her slick folds and find her sensitive clit. He rubs it harshly, having no experience being gentle with anyone. 

She cries out, her shaking legs buckling beneath her. He wraps one arm around her chest, under her arms, holding her upright as his other hand relentlessly strokes her most tender places. Her quick, shuddering breaths are like music to him as he finally releases her clit and instead plunges one thick finger into her tiny, dripping hole. 

*****************************

This is what you want, what you’ve wanted for three months: Sukuna’s hands on you, pleasuring you, his firm body pressed against yours. 

His fingers are rough, one of them shoving inside you, making you jerk. And when he pushes a second one in, you feel a sting as your body stretches around him. You whimper, your body already collapsed and being held up by him. 

Then you hear his voice in your ear, “You want my cock but you can’t even handle my fingers, princess.”

He’s pumping them in and out, his palm rubbing against your aching clit. You let out a moan that sounds more like a sob, your hands gripping his arm. “Please,” you say, your voice broken, desperate for release, “m-make me cum!”

You can feel his hot breath on your neck as his fingers curl inside you, touching something that’s never been touched before. You scream, your body going completely limp in his grasp. You cum in his arms, twitching with pleasure, your pussy sore and stinging from the two fingers still lodged inside it. 

He keeps them there until you ride out your orgasm, then finally withdraws them and lowers your spent body to the floor. You’re left on your knees, panting, your own fluids dripping out of you. It takes you a moment to realize your face is wet with tears. Were you crying? 

You look up in time to see him licking his fingers clean, and the lewd sight has you hungering for more. You stare at him expectantly, waiting for him to tear your dress off and have his way with you. Instead, he gives you a disdainful look. 

“That’s all you’re getting from me. I’m not going to ruin you,” he says. 

“You keep saying that! Maybe I want you to ruin me!”

He looks down at you, red eyes gleaming with anger. “You turned into a crying mess when I put two fingers in you. What do you think will happen if I shove my whole cock into that tight little pussy?”

You glare back at him. “I don’t know, but I’d like to find out!”

He grumbles something under his breath, then turns away from you again. It almost sounded like he said, “Don’t tempt me”. 

You practically growl in frustration as you climb to your feet and head to your private washroom to clean up. 

It’s later in the evening when you’re standing in your room, looking out the very window he pressed you against earlier. You touch the glass, remembering how his fingers felt. You turn around, angry at yourself for getting heated again, angry at him for leaving you unsatisfied. You could die or fall into a deep sleep at any moment! Why can’t he understand that you want to be with him before that happens? 

You feel something soft brush against your ankle, and you look down to see Briar, the cat that lives in the castle to kill rats, rubbing his face on you. Bending down, you scoop him up and pet his back. “Have you been doing your job properly?” you ask, scratching his ears as he purrs. 

You hear your door opening and look over to see Sukuna walking in. He hasn’t spoken to you since the… incident earlier. Will he apologize? Or maybe tell you he’s leaving? He’s an unpredictable one. You brace yourself for whatever he has to say, your hand absently rubbing Briar’s fur. 

Suddenly you feel something sharp. You wince and Briar jumps down from your arms. You look at your finer, seeing one tiny drop of blood. 

Oh no. 

The conniving old fairy used the cat! 

You look up at Sukuna, holding up your finger. There’s a look of horror on his face as he breaks into a run. But it’s too late. Everything is going dark. You hear him shouting your name, feel his strong arms catch you before you hit the floor, but your eyes slide closed, and you see nothing more. 

[karaeilishh]

have you ever tried this one?

dom!sabrina carpenter x sub!fem!reader

warnings: smut, strap, oral, degradation?, mommy kink, hella teasing

a/n - some of you wanted a switch!sabrina and i’m gonna write for her later, but for now just enjoy sucking her strap

inglewood was a nondescript town you always wanted to see. see with your girlfriend, holding hands and entwining your fingers. so when you found out that sabrina will be performing in this town in the future, you jumped up excitedly, throwing your arms around her neck and muttering something like, “you’re the best girlfriend ever!”

but here you are, and the days leading up to her concert were too busy with preparation, for you and sabrina to get out of the hotel to go to a restaurant or just take a leisurely stroll around the city together. all you had now were quick kisses before she had to go on stage again and soft cuddles before a three-hour nap and an empty bed the next morning.

you missed sabrina so much. her kisses on your skin, her hands on your body, her sweet voice when she softly moans your name in your ear, her warmth, your little intimate moments, you missed her all. and most of all, the moments when she took control. damn, you love it.

"come on baby…" no matter how little time you spent together, you were grateful to be with your girlfriend during her tour. you could always see her and catch the air kisses she blew you while her makeup artist worked on her makeup. you loved the moments when in a huge crowd, her eyes were glued to you for a few seconds. just a few seconds, but her mind was definitely constantly around you. you knew that no matter how many people she looked at during each concert, eventually her eyes would return to you. and her hands too. at night.

you swallowed hard when you saw sabrina's smile on the big screen at the beginning of ‘juno’. oh, that smile was just for you. you, like all the thousands of fans next to you, could only guess what pose she would show now and it really made you nervous. you needed her so much that you only had to think about it to get excited.

your vision is blurry as she runs to the edge of the stage. your stomach dropped as she knelt down. your mouth went dry as she made those movements with the microphone. sabrina managed to throw you a quick dirty look before continuing to sing, but fuck, you didn’t hear her anymore. you couldn’t hear anything except the frantic beating of your heart. you just need to kneel in front of her and…

“sabrina…” you have no idea how you ended up in a black tinted audi while her driver was driving you to the hotel. sabrina giggled and drew patterns with her manicured fingers on the inside of your thigh, teasing and tickling your milky skin. you instinctively spread your legs, begging her to go further, but she just adjusts your cute black dress that she picked for you by herself, making your pussy literally cry. her hands are no longer on your body when the driver asks her something related to the show. it was torture. "you're acting like a little slut, it's so sweet"

your breath hitched when she whispered those words in your ear. sabrina had always been such a tease, and you kind of got used to it, but now, when you desperately needed her inside you, there was nothing funny about it. now, when she ran her warm tongue over the pulse point on your neck, you thought you would die because of her. for her. for her pleasure, anything, just to get you alone sooner.

“please, brina don’t play with me…” you whine softly into her ear, praying she’ll stop teasing you while her driver talks to your girlfriend, apparently not even noticing that she’s not listening to him anymore, caught up in you and your desperation for her. she giggles sweetly as her hand goes back between your legs, filling the empty space. “what did you say, princess?”

you open your mouth to answer her, but the only thing that comes out is something between a scream and a moan as she presses her fingers harshly against your clit. your face flushes red as the man in the driver’s seat’s gaze shifts to you. “are you okay, ma’am?”

sabrina looks at you so damn innocently it makes your blood boil. “are you okay, ma’am?” the sweet way she says it, the mocking way, it makes you squeeze her hand between your legs. you feel her rings scratching your skin. your voice didn't sound as confident as you'd like. "y-yeah…"

"good girl… keep quiet" yes, mommy.

“sabrina, please…” you whine as she presses kisses and bites to your neck while her hands explore every inch of your body. she told you to take your panties off, just so you could both see your arousal dripping down your thighs. your hands claw at the wall sabrina had you pinned against. this girl was petite, but you were so weak because of her. the fact that she was still wearing high heels made her tower slightly over you, and it was sexy. “please what, princess?”

her whispers against your skin made tears roll down your cheeks. so desperate, but sabrina just smirked, tearing her mouth away from your neck. she looked into your eyes, tilting her head to the side as if studying every emotion on your face. wasn’t it obvious? "and one more thing, it's not sabrina tonight"

you swallow hard, immediately realizing what she means. thank god you took off your heels, because she would have definitely made you fall to the floor. "please, i need you to fuck me…" you look her straight in the eyes as she chuckles at your words, her thumbs wiping the tears from your cheeks. “mommy?”

"since you're so polite, princess, how could i refuse you?" sabrina winks at you, walking across the room to grab your favorite thing. you lick your lips as you watch her fasten it to her hips. you realize that you're about to be the one doing the pose sabrina did on the show. fuck.

"on your knees, princess" her pink strap fits perfectly on her body as she sways her hips, making her way to the bed. She sits on the edge, spreading her legs demonstratively. Encouraging you to crawl to her like a good puppy. You literally fall at her feet, holding her perfect hips with your hands.

“that’s my good girl. so obedient, mm?” she ran the tip of the strap over your lips, making you open your mouth in anticipation. you wanted to take it in your mouth, but she stopped you. “where’s your manners, sweet girl?” her voice was soft but serious. god, this girl driving you crazy.

“y-yes, im your obedient girl… please, can i suck it?” you squeeze her hips and give her a puppy look. sabrina smiles, enjoying you. she liked to keep such an obedient little girl a secret only for herself. she gathers your hair into a lazy ponytail, just like she did during the concert, bringing your head closer to her strap. "such a greedy, slutty little thing"

you didn't care what she said anymore as her cock filled your mouth. her hand guided your head and you felt the tip of her strap scrape the back of your throat. sabrina moans like she feels everything you do. your eyes as you look at her, the dirty sounds that come from between you and the silicone in your mouth, it all drives her crazy. both of you.

"that's my good girl…" sabrina grips your hair tighter, causing mild pain. you whine, taking more of her strap into your mouth, proving to her that you're her good girl. your drool drips down your chin as sabrina lets you pull your mouth away from her cock. you breathe heavily, looking somewhere at the floor. your arousal drips down your thighs.

"come here, princess. come on mommy's lap" sabrina helps you up and sits you on her thighs. your pussy touches the soft skin of her thigh and you can't help but start riding her. sabrina presses a kiss to your shoulder and then bites, making you sigh. "please mommy…"

it's going to be a long night.

[lalunanymph]

who’s your (baby) daddy. [3] 

╰┈➤ After being dumped by your boyfriend of 3 years, you decide to switch things up and go on your own version of a “hot girl summer”—subsequently finding yourself with a surprise that would arrive in 9 months time. The catch? You have absolutely no idea which of the men you slept with is your baby’s daddy.

𖨆♡𖨆 nanami x reader, gojou x reader, toji x reader, sukuna x reader

# mechanic!toji, explicit smut, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of babies, girlies fighting, mentions of food, toji is a deadbeat dad wbk minors and ageless blogs dni

‗ ❍ masterlist  

You were never one to be this reckless.

All your life, you were raised by two strict parents who always taught you to look both ways before you crossed the roads, to always ask as many questions as you could and never take things at face value.

Growing up, you were defined as being ‘bossy’ by people around you, a term loosely thrown at any young girl who exhibited even a shred of backbone; the kind of treatment that a man would never get in this world. 

And so, this perspective was what shaped you to be the best at what you did—to give your all, but to always be cautious in what you were giving away in the first place. 

What your parents, school and life failed to teach you was to not believe in a handsome and charming man. For the day you met Fushiguro Toji was the day when that caution all went down the drain. Little did you know that a chance meeting with him would result in you fainting in the middle of an OBGYN’s room like one of those delicate princesses from cartoons you used to watch when you were younger, with that man being the first one to catch you before you jarred to the ground.

But, to get to the present, you had to first backtrack through the past. 

It was a few weeks after that party in the Getos residence when you were given an assignment to go to the countryside—of all places—to interview an anonymous worker who wanted to spill on the conditions of his factory.

Mia had once told you that a good story was like a sandcastle—you could build and build it as much as you wanted from a variety of leads, but once the relevant people caught wind, they would descend upon that little sand house of evidence you built to knock it back to the ground. But, there was another thing those secretive higher-ups failed to recognize; how journalists always waited for the tide to recede before striking. 

At that time, the case had been red-hot and you were the first one on the frontlines to catch it. 

You had driven all the way towards the outskirts of Tokyo, towards the sleepy town of Kamakura—a journey of almost 2 hours with the traffic—where the worker would be waiting for you in a nondescript cafe to tell you his side of the story. Back then, you had no idea if you were already pregnant or if it had not happened just yet; all you recalled was how swelteringly hot it was. 

The cafe offered a cool respite and you ducked under the awning, tightening your blazer around your shoulders. He was a short, flat-nosed man with a northern dialect who gestured too much that he almost knocked back your cup of coffee. Nonetheless, you did your job, hmming and ohhing when he divulged a new piece of mistreatment, only getting to the juicy parts half an hour into your conversation.

“And that's why the deal fell through.” You perked up and positioned your recorder closer to him, frowning. 

“Are you positive?”

“Yes,” he enthused, “It was because of that near lawsuit. All the big guys were talking about it near the watercooler,” he puffed out his chest, mimicking the deep drawl of Kaizen’s top executive. “‘Those damn assholes—they always ruin everything. Told ya we shouldn’t have made a deal with those trigger-happy vultures’.” 

“I see,” you furiously scribbled down his words verbatim. 

He was happy to spill more about the company’s numerous HR violations, and you had literally gasped when you heard they were denying work VISAs to their immigrant workers. It all made your blood boil. 

Towards the end of the interview, you bowed to him and he did the same, double and even triple checking that you would not mention his name in your piece. You made the solemn promise that you did not, and that he would be termed as an ‘anonymous whistleblower’. 

The sun was already setting when you decided to drive back to Tokyo, and you reasoned that it would not take you long. That was before you drove over a nail, and your back tire exploded, causing you to swerve and hit the side of the road, your yell of fear giving way to the unbearable stillness of disbelief.

No fucking way. 

You exhaled out a low groan and slammed your head to the steering wheel. Just fucking great. Here you were, stuck in the middle of god knows where on a stretch of road with nothing but a field of wildflowers as far as the eye could see. Miserably, you stared at the clock, watching the minutes slip by, stubbornly refusing to head out and check on your tire; maybe if you closed your eyes hard enough, you’d awake in your bed to find this all a horrible nightmare. 

Fingers twitching, your first instinct was to call Kento. 

But, reality set in and you remembered that he was no longer someone you could freely call. You no longer had the privilege to call him up whenever you wished, to hear his voice and how he sighed in defeat at your clumsiness but would always come to save you even if you never asked.

It wouldn’t hurt to call him just this once… wouldn’t it?

You had no idea which entity possessed you to reach for your phone. His number was always the first one on your contact list, where it rightfully belonged. But what if he blocked you? You shook those thoughts from your mind and focused on the dial tone.

Ring… ring… ring…

Your heart sank all the way to your stomach. Of course he would not pick up. It was a Friday evening and he was probably with another girl. Kento did not need you in his life any longer. 

“Hello?” 

Your voice caught at the back of your throat.

“Hello? Y/N?” 

It’s incredible how someone’s voice had the ability to bring back a wave of memories. You closed your eyes and did not reply.

“Y/N? Hey—you okay?” Nanami was not a man who was easily concerned, having been around enough volatile situations at work to hone his veneer of apathy. But, the worry in his voice was unmistakable. “Y/N? What’s wrong? Are you hurt—?” 

Suddenly, your common sense returned. You shouldn't have called him in the first place. Clicking the red button, you ended the call and sagged forward, clutching the phone in your hand and pressing it to your forehead. Idiot. You were such an idiot. Your cheeks were wet and you sniffed, wiping the back of your hand over your nose. 

A familiar chord from a well-loved song played from the radio. 

