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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years ago

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Intrinsic: Jameson in Therapy

Prompt from Anon: If you're still taking prompts... "Have you tried NOT doing that?"

CW: Noncon survivor discussing future consensual spice, Jameson’s masochism, frank references to noncon and pet whump, brief internal victim-blaming, world-building detail about WRU

Dr. Berger tucks a bit of graying hair behind one ear, smiling slightly at Jameson from her place in the soft armchair she uses during appointments. “Well,” She says, thoughtful, “have you tried not doing that?”

He looks up at her from where he sits curled up on the long sofa, knees to his chest, picking absently at loose threads across the knee of his baggy blue jeans. As always, she is careful not to let her eyes move to the places where hair is slowly growing back in over bald spots where the straps of a leather muzzle had rubbed, careful not to look at the scars he wears on every inch of exposed skin - she’d made the mistake of being caught looking, however briefly, and had discovered that the newest of her clients was deeply insecure about the visible evidence of his captivity.

She’d apologized, but it had taken time to develop enough trust to come back from her initial mistake. She would not jeopardize that now, after they’ve made so much progress and she’s begun to see a shift in how he talks about and relates to his new life, his world.

He even told her the name he chose for himself, and that he’s been telling the others in the house, one by one. Accepting that it won’t be taken from him like his original name was - that it belongs to him, and is his to share or not.

She would never, ever admit it, but... Jameson is one of her favorite clients to work with. He’s working so hard, every week that they meet he trusts more and more that the path he’s on is one that will move him forward.

“What?”

His voice is slightly rough - someone who has screamed enough to have permanent vocal chord damage, she thinks. She makes a note to speak to Jake Stanton about having a physician check on the potential for nodes or other issues that might pop up later. She’s not a medical doctor, but… well. She’s had a lot of clients with vocal chord damage in the sixteen years she’s been working in the pet lib movement, and you start to pick up on the little signs and symptoms they don’t necessarily declare out loud.

“My question is really just me being a little facetious, I won’t lie, but I do want to talk through the spirit of the question. When you mention feeling guilty that you are having a physical response to your housemate, that you are attracted to them and have been struggling with... well. I’d like to really dig in to where that guilt comes from. Now, I am aware that adjustment houses tend to discourage relationships between household members during their time in residence to cut down on the chance for conflict, but that’s not where your guilt lies, is it?”

He goes back to picking at the hole slowly wearing through his jeans. Dr. Berger waits, giving him the silence and time he needs to think his way through the question and the possible answers. After a long time, he says softly, “No. It’s not. I don’t give a fuck if Stanton wants me to hold somebody’s stupid hand or not.”

She has to force her smile not to widen, wondering if Jameson is aware of just how like Jakob Stanton he really is. No wonder they don’t always get along. “Okay. So can you talk to me about just what you sense of guilt, this worry you feel, is rooted in?”

She watches with some small surprise as the angry, defiant recovering Box Boy who has spoken frankly and openly to her about being maimed, injured, treated as an object, referred to as an animal... blushes.

“I want-... It’s not the, um, the response. That I hate.” He won’t look at her now, and he’s one who loves to stare her down whenever he thinks she’ll be shocked or disgusted by what he has to tell her. But this… this, he’s ashamed or embarrassed to say. “They’re fucking gorgeous, that’s... anybody would like them. It’s… it’s what I want from them that... scares me.”

“You are accustomed to a certain level of unwanted physical attention, it’s not at all uncommon in Romantic rescues to continue to feel sexual attraction and desire after freedom-”

“No. It’s. It’s not that I-... I know that’s normal. It’s… I want…” He shifts, uneasily. “I want… I want Allyn to hurt me.”

The last sentence is whispered. It’s not sharing a thought, it’s confessing what he feels is some kind of sin he is committing or intending to commit. Dr. Berger sometimes feels like a priest in a confessional booth, although she’s never been one to suggest atonement - no, fear of oneself is where the core of most of her clients’ pain lies, in her experience. Instead, she works on reconstructing the impulse or fear from its foundations, breaking apart the horror of its weight and reconfiguring it so it’s easier to understand.

To take control of, to direct.

She helps them to own themselves, not to fear the prospect but to see in it freedom they have always deserved.

Fear is the absolute last thing any of her clients should ever have to feel again. They have been taught to devalue and debase themselves, to fear what their bodies can be made to do. If she does nothing else, Dr. Berger hopes she is able to help them be just a little less afraid of the bodies they live in.

“You want your housemate to hurt you?” She asks, gently. “Do you mean in the sense of a serious injury, or…”

“No. Um. No, I fucking… I think about them, um. Hurting-... like… like they used to do. Biting me, or... or scratching... I th-think sometimes about Allyn h-holding a... never mind. Just. Hurting me. I’m-... made to be hurt.”

“You are made only to be yourself,” Dr. Berger reminds him, her voice low and without any hint of judgement. “We’ve talked about your captors before and how you were held. You believe that you were made into a masochist as part of your training, and so you’re frightened that your mind is thinking about your housemate in ways similar to how you were once forced to think about your captors.”

His nose wrinkles - he’s more dismissive than most of the language she uses, and early on delighted in insisting on using words like owner, handler, master. Things he thought might shock her. But Dr. Berger has heard nearly everything she thinks there might be to hear, by now. She only smiles slightly at his expression, jotting quickly down on her notepad a few notations.

Finally, he offers hesitantly, “I-I guess. Allyn is… good. They’re soft, and nice, and they’d never-... but I want them to. And it’s-... it would make-... them be like Robert, or… wouldn’t it? It’d be… treating them like… I don’t ever want to be what I was again, so why the fuck can’t I stop thinking about it?”

He is so rarely vulnerable. Dr. Berger doesn’t take for granted the gift he gives her by letting her see past the wall of anger and derision he has built to keep himself safe. In many ways, he reminds her of when she saw Jake Stanton after his own brush with WRU’s handlers and their methods. Bristling, defensive, and with wounds that cannot be bandaged. They instead need to be exposed to the light.

“Intrusive thoughts that contain elements of your captivity are absolutely normal. You are still in the early stages of making progress, and progress is never linear, Jameson. There is no starting line, no ribbon at the end of the race. There is only moving forward, bit by bit, even if sometimes we move back.”

“You mean I move back,” He says, sullen now. “You don’t do shit. You’re already fine.”

“Mmmn, that’s not… quite accurate. I actually see someone myself, you know.” Dr. Berger smiles at his obvious, visible surprise. “My mentor once told me he never trusted a provider of therapy who did not themselves seek it out. I have my own progress to work towards, just as you have yours.”

“Problems are probably real fucking different, though.”

“Well, that’s true.” She allows herself a warm laugh - and is rewarded when he doesn’t bristle or assume mockery like he used to, but relaxes and even gives her a very small smile in return. “But I would advise you not to compare yourself to others. Your situation, while not unique in some ways, is still unique to you. You’ve been through a kind of horror that no one else has - even if others have experienced some similarities, the traumatic events they experienced will never be entirely like yours.”

He nods.

“But-” She holds up one finger “That doesn’t mean we can’t use what we know as a framework, a foundation you can build your own way on. Think of an ancient Roman road paved into a highway in modern Italy, for instance. The foundation was there, a path laid by people who came through before. But you can take what you need and use it to find your own way. I know that you’re scared of your thoughts, I know that you are frightened of wanting to find gratification or satisfaction in pain because you think it means a return to how you were treated before, or that you are inherently changed in damaging ways by your captivity, but…”

When she trails off, he leans slightly forward “But?”

She chooses her words carefully. “Jameson, would you be willing to consider something that may make you a little uncomfortable?”

He looks at her, depths of feelings in his brown eyes, and slowly nods. “Why not? I’m already fucking uncomfortable. All the time.”

His thin shoulders under the oversized band shirt he wears make angles under the fabric as he shrugs, although in the time she’s been seeing them those sharp edges have already begun to round out, the lines of his jaw and cheekbones are softening.

She’s seen it over and over again, the physical changes reflecting the rebuilding of an entire life. It never ceases to amaze her, how hard each and every one of them works.

“Okay. This may be hard to hear at first but I think it will help you.”

Eventually he nods. “Yeah,” He half-rasps. “Yeah, okay. Just say it. Everything… everything else you’ve said has helped. Go ahead.”

“Okay. So, what I would like you to consider… perhaps what you see as an enforced flaw, a crack that was put into you, a danger you present to your housemate due to your conditioning and mistreatment… it might be in fact an intrinsic part of your sexual expression, and simply an aspect of your attraction to them, and the wish you stated to me to perhaps escalate your current relationship.”

He swallows. The color drains from his face, except for two spots of bright red high along his cheekbones. “What?” His lips barely move.

“Jameson…” Her tone dips, reassuring and soothing. “I know what you were told. I know you were likely given a series of half-truths and whole lies designed to engender dependence and teach you to loathe yourself and therefore disconnect from your body. But… that body? It’s very real, and it’s entirely yours. I think that we need to look into the possibility that you already had certain tendencies that were exploited and twisted. Those tendencies are not inherently unhealthy or damaging if you learn to pursue them in a safe environment.”

He blinks, once, twice, his eyes glittering.

She’s made a misstep and she knows it immediately, clear as the tears Jameson never allows to fall. She didn’t time it quite right. They should have spent more time working up to it…

“Are you saying I’m just-... like this?”

“Not the way you are suggesting,” Dr. Berger says softly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t express myself clearly enough. Please let me elaborate a little.”

“I fucking hope you d-didn’t mean that I’m-... that I’m just fucked up,” He says, looking away from her, down at the floor. She pretends she doesn’t see one hand go up to curve around the side of his neck, recreating some of the weight of the collar they are so often taught to rely on for a sense of safety.

“I absolutely did not mean that. One thing WRU excels at - one of the reasons they have been so successful - is that they utilize very effective techniques that encourage a sense of complicity and responsibility in the people they abuse and violate. I’m going to hazard a guess that you were told that you chose what happened to you.”

“I signed up for this,” Jameson whispers automatically, rote and robotic, without hesitation. At least, Dr. Berger thinks, she’s been doing this job long enough that hearing that no longer gets to her like it used to. “I wanted to be some rich asshole’s-”

“Yes. That. One way I think they are able to convince so many individuals so thoroughly isn’t only because of the standard methods of sleep and nutritional deprivation, the repetition, memorizing, the mistreatment… no, I think one thing WRU does is find in each of its victims a core truth they can exploit and cause you to fear in yourself, making you more vulnerable to the idea that this company is somehow saving or helping you by ‘making use’ of it. They find your weak point and use it to shatter you, but what WRU never realizes is that the very weakness they exploit is also often the same piece of you we can recover, that we can reclaim. In your case… Jameson, have you ever heard of consensual masochism?”

He’s hooked, she thinks, on this line of logic. On the lifeline she’s thrown him, something to grab onto. A way to begin to believe, in some small way, that he isn’t ruined. They all think they’ve been ruined, by the time she meets them.

None of them is.

“No, I-I haven’t. Does this mean… there are people like me who aren’t, you know, fucktoys-”

“Recovering Romantics,” She corrects, gently. “And yes. Masochism is a not-uncommon mode of expression that many people engage in consensually in the context of healthy sexual expression.”

He swallows, hard. She watches his throat move. Sees the look in his eyes, the minute changes in his expression. The hand pushing against the side of his neck slowly drops. She can see the gears turning within him, a shifting point of view maybe. She can see what he doesn’t want to speak out loud.

There’s another silence. This one is more comfortable, and as always she gives him all the time he needs.

“How-” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat, blinking rapidly again. His knees slowly uncurl and his feet, clad in old hand-me-down sneakers, find their way to flat on the floor. Without his ever-present scowl, he looks years younger. Terrified.

Hopeful.

“How can I-... how do I-...” He takes a deep breath. “If it’s just… part of me… how do I make it safe?”

@astrobly @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @whump-tr0pes @raigash @moose-teeth @orchidscript @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @eatyourdamnpears @boxboysandotherwhump @vickytokio @whumpfigure @outofangband @downriver914 @justabitofwhump @thehopelessopus @butwhatifyouwrite @yet-another-heathen @nonsensical-whump

#whump #recovery whump #referenced pet whump #recovering whumpee #wru #bbu #box boy #box boy universe #masochism tw #condtioning #deconditioning #jameson bb #dr. berger #trauma recovery #noncon survivor navigating consensual spice #referenced consensual spice #referenced noncon #internalized victim-blaming #whumpees in therapy

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loversandantiheroes · 4 years ago

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Hotel Hobbies - Part 2

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x f!Reader Author’s Note: This was not going to be a multi-chapter thing, but then people liked it and Whiskey wouldn’t shut the hell up so here we are, folks. I no longer know where this is going so strap the fuck in I guess. This is so long and I am so sorry. Edited for a cleanup 10/5/2020 Summary: A co-worker gives the Reader a little nudge, which backfires just a bit when Whiskey runs unexpectedly late. Warnings: Public sex, exhibitionism, angry sex, mild choking/breath play, oral sex (f! receiving), fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, spitting, spanking, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (do as I say not as I fictionalize), creampies, come eating, vague allusions to Whiskey’s job and all the dangers contained therein, Whiskey is a service top and I do not take criticism, very brief mention of Whiskey’s past, exactly one (1) use of Spanish that I hope I didn’t fuck up too badly. Rating: Explicit / NSFW / 18+ / How much clearer can I make this? Word Count: 12k+ (oh GOD do not look at me I have no idea what happened) Previous: Prelude / Part 1 / Interlude Taglist: @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @oloreaa @the-feckless-wonder @sarcasmisakindofmagic

The conference drags on into its fourth day in a parade of excessively bored people in suits and pencil skirts toting stale danishes and overpriced coffee; the only comforts provided to distract you from the mobius circle-jerk of tedious corporate bullshit. Most of the assembly hall does little more than nod blandly as yet another guest speaker goes through their presentation, the topic of which you forget at least six times throughout the course of it. Half of the attendees aren't even bothering to take notes anymore. The company could've filled the room with potted plants in cheap suits and gotten a better result. At least the plants would provide a little oxygen to the atmosphere.

It certainly doesn't help your case that half of your brain is circling endlessly around Whiskey. You scribble down a set of shorthand bullet points in your notes and try to blink away the image of his arms straining against taut ropes. You sip your coffee and remember the heat of his tongue chasing the taste of his namesake in your mouth. When you cross your legs and feel the deep, pleasant twinge between them, for a split second all you can think about is the way he felt sinking down into you with his teeth against your neck.

The time absolutely crawls by. There's moments when you half expect to look up at the old analog clock on the wall and see the hands start running backward. Of course this would be the day the presentations run long, wouldn't it? Restless and fidgety, you eventually give up on your notes completely and just resign your attention to the clock and whatever obscenity your brain wants to conjure up from the night before.

Claudia, one of your only work friends that actually opted to attend this fiasco, gives you increasingly amused looks throughout the morning, glancing up at you over her phone (on which, you can't help but notice, she has been playing Bejeweled for the past hour with the brightness turned down). After you check the clock for the fifth time in twenty minutes, unable to really keep yourself from sighing angrily through your nose, she shakes her head at you, laughing quietly.

"So what's his name?" she whispers, leaning over conspiratorially.

You give her a glare, but she only raises her eyebrows expectantly. Goddamn it, why does the entire universe find it so funny when you're irritated?

"Whiskey," you mutter back, glowering.

She has to clamp a hand over her mouth to stop a snorting giggle from being loud enough to cause a disruption. "Oh my god," she sputters. "Are you fucking a biker?"

And okay, maybe that is a little funny. You shake your head, mutter back, "Cowboy."

Claudia grins so wide her shoulders pull up with it. "Save a horse," she whispers, trying to dodge out of the way when you elbow her to cut off the rest of the joke. Three people behind you simultaneously shush the two of you, and you toss a dirty look over your shoulder, settling back into your seat.

A few seconds go by before Claudia's leaning back over to quietly add, "The dick must be good to get you this distracted."

"Shut up," you shoot back, but you're already smiling.

When the presentation ends, the entire auditorium raising up on creaking knees to shuffle out to break for lunch, Claudia's hand clamps down on your arm.

"I'm buying lunch and you're going to tell me everything."

So you do. Parked in her conservative little hybrid over styrofoam boxes of take out, you tell her. Damn near everything, too. She listens with rapt attention, this not being the first time she's poked you for details of your love life, such as it is, but judging by the look on her face it's possibly taken the top spot as the most memorable.

"So you're gonna see him again," she says finally as you tell her about Whiskey's invitation before slipping out the door this morning.

You settle back, trying to make yourself look suitably apathetic before answering in the hopes of not being completely transparent. "I dunno. Maybe."

She rolls her eyes. "Oh please. You're gonna see him again. You've been spaced out with dickbrain all day, there's no way you're turning down that invitation."

You wave the end of your plastic fork threateningly. "I will stab you, I swear."

"Not with this many witnesses," she says with a wave at the horde of pedestrians outside on the sidewalk, blatantly ignoring the shanking motions you make in warning.

When she doesn't drop that annoying, knowing look, you start jabbing at your food, rolling a piece of cucumber around the styrofoam. "I mean...ok yeah I thought about it."

"All morning," Claudia provides.

"Fuck you," you counter lightly, and resist the urge to fling the chunk of cucumber at her. "I just...I don't know. I don't think it's a good idea."

"Oh my god, why not?" she cries, head thrown back in exasperation.

"Well it's not exactly fucking sensible, is it?"

"Honey if you were worried about being sensible you wouldn't have fucked a cowboy you picked up at a hotel bar," she says with a shake of her head.

"Did you miss the part where he tried to convince me he was James fucking Bond? I mean c'mon Claudia. That's gotta be...I dunno, some kinda red flag."