Living alone… I think of all the friends I've known… But when I dial the telephone… Nobody's home…

All by myself, you mouthed the song's lyrics, sinking back into your car seat. “Damn it,” you groaned and forced yourself to straighten, roughly pushing the button to cut the song off before you could faint from crying too much and dying of carbon monoxide poisoning. Silence descended upon you like a thick fog.

Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad to spend the night here, you reasoned.

Skyscrapers and tall buildings were swapped out for thick trees and a lack of light pollution. Perhaps you could even see the stars tonight, something you had not done since you were a little girl. Perhaps—

A loud knock on your window jolted you from your reverie. 

It was the bulk of a man and judging from his frame, he was huge. 

You shrank back into your car seat, praying he did not see you. “I’m going to die, I’m going to die.” So this was how you were to meet your demise; murdered in the middle of a flower field. Did your insurance cover this? You really should have read the manual. In the throes of your thoughts, you hadn’t anticipated him moving to your window and tapping on it. 

A squeak fell from your mouth and you cracked the window open slightly. 

The face that greeted you took your breath away. Dark blue eyes that were closer to navy, inky black locks that fell across his forehead and a smirk on his scarred lips. Holy shit. 

“Car trouble, miss?” 

You meekly nodded and scanned down his impressive chest and abdomen. You wanted to tell yourself you were searching for a hint of a weapon, but that was a lie. God, how was his chest that defined under that tight black shirt? 

Swallowing, you cracked the window wider and meekly nodded. “I t-think I ran over a nail.”

“Let me take a look,” he offered and raised a thumb towards the front of the road. “I have a workshop nearby. I can fix it for ya. That good with ya?”  

You were surprised to find a tow truck in your rearview mirror and gazed at him with wide eyes. “H-how did you know—?” 

“I was driving past here and saw the flat tire,” he explained with that same infuriating smirk. “Thought I could try my luck and see who needed my help.”

Your answering laugh was hollow and you unbuckle your seatbelt, getting out of the car. This close, he was taller—almost towering over you and you felt like a rag doll next to him. Though he seemed nice enough, your guard was still up. 

“Sure. That’d be great.” 

At your words, he nodded towards the tow truck. “Get in the front. I’ll hook ‘er right up.” His jeans were covered with grease stains and his hands had the hard look of labor on them. Perhaps he was telling the truth. By now, the sun was slowly making its grand exit, the shades of night soon drawing close. There was no way you could drive back home in this state, not when your chest felt tight and you were terrified of driving in the dark. 

You obediently followed and sat in the cracked passenger seat, fidgeting with your fingers. He got into the driver’s side and with his sheer size, his shoulder was almost brushing yours. He looked like one of those obnoxious gym bros but the way he carried himself was more subdued, a confidence that did not need to be compensated with flexing and Instagram likes. His vibe was unmatched and you found yourself easing around him. 

He drove the tow truck forward and you observed his roughened but deft hands hitch the hook underside and secured it in place. In a matter of efficient minutes, he had done the job and hopped back in, the truck jerking to life.

“Wear your seatbelt.” You scrambled to click the buckle and continued fidgeting with the straps of your purse.

“So, where’d you come from?” he asked amicably and you glanced at him, startled that he was making conversation. “Ya look spooked, so I’m guessing not from here, eh?”

“No,” you murmured, “I’m from Tokyo.”

“What’s a city girl like you doing here?” A lilting teasing tone that made you wonder if he was holding back laughter at your state. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you shyly laced your fingers together.

“I was here for a business interview. I work at a newspaper publishing company.”

You had no idea why you were divulging this to him. For all you knew, he could’ve been an axe murderer who picked up women using this modus operandi and he was planning to take you back to his lair before chopping you up into pieces. 

As if sensing you tense, he glanced at you. “The name’s Toji. Fushiguro Toji. What’s yours?”

“Y/N,” you said and did not give your last name. “Thanks for helping me, Fushiguro-san.”

“I ain’t doing this out of the goodness of my heart, doll,” he drawled and there was something in the wake of his mischievous smile. “I ain’t charity.”

Somehow, this prickly admission made you loosen and you found a smile on your face. “Honest. I like that.”

His laughter was low and almost smoky, which gave you the illusion that he was someone who smoked. The scenery flew past—rolling hills and miles of fields that sprawled out like a Van Gogh painting. Though you had never been much for the countryside, you could understand why city people regularly flocked to the safety of the greener pastures when the smog and fray got too much.

Ahead, a simple mechanic workshop attached to a double-storey home came into view. Toji carefully parked the tow truck and told you to wait inside. Those rippling muscular arms were put into good use when he physically pushed your car into the workshop, immediately getting to work. 

He toiled under your curious stare. For someone of his build and burly strength, he was surprisingly nimble with the tools, and in what seemed like a whir of screwing, pumping and a lot of grunting, your car was fixed. By now, it was purely dark and you could barely make out the fields outside his windows and shivered to think of what could hide inconspicuously in those stalks of waving, tall grass.

“Okay, I’ve fixed your tire.”

You nearly jumped from your skin, momentarily forgetting that he was here with you. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Toji’s curiosity edged you to explain, not wanting him to get a wrong impression of why you had suddenly paled. 

“It’s—uh… dark.”

“That tends to happen when night comes.” He was teasing, but there was an undercurrent of worry in his tone. Something about him—whether his presence or his unassuming dark blue eyes—made you blurt out the truth. 

“I’m…” you twisted the keys in your fingers, stalling. “... do you know if there’s a motel nearby that I can bunk in for the night?”

He snorted. “You ‘fraid of driving in the night?” 

When you didn’t reply, he got his answer. “Shit. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the dark?” 

Wincing, you cleared your throat, adopting an air of sheepishness to ward off his judgement. “Yeah. I had a bad accident when I was younger; I tend to stay away from roads when there’s no sun.”

There was contemplation when he rapped his knuckles atop your car’s roof. 

“You said Tokyo, right?”

“Yeah.”

Toji kissed his teeth and stared out of his workshop’s window. “Hmm. I have a spare room. You could crash there.”

You didn’t dare believe it. The cautious part of you—the one that looked twice before crossing any road—was screaming at you to not take him up on his offer. But the other part—the one that could not even bear to look out the window when driving past a pitch black road, shuddered at the thought of making the arduous journey back into the city.

Images of thieves, ghosts, scarecrows and even aliens flashed in your mind. 

“Only if you’re comfortable,” he amended and you considered your options.

“You don’t mind?” 

“If by not minding ya mean I won’t charge ya, then no,” he said, a tinge of amusement in his tone. 

You couldn't’ help the grin that tugged at the corner of your lips. 

“Okay. I’ll stay out of your way—it’s just for tonight.” 

Toji nodded and swept one large hand in front of him, gesturing for you to follow. You did, staring at the broad muscles of his back and wondering how a guy in the countryside got this buff. But, it made sense; he was a mechanic and he seemed to work alone. 

He fumbled with his keys before unlocking the door, letting you step in first. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

Like his workshop, his home was bare and sparsely furnished. Everything had a use and everything was in its place; it seemed ordinary enough. 

“This is… nice.”

“You think so?” 

“There’s no axe hanging on the wall so I guess I have to count myself lucky.” 

He laughed at your joke; a full-bodied, low sound that was pleasing to hear. Toji showed you to your room and even left you a spare towel and a set of old clothes that looked like it belonged to a woman—perhaps a girlfriend. 

“Hey, you sure this person doesn’t mind me using her stuff?” you poked your head past the door to quip at him. Toji was halfway boiling some water and he flickered his gaze to you, shrugging. 

“She’s not here.”

“Your girl?” you frowned, wondering if it was too late to refuse his offer despite how much the simple yet wide bed was beckoning you for rest.

“Ex,” he intoned from the kitchen. “Broken up months ago. She left some clothes here so might as well, eh?” 

Pursing your lips, you decided not to push him too much on this. Rather, you shut the door, locking it for good measure before starting to undress. The hot water was a soothing salve on your sore muscles and you sighed, dunking your head under the stream and letting it wash your tiredness away. 

You scrubbed your skin until it shone, washed your hair and even used some of his shampoo. Halfway through, the stream turned into a trickle and eventually, the water stopped altogether. Still with suds in your hair, you frowned and wrapped your towel around you. 

“Hey, Toji?” 

“Yeah?” 

He sounded far away and from the distance, you could hear the commentary of a sports event or another humming low in the background.

“Your shower isn't working.”

“Seriously? Fuck—this dump always had plumbing problem.” His grumbling grew closer and if he found you disconcerting in just a towel, he didn’t comment on it, averting his eyes politely. Toji bent down to check the pipe, mumbling under his breath and you tried not to get too puddles on his flooring. 

“Fuck!” 

A jet of water seemed to explode around the both of you, drenching you and completely soaking him, your shriek echoing across the tiles. Toji blindly reached for the piping and twisted it, the water stopping and leaving the both of you blinking.

“Shit, you’re all wet.”

Toji groaned, scarred lips twisted into a frown. Uncaring that a stranger was right in front of him, he peeled his shirt from his glistening abdomen, tossing it onto the floor. You fought hard not to ogle at his defined muscles, preferring to drop your stare and find the cracks of your toes more interesting than this fine specimen of a man. 

“Not exactly something a man wants to hear.”

“Not exactly something I envisioned telling a man in the first place.”

Your retort caught him off-guard and his gaze touched yours. Biting down on a smile, you had to stop yourself from laughing at how the strands of inky locks dripping down his chiselled features reminded you of a disgruntled dog. 

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not! Here—” you quickly passed him the smaller towel and he wiped the droplets from his face, his exacerbated annoyance making it hard not to burst out into peals of giggles. His annoyance was palpable and you reigned your reactions in, taking a step back to give him space, but it was a wrong move.

Your feet slipped on the slick floor and you squealed, heart dropping to your stomach as you lost your balance and jarred onto the floor. 

“Y/N!” 

Strong arms reached for you, holding you up and bringing you back to your feet. Your heart was hammering a mile a minute, your cheek pressed to his pecs as you steadied your breathing. 

“Shit.”

“Y-you okay?” you were surprised to find a waver in his tone when he eyed your quickly scrambling form. You cursed and hitched the towel higher around your bare breasts. 

“Y-yeah.” 

The towel had slipped up and exposed the split of your thighs where a searing pain was spreading across your hip. You cursed and rubbed the bump, cursing under your breath, face twisted in pain. 

“Shit—looks like it’s g’na bruise. Wait, I’ll get first aid.” 

Toji gingerly let you go and left the bathroom. You hobbled out, mindful of your steps and collapsed onto the bed, still massaging the tender spot, your teeth clenched as the waves of pain ebbed and flowed around you. 

He returned and found you on the bed, still alleviating the pain and burying your groans into the sheets. Gentle hands brushed yours aside and you jumped when you felt him prod the bruise.

“Ow!” 

“Sorry—needed to see how bad it was.”

You whimpered when he rubbed some ointment onto the welt, his touch now softer than before. He barely gave you time to flinch away when he peeled your towel back further, the dark triangle between your legs peeking through, your modesty all but ruined in front of this gorgeous stranger. 

His touch was soothing and instead of closing your eyes and enjoying it, you preferred to use humour as a tool of deflection to ward off the awkwardness that clung between the both of you like a film of grease. “Do you always bring women home to your shitty plumbing and give them near concussions?”

You winced when he placed a bandage over the injury; his snort of laughter both reeked of annoyance and amusement in one breath. 

“Nope. You’re the first.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Despite meeting him for a short moment, you could tell that he had rolled his eyes. Once he patched you up and left you to dress, you took the chance to make amends and sought him out. He was seated at the dining table, dressed once more and nursing a mug of tea. Without asking, he reached for a spare cup and poured you a drink, asking without words to join him. 

And you did, tentatively taking a seat opposite of him. 

Understanding the fact that this night had already started off on a weird footing, you decided to lean into it rather than resist. 

“So, Toji from Kamakura. What brings you here?”

He clicked his tongue, a sly grin in place. “Tryna unearth my deepest secrets already?”

You took a sip of the warm beverage, feeling its curls of comfort radiating deep in your chest. You had no idea why you were so adamant on telling yourself you were never one to be reckless when here you were, drinking from a stranger’s cup, staying under his roof and hoping to God he did not lace your tea with a roofie. 

“Why? Afraid I’ll recognize your name?” 

“Maybe you would.”

You couldn’t tell if he was serious and he let you ferment in your discomfort before breaking the tension with a snort. 

“I was from Tokyo, too. Came from a rich but terrible family. Ran away when I was 17 and never looked back. You?” 

Oh. You deflated a bit and shared with him a fleeting smile. 

“My parents were accountants but I never took that route. Loved words more than numbers.”

He hummed. “So, you combined them both?” 

“Well, you gotta appease your parents sometimes.”

“I get that.” You had a thought that no, he didn’t. Toji did not seem like a guy that played by anyone’s rules or games; he marched to the beat of his own damn drum as evident from the curling tattoos around his arm and the unusual scar across his lips. 

Without thinking, you reached out and brushed the tips of your fingers lightly on his skin, admiring the pattern and swirls. 

“I like the design. Was always thinking about getting a tattoo.”

“You should,” he said, voice gruff. But, he did not make a move to shift away from you. 

“May I see more of it?” Your request was timid, and from the pause that vibrated between the both of you like the echoes of a gong, you would think he was going to refuse. But, Toji was proving to surprise you at every turn and pushed the sleeve of his black crew neck sweater up, revealing more of the distinct whorls that seemed to bloom from his tanned and scarred skin. 

“Here.”

You traced one design lightly, unaware at how his breathing had turned ragged, not when you glanced up at him. 

Those dark blues drowned you in their depths and you felt like you could not breathe. 

“Toji—”

He leaned in, palm skimming your cheek. The air seemed to spark and burn like metal meeting metal and you found you wanted to discover if those flickers would catch aflame. 

“You know… I never do this, but…”

He did not finish his sentence, not when you bridged the gap and pressed your lips to his. He tasted of chamomile and nicotine, and when his tongue dipped into the crevices of your mouth, cajoling yours into a sultry dance, you found you liked the weight of his unsaid words between your teeth. 

Toji pulled back slightly, flickering his eyes back to your lips as if he could retrace them by memory alone. 

“Do you wanna—”

“Yeah,” you tried to hide how heavily you were breathing but it was no use. Every rise and fall of your chest throbbed with the growing attraction you could not hide. “Want it.”

“Y/N—”

Proving to yourself that you were more reckless than you discredited yourself with, you clambered onto his lap, thighs pressed on either side of his hips, the shirt he gave you riding up slightly to reveal the soft flesh of your stomach. 

Toji cupped your face in both of his palms, calloused thumbs brushing your cheekbones. He brought you forward, tipping you over to him and drinking from your lips once more, a desperate edge in his kisses this time. Your moans were swallowed by his infuriatingly soft kisses, that plush mouth like a flower blossoming under your lips, letting you shyly sampling the stain of nicotine on his tongue. 

How could a mere kiss leave you panting like you had run a marathon? Whatever spell Toji casted on you, it worked and you fixed him with a half-lidded gaze. “More—please.” 