She scoffs, flapping a dismissive hand. "Oh please, when the bullshit's that obvious I don't even think it counts. It’s not like you bought it anyway. Besides, honesty is the backbone of a solid relationship, if you're just poking fun it's more like a bonus. As long as he's not married and not a serial killer, who gives a shit? You’re overthinking the shit outta this, hon.”

That’s...well that’s not wrong. It’s honestly irritating how not wrong that is.

When you don’t give a response save for the idle sounds of plastic scratching on your takeout box, Claudia groans. “God are you really gonna make me talk you into getting yourself laid? Okay, if you wanna be rational about it, fine, here's some rational thought for you." She pops out her thumb, ticking off digits as she lists. "He's hot. He likes to eat pussy. He's a fuckin' sub, which - holy shit, girl. Holy actual fucking shit. Plus he's packing and he actually knows what to do with it. Oh, and he bought you fuckin' breakfast!" She wiggles her fingers as she thrusts her hands out towards you. "Seven outta ten, babe! My god, if you don't fuck him I'll do it for you just so I don't have to eat another shitty continental breakfast."

You laugh, but there's a hot flush creeping up your face, and you have to stare out the window for a minute until it starts to wind back. It's almost successful, until you think of Whiskey again. This time, though, all you think of is him outlined in the door, looking back at you with his face too shaded to see. And then your cheeks flare hot again, not with that lingering sense of want, but with a flighty kind of panic.

And just like that you pin it down, your stomach twisting on itself as you finally put words to that moment of apprehension. Whiskey doesn't scare you. His lines don't scare you. The way he fucks you doesn't even scare you. But that moment that he lingered does. It scares you because you think maybe what was going through his head is the same thing that's been going through yours, a fine little thread looped around every remembered pleasure: the worry that you're about to develop a taste for something that you'll never have the chance to get again.

Maybe it's better to leave it. To chalk it up as a fluke and not risk finding out that he'd feel just as good the second time as he did the first. Cut it off now before that lingering taste turns into a full-blown craving.

Claudia sighs, closing her takeaway box. "Look, hon. I'm not trying to tell you what to do. It just sounds to me like you're overthinking this. You don't need to be fucking sensible all the goddamn time. So what if you're thinking with your pussy right now? You had fun. He was fun. You have the option to have more fun. You are entitled to have some fun. So, hey: fuck sensibility and have some fucking fun."

You nod. It's reflex at first, but slowly becomes more deliberate. More sure. "Okay. Yeah. You're probably right."

"I am always right, thank-you-very-much," she corrects, and then promptly shrieks as you launch a slice of cucumber into her hair.

⁂

The trick of it all, you remind yourself that evening as you cross the hotel lobby for the elevator, is not to think about it. Because if you think about it, really think about it, you will find a way to talk yourself out it. Sensibility is as much of a hindrance as a help at times. But you've decided now: the absolute last thing you want to be tonight is sensible. You've been bored out of your mind all week, and as much as you're loathe to admit it, Whiskey has been the only bright spot in the whole affair. At least he's given you something to look forward to, even if it is just the prospect of getting railed until you forget your own name.

You take the time to change when you make it to your room. Grab yourself a short, but blisteringly hot shower, and conveniently forget your panties when you redress. Eventually you make your way down to the bar with your heart almost strangling you with the way it's seemingly lodged itself in your throat. Whiskey's nowhere to be seen, which isn't a complete surprise. He always seemed to turn up a little late in the evening before. Not wanting to deviate too far from your own habits, if only to make yourself a little easier to spot, you take your familiar place at the far end where you've been set up for so many nights in a row. You order your drink, make friends with the closest basket of pretzels, and you wait.

And wait...and wait.

Your eyes are half on the clock and half on the door, flicking back to that last at every sign of movement. Despite the fact that you're practically nursing your drink, the bartender refills your glass twice over the course of the night. When he offers a third, you shake your head. Your face feels like it's burning. The bartender nods and wanders away, either oblivious to the growing anger on your face or determined not to end up the recipient of it.

It's nearly midnight when you finally push yourself off the bar stool, throwing down enough bills to cover your tab and storming off. He stood you up. You cannot fucking believe it. What's worse is you feel like you should believe it. Should've expected it. As if a man that strutted around like a preening rooster and fed you a bullshit James Bond story would have a streak of honesty.

You punch the elevator button hard enough to make your hand tingle, pushing your way through the doors as they open and hitting the button for your floor. The walls of the elevator are mirrored, and you duck your head, not wanting to know what your face looks like just now, twisted up in anger and more than a little shame. The doors hang for a moment before sliding closed. At the last possible second a hand darts in, stopping them. Broad. Tanned. Tattooed. The man of the hour leans through the doors as they retreat, and gives you a grin.

"Room for one more?"

Your stomach does a back flip, blood rushing in so many directions you're not sure if you've got enough left to power a response. If this little scenario had played out even half an hour earlier, you might've laughed. Might've fallen back into that easy bitchy banter the two of you seemed so good at. Might've even kissed him. But not now. Now you've built up too much steam, and every little ounce of anger – earned or not – that you'd had percolating for this man since you first laid eyes on him bursts out of your mouth in two words, laced with as much venom as you can muster.

"Fuck you."

You can practically hear the record scratch in his head. The smile falls, eyebrows ratchet up so high you can't see them for the brim of his hat. It's satisfying in an awful sort of way. Like scratching an itch hard enough to draw blood. Too late to take it back now, though. You lash out at the elevator panel, punching the button marked CLOSE DOORS, and Whiskey side-steps neatly inside.

"All right," he says slowly. "That is not exactly the reaction I was hoping for."

"Yeah, well tough shit, cowboy," you all but spit, raking a hand through your hair. You keep your eyes down. Forward. Anywhere but on him. It's hard, too many reflections. Even the distorted shape of his silhouette in the door makes your blood boil.

"I know I'm late," he starts, hands raised, and the low and placating tone of his voice hits you like lighter fluid on a match.

"You don't fucking say?"

His hands drop. "Can I at least explain myself?"

Laughing too loud and too sharp, you shrug, shoulders pulling up hard. "Yeah, sure, why not? Let me guess, rough day at Spy HQ? Assassination appointment run over? Or were you just hiding behind the fucking dieffenbachia to see how long I'd stick around before I came to my fucking senses?"

The shrill sound of your own voice almost makes you wince. You're overreacting. It's not like you're unaware of it. But you're pissed off, and worse now, you've committed to being pissed off. Backing down now is damn near impossible, never mind actually apologizing.

Whiskey takes a step forward, his eyes gone all puppy dog again; wide and imploring under twisted brows. "Look, I don't blame you for thinkin' the worst. I know I left you waitin', and I apologize for that -"

You roll your eyes, mouth twisting into a smile that shows too much teeth to be kind. "Christ, y'know what, don't flatter yourself. I like that bar. The pretzels are nice and they don't water down the liquor. I didn't show up for you."

"Oh horseshit," he snaps. He doesn't raise his voice, but there is a whip crack of impatience in it. "If you didn't want to see me tonight you wouldn't have turned up at all. You and I both know that."

Fuming, you jam your hand into your purse, fishing out his flask and tossing it at him hard enough that it hits him square in the chest. He catches it on the rebound.

"Here. You forgot this."

Whiskey turns it over in his hands, thumping the metal against his palm. "Right. I see," he says slowly, slipping the flask into his pocket. Under that thick drawl, there's a twinge of something that might be disappointment. "Just came to do the decent thing and return a man's property."

"Yes." Part of you sinks, screaming in frustration. But it's like you're a spectator now, just watching yourself sabotage the only thing that'd brought you a shred of joy all week just because your pride and temper won't allow any other option.

One hand falls to his hip, the other rubs idly across his mouth. He's scowling now, quite spectacularly at that, and for a second you think you've finally dealt enough of a blow to his pride to piss him off. Then he steps in close, jaw set. The way his eyes travel up and down you sends a flush through your body, and you're not sure if you want to slap him hard enough to knock the mustache off his face or kiss him until his lips bleed. His gaze lingers at your hip, your curves quite plainly displayed under the tight skirt. He reaches out. The back of his fingernails barely brush the fabric.

"Do you always make returns without any panties on?"

You try to swallow, but find your mouth has gone suddenly bone dry, your throat sticking with a sharp and painful click. "Fuck off," you try to tell him, but it comes out a croak.

"You know what I think?" Whiskey continues, and the tone would nearly be conversational if it weren't for the way he's looking at you, eyes perfectly black and hungry under the shade of his hat. "I don't think you're just mad because I'm late. I think you're mad because I can get a rise outta you. Part of you kinda likes it. Enough to wanna come back for a little more of it. And you don't know what to do about that. Bet you can't even decide if you wanna throttle me or ride me 'til you can't come anymore. Bit of both, maybe, huh?"

Oh fuck you very much, Mister Perceptive. "Christ, you and your fucking ego-"

"Oh to hell with my fucking ego, and yours too." He leans in close enough that you can smell aftershave and a fainter, acrid smell that, if you weren't so fucking preoccupied, you might recognize as spent gunpowder. "If you want me to go, just fuckin' say it. But don't bullshit a bullshitter. If you wanted rid of me that bad you would've tossed me out on my ass last night before I'd even finished coming."

Your jaw works, and you push yourself a little harder against the handrail just to keep from slapping him. How dare he-

How dare he what, exactly? Be right? Again?

You clench your jaw, gripping the handrail on the wall tight enough that the corners dig into your fingers. Glare at him like you're trying to light him on fire. He doesn't flinch.

"What you did last night...that made for a hell of a first impression," he says slowly, and the low rasp of his voice almost curls your toes. "One I don't expect I'm liable to forget this side of fuckin' doomsday. Shit, I don't even know your fucking name and I ain't been able to shake the thought of you all damn day. Now you can believe that or not, and I wouldn't blame you if you didn't. But the only thing I'm asking from you right now is to be fucking straight with me. If you want me to go, you fucking tell me, and I'm gone. But if you want me to stay, honeybee I swear I will make up for every second you had to wait."

"Fuck you, Whiskey," you breathe. It's all you've got left, all you can even think to say, but it's too soft. It's too hard not to believe him when he's looking at you like that. Even if he's still got your teeth on edge, ready to bite, the fire in your belly is sinking lower every second. And there's no way to mistake the low rasp of your voice for anger.

He leans in, hovering barely an inch away from you, and tips your chin up with his knuckle. "That ain't an answer, honeybee."

His lip curls into a smirk and for a second all you can think about is running your tongue out to follow the curve of it.

"You can punish me if you like," he offers in a low, darkly sweet voice. The fingers on your chin trace a path along your jaw, up to your ear, and down the side of your neck as he talks; a three-point constellation drawn in goosebumps. "Lord knows I deserve it. Tie me up again. Ride my tongue until you've had your fill and never lay a finger on me. I don't mind a bit. I'll probably come in my fucking jeans like a goddamn high school virgin while you do it, too."

Oh god. It's too hot. It's too hot and he's too close and it feels like there's no air left. Those words took the last of it and left you with nothing. And then your lungs finally unlock, hitching in air so pitifully loud that for a second his eyes drop first to your mouth and then lower to watch the buttons strain on your blouse.

His tongue brushes up against the back of his bottom lip, a strange gesture, but one you can't drag your eyes away from. And the bastard just keeps talking.

"Then again, maybe the way you've been acting up you'd be more inclined for a little punishment yourself. I could take you upstairs. Turn you over my knee and put my hand to that pretty little ass until it blushes like a ripe summer peach. I'd bet you'd drip just as much and twice as sweet, too. I'd kill for a taste of you right now. Fuck, if you really want I could just hike that skirt up and fuck you right here and now. I am a flexible man and I am willing to take you any way you'd see fit to let me. But only if you let me. I ain't here to play bullshit games, and I will not take anything you don't want to give. So I need you to tell me, honeybee. Do you want this? Yes or no?"

Everything inside you burns and twists. Fuck, you want that. All of that. And all you have to do to get it is unstick your stubborn, too-sharp tongue and admit that you want it. That even without the excuse of three shots of tequila on top of a few too many cocktails, you still want it.

You're burning up. There's sweat on your palms. It squeaks as you twist your hands over the railing. He hasn't just turned the tables on you, he's flipped the whole fucking room and cornered you with it. And God help you, it's infuriating how much you like it.

"Hate you. So much."

"Hm." His hand falls away, and you miss the touch instantly. "So you keep sayin'. Decision time, honeybee. You pick or I'm picking for you and we're both gonna be disappointed in that result."

There is a long long beat where that threat hangs between you. Any hope that he might just push forward and take you anyway – push you into the wall and fuck you ragged right here and now without another word – bleeds away as you stare him down, your wordless challenge going unanswered. His gaze is iron; hard and unyielding, and you know if you wait even one more second, this...whatever the hell this is, will be over. Permanently.

Swallowing the last of your pride like so much cheap liquor, you seize the front of his shirt, dragging him forward even as he starts to back away.

"Yes. Fucking goddamn it. Yes, I want this."

"Yeah?" He leans in, nose brushing your cheek. Somehow it's that little gesture that sets off a bomb's worth of butterflies in your stomach.

"Yes."

The heat of his hand is almost shocking as it glides up your thigh and underneath your skirt, his thumb stroking up and finding only bare skin. Whiskey grins. "Knew it."

You choke back a sigh. "Smug bastard."

"Yes ma'am." His thumb brushes up and down your slit idly, slow and considering. He glances around, quirks an eyebrow, and offers: "Here?"

Following his glance, you spot the hunk of plastic mounted in the top corner of the elevator. "Camera. Fuck."

"Sure enough," he drawls, still grinning. "You want to give the boys 'n' girls in the security booth a show, or d'you want to go someplace a little more sensible?"

Sensible. God, If he'd chosen any other word, you might've agreed. Private. Safe. Anything but fucking sensible.

"Fuck sensibility. Fuck security, too. Just shut up and fuck me."

He laughs through your kiss, the touch of his lips too gentle by miles. The last thing you want right now is gentle. You don't fucking deserve gentleness after all that. And so you rake your teeth across his bottom lip, roll your tongue against his. When you nip at his tongue, Whiskey breaks off, cupping your sex with a warm, calloused hand.

"You're gonna eat me alive, honeybee," he growls. He parts you with a thick finger, drawing the pad of it from your entrance to your clit and back again. "Mm, I have been thinkin' about this all day," he murmurs before his finger sinks into you.

Sighing, you curl your arms around his neck, knocking his hat off to run your fingers through his hair and muss up that razor-clean side part. His hand works unhurried between your legs. You rock against it, listening to the obscene smacking sound as he works you open.

"All that fuss and you're wet for me already, darlin'," Whiskey says wonderingly.

All you can do is groan, chasing the sensation of the heel of his hand pressing against your clit. "Shut up and kiss me."

You tug at his hair, try to urge him forward, but he doesn't budge. He sinks down to his knees instead, right hand never leaving the wet heat of your cunt.

"I'll kiss you, baby," he says, pushing up your skirt and lifting your right leg over his shoulder. "Don't you worry."

And he kisses you: a warm, wet slide of lips and tongue where he's got you spread. Gasping, you grab the back of his head. He looks up at you, only the crinkles at the corner of his eyes proof of his smile, and his eyes slip closed like a man savoring his favorite meal.

"Jesus." The word comes out in a squeak as his mouth works on you, your throat tightening in an effort to keep quiet. A second finger joins the first and you whimper, tightening reflexively against the stretch. Christ those fingers are thick. Shuddering, you work your fingers in his hair and pull him closer, your eyes wandering up to the reflection in the far wall. The view is mesmerizing: your back arched, skirt hiked up to your waist, with Whiskey's head buried in between your legs like a man trying to slake an ungodly thirst. The view on the left is even better. From there you can watch his mouth work against you, catching a glimpse of his tongue, wet and shining as it slips between your folds. He sways forward on his knees like a charmed snake, a growing bulge straining against the dark blue denim of his jeans.

There's a gentle ding, and for a moment you're so scrambled you think maybe your phone's going off. And then the elevator doors slide open. An older looking gent with a battered briefcase stands frozen on the other side, eyes wide as dinner plates as he takes in the same view you've been admiring in the mirrored walls of the elevator.

For a single spaced-out second the only thing you can think is, Going down?, which makes you erupt into a fit of breathless, senseless giggles.

The newcomer's mouth hangs, flapping uselessly over words he can't quite formulate. He might be trying to apologize for the intrusion or insist you repent and turn to Jesus. You don't know and you don't care.

Whiskey looks up at him over the line of your thigh, lips glistening. "Get the next one," he snarls, and punches the CLOSE DOORS button.

He plants a rough, sucking kiss at the top of your cleft as the doors close again, utterly unperturbed. "Penthouse, darlin', if you please."

Oh he would be in the fucking penthouse, wouldn't he? Panting, you fumble a hand out trying to find the button just as Whiskey slides in a third finger and you cry out, almost swiping every button in the center row by accident.

The elevator hums to life and begins to move. The red light on the security camera flashes benignly and you stare at it for a long beat while Whiskey gets right back to work, moaning hungrily between your legs. Someone's watching this. The thought excites you more than it should, adding fuel to the already roaring fire Whiskey is so eagerly stoking with his tongue. You roll your hips, swearing roundly. It's not enough. It's fucking glorious, but it's not enough. You know what you need.

"Fuck me," you gasp. "Goddamn it, Whiskey, gimme your cock."

He glances up at you through thick lashes, eyebrows raised. "Is that what you want, honeybee?" he asks.

You bear down on his fingers hard as if to answer and he clenches right back, thumb and pinky giving him leverage against your pubic bone as he grips you tight, fingers stroking along your walls. It's only by virtue of the handrail and the support of his shoulder that you don't sink straight to the floor. Christ that backfired.