You didn’t have to ask him twice. Putting those burly muscles to good use, Toji picked you up effortlessly, your bare thighs straddling his tapered waist as he took swift strides towards a room you haven't noticed—one hidden behind a wall. Keeping you still in his arms where you could feel every ripple of his defined muscles pressed against your body, you could not stop yourself from nibbling and sucking the salt off his neck, your moans clashing hotly on his sensitive skin.

A quick grunt, and your pajamas were ripped off your body, leaving you bare and spread for his eyes. Tonight, you threw away your preconceived worries about constantly being the cautious one and embraced the insanity. It seemed that Toji and you were on the same wavelength and he peeled off his tight black shirt off his frame, letting you ogle at just how ripped he was. 

It was obscene how good he looked above you, and it seemed like your legs parted automatically for him to settle between them. Those dark blue eyes were riddled with lust, a smirk growing on his scarred lips—the same lips that made their way down the column of your throat. There was no reason why you let out a lustful moan beyond the fact that every touch of his lips on your skin sent jolts of pleasure down your spine, going south to settle deeply in the centre of your body; your clit twitching when he tongued your nipples. 

There was no gentleness when he flipped you over to your hands and knees, your face pushed into the woolen blankets that smelled musky and almost soapy—exactly like how Toji smelled like. Imbued with the scent of him that seemed to saturate your every pore and the feel of his lips on your neck, the hot press of his calloused fingers mapping a straight line down your back like he was tracing the spine of a book. 

Like a well-loved story, you unfurled yourself for him, letting him pinch your nipples and teasingly run his cock through your soaked folds. Heavy breathing filled the space between the both of you, curling around like thick smoke, choking you back with the pressure of his cockhead slowly splitting you open. 

“Fuck. You’re so tight.”

You scrambled to hold onto reality; it had been far too long since you felt a cock this good in you. “Toji—ngh!”

It was dawning on you how much of an enigma Toji truly was—he fucked you like you were nothing but a whore, ramming his hips against yours, palming your breasts and slapping the plush flesh. But there was a softness in how he placed hot, open mouth kisses down your neck that made your toes curl, how those same rough palms ran down your sides, the callouses rasping against your skin leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. 

With his larger build, it was easy for him to bear down on you, press your entire frame to his bed and manoeuvre you however he wanted. Those same coarse fingers touched your clit, rubbing tight circles on it, leaving pangs of pleasure that got you clenching down on his cock. Tips of his inky locks brushed your shoulder and you gasped when he bit down on your pulse point, that sudden sharp burst of pain getting you threateningly close to the edge.

The slick feeling of his precum staining your thighs and your juices barely gave his cock any friction and restraint from reaching all the way to the neck of your cervix. 

“God—Toji!” you cried and pressed one palm onto your lower stomach, eyes growing wide at how you could feel him there. “C-can feel you so deep.” 

“Yeah—I’m all the way here, beautiful?” he draped his larger palm on yours, grunting when your soft mewls touched the shell of his ear, the pleasure growing too much for both of you to hold back. Like a tidal wave, your orgasm was building, reaching massive heights and you were half afraid to come down. 

“Toji—!” 

“Cum for me, pretty girl. Go ahead and mess up my cock.” One strong arm wrapped around you and pressed you tight to his defined chest. “I’ll be here to catch you, baby.” 

“Condom!” you gasped and patted his hand to let you go. Rather than letting you out of his sight, Toji lifted you up, twisting you so that your tits were pressed to his chest and all you could do to not let your bum slam to the ground was to keep your arms wrapped around his neck. 

“Where?” he grunted. Your head was growing lighter—Toji was literally dragging you up and down his cock as he walked, strong enough to keep fucking you without a break. 

“My room,” you squealed and he brought you to a different spot; you had never been this fast in your life to rummage through your purse and reach for a packet, ripping the silver square in haste and letting him pull out long enough to cover his lewdly shiny cock with the rubber. 

Taking over from where you both left off, Toji slammed you against the wall, his scarred mouth to your eye level and you tipped your head up, your legs helplessly shaking in the air. There was no doubt your arms would be sore tomorrow, your core all but bent in half to take his thick girth into your creamy depths. 

“Toji, Toji—”

“Cum for me, doll. Cum for me.” 

Who were you to deny him, especially when he snarled at you to give in and flood his cock. 

Your release broke with a vengeance and you screamed out his name, hips canting madly to milk his cock, feeling his seed dripping down your thighs. You were too tired to even complain when he sat you down on the bed and removed the condom, splatters of white droplets painting your lower belly. 

“Mhm—Toji...”

“Go to sleep,” he reassured, “I’ll get cleaned up and join you.”

But, you were out before he could even fulfill his promise and as he returned back into the guest room to find you completely out cold, he had to smile. Getting in next to you,Toji leaned over and clicked off the light switch, the room drenched in darkness and the soft whistles of your snores. 

“Goodnight, Y/N from Tokyo,” he whispered as he pulled up the quilt to your chin, hiding your naked body from his sight to give you some semblance of decency. He was unsure of how you would react the next morning when you woke up… or god forbid when you found out the truth about him. 

But, Toji did not let those thoughts ruin the glow of his post-orgasm bliss. 

If there was one thing Toji was certain about, it would be this—there truly was not another woman like you for miles around him in this sleepy down. 

Sunlight tickled your eyes and you pried open your lids, finding yourself pressed close to another warm body.

The memories of last night came back with stunning clarity and your cheeks were warmer than a sun-drenched rock, disbelief in yourself for how you had given yourself completely to this stranger. A handsome stranger, but regardless, he was still someone you didn't know very well.

“Morning.” Crap—the hot stranger was awake. 

You did not respond, scrunching your eyes close tightly in hopes he would believe you were still asleep and did not force you to go through with this awkwardness.

“Your snores stopped—I know you’re awake, Y/N.” 

Deciding that you could not delay the inevitable, you pried your eyes open to fix him with a sheepish smile. “Morning,” you croaked, stale breath making you wince. But Toji did not pay any mind to these natural occurrences and offered you a small smile. 

“Gonna take a shower.”

You hummed, peeling your sticky, naked body out of his embrace. “Don’t bump your head.”

“Ha—fucking—ha.” You watched the ripped curve of his back leave the bed and forced your eyes to tear away from literally ogling at him and risking being called a pervert this early in the morning. 

You laid in the wide bed, stretching your arms overhead and enjoying the thrill of birds outside the window. Something about the country seemed charming enough and you briefly allowed yourself to muse how your life would be if you were to leave the city and start a new life away from the fog, the noise pollution, the memory of Kento on every street you walked on—

The loud ring of the doorbell jolted you from your musings, wondering if you would go get it. You reasoned that this was Toji’s home and he should be the one to answer it, but the rapid stream of water that echoed from the bathroom reminded you that he was currently occupied. 

Another grating ring and you stifled a groan, standing up on shaky legs and picking up your pyjama top from last night. Toji’s old shirt was large enough to fall to your thighs, giving you at least a semblance of decency. You staggered to the door, unlatching it only to come face to face with a pair of brown eyes that widened at the sight of you.

The woman at the other end blinked once, twice, and then raked her gaze up and down your barely dressed form, a sudden flash of anger in her eyes. 

“Who are you—?” 

“You slut!” she screamed and pushed past you, wild dark hair mimicking the storm in her almost black gaze. “Where is he? Is he here?”

“Whoa—“ you stumbled back, surprised at her rage, “Who are you?”

Nothing you did could prepare you for her next words. “I’m his girlfriend.”

“W-what?” Through this sudden flash of realisation, you failed to notice the little boy clinging to her leg. 

“He was supposed to be watching his son today.”

Her words didn’t seem to make sense. A son? But the longer you looked at him, you couldn’t deny it. There he was, standing wide-eyed, a full carbon copy of the man you slept with last night. Your stomach sank like you had swallowed a stone. 

Bracing all her anger into her raised voice, she bellowed, “Toji!” 

At this altercation, the dark-haired man came staggering out of the bathroom in nothing but his towel, flabbergasted at the sight of her. 

“Shit—Mira.”

“You gonna explain this to me?” Jabbing her finger in your direction, you couldn’t help but feel as though she was disgustingly pointing out at a bug she had accidentally squashed under her old sneakers. 

Toji flitted his gaze from your shocked expression to her fuming one and furrowed his brow. “There’s nothing to explain.” 

“Who is she?!” 

“Just some rando—ow—hey!” Mira had raised her hand to slap him, and you gasped, hand flying to your mouth at her audacity. 

“You’re such an asshole, Fushiguro. You didn’t send me any money last month—”

Toji rubbed his cheek and growled at her. “I told’ya! I was running low—”

“So you’re resorting to fucking your customers, now?” Hurting worse than her blinding slap was her sudden accusation that all but threw your dignity under the bus.

Right. Of course. You were just his customer; last night didn't mean anything, definitely not to Toji. 

Despite the fact that none of this was making any sense, you swallowed the bile you wanted to hurl at her. If this was his girlfriend, why was she speaking as though she was a spurned wife? 

But, you decided you had intruded enough. Not only were they bickering in broad daylight with raised voices, but they were doing it in front of their son who could only glance back and forth at his mama and papa with wide, hurt-filled blue eyes. 

Stepping back into the room, it seemed that they both did not notice you until you stood before them with your purse in hand. Fishing inside your wallet, you produced a substantial amount of money and passed it to Toji. 

“Here—the money you need.” 

As if he were stepping out from a nightmare, the burly man blinked and gingerly took the cash. “Y/N—wait.”

You paused, waiting for him to struggle with his words. Mira was nowhere to be seen, the world growing smaller to encompass your cold fury and this stammering man before you. 

“I can explain. Mira is not my wife, she’s just my ex who’s taking care of Megumi. My real wife died a long time ago.”

You sighed, rubbing your aching temple. “Toji, I don’t—argh!” 

Something cold and faintly smelling of cream collided with your cheek and you touched your face, pulling your hand back to find it covered with whipped cream. You were confronted by the sight of Mira—her chest heaving, face red and holding that incriminatory can in one hand, a mad gleam in her eye. 

“You crazy bitch!” you yelled, swiping off a glob of cream that threatened to glop into your eye, fixing her with an incredulous stare. 

“Get out!” 

“Mira—” Toji was about to stop her when he got pied in the face with another spray, this one landing right in his mouth and making him choke on his next words. 

“I was gonna!” The anger and indignancy rose in you and you have never felt this humiliated in your life; cream in your hair, cheeks burning and your pride smashed into a million pieces. 

This is what you get for fucking random men, Y/N. 

“Mira—stop. Y/N—”

You stepped back, raising your hand, about to smack the can out of her grasp when she jettisoned you with another stream of cold cream. Having had enough, you wrenched the can out of her hands and gave her a taste of her own medicine—literally and figuratively. She sputtered out a mouthful of that sweet cream and launched into a mad tirade, about to lunge at you before Toji ransomed her into his unyielding arms.

“Guh—bitch!” 

��My hair!” you screeched. “You ruined my hair you fucking batshit insane bitch!” 

Wiping the last glob of cream and shaking off the flecks onto the floor, you threw her a glare so unnerving that even Toji flinched. 

In a voice colder than Arctic ice, you turned your anger to the tall, deceptive man who winced at the sight of more cream dripping down onto the large shirt he had borrowed you. 

“Goodbye, Toji.” 

Despite how badly you wanted to walk out with your dignity intact, it was undeniable that a half-naked woman covered with cream was about as dignified as a drunk person who shat their pants in a club. 

You scuttled past the small, wide-eyed boy in nothing but his father’s shirt, whipped cream dripping down your chin and your burning cheeks. 

“Papa, why is she not wearing any clothes?” That innocent question was the last straw and you quickly closed the door behind you, trying and failing to bite down on your groan of shame.

The last thing you heard as you hightailed it to your car was Mira’s condescending, 

“I don’t get paid enough to deal with your disgusting ass, Toji.”

You came back to the present, rousing to consciousness on the hard examination bed to find three men staring at you in blatant concern.

One of them—the one who had seen you butt naked and covered with whipped cream (but not in a sexual way), was gazing down with barely concealed disbelief.

Toji was the one who first broke the silence. “Y/N?” 

Sukuna was less delicate, getting to the bone of things. “Why didn't you tell us you were pregnant?” 

But, you couldn't speak up, vocal cords ransomed by fear. 

“So, you don’t know which one is the father?” Gojo. His piercing cerulean eyes were filled with an unnamed emotion. 

In the end, it was Shoko who broke the tension by muttering, “I can take some samples from each of you and run it with Y/N’s amniotic fluid.” 

Before you could speak, or even give a rousing reasoning as to why this was important not just for you, but for the baby, Sukuna scoffed and stepped back, his arms crossed. 

“Count me out.”

You swallowed down on your mortification and turned your wide gaze to the tattooed man who looked like he would rather be suffering in the pits of hell than stay for one more second in this crowded, overstuffed room full of potential fathers.

“Sukuna—”

“Yeah, me, too. I already have a kid. I ain’t gonna pay for this one, too.” 

It hurt that they were not willing to even take an hour out of their day to help you find out the truth; that they would discard you just like that—like you didn’t even mean much to them in the first place.

To your surprise, it was Gojo who was trying to convince the dark-haired man to stay. “Toji—”

Finding your voice, you glared at the two men who were the personification of a dog with its tail between its legs. One quick blow and you’re positive the both of them would’ve folded like they were a house of cards. 

“This isn’t about us anymore, okay!” 

You softened your tone, imploring them to understand. “At least just take the test. Please. We have to think about the baby—regardless of who it belongs to and until the test is ready, don’t you want to at least know the child?” 

None of them spoke, too stunned by your outburst. Toji cleared his throat and shook his head, about to retort when Ieiri supplied softly: “It’s a girl.”

There was a collective sharp inhale from each man. 

This time, it was Sukuna who exhaled. “A girl? Damn.” The rosy-haired man’s musing fell on deaf ears for the others, but not on yours. You heard him crystal clear. “I’ve always wanted a girl…” 

“A baby girl, eh? Guess we have to show a good role model.” Satoru winked at you and this tiny show of acceptance warmed your heart that had long gone cold from the previously hostile interaction. 

However, the atmosphere in the room came crashing down again when Toji scoffed. “You both can do that. I’m out.”

There was nothing you could say to convince him. This time, you let the tall, dark-haired man go; thinking it was useless to hinder someone who didn’t even want to be there in the first place. 

You had thought that Sukuna would stay to at least provide his sample, but he sighed and turned towards the door, following Toji's heels. 

“If you would please excuse me.” 

It was just you and Gojo left in the OB GYN room. 

You turned your dulled gaze to him, gently pressing your palm to your stomach where your baby girl was currently growing. With a jaded sigh, you asked him, “Don’t you want to leave, too?” 

Proving that he was a bag full of surprises, the white-haired CEO snorted. “Nah. That baby girl may be mine and I wanna be there for her.” Twinkling cerulean eyes filled you with hope for the first time during this long day. “Besides, you said it yourself—this is not about us. It’s about her.” 

His words melted your heart and you were grateful that even if no one would be there for you, at least Gojo would. 

“Thank you… Satoru.”