You nod fervently, head spinning.

A roll of his shoulder unseats your leg, and he stands. His left hand wraps around your throat, thumb against your jawline, and that's so fucking perfect you can't stop yourself from whimpering. In a flare of desperation you grasp his wrist, urging him to grip your neck just a little tighter. Chuckling, he brushes his lips against yours – soft and strangely tender – while he fucks you steadily with his fingers.

"Shoulda known you'd like that. Well? Cat got your tongue? Come on, darlin', lemme hear it."

"Yes."

"Louder. Tell me you want me to fuck you."

"Oh god-d-d-damn it!"

He chuckles darkly, fingers coaxing inside you. "You can do it, honeybee. I know you want it. I just need hear you say it."

You bare your teeth. "I want you to fuck me."

"Good girl." He grins down at you, wide and wolfish. "Now: ask me nicely."

Oh he would, wouldn't he?

"B-bastard," you snarl, then begin to laugh.

"Oh come on now," he croons, eyes darting between your lips and your own heavy-lidded stare. "I'm sure you can get along without your pride for an hour or two. It ain't so bad. And I promise I'll make it worth your while. C'mon."

You groan, grit your teeth, and hiss out: "Please."

He crooks his fingers and you gasp like you've been burned. "'Please' what?"

"Please fuck me. Please fuck me."

He slots your trembling thigh between his legs, pressing the clothed, solid length of his cock against you. "With this? Hm?"

"Fuck, yes." You writhe, feel it twitch, and he rolls against you in response.

"Come for me first, honeybee. Then I'll fill you up good and proper. Cross my heart."

His fingers press into you harder, spreading gently as he draws them back. Your legs begin to shake so badly that he has to pin you to the wall to hold you up. The rail digs into your back. You'll bruise tomorrow, but you're not sure you've ever cared less in your life.

"You gonna come, for me?" he asks, rutting a little more enthusiastically against you when he feels you begin to tense and flutter around his fingers.

Squeezing your eyes shut tight, you nod, feeling the drag of his lips on your cheek.

"Uh-uh. Talk to me, darlin', I wanna hear it. I want you to tell me every single time you're gonna come, you understand me? Count them out. Let's see just how many you got in you tonight."

"Oh you ass!" You moan and laugh all in the same breath.

"You like it," he says simply.

He kisses you, warm and deep, and you bite his lip for the audacity. "Don't stop. Fuck, I'm close."

He turns your head, slides his hand around to cup the back of your neck. "Open your eyes, honeybee. Watch yourself."

You try. Everything's a blur; inside and out. Fuzzy and disconnected and hot. Blinking to clear the fog, you can see your reflection caught between the wall and Whiskey's body. Your eyes are dazed, unfocused. His cheek is against yours, a look of utterly indecent hunger on his face, lips red and swollen where you've bitten him. He's pressed up against you too tightly to get a good view, but you can see his arm pinned between your bodies, and the flex of muscles working underneath his jacket.

There is, you note with a fuzzy sort of disconnect, a small, ragged hole in the arm of his jacket.

But before you can put any more thought to this discovery he presses his thumb down against your clit – no friction, only a firm, rolling pressure – and that's all you need. If it wasn't for the his body against yours, you'd buckle. As it is, trapped between him and the wall, all you can do is quake and cry out, arms tightening around his shoulders as you come.

He hums indulgently, kissing your cheek. "Count it out."

Panting, you pull hard on his hair until he groans. "One."

"Good girl," he murmurs. Slowly his hand withdraws, giving one last slow swirl over your folds before he sucks you greedily off his fingers.

There's the muffled sound of a zipper and you could almost laugh – finally! But then the elevator slows and stops, doors sliding open with a soft ding. Whiskey glances sidelong at the open door, corner of his mouth pulling up in a half-cocked grin. The disappointed whine you give as you hear him zip himself right back up is wholly involuntary.

"Well wouldn't you know it," he says, pulling away from you and stooping for his hat. It's all you can do not to whack him on the back of the head – or on the ass – as he turns away, wiggling your skirt back down over your hips instead.

He gives a ridiculous wink towards the security camera with his hat held to his chest. Your stomach gives a neat little flip as you look up at that blinking red light – god, you'd forgotten it was even there.

"Sorry to blue-ball ya and run, fellas." He gets an arm around your waist, tugging you into the hall at an easy, languid pace, as if nothing had happened. As if your legs weren't still quivering, with the evidence of your orgasm running in sticky trails down the inside of your thighs.

"Betcha money, marbles, or chalk they'll be jerkin' off over that for weeks," he says jovially, pulling you to his hip when he feels you start to wobble. "C'mon. Let me get you in a bed before I say to hell with it all and fuck you out here on the goddamn floor."

Your knees tremble again; at least one part of you has full support of that particular idea. As the door opens you pull him back to your mouth, kissing him hard even as he steers you by the hips through the suite. You barely see any of it. Recessed halogen lights. The sparkle of painstakingly cleaned glass and marble. Little else. A grunt escapes you as you fetch up hard against the wall and Whiskey crashes into you. The sudden pressure against his groin leaves him winded, rocking forward against you with a shuddering groan.

"Tell me how you want it," he says, words mangled against your mouth. The salt-musk taste of you still clings to his tongue, sharp against some faint remnant of sweet mint.

One hand slips down, squeezing your breast through the material of your blouse. The room spins giddily like a tilt-a-whirl, still riding the coattails of your last orgasm. "Hard," you breathe. The skirt you chose is too fucking tight, and you have to reach down to drag it back up your thigh just to hook a leg around him. "Don't you dare be gentle."

He chuckles as you press into him. "How hard is hard? I can be a little rough if you let me off the leash."

Frustrated, you slip your hands under his sports coat, nails biting into his shoulders through his dress shirt. "Fuck, do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Yeah," he says, and his voice has reached that breathy, sonorous pitch that sends a hot-cold shiver rocketing down your spine. "Yeah you do. A little honesty would be appreciated tonight."

One good shove and his jacket slips to the floor. "That's funny coming from Double-O-Cowpoke."

"Not my fault you don't believe me." It's pitched like a joke, light and breezy, but there's something in his eyes. Sharp and peculiar and gone almost before you can be sure it was really there, but makes your stomach clench with a sudden surety that the next words out of his mouth are completely genuine. "I ain't lied to you yet, honeybee."

And that almost brings you to a halt. Your hands splay out on his shoulders, pushing back to look at him more clearly. If that's true. If that's true...oh god, why would he have told you?

The question is halfway to your lips before he surges his way forward again, his mouth crashing into yours and kissing you hard and urgent and bruising. A faint sound of protest rises in your throat and you push back a little, not wanting him to stop but wanting him to wait because...because....

And the rest of that thought flutters away. He doesn't stop kissing you. He just doesn't stop. And he's moaning as his tongue licks into your mouth and his teeth scrape over your lips like it's the most decadent thing in the world. You grasp at his face, wrists caging in his neck, feeling his pulse race along next to your at such a frantic speed it's almost alarming. Your last little shred of rational thought all but begs you to push him back a little harder, to make him look at you and ask him what's wrong...and then it just flutters away because God this is what you want. This. This, this, this.

"You want it hard?" he rasps into your mouth, rutting up against you hard enough to drive you back into the wall.

Breathless, you nod. Work your fingers through the mess you've made of his hair. "Ruined you last night, didn't I?" You tighten your grip, use your knuckles for leverage and pull.

Whiskey groans, slipping his hands under the bunched hem of your skirt to grip your ass and grind you down against him. "Goddamn right you did, honeybee."

"So ruin me back." The thick denim that covers his fly is rough, but you rub against it all the same, shuddering at the coarseness against your tender skin. "Fair is fair. Right?"

His eyes slip closed and he buries his face against your neck for a moment, breathing unsteady. "Jesus, girl, you're gonna soak straight through my jeans," he mutters. "All right, honeybee. All right. I only got one rule. If I do anything you don't want, you tell me. 'Cause I ain't stopping unless you do. Not tonight. Got it?"

"Whiskey-"

He gets a grip on your chin, levels your eyes on his. "You tell me 'no' or you tell me 'stop.' Got it?"

"Yes." Patience exhausted, you wrench his belt open. "Now come on."

Buttons patter to the floor as he tears open your blouse. And that's good. That's fair. And what's even better is the rough way he puts his hands on you, yanking your bra down to knead and squeeze your bare breasts. When you finally free his cock there's only a brief moment to savor the warm, solid length in your grip before his fingers clamp down on your nipples. The sensation is so sharp and bright and sudden that you yelp, arching up on your tip-toes.

"Hands off, honeybee," he warns.

Whimpering, you flatten your hands against the wall.

"Too much?" he asks softly, that funny little furrow deepening between his eyebrows.

A groaning laugh slips out of you, and you arch your back, pushing your breasts against his hands. "Not enough."