— reblogs and feedback are very much loved &lt;3

©️ all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy and repost, or claim as your own

[jetii]

Playing Pretend

Pairing: Wrecker x Twi'Lek fem!Reader

Words: 16,373

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! fake married, (not) unrequited feelings, Wrecker yearning x1000, some negative self talk, big "get your hands off my wife!" energy, some minor jealousy, smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, dirty talk, praise kink, size kink obviously, light dom!Reader

Summary: The mission is simple: infiltrate a lavish party, plant a bug, and get out. The only problem: Wrecker has to pretend to be married to you, and he's not so sure he can hide how much he likes it.

A/N: Happy Wrecker Wednesday! This is definitely the most self-indulgent thing I've ever written, down to the nonhuman reader bc I'm getting a little bored with humans. With this, we've officially reached the end of the fics I wrote before creating this account, and we're going out with a bang (literally).

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This mission is going to be a disaster.

It's not that Wrecker doesn’t trust you, quite the opposite. You’re quiet, quick, and resourceful, and you’re one of the smartest people he’s ever met. You're built for infiltration, for gathering intel, and as far as the Batch is concerned, you have yet to fail a mission. So no, there’s no doubt in his mind you're the perfect spy.

It’s his own ability that gives him pause.

Hunter, Echo, hell, even Tech would’ve been a better pick for any sort of espionage mission over him. When Hunter informed them Wrecker was the one that was going with you, Wrecker laughed. A full belly laugh that brought tears to his eyes and left his face aching, because the very idea of him sneaking around, being stealthy, well, it was ridiculous.

It was so ridiculous he was sure Hunter had meant it as a joke, but when he saw the serious look on his face, the one that told him his brother meant business, Wrecker began to sweat. He hasn’t really stopped since. 

Lying and pretending are two things he’s truly terrible at, coupled with the fact that he’ll be alone with you, playing pretend with you, and he‘s been on edge ever since.

It doesn't help that Cid insisted the only way you could get close to the target is by posing as a married couple. One that are newlyweds, at that. 

Wrecker knows this is a job, just a job, but it's still you. 

He's still going to be touching you, and not because you need him to, or you want him to, but because the job requires it. And the whole thing just has him feeling weird. He knows you can fake being a couple, but he's not sure if he can.

As much as Wrecker hates lying and pretending, he really doesn't hate you. If he's being honest, he probably likes you too much. So that's why, when Hunter told him about the mission, and then later asked if he was alright with the details, Wrecker had said yes.

The look Hunter gave him told him that he didn't quite believe him, and Wrecker wasn't even sure he believed himself. After all, it's no secret he doesn't have the greatest poker face. He doesn't like lying, especially to his brothers. But he also doesn't like disappointing them, or disappointing you, and he's willing to do just about anything to make sure you're safe.

The rest of the night before the mission was spent planning and strategizing, which meant he didn't see much of you. He wanted to check in and make sure you were feeling good about the plan, but he never got the chance. 

Now, here he is, in a small, nondescript hotel room with you, the rest of the squad holed up in the Marauder and waiting on your signal. The room itself is nice, but small, and there's only one bed. He’d felt his nerves spike when he first saw it, but he forced himself to relax. If everything goes according to plan, you won't be sleeping in it.

There are other things he's more worried about, anyway. Like how he's going to pull this off, and how he's going to manage not to fuck up, and most importantly, how he's going to manage spending the entire mission trying not to get too wrapped up in you.

That last part is the hardest.

He's sitting on the bed, the holomap spread out on the small table beside it. Your target is a small-time gangster, and he’s having a party at his penthouse tonight, so it's the perfect opportunity to sneak in. All you have to do is go through the party, find the main office, plant a few bugs, and then get out. 

Easy peasy.

At least, that's what Tech said.

Well, he said a lot more than that, but Wrecker had kind of zoned out around the time Tech started talking about security cameras and frequencies. 

What he does know is the bugs need to be placed somewhere in the office, and the two of you will have to blend in and seem as natural as possible until you can make your way there. Easy for you, but Wrecker knows he'll stick out like a sore thumb, even if he isn't in his armor.

“You alright, big guy?” 

Wrecker nearly jumps at the sound of your voice, heart in his throat as he feels your hand gently grab his arm. He tenses underneath your touch. 

He can’t remember the last time you touched him, or even the last time the two of you were alone together. Probably because it hasn’t happened. He thinks he would remember if it had, because it feels electrifying. Your manicured hand, complete with a wedding ring, slides against the fabric of his suit. It takes everything in him not to shiver.

Then he turns to face you fully, and his eyes nearly fall out of his head. 

No, he’s not alright.

You look absolutely stunning.

It's not like you don't look stunning every day, you do, and even when you're in armor, or covered in dirt and grime, Wrecker thinks you're beautiful. But this...this is something else. It's not fair.

You’ve shared a bit about Ryloth during your time together, and you’d mentioned that ever since you left the hot planet, you felt cold. He’s never seen you without a jacket except that one time you’d been shot in your shoulder, and even then, he was more focused on keeping pressure on the wound and getting you to safety than on what you were wearing.

But right now, he can't focus on anything else.

He, embarrassingly, tends to ogle whenever any inch of your vibrant skin is on display. He walked straight into a wall the time you stretched in front of him, and your shirt rode up to reveal a hint of the curve of your stomach. When he saw your legs in a dress at 79s, he shattered his glass. He couldn’t help it. That was one of the first times he realized he had a problem, but it certainly wasn't the last.

You're just...so much, all the time, and you don't even realize it. He's gotten better at being discrete, or at least, he's better at hiding his reactions.

But this is so, so much.

Made of some fancy shimmering black fabric, the top of the dress left nearly your entire chest exposed along with your arms. With two thin straps to hold it up, he doesn't know how it's staying in place, but he's sure if he looks hard enough, he'll find out.

A deep cut runs down the middle of the dress, starting right under your clavicle and ending in a point just below your stomach. It's long, coming all the way down to your feet and flaring out, and there are two slits up either side of the dress, exposing your thighs as you move.

There's no denying it, the dress is tight, and Wrecker is trying so hard not to look, honestly, but it's like his eyes are glued to your body.

You mentioned you would have a weapon on you just in case, but looking over you now — admiring the way the expensive fabric clung to every curve of you — he struggles to imagine where it could be.

He swallows. Hard.

The hand on his arm lets go to reach up and hold one of your lek, shifting it so both were draped over one shoulder. You’d gone all out with decorating them as well. Sparkling straps of black crisscrossed up to a velvet headpiece that takes the place of your usual bandana, all coming to a point high on your forehead, where a deep blue jewel sits at your crown. It shifts slightly with the raise of your eyebrows, and he realizes he's been staring, and he’s still not saying anything.

Wrecker forces out the first words on his mind.

“Wow! You look—wow..."

You give him a small smile, a hint of color darkening your cheeks, and his heart thuds in his chest. He wants to make you blush all the time.

He reaches out and grabs your hand, lifting it above your head with ease. Wrecker turns you into a spin, and he’s rewarded with your cute laugh and the sound of the dress swishing as you spin. And then he sees your back, entirely exposed all the way down to the dimples at the base of your spine, just above the curve of your ass.

Holy shit.

He has to look away, letting go of your hand to rub the back of his neck, feeling a little light-headed. This is already not going well.

“You clean up well yourself, handsome,” you say between a laugh, and he blushes more than he already is.

Wrecker doesn't consider himself all that good-looking, especially compared to his brothers, but you've told him once or twice he's not hard on the eyes. You've also told him he has a nice smile, which had him grinning like an idiot for a solid day. He's still smiling now, because hearing you call him handsome makes his heart pound in his chest.

Still, he's not used to all the compliments. It's a lot, especially when they come from you.

"Tech and Echo did the best they could, I guess," Wrecker shrugs. The motion stretches the threads of his dark suit, and he grimaces. It's itchy, and too tight, and he hates it. He doesn't get how people wear these things all the time. "Not really used to the fancy stuff."

You tilt your head, looking him over. He resists the urge to squirm.

“C’mere," you tell him, beckoning him with your hand.

Wrecker does as he's told, and your hands grab his tie. The feeling of you tugging him closer by the silk sends a rush of heat through his veins, and he can’t help but grin down at you as he watches you adjust it for him. 

Your mouth is pursed, nose wrinkling slightly as you concentrate on getting it just right, even though you both know he'll likely mess it up in a matter of minutes anyway. You’re so cute, and you're so close, and it would be so easy for him to lean in and kiss you.

He's thought about it a lot, and he's almost done it once or twice, but then you'd pull back, or one of his brothers or Omega would come into the room, and the moment would be gone. It was probably for the best, considering he doesn't even know how you feel about him.

“Thanks," he mumbles.

You're still standing close, your chest practically touching his.

"Of course." The words are soft, and they leave him feeling hotter than ever. 

He looks away from you, and catches sight of the two of you in the mirror. Wrecker has always been a bit of a sucker for a good romance, and this? This is right out of one of his favorite holovids. You're both dressed in the finest clothes, him in a suit, you in a gorgeous dress, and it's just the two of you against the world.

Except, this isn't real.

There isn't any grand romance, and the feelings that threaten to burst from his chest are his and his alone.

“You really do look beautiful," he says, his voice a little rough, but honest.

You meet his eyes in the mirror. He watches as the corner of your lips quirk up, and you look almost shy. It's adorable, and a little confusing, because usually, you're not so modest. He wonders what changed.

"I—thank you, Wrecker."

"And I'll keep sayin' it till you believe me," he adds, because it's true.

"Oh, I believe you," you laugh, and the sound warms him to the core.

"Yeah?"

You nod. "Yeah."

"Good. 'Cause you really do. You look—" Wrecker swallows, and then shakes his head. He's getting distracted, and it's not good, not when the two of you have a job to do.

"So do you."

You give his tie one last tug, and then take a step back. Your hands smooth down the front of your dress as you look down at your shoes. He can't tell, but he swears you look almost bashful. It's so unlike you that he wonders if you're actually okay.

"You sure you're good?" he asks, concerned.

You hum an affirmative, and then you mutter, “Just already looking forward to taking this off."

The words are mumbled, barely audible, and he doesn't think you intended for him to hear. Wrecker blinks, and his gaze travels down the length of your body, and his mouth goes dry. His mind can't help but wander. It would be so easy for him to reach out, hook his fingers in the thin straps holding your dress up, and just...

"Yeah, me too," Wrecker admits quietly, the words falling from his mouth without thought.

A second passes. Two.

Wrecker's brain catches up to his mouth. He sees the shift of your jaw and the bob of your throat, and he wishes the ground would swallow him up.

"Uh, yeah, I mean," Wrecker starts, trying to backtrack and failing, "because I hate this thing, and it's not very comfortable."

It's not the worst lie he's told, but it's pretty far up there. Still, the look of relief that crosses your face tells him you believe it. Your arms are crossed over your chest, holding yourself in a way that suggests you feel vulnerable, and the realization makes his gut twist.

Wrecker doesn't want to make you feel uncomfortable, and he feels terrible that he has. He didn't even realize that the dress, and the mission, could bother you. You always seemed so put together, and confident, and not bothered by much, that he just assumed you would be okay. But, you're not, and now he feels bad, and stupid.

"We don't have to do this," Wrecker offers, rubbing the back of his neck.

You shake your head, and he can see you forcing yourself to relax. "I can handle a few hours."

Wrecker isn't sure what to say. He knows you're capable, and he doesn't think you would offer if you didn't think you could do it, but the way you're standing makes him wonder.

"But you know if you don't wanna, that's fine too," he adds, because it is.

Hunter would probably give him an earful later, but you were the priority, and Wrecker would deal with whatever punishment was necessary to make sure you were safe and comfortable. He doubted Hunter would be mad, anyway. They're family, and family looked out for each other, and you were part of the team, too.

You look at him, and then down at the floor, and then back up at him.

"It's fine."

Wrecker bites his tongue, but only barely.

You're not fine, and he can tell, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out why. There's a reason you've always been the one chosen for missions like this, even back when you were still an intelligence officer and he was barely more than a shiny. It's not just because of your training and experience, but also because of the way you look.

The thought makes him angry. It isn't right, and he hates that you've been forced into this position. Until tonight, he'd held out some misguided hope that you wouldn't ever have to be put in a situation like this again.

He knows you can handle a lot more than most, but you shouldn't have to.

"Really, Wrecker, I'm fine," you say again, and it's only then that he realizes he's been staring at you.

"Are you sure? ‘Cause if—"

You step forward, putting a hand on his chest and looking up at him. His eyes catch on the shine of your lips, and the warmth of your hand against his chest makes his heart race.

"If you keep asking me, I'm gonna start to think you don't want to be my husband," you tease.

"I'd love to be your husband," Wrecker replies without missing a beat, and he means it.

The words are true, even if the context isn't. It's the closest thing he'll get to a wedding with you, and that thought makes him want to scream. Instead, he settles on smiling, even as his heart races and his palms sweat.

"I'm sorry, I just don't wanna make you feel—"

"I'm kidding, ma sareen," you say, shaking your head, "I know. But really, it's okay."

He gives a slow nod, not sure how to respond. You've called him that before, and while he doesn't speak Ryl, he does know it's a term of endearment. One that he's overhead Suu say to Cut a few times, and one that you've used with him, and only him.

Every time, it makes him smile. But it's one thing for you to say it casually, and another entirely to say it in front of strangers, pretending to be married to him. He doesn't know why the thought makes his heart pound in his chest, or his ears grow warm.

"And hey, at least I have someone who can protect me, right?"

He grins proudly, and nods. That, he can do.

"You got that right."

"Then what's there to worry about?" you ask, a smile on your face.

That I might embarrass you, is what Wrecker wants to say, but doesn't. Instead, he follows you towards the door. You pause just before stepping through, looking up at him expectantly. He doesn't quite understand until you reach out and hold your hand palm up.

"Well?"

"What?"

"Give me your hand, Wrecker," you laugh.

"Oh, right," Wrecker stutters, slipping his hand into yours.

His hands are rough and calloused from years of fighting, but your hand is soft and gentle, and he tries his best not to squeeze too hard. You lead him out of the room and to the lift. You lean against him, your head resting on his shoulder, and his breath catches in his throat.

"Relax, big guy, you've got this," you whisper, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.

Wrecker hopes you're right.

He's not sure how long the two of you have been here. An hour? Maybe two?

Whatever it is, it's long enough that his face hurts from fake smiling. His shoulders are tense, and he keeps a steady hand on your lower back, not willing to let go.

As soon as the two of you had walked through the door, the guards had taken your weapons, and it had been the first time Wrecker had felt truly unsettled since leaving the ship. Not only was he unarmed, but now, you were as well, and he was responsible for keeping you safe. They'd even taken the knife you'd tucked into the holster on your thigh.

They'd also frisked you, and while it wasn't the first time, or even the first time for him, it was the first time he'd seen it done like that. The guard had run his hands up the inside of your thigh, his thumb dangerously close to places he never should've been touching, and Wrecker had seen red.

The man was lucky all Wrecker did was grab his wrist and pull it away, his grip tight enough to bruise. The guard had stumbled, his face red as he tried and failed to apologize. It didn't matter to him. The bastard wouldn't be able to use that hand for a while, and Wrecker hadn't felt bad at all.

After, he'd wrapped his arm around your waist and held you close. He knows he probably shouldn't have, but he needed the reminder that you were safe. He could pretend it was just for show, but really, it was to comfort himself.

It doesn't help that every eye in the room has been on the two of you since you arrived, and while the stares are likely directed at you, Wrecker still doesn't like it. It makes his blood boil, and his skin crawl, and all he wants to do is get out of here. He hates how uncomfortable and vulnerable it makes him feel, and the fact that it's affecting him at all is embarrassing.

You seem to be doing just fine, chatting with various people, laughing and smiling and, unfortunately, flirting.

Not with him, no. With all the men and women around you.

It's the nature of the job, he knows that, but it still sucks.

You're doing your best to blend in, and it's working. He just tries his best to keep up with you. He doesn't trust any of these people, not even for a second, and the tension in his shoulders doesn't ease, no matter how hard he tries.

This is the first time he's been in a party like this, and he doesn't think he likes it.

When Tech had said the target was having a party, he'd expected loud music, maybe some dancing. What he got was an old-fashioned cocktail party, the type he's only ever seen in holovids, and the kind where the rich and powerful mingle and talk about politics and money.

It's boring, and the people are rude, and the lights of the chandelier make his eye twitch. But worst of all, no one can take their eyes off you, and he can't blame them. Even after the initial shock of seeing you dressed like that has passed, his eyes can't help but trail down the length of your body. And while you're definitely the most beautiful person in the room, he thinks there's a part of him that doesn't want anyone else to see you.

At least there's good food. And drink. And while he would never dare touch you without permission, it's nice to know he can do so now.

So he's taken every opportunity to do just that, to let everyone around know that you're his. He's kept his hand on the small of your back, the curve of your hip, the bend of your waist, and he's made sure to be close to you at all times. You don't seem to mind, which is the best part, and it makes his chest swell with pride.

Your arm is tucked around his, your fingers laced with his own, and he loves the way you lean into him, like you need him, like he's a safe place for you. He doesn't know if you do, but it doesn't stop him from wishing.

Wrecker looks at the ring on his finger. It's a simple gold band, nothing fancy, and it reminds him that this isn't real. It's just for the job, and he has to keep reminding himself of that. Because if he doesn't, it'll be easy for him to lose sight of that. And if he loses sight, he might do something stupid, like kiss you, and he's not sure if he'd be able to stop.

"So, where did you two meet?"

Wrecker tears his gaze away from you and to the Twi'lek across from him, her blue lekku adorned with jewels. He has no idea who she is, but the two of you are getting along so well he doesn't want to interrupt. You're the only Twi'leks in the room, and he thinks that might be the only reason the two of you are talking at all.

"Oh, it's a little embarrassing, actually," you answer, a shy smile on your face.

You squeeze his hand and glance up at him, and his stomach flutters.

"Not really," he mumbles, cheeks warm.

"You don't think so, but I might," you giggle, and Wrecker can't help the way his mouth quirks up in a smile. He wants to kiss your forehead, or your cheek, or your lips, but he doesn't.

The Twi'lek woman laughs and sips her drink, leaning in close to listen.

"C'mon, tell me, I'm dying to know."

Wrecker's not sure what story you've told everyone else, so he's not sure if this is part of it, but the way you look up at him makes his heart skip a beat. You squeeze his hand again, and he wonders if it's supposed to be a sign. It's a little distracting.

"Well, um, we met when he saved my life."

Wrecker nearly chokes on his drink.

The Twi'lek raises a brow, glancing between the two of you. "Really?"

"Mhm."

"That's not embarrassing."

"Yes, it is. Because he saved my life, and instead of being grateful, I called him an idiot," you tell her, a blush rising to your cheeks.

It's the truth. When you were still an officer, your unit was under fire. You'd been separated from your squad, pinned down, and Wrecker had found you. He'd pulled you from your hiding spot and out of the way, and the two of you had barely escaped unscathed. But the first words you'd said to him were, 'You idiot, you almost shot me.'

In his defense, he was a little distracted at the time.

"What did you say to that?"

Wrecker shrugs, taking a sip of his drink. "Not much."

You look up at him, your eyes shining. "I mean, he did save my life, so I apologized, obviously."

"Obviously," the woman nods.

"And, um, well," you stumble, and Wrecker wonders what's making you so nervous. It's not like you to be caught off guard, but you seem almost embarrassed. "He's the kindest man I've ever met, and I was immediately charmed by him."

Wrecker can't hide the surprise that crosses his face, but he does his best.

"It was hard not to fall for him," you admit, a softness in your voice that wasn't there before, "and, well, here we are."

Your gaze meets his, and the tenderness in your eyes takes his breath away.

"So romantic," the woman sighs, and you nod in agreement.

"Yeah, it's...it's somethin'," Wrecker says quietly, his chest tight.

He doesn't think anyone's ever talked about him like that, let alone in front of a bunch of strangers.

You lean into him, a soft smile on your face. Wrecker's hand slides from your waist to rest on the small of your back, and his eyes linger on the curve of your lip, the slight shimmer on your cheek. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and your eyes drop down to watch the motion, and his heart thuds against his ribcage.

He can't help but wonder if maybe there's some truth to what you're saying. It's not like you've been lying the entire time, and Wrecker isn't naïve. He knows this is all part of the act, but the way you're looking at him makes him feel like you might mean it.

Wrecker can't help the way his mind wanders, or the way his stomach flutters when your lips brush his ear as you whisper, "You alright, darling?"

His breath hitches in his throat, and it's hard not to shudder as you trail a finger up his arm.

"Yeah, m'fine," he manages, the words shaky.

Your lips brush the shell of his ear, and he has to fight the urge to groan.

"We've got company," you whisper.

Wrecker tenses, scanning the room. It takes a moment for him to realize you mean the target. He's making his way through the crowd, and it's only a matter of moments before he's approaching.

"Mr. and Mrs. Kasta," he greets, an air of confidence in his voice, "welcome."

Wrecker nods at him, keeping his mouth shut. He doesn't trust himself not to say something stupid. He's already fucked up a few times tonight, and he doesn't want to embarrass himself. Besides, you're already taking the lead, smiling brightly at the man.

"Thank you for having us, Mr. Dralig," you tell him, giving a slight bow.

"Please, call me Bohme," he insists, returning the gesture. "Always a pleasure to meet such an esteemed couple as yourselves. You look ravishing, Mrs. Kasta."

You blush, and Wrecker fights the urge to roll his eyes. You are the most stunning woman in the room, and he can't imagine how this asshole could think otherwise, but the compliment still makes him bristle. He can't understand why you don't seem more annoyed.

"Well, thank you," you say, a hint of laughter in your voice.

"I do hope you're enjoying yourselves," Bohme continues, "the food, the music, the view."

The man's eyes linger on you for a moment too long, and Wrecker doesn't have to be a genius to figure out what he means.

"Oh, yes, very much so," you reply easily, ignoring the implication, "thank you."

Bohme nods, and then turns his attention to Wrecker, giving him a quick once-over. Wrecker tenses. The man is short and thin, his features pinched and pale, but his eyes are sharp, and his mouth is curved up in a smile that's almost predatory.

"I must say, I was a little surprised when I learned the Kastas would be joining us tonight. I was told they were unable to make it."

Wrecker narrows his eyes, watching the man carefully.

"Yes, well, our schedules opened up, and my husband was able to move some things around. It's rare we get a night off, so I jumped at the chance," you tell him, reaching out to grab Wrecker's arm and squeeze it.

He's glad you're playing the part so well. It's definitely not something he's capable of, and he can't help but feel a little useless. But he can at least make sure you're not alone, and that this guy keeps his hands off you.

"Well, I'm glad you could make it."

"We're glad we could too. The party's been wonderful."

"Glad to hear it."

Wrecker shifts slightly, feeling the weight of the man's gaze. There's something unsettling about him, and Wrecker's never been able to hide his disdain for the people they're forced to work for. But Bohme's the mark, and so he tries his best not to stare, but he's never been good at playing nice.

"If I'm being honest, I thought the rumors were exaggerated."

Wrecker frowns, and you look a little surprised.

"Oh?"

"I see the scars aren't," Bohme adds, gesturing to Wrecker's face.

Wrecker doesn't reply, only glares. The scars have never bothered him, not really. Sure, sometimes people stare, or ask him about them, and sometimes that's more than a little awkward. But he doesn't hate them. He mostly just forgets they're there until he gets one of the phantom pains, or someone points them out.

This man, though, he's staring, and not with curiosity, but with judgement, and it makes Wrecker’s skin crawl. He clenches his jaw, looking for the words to tell him off that won’t make the entire operation fail, but thankfully, you're quicker than him.

"No, but I quite like them," you say, reaching up and brushing a hand over his scarred cheek.

Wrecker swallows, his head tilting down to meet your gaze. Your touch is gentle, your thumb brushing under his eye, and he watches as your eyes shift from cold fury to something warmer, kinder.

"They remind me of just how brave and selfless my husband is," you tell him, the words soft, almost as if they're just for him.

Wrecker blinks, his lips parting. He wants to respond, but his throat is dry, and he's not sure what he would say even if he could.

"And I would be lost without him," you add, your fingers sliding across his jaw.

He knows this isn't real, that it's just for show, and he's just a means to an end, but he can't help the way his heart races in his chest. Because the way you're looking at him isn't fake, and neither are your words. He doesn't know how he's so sure, but he is.

He can't find his voice, and he doesn't trust himself to speak, so instead, he takes your hand and presses his lips to the inside of your wrist. You gasp, and your mouth parts, and he's so focused on the warmth of your skin and the way you blush that he barely registers the sound of Bohme's laughter.

"Oh, to be young and in love."

Wrecker doesn't pay attention to the rest of the conversation. He doesn't care. All he can focus on is you. The way you look up at him, and the softness in your eyes. The way you're pressed against him, and the way his arm is wrapped around you, and the way it feels like you belong there.

You've always felt right in his arms, like you fit perfectly, and every time you touch him, he wonders if it's the last. That's how it is now. Like it could end at any moment. So, he's memorizing everything, every detail, the feel of your skin, the sound of your voice, the scent of your perfume.

Because when this is all over, he'll never be close to you like this again, and he'll never forget it.

"Ma sareen." 

He snaps out of his trance at the sound of your voice. "Hmm?"

"Could you be a dear and get me a drink?"

"Sure thing, sweetheart."

Wrecker leans in, pressing his lips to your temple, and he relishes the way your cheeks turn red and the sound of your breath hitching in your throat. He doesn't know what he's doing. All he knows is that it's worth it to see the look on your face, and the way Bohme looks like he's swallowed a lemon.

He gives your waist a gentle squeeze and turns, making his way through the crowd to the bar. It's the furthest place from the door, and the longest walk of his life, because his head is swimming, and his heart is pounding, and it’s giving him too much time to think.

And when he does, all he can think about is you. He's not blind. He can see the way you've been looking at him tonight, and the way you're touching him. It's driving him crazy, and the more time he spends here with you, the harder it is to convince himself that you don't feel the same.

Maybe you do feel the same, and he's just been missing the signs, too afraid to see them. Maybe he should do something about it.

The thought is scary. What if he does, and he's wrong?

But then he remembers the way your fingers slid across his cheek, the way you leaned into his side,  and the way you blush whenever he calls you sweetheart. It's enough to give him hope.

"What can I get for you?" the bartender asks.

Wrecker blinks, glancing down at him. He'd forgotten why he was here, and his cheeks warm as he fumbles for an answer. Champagne seems like the right call for you. You'd both had a few glasses earlier, and it was fine, but he needed something much stronger if he was going to have a chance at getting through the rest of the night.

"Whiskey, neat.”

He doesn't pay attention as the bartender pours his drink. He turns around toward where couples are dancing, scanning the room for you. When he finally finds you, his stomach twists, and he has to force himself to breathe.

Bohme has his hands on your hips, and your hand is on his chest, and the way his head dips toward yours sends a flash of anger through him. The two of you are dancing, swaying back and forth, and while Wrecker knows it's a mission, and that you're just playing a part, it still makes his stomach churn.

Because even from here, he can see the look in the man's eyes, and it's not one of someone who's just playing a part.

"Is that all?" the bartender asks.

"What—no, no. Give me another," Wrecker mutters, grabbing the first glass and downing it in a single gulp.

It burns his throat, but it's the distraction he needs, because the two of you are getting closer. He's not sure if Bohme is going in for a kiss, but he knows he's not going to be able to watch it happen.

The second glass goes down just as quickly, and Wrecker winces, slamming the glass back on the bar and turning around. He doesn't know what's come over him. He's not a jealous person. Never has been, not even a little. He's been on plenty of missions with you, and seen you get close with other men, and while he didn't like it, he's never felt this.

Wrecker pushes past the dancing couples and walks toward the two of you. As soon as Bohme's hand slides lower on your back, Wrecker knows it's too much. You've gone along with the plan, but Wrecker's not going to stand here and watch you be taken advantage of, not by him, or anyone.

He storms up to the two of you, ignoring the startled looks on your faces and those around you. Before he can even think about what he's doing, Wrecker wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you close. His hand settles on your lower back, your skin warm and soft against his palm.

"Can I cut in?" he growls, his voice low and gruff.

"Uh—"

"I was talking to my wife," Wrecker snaps, his eyes narrowed.

The man's face pales, and his mouth drops open. He glances down at you, and then back up at Wrecker, and then steps back, holding his hands up in surrender.

You press your hand to his chest, and the motion is so familiar and comforting that his shoulders relax. He looks down at you, and his breath catches in his throat. There's a hint of a smile on your face, and you look happy, and his stomach flutters.

"Of course, darling," you murmur, your fingers curling into his shirt, "we were just having a nice chat, weren't we, Bohme?"

Wrecker glares at the man.

"Yeah, sure, we were," the man replies, taking a step back.

Wrecker knows he should leave it alone, and let you take care of it, but the whiskey has loosened his tongue, and the man's wandering hands have left him feeling more than a little possessive.

"Don't get any ideas, pal. She's married," Wrecker tells him, his voice a deep growl.

He's being harsh, but he doesn't care. You've had to deal with this asshole enough for one night, and Wrecker's tired of watching him touch you, and talk to you, and look at you.

"Of course, I would never," Bohme says, shaking his head.

Wrecker's not convinced, but he's not going to start a fight over it. As much as he'd like to knock the guy's teeth in, he doesn't. For your sake. And for the mission's, though he's caring less and less about that as the night goes on.

"You alright, sweetheart?" Wrecker asks, his tone gentler, more concerned, as he leads you away.

"I'm fine, darling," you answer, giving his arm a squeeze.

He's not sure if he's imagining it, but he swears you sound a little breathy. Wrecker's not surprised. If his heart is racing from the adrenaline of pulling you away from Bohme, then yours probably is, too.

"Sorry I forgot your drink," he mutters as he picks up his pace, "that guy just rubs me the wrong way."

"It's okay," you say, looking up at him with a small smile. As the two of you get further and further away, you add, "I was kind of hoping you would."

He stops walking, his brow furrowing. "What?"

"Nothing, ma sareen."

"Wait, were you—" Wrecker glances over his shoulder, and the realization hits him. You'd known the whole time, and were counting on him to notice, and he had. He's not sure if he should be mad, or embarrassed, or something else entirely. "Oh."

You tilt your head, looking up at him with an amused expression. "Yeah, oh."

"That's why you wanted a drink, wasn't it?"