"Fuck, ain't you just the sweetest, dirtiest thing." He twists and you cry out, hips bucking forward. His cock drags against your hip and you chase it, trying to pin it between you.

"Oh, c'mon. You promised," you whine.

"Oh I'm gonna keep my promise, baby, don't you fret. I want you just as fucked-out as you had me. Wanna see you so goddamn cock dumb your eyes roll back. Bet you've been thinking about this all day, too, haven't you?"

The wall warms under your hands as you fight not to push back more. And maybe that's what does it. A little mental-short circuit. Because God knows you haven't been able to think of a single fucking thing other than this. But the denial is on your lips so fast it must be involuntary, a reflexive need to find his buttons and push: "You wish."

Whiskey raises an eyebrow, lip curling. For a second he's amused, seeing the game you want to play. And then it's like a switch flips. Suddenly this isn't the man who'd begged for the privilege of fucking you last night. This isn't even the man who'd put his grateful mouth to your cunt in the elevator. This is the man he'd pretended to be right up until you got his hands tied. The cowboy get up wasn't the costume – this is. This smile. This infuriating swagger.

"Oh, really?" he says, and for the first time you realize just how much that drawl had begun to soften around you, because now that dial's ramped right back up to 11. "You turn up tonight without any goddamn panties on, ride my fingers like a coin-op pony, beggin' to get fucked all the while, and then you try and tell me you ain't been thinkin' about me? I felt how hard you came. How fucking wet you were." His hand darts between your legs as quick a snake-strike, fingers carding through your folds. "Are. Ain't no face left to save, darlin'."

He's in your space, radiating heat, his fingers stroking against your swollen sex, stoking your own fire all over again. But the fire those words kindle burns a little quicker and a little hotter. Without a second thought you strike out, palm tingling as it finds its target against his cheek.

For a moment Whiskey doesn't even seem to breathe. He just stands there leaning heavy against you with his eyes closed and his nostrils flaring. Redness blooms against his cheek. When his eyes open again, the way they bore into you, glittering and eager takes your own breath away.

He hums, that low, pleased sound. But now it slips lower and lower into a breathy rumble that lances straight through you. "Do it again."

Swallowing hard, you slap him again. Harder this time. For a moment the only reaction he gives is the way his cock bobs sharply, slapping against your thigh.

Then he growls, seizing the back of your neck and crushing you to him. You crane up, half expecting a kiss, but his thumb snags the corner of your mouth. He drags it open until your jaw hangs, tilting your head back. A choked sound that's a little too plaintive to be a protest slips from your open mouth a second before Whiskey spits into it.

"Swallow."

You do, sucking hard on his thumb for good measure.

"You nasty little thing," Whiskey says, his voice slow and dark as molasses. His eyes glaze over a little as he works the ball of his thumb against your tongue, watching the way your lips purse around it. "Maybe you are the one that needs the punishin'."

He leans against you, breathing hard as he considers this thought. You frown a little, catching his thumb with your teeth, hoping he'll get the hint and give you something better to put in your mouth. But then his grip loosens, one hand disappearing behind you. Hints, it appears, are completely off the table tonight.

"In," he growls, throwing open the bedroom door. "Now."

Whiskey leads you inside, hitting the lights with his elbow. The room is furnished in that same drab but sparkling minimal style, an impressively large bed swallowing up the majority of the space. One wall is nothing but windows behind drawn shades, a sliding door leading out to a small, isolated balcony.

He steers you directly to the bed, sitting on the edge and pulling you across his lap to straddle his knee. You let out an indignant little yelp at the treatment, but then he shifts his leg under you and the indignance crumbles. It presses against your mound just right, urging you open, and you grind down with a gasp, trying to find a little relief.

Whiskey tuts. "Oh now look at that. Try to tell me you ain't been thinkin' about takin' my dick and then rub on me like a goddamn cat in heat."

There's the sound of a zipper – not his this time, but your own – and then a little tickle at your hip as he undoes the skirt and wrestles it down your legs. He pushes your blouse up, bunching the material up around your shoulder blades. For a second you think he means to pull it off, but then he twists the fabric around his hand. The garment draws up tight, leaving your arms, still in the sleeves, pinned to your sides.

You moan a little when you feel his hand slide across your ass. He bends over you, and you feel the wet heat of his mouth against your ass cheek. A sweet, languid swirl of his tongue before he bites down. You jerk hard enough that your clit drags against the rough weave of his jeans and you cry out, the sound muted by the bedspread.

The pressure of his knee aches beautifully against your cunt, your breathing so shallow and quick it makes you lightheaded. You know what's coming, and you know what you asked for. The last thing you wanted was to be sensible. And this – well this might be the least sensible thing you've ever done.

You buck your hips up sharply. Searching for his hand. "Do it."

The first strikes are quick and brisk. They tingle, warming your skin, but don't hurt. Not yet. This is just a tease of the real thing. A warm up. The tips of his fingers trace the first reddening outline of his hand against your skin, a match for the not-yet faded print against his cheek. Crooning, he kneads your buttocks, spreading them apart, making the slick folds of your pussy slide against each other.

"Sweet Jesus will you look at that. Open that up, baby. Lemme see just how fuckin' wet that gorgeous little pussy is."

You gasp, grinding down again, and then first real slap lands across your ass, unexpected and jarring. The sting is enough to make your eyes water, but the impact drives you forward, almost encouraging your hips to grind into him. A second strike lands on the other cheek, then back to the first, alternating each time. You rock with it, caught between the hot stinging slap of skin on skin and the building heat between your legs.

"This what you wanted?" Crack.

"Fuck!"

"Is it?" he demands. His hand descends again. Crack.

"Yes!" You kick out, struggling not because you want to, but because you have to. And it only makes it worse. Or better, or – God, you don't even know now. It's more. It's just more. His knee digs in harder and your poor neglected cunt throbs with a misplaced ache and you swear you have never needed to feel yourself filled up more than you do right now.

"You gonna behave?" Crack. "You gonna stop lyin' to me now?" CRACK.

"Yes!" The word leaves you in a shuddering sob, thighs clamping down around Whiskey's leg. One more, God help you, one more and you'll tip over, you'll come all over his knee, you're so close.

And then he stops, rubbing and kneading the hot flushed skin, and you whine in desperate frustration as your orgasm begins to retreat.

"Goddamn. Prettier than a Georgia peach," Whiskey says thickly. His hand strays, slips down between your cheeks and presses against the splayed lips of your pussy. You writhe under the sudden attention, feeling the tips of his fingers slide around your clit. "And damned if you don't drip twice as sweet."

"Please." Warmth trickles from the corner of your eyes, blooming against the bedspread.

The swirl of his hand is lazy, almost soothing but for the way it keeps you so frighteningly close to the edge. "Truth first, honeybee. C'mon. You know what I wanna hear."

"Ye-yes," you mutter. "Goddamn it yes. I've been thinking about fucking you all day. All goddamned day...God, Jesus, fuck, and then you didn't show. Thought you'd ditched me. Made me want - want it and then ditch me."

You bury your face in the quilt. It's a fucking cop out and you know it. You don't just want it. You want him. Fuck, what is happening?

Again you feel his mouth against your ass cheek, open and wet, but this time his tongue is almost cool by comparison. "There now. I didn't ditch you, baby. Wouldn't fuckin' dream of it." His voice is low now, placating, nearly apologetic. And then his fingers are slipping inside you again, stroking and curling. "I'm right here here, baby. Right here. Just a little late, is all."

You whine, trying to wriggle back to drive him in deeper. Those thick fingers are like fucking magic but you need more than they can provide. Desperate now, you clutch your fingers back towards him, find his shirttail and tug at it. "Jack. Please."

It doesn't even register to you that you've called him by his name – God, you didn't even think you remembered his name – until the fingers inside you still. If it wasn't for the hammering of your heart in your ears you might've heard his breath catch.

Slowly he twists his fingers inside you, pressing down until you shudder. "What is it, honeybee?" he mutters. The hoarseness in his voice is familiar. You wish you could see his face. "Tell me what you want."

"Please fuck me. Please. I waited all fucking night."

He rolls you off his lap, leaving you dangling half off the bed and folds over you, cock nestled against the heat of your reddened ass. There's a sticky slide to it; you're not the only one that's wet.

"Hand to God, baby, I'll make it worth every minute. On my fuckin' life." The pained edge in his voice sets the room spinning, and for one mad moment you find yourself trying to grab onto the bedspread to keep from rolling away. Whiskey leaves a kiss against the back of your neck before he draws back, the hand fisted in your shirt tugging you along just a bit.

There's a long, wavering moment when his touch leaves you entirely and you almost protest before you hear him frantically shedding his clothes behind you. Then his hands return, his left winding back into your shirt, his right warm and strong against your back. The blunt, weeping head of his cock nudges between the swollen lips of your pussy. He stays there for an infuriatingly long moment, enough that you cry out your frustration into the bedclothes.

And then he finally makes good on his promise.

You go up on your toes, legs straining as he breaches you. After all the hours you spent thinking about it, all the hours you waited, it's bliss. But the pure, unadulterated stretch of it laces that bliss with a white-hot line of fire that only serves to make it all the more urgent. Maybe it's the angle, bent in half with your ass up and your legs closed. Maybe it's just how overwrought you are already. Maybe...fuck, you don't know, maybe somehow he's even harder than the night before. All you do know is that he feels so big you can't hardly stand it. It's so much, bridging the gap between pleasure and pain until it's just an overwhelming sense of pressure and fullness that has you clenching and fluttering around him. As if your body can't make up its mind if it wants to expel the intrusion or welcome it deeper.

He has no right to feel this good. None. But goddamn it you're so glad he does.

"Fuck," he mutters shakily, fingers biting into your hip. "This what you wanted, honeybee? Huh? This what you been waiting for?"

You can't find the air to give him an answer. Whiskey's still moving forward, you're not even sure how. Christ how much more of him is there? He leans forward, pushing you into the mattress, pushing down into you until you start to shake, until he hits that buried junction inside you that sends a flare of heat rocketing clear down to your toes and your stalled orgasm rears up again so sudden and so close that it's startling.

Every muscle in your body tenses, straining. The whine that breaks out of your gaping mouth is pitiful. "Shit, oh shit, Jesus fuck, Jesus fuck-fuck-fuck-"

He feels it. He must. There's no way he can't. "Oh fuck, that's it honeybee," he croons, working his free hand under you to circle your clit as he sinks that last broad inch into you. "Come on. Come all fuckin' over me."

For a second everything shorts out, all senses lost in a white-out. The only tenuous connection you have to your body lies in the grounding pressure of his cock inside you and the faint but rapid fluttering of his pulse in it. And then you're slamming back to yourself with a ragged cry, blood roaring in your ears and coming so hard that you nearly buck off of him entirely. Your arms flex, bend, bunched cloth digging deeply into your skin until you feel rather than hear the seams rip. And then the tightness is gone, Whiskey's hand unwinding immediately from your shirt to stroke up and down your back.

There's a lump in your throat when you finally find enough air to speak: "T-t-two."

Whiskey groans. "Beautiful. Fuck, you shake so pretty when you come for me. I could watch you do that all night. Might just, at that." He drags the torn wreck of your blouse off you, popping the clasp on your bra and bending to place an open, humid kiss in the valley along your spine.

He rocks forward and back, one hand clamped into soft flesh at your hip, humming tunelessly. "Been wantin' to bury myself back in this sweet pussy from the minute I woke up. Ain't been able to think of nothin' else. Just this," he says, drawing back slowly before burying himself to the hilt and rolling his hips against you.

You clamp your teeth down on your lip, fighting the haze. It's hard to swallow. Hard to breathe. But he's rolling into you slow, far too fucking slow. And that isn't what you need. You try to push yourself up on your elbows, but he thrusts forward, a little more force in it this time, and your arms give out.

"Ha-harder," you pant, voice thick and muffled by the quilt. You turn your head, claw the hair out of your face. "F-fuck me harder, god-d-d-damn it. Make me fuckin' feel it tomorrow. Big-dicked b-bastard, oh my God, don't you stop."

He breathes out a laugh, folding over your back. The pressure against your tender ass stings like hell, and you hitch in a hissing gasp as Whiskey's mouth finds your cheek. He kisses you, or does his best to. The angle is strange and your face is half-smashed against the bed, but his mouth slants over the side of yours, tongue dragging against your lips until you open for him, letting him lick against the sharp points of your teeth.

"Careful what you wish for, honeybee," he whispers, grinding forward in a maddening circle. "Words like that will get you in a whole mess of trouble."

The air leaves you in a whooping rush as he stands, dragging you up against his chest, your back bowing to try and keep the searing length of him pressed where you need it. And then – ah god – his hand is around your throat and his teeth are sinking into your shoulder, and you're suddenly glad he can't see the way your eyes flutter and roll back.

Not that he even needs to see it, because just then Whiskey groans into your skin as a rush of wetness courses down his cock.

"Fuck, is it that good, baby? Hm?" His voice quavers as his body impacts yours like a sledgehammer. "My dick finding all the sweet spots in that pretty little pussy for you?"

You grapple at him, find where he clings to you and grip his hands, inadvertently encouraging him to press his hand just a little harder against your throat. And there goes the room again, looping and floating as he starts to move, really move, driving forward harder and harder. You stumble, going up on your toes, some choked and desperate noise caught in your throat somewhere under his hand. Sparks pop behind your eyes, faint and wavering like fireworks reflected on choppy waters. And then the pressure eases, air rushing into your lungs once again. The fire in your belly flares up at it like a backdraft.

"M-more," you grate out. "Oh f-fucking God please more. D-don't...d-d-don't-"

"Don't you worry, baby. Ain't gonna stop," he mutters harshly against your ear. "I'll give you all you want. Ain't stopping 'til you tell me to stop."

You shake your head, or at least try to, the movement restricted by his hand. "N-no. Never. Fuck, never-never stop. Right there f-fuck-"

Whiskey growls out something low and broken and unintelligible as you clamp down on him, your body chasing that bright, blazing heat whether you want it to or not.

"Oh fuck, are you comin' again for me already, angel? Shit, you are, aren't you? Got yourself all riled up today and now you just can't stop. C'mon then, baby. Come on my dick. You feel like fuckin' heaven when you come. Pussy's so good it oughtta be fuckin' blasphemy. C'mon, honeybee, do it for me, come like you fuckin' mean it-"

Before you can breathe a word it hits you and it hits you hard, muscles seizing up so tight it's like they're trying to wring the pleasure out of you. You ride through maybe three or four near-blinding shocks of it and then your knees, traitorous things, finally give out underneath you. The only thing that keeps you up is Whiskey's arms wrapped tight around you, clutching you to him, suspending you on his dick as it grinds up brutally against your g-spot.

"Got you, honeybee," he grunts, rhythm never faltering. "I got you. Keep comin' for me, baby, keep comin'."

And god help you, you are. You're still quivering, still coming, and then his hand falls away from your neck to cup against your sex, palm flat against the rigid little knot of your clit. He doesn't even rub, it's just a heat and a pressure and it's like your whole body stutters upward, launching towards a second, higher peak. Whiskey lets out a broken groan against your neck as you bear down on him so hard it nearly hurts and you wail at the unexpected, overwhelming force of it.

Everything spins off and away in the aftermath, senses blown out like a bad circuit. Sounds are swallowed up in a high, persistent ringing. You haven't got the strength to force your eyes back open. There's a shift and a feeling of soft cloth beneath you and when the haze starts to lift you find you're on your knees on the bed, shoulders down and ass up with Whiskey draped over your back. He murmurs things against your cheek, your ear, your neck. You can't hear a word of it over the ringing in your ears.

You turn your head, knocking your forehead against his by accident. "Thr- I- f-four?" Your voice jumps in your throat, but you can't quite make it steadier. "I...I don't-"

"Honeybee," he drawls, his cock giving a hard, desperate twitch inside you. He grins at you indulgently, gathering your hair up in one broad hand and pulling. "Good girl."

A shudder goes through you as you realize he's still fucking you. Deep, swift strokes that send tingles sparking through you. He drags his cock out of you and drives it back in, pulling it over your blazingly sensitive nerve endings like a bow over violin strings. Like it's a privilege to do it. Like it'd be a fucking crime to stop.

He drags two more orgasms out of you like this. Shuddering, slow-building things that overtake you like flood waters, rising up with an aching, consuming crawl unmindful of the pounding pace Whiskey holds to like a clockwork battering ram. It's only when you gasp out a broken cry of "S-sih-s-six!" that Whiskey's hips finally begin to falter, stuttering and slowing at the feeling of your overworked pussy milking his cock again. His grip on you tightens as he tries to steady himself, tries to hold on, groaning his own restrained pleasure through gritted teeth.

"Tight - fuck! Goddamn it girl you get so fucking tight when you come. So fuckin' wet. Sweet Jesus. I don't know how m-much more of that I can fuckin' take."

"God, fuck, do it, just do it," you whine, reaching back for him with hands that can't stop shaking. "C'mon Jack."

He laughs at that, but it's a little frayed and frantic at the edges. He brushes the hair out of your face, working his fingers into it and giving it a tug. "I – ungh! Oh s-shit – I got... your p-permission this time, honeybee?"

You hum, nodding, and hitch in a breath as he grinds in particularly deep. "Please."

His rhythm falters again, hips canting suddenly at a hard angle. "W-where? Fuck, fuck, where do you want me, baby? Hurry."

"In-inside. Inside me. 'S what you wanted last night? Right?"

Whiskey makes a broken sound, lurching against you. "Y-yeah. Oh shit, yes. Jesus fucking Christ, honeybee."