You bite your lip, a blush rising to your cheeks. "Well, I was thirsty."

"I—"

"I knew you wouldn't leave me alone with him."

"I wouldn't," he says, shaking his head, "not in a million years."

You look down, and his grip on you tightens. He doesn't mean to, but he's still shaken up, and your nearness is a comfort, even if it shouldn't be.

You lean into him, and he takes a step forward, pulling you close. His other hand comes up, his fingers brushing your cheek, and his eyes drop to your lips. He doesn't mean to touch you like this, but now that he has, he doesn't want to stop.

"I know," you say softly, your breath warm against his palm.

"Good," he murmurs.

Your hand slips down his chest, and Wrecker shudders. You're standing so close, and your face is only inches from his, and your eyes are shining. The words leave him before he stop them, his voice a low rumble.

"And I don't want anyone else touching you, either.”

The sound that leaves your mouth sends a rush of heat through his veins, and he has to fight the urge to kiss you.

"Good," you whisper, the word nearly lost to the music.

"Really?"

You nod, looking up at him through your lashes, and his heart skips a beat. "Mhm."

Wrecker lets out a shaky breath, his hand sliding down to cup your cheek. His lips are only inches from yours, and he's not sure if it's the alcohol or the dress, but he feels bold. Too bold.

"Then, is it okay if I—"

You press a finger to his lips, silencing him.

"Yes," you tell him, leaning closer, "but not here."

Wrecker freezes. Did he hear that right? Or is he imagining things?

"Why not?"

"Because," you start slowly, pressing a kiss to his cheek, "if you kiss me, I'm not going to want you to stop. And we're in the middle of a party, and the mission's not over."

Wrecker doesn't even realize his mouth has fallen open until you reach up and close it for him. Your touch is gentle, and his cheeks are warm, and the softness in your eyes makes him melt. 

Your hand drags down to adjust his lapel before you slip something into his pocket.

"Got his keycard," you whisper, patting his chest.

Wrecker doesn't care. You could've told him you'd stolen the man's starship, and it still wouldn't have mattered. Not with the way you're looking at him.

"You're really somethin', y'know that?" he asks, and if he sounds a little breathless, he doesn't care about that either.

"So are you, ma sareen," you answer, smiling softly, "so are you."

"Almost done," you say, your voice soft, but urgent.

Wrecker is leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze locked on you. He's careful not to touch anything in Bohme's office as you make your way around. His eyes are on the sway of your hips, and the soft curves of your body, and it's all he can do not to reach out and pull you against him.

You'd managed to slip away, and while Wrecker is a little disappointed the two of you had to leave, he knows the sooner you're finished, the sooner you can be alone.

"Anythin' you need help with, sweetheart?"

"No," you answer, "I got it."

You're bent over, looking for something, and the view gives him a perfect view of the curve of your ass. It's a bit distracting, and his mind is wandering. He's thinking about how nice it would be to hold you in his arms, and kiss you, and the things he would like to do if he had the opportunity.

The list is getting longer by the minute.

"Just need a few more seconds."

"I'm not in a rush," he answers with a shrug. His eyes are locked on your ass, and the way it moves as you work. You'd asked him to keep watch, and that's what he's doing, just keeping watch.

"Yes, you are," you say, a teasing lilt in your voice.

"Maybe," he admits, not bothering to deny it.

He doesn't care if it's a little pathetic, or desperate. He doesn't want to hide his feelings anymore. Not from you, and not from himself. He wants you to know, and to understand.

You glance over your shoulder, your eyes meeting his. You're wearing a smile that makes his stomach flutter.

"What are you thinking about?" you ask, a sultry note to your voice that makes his head spin. You walk over to the lamp on the wall and unscrew the glass. One of the bugs Tech had given you slips into the empty socket before you replace the bulb.

Wrecker blinks, his mind foggy.

"You."

You look surprised, and for a moment, he wonders if he's gone too far. But then, you smile, and he knows he's made the right choice. "Yeah? What about me?"

"Just how lucky I am," he tells you, the words sincere.

"Lucky?" you ask, raising a brow.

"Mhm."

You shake your head, letting out a soft laugh. "I think I'm the lucky one."

"I dunno. Pretty sure I'm the one who gets to take you home," Wrecker points out, a grin on his face.

Your eyes widen, and your lips part, and for a moment, you just stare at him, stunned. You let out a shaky breath, your face falling, and it's then that Wrecker realizes his mistake. You’re worth more to him than a quick roll in the sheets, and while he wants you, and the thought of it makes him hot and bothered, he's not interested in a one-night stand.

"I, uh, I didn't mean it like that," he stutters, his cheeks growing warm. “I—“

"Don't worry, darling, I know what you meant," you say, a hint of disappointment in your voice.

"It's not like—"

"We should go, Wrecker. The others are waiting."

"Right," Wrecker says quietly.

He doesn't like the tension in your shoulders, or the way you won't look at him. He's not sure what to say to fix this. All he knows is that the moment is over, and his heart is pounding.

When the two of you step out of the office, the door slides shut behind you, and he grabs your wrist. You don't stop, and you don't turn around. But you don't pull away, either.

"Hey, c'mon, just wait a sec, please."

You stop, letting out a quiet sigh. "It's okay, Wrecker, you don't have to—"

"But I want to."

You look up at him, your jaw set, and there's something in your eyes that tells him you don't believe him. It breaks his heart a little. Because it's true. He's been wanting you for a long time, and even if you don't feel the same, he's not going to let you leave without knowing it.

Wrecker takes a step toward you, and another, and another, until he's pressed against you. He lets go of your wrist, and his hand settles on your waist.

"Wrecker, what are you doing?"

"Trying not to be an idiot."

"You're not an—"

"Yeah, I am," he interrupts, a soft smile on his face. "I'm not good with words, and I don't always know the right thing to say. But I'm gonna try."

"Wrecker," you whisper, your eyes wide, "you don't have to."

"But I want to. I wanna tell you the truth."

"The truth?"

He nods.

"And what's that?"

"That I think you're the most beautiful person I've ever met," he tells you, his voice soft. "I think you're the bravest, and the kindest, and the smartest. I think you're the best, and I wish I was half the person you are."

"Wrecker, you're—"

He squeezes your waist gently. "Not done yet."

You smile up at him, a fondness in your eyes that makes his heart race, and you nod.

"And I know I don't deserve you, and I know you're probably just being nice, and that maybe, I'm reading into this too much, but I don't think so."

You look like you want to interrupt him again, but you don't. He's grateful.

"I think there's something here. Between us,” he says. “And I've never been good at keeping my feelings to myself. I think about you all the time, and I can't help it.”

"Wrecker, are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"I dunno.” He shrugs. “Maybe. Probably."

You shake your head, laughing. "Wrecker, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're trying to tell me you have feelings for me."

"Well, that's because I do."

"What?" you ask, sounding almost as surprised as he felt earlier.

"Have feelings for you. I have a lot of 'em," he tells you, a smile on his face. It feels good to finally admit it. "I've had them for a while."

"How long?"

"Pretty much since I met you."

"Really?"

He nods. "Really."

"That's...a long time," you murmur.

"Mhm. So, that's the truth," Wrecker says. "And if you don't feel the same, or if I'm wrong, or if I'm misreading things, then just tell me, and I'll never bring it up again."

"I don't think I could," you answer, "not now, after all that."

"So, then, maybe—"

"Wrecker," you whisper, his tie and pulling him closer. Your lips brush his, and he has to fight the urge to groan. "I have a lot of feelings, too. I just didn't know you did."

"Yeah?" he asks, his voice hoarse.

"Yeah," you breathe, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He doesn't bother fighting the groan this time. He can't. Not when you're this close. Not when he can feel your breath against his skin. Not when your lips are ghosting over his, and the scent of your perfume is filling his nose, and the warmth of your body is pressed against him.

"Then, does this mean—"

"You can kiss me," you murmur.

Wrecker doesn't hesitate.

His mouth crashes against yours, his hands slipping down to your hips and pulling you against him. You let out a whimper, and it's all he can do not to moan.

He doesn't want to push too far, or scare you away, so he holds back. He kisses you with restraint, with tenderness, with love. Your lips are soft, and pliant, and your fingers tighten in his shirt as he deepens the kiss. It's even better than he imagined, and he's spent hours imagining it.

He doesn't care that anyone could see you. He doesn't care about the mission, or the bugs, or the fact that the others are waiting for you. He only cares about you, and the way you feel in his arms.

"Wrecker," you mumble, breaking the kiss.

"Hm?"

"We should go," you remind him, your voice soft.

"Right," he says, "just one more."

"One more," you agree.

Your lips are on his again, and it's just as good as the first time. Wrecker doesn't want to stop, and he doesn't, not until his comm buzzes, and his brother's voice rings out in his ear.

"Wrecker, status report. We need an update."

Wrecker groans, pulling away from you. "Tech, not a good time."

"Now is precisely the time," his brother replies, sounding exasperated. "What is the status of the mission?"

Wrecker glances at you, and you look back up at him with a soft smile on your swollen lips. You reach up, cupping his cheek, and the feeling is so comforting and sweet that his chest aches.

"It's good," Wrecker answers, smiling. "The mission is going really good."

"Good?" he hears Hunter repeat. He's not sure if it's confusion or disbelief in his voice. Maybe a little bit of both.

"Great," he corrects, leaning down to kiss you again. "Really, really great."

"Oh," Tech mutters, and Wrecker can hear the gears turning in his head. "I…did not expect that."

Wrecker smiles down at you. "Yeah, well, neither did I."

“I see.” There's a pause, and the sound of shuffling, some muffled voices, and then Tech adds, "In that case, we will let you get back to your, ah, mission."

"Thanks, Tech."

"Mhm," his brother hums, sounding a little awkward. "You’re welcome. We'll see you both when you return.”

The comm clicks off, and Wrecker sighs. "Guess we should get back to the ship."

"Yeah, we probably should," you agree, though neither of you move. "Or..."

He perks up. "Or?"

"Or, we could go back to the hotel," you suggest, a playful note in your voice. "We did pay for the night, after all. It would be a shame to waste it."

"A real shame," he nods, his voice grave.

"Besides," you add, your hand sliding down his chest, "we could use the extra time to...discuss the details of the mission. Make sure we're on the same page, and everything."

Wrecker bites back a moan. The feeling of your hand on his chest, and the sound of your voice, and the suggestion in your words, and the glint in your eyes. It's enough to make his knees weak.

"What do you think, ma sareen?"

"I think," he murmurs, kissing your neck, "that's the best idea I've ever heard."

The two of you barely make it through the door.

As soon as it slides shut behind you, Wrecker’s lips are on yours. His hands haven’t left your hips since you entered the elevator. He guides you backwards, his hands roaming across your back and sides. His teeth scrape against your bottom lip, and the sound you make sends a rush of heat straight to his cock.

Your back hits the wall next to the door, and Wrecker lifts you up, wedging a thigh between your legs. The dress is riding up, and his hand slips under it, and he's never been more grateful for Tech's insistence on getting a hotel room.

His tongue slides across the roof of your mouth, and he swallows the gasp that leaves your lips. Your nails dig into his shoulders, and you roll your hips, grinding against his thigh. The sound that leaves his mouth is embarrassingly needy as his hand moves higher, squeezing the soft flesh. Your knife has been safely returned to its holster, and his fingers run along the strap.

He wants to take his time with you, to make sure you know how he feels, but he can't stop touching you. You’re so soft, and he's been wanting to do this for so long, and the dress makes it so easy to find new places to explore.

"Wrecker," you whimper, arching against him.

He nips at your neck, and the soft whine that escapes your throat makes his knees weak. His hand squeezes the back of your leg, and his mouth travels lower, his teeth dragging across your collarbone.

"You look so fuckin' good in this," he tells you, his lips brushing the swell of your breasts. "Drivin' me crazy."

"Yeah?" you ask, reaching up to loosen his tie.

"Yeah," he grunts. He leans down, pressing his mouth to the tops of your breasts. You make a soft noise, and he smiles, his hand slipping up your thigh and pushing the hem of the dress higher. "Been thinkin' about taking it off all night.”

"Well, why don't you, then?"

Wrecker pulls away, and you look up at him, your eyes half-lidded and dark. Your cheeks are flushed, and your chest is rising and falling, and you look so fucking gorgeous, he can't stand it.

He doesn't respond. His lips find yours again, and he pushes your skirt up higher, his hands bunching the smooth fabric. He tries his best to be gentle, but it's hard. The thought of ripping the dress from your body, tearing it off and tossing it to the side is appealing, but he won't. It's not his to ruin, and he doesn't want to make you mad.

"This okay?" he asks, breaking the kiss.

"Yeah," you answer, nodding. Your hands join his, and together you pull the dress over your head, and toss it aside.

He nearly drops you.

He doesn't, but it's a close thing.

"You—oh, fuck," he groans, his head falling to the crook of your neck, "you weren't wearin' anythin' underneath?"

You let out a breathless laugh, and the feeling of it makes his head spin.

"Surprised?"

"Uh, yeah."

He's not sure what to say, or what to do.

The only thing he can think about is the way your bare pussy is pressed against his thigh. Your nails drag across his scalp, and he shudders. He’s pretty sure his brain is short-circuiting, because all he can do is stare at you.

Your makeup is messy, your headpiece a little crooked, and your chest is rising and falling in short, shallow breaths, and you're looking up at him with a smirk that makes him want to drop to his knees and worship you.

"What's wrong?" you ask, tilting his chin up. "You can't talk now?"

Wrecker grunts. You're teasing him, and he can't even pretend he doesn't like it. He likes it too much.

"You're not playin' fair," he complains, his voice gruff.

"No?"

"Nope."

"Well, neither are you," you say, rolling your hips. The motion drags your pussy across his thigh, and the dampness on his skin has him groaning. You lean forward, your mouth next to his ear. "So, what are you gonna do about it?"

He growls, and you gasp as his hands slide down, grabbing your ass. He hoists you up, putting your chest level with his face.

"Gonna show you," he rasps, "just how much you drive me crazy."

He's never seen anything hotter than the way you're looking at him right now, and he's not sure he ever will. He doesn’t want to close his eyes, doesn’t want to blink, but he can’t help it when his tongue darts out and his lips close around one of your nipples.

The soft sound that escapes your mouth makes his cock throb, and he presses your back against the wall, holding you up with ease with one hand as the other comes up to fondle your other breast. His tongue is hot and insistent against your skin, and your breath catches in your throat when he drags his teeth across the sensitive flesh.

"Fuck," you hiss, arching into him.

"Told ya you look good," he mumbles. He nips at the swell of your breast, and a moan escapes your lips. "Good enough to eat."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm," he hums. "Can I?"

"Please."

You let out a squeak as he hikes you up further, his lips ghosting over your ribs, and then your sternum, and then the soft swell of your stomach. Your thighs are draped over his shoulders, and his hands are on the backs of your legs, holding them up and apart, and the sight of you above him is almost too much.

"You smell so fuckin' good," he growls, burying his face between your thighs.

You're already wet, and his nose bumps against your clit as he presses his mouth to your pussy. You're so warm, and soft, and when his tongue slides against you, you moan, the sound desperate and needy.

"Shit, Wrecker," you gasp, your hands coming down to grab his head.

"Just relax," he tells you, his tone a little patronizing. "I gotcha, sweetheart."

He dives in, his mouth eager and unrelenting. He licks and sucks and nips at the sensitive skin, and when his tongue pushes inside, you arch your back, rolling your hips. Your thighs squeeze around his head, and the noises that are leaving your lips are sending sparks down his spine.

He does it again, and again, and again, trying to coax more of those sounds from your mouth. He wants to see what he can get you to do, wants to know what makes you cry out, and moan, and scream.

You're trembling above him, and your pussy is so wet, he can feel it running down his chin.  

"Oh, fuck," you curse, and he can't help but grin.

Your hips buck against his face, and he grabs your ass, squeezing the soft flesh. His fingers sink into the plush skin, and he spreads you apart, his tongue circling your clit. You shudder, and your thighs tighten around his head. He can tell you're getting close, and he can't wait to feel you fall apart, to see your face twist in pleasure, and hear his name on your lips.

He's never been good at this. He's always felt a little out of his depth, a little awkward, a little clumsy. But he's learning. He's watching your reactions, listening to the sounds you make, feeling the way your body responds. And he's paying attention, because he wants to be the only person who can make you feel like this.

He knows it's possessive. He knows it's a lot, especially since the two of you haven't talked about what this means. But he doesn't care. Not right now. He just wants you, and he's willing to do whatever it takes to make sure that's what happens.

You're writhing above him, and he can feel the muscles in your thighs tensing as his lips close around your clit. He makes sure he's got a good grip on you with one hand before sliding the other in between your thighs, and he pushes one finger inside you, and then another.

"Wrecker!"

He's pretty sure that's the hottest thing he's ever heard.

He doubles his efforts, his fingers pushing deeper and deeper. He's not even sure if he's hitting the right spot, but from the way you're writhing, and moaning, and cursing, it seems like he's doing something right. Your walls are squeezing his fingers, and he curls them, trying to find the spot that will make you scream.

You do.

Your whole body tenses, your thighs clamping hard around his head, and you throw your head back, crying out. He watches in awe, his eyes wide, and his mouth slack as you come apart above him. He can feel it, can feel your walls tightening, and the rush of heat as you climax, and he can’t resist the urge to press a kiss to the soft, swollen flesh.

"Wrecker," you choke out, your voice cracking, and he knows he's never going to get enough of this. 

He keeps his fingers buried inside of you as he pulls away from the wall. You cling to him, and he carries you over to the bed, lowering you onto the mattress. His fingers slip out of you, and he watches in fascination as you clench around nothing, your body still trembling.

"Fuck," he groans, dropping to his knees and burying his head between your legs again.

You let out a noise of surprise, and his hands push your thighs open, keeping them spread wide.

"You did so good, sweetheart," he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your swollen lips. He licks you clean, his tongue swiping through your folds. You squirm, and his grip on you tightens. "Gonna make you come again."

"Oh," you whimper, letting out a shaky breath.

"Just breathe, cyar'ika," he tells you, his lips trailing up your inner thigh. He can't get enough of the taste of you, or the way your body is reacting. You're still shaking, and the knowledge that it's because of him is making him delirious. He's pretty sure this is the best night of his life.

"I'm gonna make you feel good," he says, his voice soft and low. "I promise."

"You always make me feel good, Wrecker," you whisper.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm," you hum, nodding. "Always."

Wrecker grins and leans back, shoving his suit jacket off his shoulders. He's not sure where you want him, or how far you want to take things, but he's happy to follow your lead. He’s happy to do this all night, every night, for the rest of his life, if you asked.

He unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt and rolls up the sleeves, his eyes never leaving you. You're looking up at him, your cheeks flushed, your chest rising and falling. He can't believe he gets to see you like this, so vulnerable and trusting.

"What is it?" you ask with a tilt of your head. The motion moves your lekku, and Wrecker's gaze follows. He's fascinated by the way they shift, and sway, and twitch. He wonders what they feel like, if you’ll let him touch them, if they're as sensitive as he's heard.

"Nothin'," he answers, shrugging.

"Liar."

"No, really," he says. Then, a grin spreads across his face, and he can't help himself, "I just like lookin' at ya."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

"What about me do you like looking at, ma sareen?"

"Everything," he tells you, and the sincerity in his voice seems to catch you off guard. "Everythin' about you. You're gorgeous, and I'm lucky as hell."

"Wrecker, you're not just saying that, are you?"

"Never," he promises, "not when it comes to you."

You bite your lip, and the way your teeth sink into the plump flesh sends a rush of heat through him.

"You're too good to me," you mumble, a fondness in your eyes that makes his heart swell.

"Could never be too good to you," he replies quickly, shaking his head. He pushes his sleeves up to his elbows and leans back down, kissing the curve of your stomach.

"Wrecker," you sigh, your hands settling on his shoulders, "you're such a gentleman."

"A gentleman?" He laughs, his forehead resting against your hip.

"Mhm," you hum.

He glances up at you, his brows raised. "Sweetheart, I've had my face between your legs for the past fifteen minutes, and you're tellin' me I'm a gentleman?"

"Maybe I like a man who knows how to treat me," you suggest.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

Wrecker chuckles, and then he kisses the top of your mound, and then the crease of your thigh, and then your knee. You make a soft noise, and his eyes flick back to your face.

"So, do you still want me to keep treatin' you?" he asks, and if the words come out a little nervous, he can't help it.

"Of course," you say, a hint of surprise in your voice, as if you can't believe he would think otherwise. You smile sweetly, and the weight in his chest lifts. "I want everything with you, Wrecker. Always."

"Good," he sighs, the tension leaving his body. "Because I want everythin', too."

Your head falls back against the pillows, your hands slipping from his shoulders to his head. You pull him closer, and he's more than happy to follow your lead.

"Then, come on, darling," you murmur, lifting your hips and spreading your legs wider, "give me everything."

Wrecker swallows thickly.

"Yes, ma'am."

His mouth is on you again, and you don't hesitate to let him know how good he's doing. You're not shy, and you're not quiet, and you're not afraid to take what you want.

And, gods, does Wrecker like that.

He's still a little in awe, a little dumbstruck by the fact that this is happening, and that it's not just some fantasy he's making up in his head. This is real, and you're here, and you're enjoying yourself, and the sound of your voice, the way you move, the softness of your body is so fucking overwhelming, it's making him delirious.

He wants to do this every night, for the rest of his life.

Your scent fills his nose, and your taste coats his tongue, and the slick, wet noises his mouth makes as he eats you out are driving him crazy. You're shaking beneath him, and your legs are draped over his shoulders, and your nails are scraping against his scalp. Your heels dig into his back, and his hands move down, holding you steady. He's not stopping until you tell him to, and from the way you're moaning, he doesn't think that's going to be anytime soon.

"You're so fucking hot," he groans, his teeth scraping against your folds. "Gonna make you come again. Gonna get you nice and ready for me."

You whimper, and he knows he's made the right choice.

"Sound good?" he asks, voice muffled by your cunt.

"Mhm," you nod.

"Yeah?"

"Yes," you moan, "yes, please, please, I want you to fuck me."

"Oh, I'm gonna," he growls, his lips brushing against your clit, "but first, I'm gonna make you scream."

He's not sure where he found the confidence, but he doesn't care. He doesn't even notice. He's too busy trying to get you to come for him again. He's licking, and sucking, and kissing, and nibbling, and it's only when you're begging him to fuck you that he finally pulls away for air.

"Not yet," he says, pressing a kiss to the crease of your thigh.

"Please," you whimper, "please, Wrecker, I need it. Need you."

He chuckles, his stubble scratching against the inside of your thigh. "I know, sweetheart, I know. Not yet, though. Just a little more."

He slips two fingers inside you, curling them, and your whole body jolts.

"Wrecker, please, I'm so fucking wet, just—"

"I know," he grins, pumping his fingers in and out of you. Your pussy is soaked, and the sound of him fingering you is obscene. It makes him want to shove his cock into you, to feel how tight and warm you are. "Gettin' you nice and wet for me."

"Don't—don't tease me," you huff, and Wrecker laughs, kissing your clit.

"I'm not," he insists. "Just tryin' to make sure you're ready."

"Ready?"

"Mhm." He pushes his fingers deeper, and he can feel the way your walls are already fluttering, the way your muscles are twitching. You're close, and he can't wait to see what you look like when you fall apart. "Wanna make sure you can take me."

"I can," you assure him, "please, I can."

"I'm gonna make you come again," he says, his voice soft. "And then, when you're all nice and relaxed, and you're beggin' for my cock, that's when I'm gonna fuck you."

"I'm begging now," you whine.

"I know, baby," he murmurs, his tongue pressing flat against your clit. "Be patient. It'll be worth it, I promise."

"Okay," you say, and the sound comes out strangled, like it's hard for you to talk. The way your voice breaks, and your chest rises and falls has him grinning, and he leans down again, his mouth eager and insistent.

"Fuck," you gasp, "oh, fuck, Wrecker, I'm—I'm gonna—"

"Go ahead," he encourages, his voice husky, "lemme see.”

Your head falls back, your whole body trembling as you come for the second time that night. It's even more beautiful than the first, and the way you pull his fingers deeper has him moaning against you. He doesn't stop until you're pushing him away, and even then, he doesn't go far.

Wrecker pulls back, slowly, his eyes on yours. You're breathing heavily, and your cheeks are flushed. Somewhere along the way the headpiece you were wearing had come loose, and it's resting on the pillow next to you. Your eyes are hooded, a dazed look on your face, and you look absolutely gorgeous.

"That was so fucking hot," he tells you, leaning down to press a kiss to your inner thigh.

"Wrecker, that was..." you trail off, letting out a quiet sigh. "I've never come twice that fast before."

"Really?"

You shake your head, laughing breathlessly. "Nope."

"So, I guess I did a good job?"

"Good?" you repeat, looking almost offended. "Darling, it was incredible."

He grins wide and presses a kiss to your stomach. You cup his cheek, and your thumb brushes his lip. It's damp with your arousal, and the realization sends a wave of heat through him.

"I'm just glad I made you feel good," he says.

"Trust me, you did," you assure him, and the earnestness in your voice has his cheeks flushing.

"Glad to hear it," he murmurs. He nips at the underside of your breast, and you whimper.

"Wrecker," you mumble.

"Mhm?"

"Come here."

"Why?"

"Because," you answer, sitting up and grabbing his tie, "I want to kiss you."

He lets out a laugh. "Is that all?"

"No," you say, and the honesty in your tone makes him shiver. You tug on the tie, pulling him towards you until your lips meet in a messy kiss. He's careful not to put his weight on you, keeping most of it on his forearms as he presses closer. Your tongue is hot and insistent against his, and when your teeth scrape his bottom lip, a groan escapes his throat.

"Please," you mumble against his lips. "Please, Wrecker, fuck me."

“Was hoping you’d say that,” he grunts, a smirk on his face.

He kisses you again, and it's rough and needy and a little clumsy. Your hands are roaming across his back, and when they tug on his shirt, he reaches around, pulling the hem out of his pants and working the buttons open.

He doesn't have the patience to undo them all, so he tears the shirt and tie off and tosses them aside. He breathes a sigh of relief at finally being free from the restrictive fabric, only to suck in a sharp breath as your nails scrape his sides. The sensation sends a shiver through him, and he buries his head in the crook of your neck, panting.

You don't let up, your hands exploring the planes and divots of his bare chest. His skin is on fire, and his muscles are flexing beneath your touch. Your mouth finds his neck as your fingers move to undo his belt, and his whole body jolts.

You hum, pleased, and Wrecker knows he's in trouble.

Your teeth sink into his shoulder, and your tongue swipes over the marks, and when you press a kiss to his pulse point, he has to remind himself not to get carried away. He's not even inside you yet, and he's already on the verge of losing control.

"Wrecker, I'm tired of waiting," you whine, your hand sliding under his pants and squeezing his ass. "I need you."

"Shit," he curses, his cock twitching in his boxers. "I need you, too."

"Then, what are you waiting for?"

"Nothin'," he says, sitting up. "Absolutely nothin'."

He gets to his feet, pulling off his shoes and socks faster than he's ever undressed in his life. He shoves his pants and boxers down, and his cock springs free. You let out a quiet noise, and he feels a surge of pride as your eyes move down his body, and widen.

"Oh, Wrecker," you breathe, and the awe in your voice is so fucking satisfying. "You're..."

"Yeah?"

"It's so big," you murmur.

He feels the tips of his ears burn. He knows he's big. He's bigger than most, and he's always been worried about scaring people off.

"Do you think you can handle it?"

"Yeah," you say quickly, nodding.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

He's not convinced. "It's okay if you can't, y'know."

"I know, Wrecker," you answer, sounding amused. "I can handle it."

"I just don't want to hurt you."

"I know. And it's sweet. But if you don't come here and fuck me right now, I'm going to go crazy."

"Well, we can't have that," he mutters, a smile playing on his lips.

He climbs back onto the bed, and you move to meet him halfway, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as you kneel together. Your chest presses against his, and you're so warm and soft, and he feels like he's going to melt.

He kisses the tip of your lek, and you let out a squeak, and the sound is so cute, he has to kiss the other one, too. He wants to kiss every part of you, and he plans to, someday. Right now, though, he's got something more important to take care of.

His mouth finds yours, and he cups the back of your neck, holding you still. You're pressed together, skin to skin, and he can feel the heat radiating from your body. Your hands are moving over his shoulders, down his chest, across his stomach, and when your fingers wrap around his cock, his hips buck.

"Fuck," he groans.

You give him a slow, languid stroke, and his eyes nearly roll back.

"You're beautiful," you whisper, your hand moving up and down, spreading precum along his length. You press a kiss to his shoulder, and then his collarbone, and his jaw, and his chin, and his mouth.

"I—ah," he grunts, his forehead falling to rest on yours, "You're kiddin', right?"

"Why would I be kidding?"

"You've got a lot more goin' for ya than me," he replies, his cheeks flushing. "A hell of a lot more."

"Nonsense," you say, shaking your head. Your grip tightens, and his breath catches in his throat. "You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen, and the things I want to do to you are..."

"Are what?"

"I'd rather show you," you admit, and there's something in your voice that makes his heart skip a beat.

"Well, go ahead, then," he encourages, giving you a toothy grin. "Show me."

Wrecker lets out a surprised yelp when you grab his shoulders and push him back, his back hitting the mattress. He laughs, and then you're on top of him, and his laughter dies, his breath coming out in short, shallow gasps.

You're straddling his waist, and the sight of your naked body above him is the most incredible thing he's ever seen. His hands move on their own, running across your thighs, your hips, and your ribs.

"This is a good look for you," you say, smirking.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mhm."

You lean down and kiss him, and he can't help the way his hands wander, one moving up to squeeze your ass, and the other finding your breast. He can't get enough of you, and he doesn't know if he ever will. He squeezes, and rolls, and fondles, and when his thumb brushes your nipple, you break the kiss with a soft moan. You pull away, and he chases after you, his lips pressing against yours.

"Wrecker, stop," you giggle, swatting his hand away.

"I can't help it," he tells you, leaning up and pressing a kiss to your neck. "You're too kriffin' sexy."

"I need you inside me," you say, pushing his shoulders back. "And I'm not going to be able to get there if you keep distracting me."

"Alright," he sighs, falling back against the mattress. "Go ahead, I'll be patient."

"Good boy."

His eyes go wide, and his cock throbs at the words. He knows he likes being praised, and he's not ashamed to admit that, but the way it makes him react is almost embarrassing.

"Oh," you grin, and the mischief in your eyes has his heart racing. "You like that?"

"Yeah," he nods, his cheeks flushing.

"What else do you like?" you ask, leaning forward and grinding against him.

He swallows thickly. "Um."

"Wrecker," you say softly, and his eyes dart up to yours.

"I—" he stammers, his gaze flicking back down to your cunt. "I, uh—you know, I've never really had anyone ask me that before."

"Well, consider this the first time," you tell him, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Tell me."

"Uh."

"Come on," you urge, kissing the other side, "tell me what you like."

"I like makin' you feel good," he blurts out. "I like it rough, I like bein' told what to do. I like knowin' I'm doin' a good job. And I like you, so—so just...tell me how you feel, or somethin', and I'll be happy."

"I can work with that."

You sit up, and the motion brings your pussy closer to his cock. He watches with wide eyes as you raise yourself up and guide his cock between your folds, the tip brushing against your entrance. His hips twitch, and his hands come up to grip your waist, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your skin.

"Kriff, you're gorgeous," he breathes, his eyes on the place where his cock is just barely penetrating you. "You're amazing."

"So are you," you reply.

He's not sure he agrees, but he doesn't have time to argue, because you're sinking down onto him, and his brain stops working.

You let out a quiet sigh, and Wrecker tries his best to keep his composure, but the wet, hot, tightness is too much. His hands tighten, his fingers digging into your sides before he realizes what he's doing. He relaxes his grip, his palms sliding across your skin, his eyes still on where your bodies are joined.

"Shit, sweetheart, I'm sorry, I just—"

"Don't apologize," you interrupt, your hips shifting, and his cock pushes a little deeper.

"I can't help it," he huffs, "I don't wanna hurt you."

"You're not hurting me," you promise, one hand settling on his chest. The other takes his hand, and you lift it up to your mouth, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "I'll tell you if you are, alright? So, don't worry. Just relax."

"Okay," he nods, taking a deep breath. "I can do that."

"Good boy," you praise, and Wrecker feels a wave of heat crash through him.

Your hips shift, and you sink down another inch. He lets out a shaky breath, his fingers curling into a fist. Your mouth is hot and insistent against his knuckles, your tongue swiping over the sensitive skin. You kiss his fingertips, and then his palm, and then the back of his hand. You nip at the fleshy part beneath his thumb, and he hisses, the sensation sending sparks up his arm.

"Fuck," he groans, and his hips buck, and his cock slides a little further inside.

"You're so big," you murmur, your hand sliding up his arm and over his chest. Your nails scrape his skin, and he trembles. "So fucking big, Wrecker."

"Yeah?"

You nod, your mouth open, and your cheeks flushed. Your eyes are a little glassy, and your breathing is shallow, and he can't believe how lucky he is to be here, with you, in this moment.

"I'm gonna—gonna make you feel good," he promises, and you laugh, your walls fluttering around him.

"Oh, darling," you sigh, lifting your hips and sinking back down, taking him a little deeper, "you already are."

His eyes squeeze shut, and his grip on you tightens. He tries to remember to breathe, and not to buck his hips, and not to pull you down and bury himself to the hilt. You're still kissing his hand, and the softness of your lips has him melting, his shoulders falling back against the bed.

"Look at me, ma sareen," you murmur.

Wrecker does.

The sight that greets him nearly sends him over the edge. You're hovering above him, his cock buried inside you, your lekku dangling in the space between your bodies. The lights in the room are dim, but the glow is bright enough to highlight the curve of your breasts, the swell of your hips, and the way your skin seems to shimmer.

You're breathtaking.

"You're amazin'," he says again, because he doesn't have anything better to say.

"You're so sweet," you chuckle, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his forehead. "I love that about you."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

You kiss him again, and his mouth opens under yours. He groans when you bite his bottom lip, his hands moving to your hips, guiding your movements. You roll your hips, and his cock slips out of you, before sliding back in. You do it again, and again, and again, until the tip of his cock nudges against the end of your channel.

"Oh, shit," you gasp, sitting up, and bracing your hands against his stomach. "Oh, gods, Wrecker, you're—you're so fucking deep."

"Does it feel good?"

"So fucking good," you whimper.

He sits up and wraps his arms around you, holding you close. He can feel the tips of your lekku resting on his chest, and they're even softer than he imagined. He presses a kiss to the base of one, and then the other, and then he's kissing your neck, his stubble scratching against your skin.

"Ah," you sigh, your hips rocking. "Wrecker, fuck, it feels so good."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

"Good," he growls, and then he grabs your ass and pulls you down onto his cock.

You let out a surprised cry, and then you're moving faster, grinding down on his length. He thrusts up, his hips meeting yours. Your hands are everywhere, roaming across his back, his shoulders, and his chest. You're not shy about it, and you don't hold back. You squeeze, and stroke, and touch every part of him, and it's making him dizzy.

"Fuck, you feel so good," you moan, and Wrecker grunts, his teeth scraping the base of your lekku. "So fucking good, Wrecker."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm," you hum, and then you're pulling away, and his chest aches at the loss. You push him back against the pillows, and he stares up at you, his lips parted as you ride him, bouncing up and down. Your hands are planted on his chest, and your nails are digging into his skin.

He watches in awe as you take him, his cock disappearing between your legs. No one's ever taken him like this, no one's ever been able to handle him the way you are. You're not afraid, and you're not shy, and you're not afraid to get what you want.

"You're kriffin' perfect," he says, and then he's reaching for you, his hands cupping your face.

Wrecker kisses you, and the sound that leaves your throat is so needy, and desperate, that he can't help but thrust up into you, harder and faster. His tongue slides into your mouth, and you suck on it, drawing a groan from his chest. He's trying to hold on, to last as long as he can, but it's not easy. Not when you're riding him like this, and making him feel like this.

You pull away with a gasp and bury your face in his neck, and the warmth of your breath makes him shiver. He can't see your face, but he can feel the way you're shaking, can hear the quiet noises you're making.

"You like that?" he asks, his voice rough.

"So much," you whine.

"Gonna come for me?"

"Yes, please, yes," you whimper.

"Gonna scream for me?"

"Oh, Wrecker," you moan, your teeth sinking into his shoulder, and the pain goes straight to his cock. "Wrecker, you're making me—I'm so close, please, harder."

He doesn't hesitate to follow your orders.

He lifts his legs, spreading them wider, and you slide a little further down his length. His hips snap up, and your whole body jolts. The first slap of skin against skin has him groaning, and the second has him cursing, and by the time his balls are slapping against your ass, you're begging him not to stop.

He's not sure he could, even if he wanted to. He thrusts again, and again, his pace building. Your cunt is dripping, the wetness seeping from your entrance, and the lewd squelching sound fills the room.

His hand cups the back of your head, holding you close. You nuzzle against his shoulder, your lips pressed to his collarbone, and the sensation is so fucking intimate, so sweet, he's not sure how much longer he's going to be able to hold out.

"Sweetheart," he grunts, and he doesn't have the words to continue, doesn't know how to tell you he's going to come, doesn't want this to end.

"You're so good," you whisper, and he can feel his balls tightening, "so fucking good, Wrecker."

"Can I—I'm gonna come," he warns.

"Oh, fuck, me, too."

"Where—where do you want me?"

"Inside," you whine, and Wrecker has to grit his teeth to keep from coming on the spot. "Wrecker, inside, please, fill me up, I want it, want you."

"Shit," he groans, "fuck, fuck, sweetheart, you're—oh, shit, I'm—"

Your body goes stiff, your walls fluttering around his cock, and his mouth falls open. He's not prepared for the feeling of your pussy gripping his length, or the sound of your breathy moans. He's not prepared for the way your thighs tremble, or the way your back arches, or the way his name spills from your lips.

He's not prepared for the orgasm that crashes over him, the heat and the pleasure that rushes through his veins, and the way his whole body shudders as he comes inside you.

He can't remember the last time he came this hard, the last time he lost control like this. The feeling of your cunt around him is too much, and his head falls back, his eyes squeezing shut. The only thing that keeps him tethered to reality is the sound of your voice in his ear, a string of words in a language he doesn’t understand falling from your lips.

Wrecker holds you, his arms wrapping around you, and his hips buck, his cock twitching. He can't get enough, can't stop coming, can't stop fucking up into you. Your moans are soft, and gentle, and it's not until his own climax has subsided that he realizes you’re slumped against him, your breathing heavy, your face pressed to his neck.

"Shit, sorry, cyar'ika," he mutters as he realizes his grip has tightened. He moves to pull his hands away, but you reach out, taking his wrists and placing his hands back on your waist.

"No," you whimper, "please."

"Sweetheart, I'm hurtin' you."

"Just a little longer," you tell him, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the base of his throat.

He's not sure why, but the request brings tears to his eyes. You want him. You want him to hold you, and touch you, and the realization makes his heart swell.

"Alright," he agrees, and you sigh and nestle closer.

He lays there, his softening cock still buried inside you, his arms around you, and his fingers find their way to your lekku. He strokes them gently, and you shiver, your body trembling.

"Is this okay?" he asks.

"Yes," you answer, your voice barely above a whisper. "It feels nice."

"Good," he says, smiling. "I like touchin' you."

"I can tell," you laugh and press a kiss to his chest.

He continues, his fingertips tracing a path down the side of one, and then the other. He doesn't know how much time passes. He's lost in the feeling of you, in the warmth of your body, in the softness of your skin. He doesn't even realize his eyes are closed until he hears you laughing.

"What?" Wrecker asks, opening his eyes and looking down at you.

"Are you asleep?"

"No," he answers, shaking his head, though the blush on his face gives him away. "I was just restin' my eyes."

"You sure?" you ask, and there's a teasing tone in your voice.

"I'm sure," he says, and then you're pulling away. His arms drop, and his cock slips out of your cunt, and his mouth falls open. Your combined release is leaking out of you, dripping down his cock and onto his stomach.

"Wow," he breathes.

"Is it a bad 'wow' or a good 'wow'?" you ask, your teeth sinking into your lower lip.

"The good kind," he answers, his eyes roaming over your body before returning to your face. His brows furrow. "Can I kiss you?"

"Wrecker, you don't have to ask," you tell him.

"Well, um," he starts, his cheeks turning pink. "It's just, I'm not really good at this part."

"What part?"

"The after part," he tells you. "I mean, it's always been, you know, in the dark, or quick, and I don't know how you feel about kissing and cuddlin' after, and I just...I dunno, I just like you, and I want to do it right."

"Oh, Wrecker," you laugh, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I like kissing and cuddling."

"You do?"

"I do," you nod, a smile on your face. "There's nothing more I'd rather do than kiss you, and cuddle with you, and hold you, and fall asleep with you. That is, if you'll have me."

"Oh.” He blinks. "Yeah, um, I'd like that a lot."

"Then, by all means, darling," you tell him, "kiss me."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm," you nod, grinning. "Please."

Wrecker leans forward, his hand cupping your cheek, and he presses his lips to yours. He licks into your mouth, his tongue sliding against yours, and the soft moan that leaves your lips makes his heart soar.

"You're incredible," he breathes, and the smile on your face is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"You are too," you murmur, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "I hope that was everything you were hoping for."

"It was even better," he says, his hand moving down and resting on your hip. "Can we do it again?"

"Right now?" you ask, and he can't help but laugh.

"I was thinkin' tomorrow, maybe," he tells you, his thumb stroking your skin. "I'm gonna be honest, sweetheart, I don't think I'm gonna be able to go again for a while."

"Me either," you reply, laughing.

"But," he starts, his grip on your waist tightening, "when I am, you want to?”

"Of course," you tell him, leaning in and pressing a kiss to his neck. "I have some other ideas I'd like to run by you, if you're interested."

"I'm very interested." He grins. "Lets get cleaned up, and then you can tell me all about ‘em.”

"Mm," you whine, burying your face in the crook of his neck. “But I don’t want to move.”

“Not a problem,” he replies, and before you can say anything, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you against him. You squeal, your legs wrapping around his waist, and he slides off the bed, holding you against him.

"Wrecker, put me down," you giggle.

"You're the one who didn't want to move," he reminds you.

"Put me down," you say, but your voice is full of laughter, and you’re smiling.

"No," he teases, shaking his head.

"Wrecker," you sigh, rolling your eyes.

"Sweetheart," he replies, mimicking your tone. “I’m a gentleman, remember? And a gentleman always carries his girl to the shower."

"In that case," you murmur, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face against his throat, "thank you, sir."

He walks toward the refresher, his arm wrapped tightly around your waist, and his chest is bursting with pride. You're smiling, and laughing, and holding onto him, and it feels like a dream.

Wrecker sits you on the edge of the counter, and you wince, a soft hiss leaving your lips.

"You okay?"

"Just a little sore," you admit.

"Shit," he curses. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No, no," you shake your head, your hand finding his wrist and squeezing. "It's a good sore, I promise. You were wonderful."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mhm," you nod, biting your lip. "Best I've ever had."

He laughs. "That can't be true."

"Well, it is," you tell him, and he can see the sincerity in your eyes. "I mean, I've never felt anything like it."

He smiles, leaning down and pressing his forehead against yours. You reach up, your fingertips brushing against his cheek, and he turns, kissing the palm of your hand.

"You're not just sayin' that, are ya?" he asks.

"Why would I?"

"I dunno," he admits.

"Wrecker," you sigh, your thumb brushing across his lower lip, "it's been a long time since I've felt anything for anyone. The truth is, I've had a crush on you for months. You're sweet, and kind, and funny, and the things you did tonight...the way you made me feel, the way you treated me...I've never felt so safe. Or special.”

"It was nothin'," he says, his cheeks flushing.

"It wasn't nothing," you insist, and he knows the look in your eyes means you're not going to let it go. "You made me feel beautiful, and wanted, and cared for, and I'll never be able to thank you enough for that. And it's going to take a lot more than a rough fuck to get rid of me."

"Yeah?" he breathes.

"Yes," you say, pressing a kiss to his chin.

"Okay," he nods. "So, we're gonna try this, huh?"

"Do you want to?"

"Are you kidding me? Of course I do," he laughs, his hands coming to rest on your thighs. "I just didn't want to push."

"Well, consider this your official invitation," you tell him, your hands sliding down and squeezing his biceps. "I'm all yours."

"All mine, huh?"

"Yep."

"Good," he nods, and then he's scooping you back up and carrying you toward the shower. "Because I'm all yours, too."

"Even better," you laugh, and the sound is like music to his ears.

Wrecker kisses you again, his hands gripping your thighs, and your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer. You smile against his lips, and he can't help the grin that spreads across his face. He's not sure how this happened. He's not sure why you picked him. But he doesn't care.

All he cares about is the feeling of your lips against his, and the sound of your laughter filling the room. All he cares about is the taste of your mouth, and the warmth of your skin, and the way his chest swells every time you look at him.

He doesn't know where this is going, or how far it will go, but he knows one thing.

He wants it. All of it. With you.

Translation: ma sareen = Ryl for "my sweet"

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