Growling, he flips you over and slides in deep, pushing your knees up almost to your shoulders and staring raptly down at your face even as his own contorts. The length of him inside you stiffens even more, pushing in so deep his hipbones grind painfully against your own.

And then he breaks with a cry, his whole body locking up with the force of his climax. His head drops between your breasts and his back arches high, fists punching deep divots into the mattress on either side of you. He rocks through it, jerking at every pulse and spasm, and you can't help but shiver at the warmth that pools inside you as he comes.

"Fuck, fuck. Nngh, ho-holy shit." He almost says more, but another tremor wracks his body and it chokes off into a broken mess of Spanish - "¿Que chingas me estás haciendo a mi mujer?"

Winded and boneless, you scratch your nails weakly across his scalp, working your fingers down his neck to his shoulders. "Better be a compliment."

"You have no idea," he pants open-mouthed against your skin. Instead of elaborating he just eases himself out of you and crawls his way down, trailing his mouth over your skin until he's settled between your legs, staring at whatever disaster he's made of you and groaning softly in appreciation.

Take a picture, you almost say, it'll last longer. But before you can work up the air and energy to put breath to the quip he's drawing his tongue against you, cleaning up the mess he's made with a desperate, greedy reverence that sets your knees trembling on either side of his head.

Whimpering, you clamp your lower lip in your teeth, shuddering up against the warm heat of Whiskey's mouth. "Careful," you warn. "Oh, G-God, careful."

The only answer you get is a low moan and the feeling of his fingers sinking diligently back into your cunt, coaxing out the trickling remnants of his orgasm.

A high, lazy heat begins to build again, over-sensitivity easing back into something warm and sweet and giddily aching. Your hands cradle the back of Whiskey's head, carding through his sweat-soaked hair as he licks his own come out of you. It's not a thing you've ever really given much thought before – bodily fluids were always more an incidental part of sex for you than anything else – and you're not sure if he's enjoying the act itself or just the strange submissive edge of it. Curiosity gets the better of you and you glance down at him, expecting to see him staring intently up at you over the rise of your mons, gloating over the state he's put you in. Fuck, he's made you come so many times you're sure he'll never let you forget it.

Only he isn't. His eyes are closed, face lax with a blissful intoxication as he tastes himself inside you, holding your thighs up and apart to let him work his tongue and fingers in deeper. The sight of him so clearly lost in the moment, not goading or gloating, just rapturously gone is maybe the single most erotic thing you've seen in your whole life. And that sweet, lazy heat suddenly licks up to a blaze.

The sudden clench you give is impossible to miss from Whiskey's vantage point, and he groans against you. "One more, honeybee," he almost pleads, breaking away from you with a sucking pop just long enough to gasp air. "You can gimme one more, can't you? I know you can. C'mon baby. Lucky seven."

He lowers his head once more with a decadent hum and you throw yours back as he sets to more deliberate work, hooking his arms around your thighs to keep you right where he wants you.

"God, you greedy b-bastard," you rasp out. The stimulation to your worn nerves leaves you quaking, wriggling underneath him. You're not sure you can stand another one, but a deep, hungry part of you is desperate to find out.

He growls at that, more in agreement than in offense, and when your hands scrabble at his he parries them without even glancing up, seizing your wrists and yanking you down even tighter against his mouth.

You nearly kick him in the ribs when you come. It's not your fault. Honestly it's his for working you up to this point. To this high, nervous overload that's barely left you any control over your body. It doesn't seem to faze him, though. Your heel glances off his side as your shaking legs lock around his back and he just keeps going, like he hasn't even noticed, like he isn't even here. Like the world has spun down smaller and smaller and the only thing left is his mouth and your cunt and leaving that would mean the end of everything.

But it's too much. Goddamn it, it's too much.

You sob, wrench your hands out of his grip and push at his head. "S-s-seven. Sev-seven. F-f-fuck, Jack. No more, n-no more, please, stop, I can't, I can't– "

He's pulling away before you even finish, pressing one last biting kiss against your thigh before crawling shakily over you to put his mouth to yours with a surprising gentleness. The taste on his lips is heady, musky and sharp. His arms tremble at the strain of keeping himself from slumping over on top of you, gasping raggedly between each kiss like they’re just as necessary as air.

For the longest time you can’t even move, you’re far too wrung out and exhausted to even try. All you can do is lie underneath him and do your best to remember how to breathe between slow, lazy kisses. Eventually you work up enough breath to speak. "'M sorry," you whisper hoarsely.

Whiskey shakes his head, trying to focus his eyes. "What for?"

"'Two minutes and a cigarette.'" You bring up a hand, patting his cheek with an awkward bonk. "I stand corrected"

A look of comical confusion takes over his face, brows knitting together, until he finally remembers the jab you'd made after you'd tied him up the night before. "Shit," is all he says before he dissolves into giddy laughter. His arms finally give out on him and he rolls to keep from toppling onto you.

You roll with him, tucking your head into his shoulder and giggling. It aches. The muscles in your abdomen so overworked that even laughing hurts, but somehow that just makes it funnier.

You’ve nearly composed yourselves when Whiskey tries to prop himself up on an elbow that immediately slides out from under him and almost smacks you in the head, and that just sets you both off all over again. Giving up entirely, you just lay there, shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing like a couple of punch-drunk loons.

"You hungry, honeybee?” Whiskey asks breathlessly when he’s got himself back under some semblance of control. “I could eat a goddamn horse."

Now that he mentions it you realize just how long ago lunch was, and your appetite, which had so far taken a backseat to both your temper and libido, roars back to life. "God yeah, actually. 'M fuckin' starving."

So for the second time today, you get room service on Whiskey's dime. Or his employer’s dime, he insists. You're not sure if that's better or worse. It's a little ridiculous. Even more so when you think to look for a clock and realize just how late it is, but you're absolutely famished and the second he's on the phone asking in a pleasantly fuck-drunk voice for a couple hamburgers and french fries you're stomach's growling so insistently you're almost certain the staff on the other end of the line heard it.

He's chuckling as he hangs up the phone, draping over you to nuzzle into your neck. For the first time you notice just how much his mustache tickles, and you squirm under him, giggling all over again.

"Love me a woman with an appetite," he mumbles, nipping playfully at you.

"God, what the fuck are we doing?" you stutter out through your giggles. It's not meant to be a real question. You’re practically a space cadet right now, and you can’t remember the last time you were this giddy after sex. But Whiskey shifts a little, pulling back to look down at you, and you can't quite parse the look on his face. "Never had a one-night-stand like this before.”

"Hm." He drops his head a bit, tapping an idle finger against your collarbone. "Think the repeat offense kinda cancels out the one-night-stand idea, honeybee."

"You didn't strike me as the repeating kind."

"Mm. Didn't strike you as the kind who could hold his dick up for longer'n a minute, either. So I'll try not to take offense at your continued misjudgment of my character." His eyes wander away from yours, pulling up his well-worn crooked smile with some degree of effort. "But if you're looking for a polite way to tell this old man you've had your fill, there ain't no need to beat around the bush about it."

You might've appreciated the easy out once. After tonight, though, you're almost offended at it. You're not in the habit of begging for things you only have a mind to dispose of. A little of that flighty panic starts to take hold, and you tamp it down. Fun. This is just for fun. Even if you do want a little more. Fuck, don’t start overthinking it now.

"Is that what you want?" you ask, and it's only the curiosity in your voice that keeps it from sharpening into an accusation.

Whiskey shakes his head, a bit of incredulity in his eyes. "What I want...shit, what I want is to get me somethin' nice an' artery-clogging to eat and then get some fuckin' sleep. Preferably next to the woman who has fucked me ragged two nights running, if she happens to be amenable to that kind of thing. That's as far as my wants go right this second."

The deflection is so clumsy it’s almost funny. “Chickenshit,” you mutter.

Whiskey blinks down at you, shocked for a moment before you give him a teasing smile. “Fuckin’ comedian,” Whiskey says, snorting laughter. “Ain’t no softening that tongue of yours, is there?”

“You never know.” You shift a little, heart hammering as you consider your next words. "How much longer are you going to be here?"

The crooked smile slips, becoming softer. "Well. That sorta depends on you, honeybee. My work's all wrapped up. But if you're gonna be around a bit longer and are lookin' for a bit of company I might be convinced to stay a bit longer."

You feel the smile creep up on your face before you can stop it. "I wouldn’t mind a little continued reprieve from corporate hell. Under one condition," you insist, waving a finger at him.

Schooling his face into a parody of gravitas, he nods expectantly. Proceed.

"I need to know something first. Some things. Plural."

He cocks an eyebrow. "How many is plural?"

You consider for a second, squinting. "Three."

"All right," he says, resting his chin against your shoulder. "Fire away."

You pop out your thumb. "Are you a serial killer?"

He stares at you for a long, silent beat before his eyes slip closed and he shakes his head, his chest hitching with stifled laughter. "No, honeybee, I am not now nor have I ever been a serial killer."

You nod, grinning. "Okay, one down.” You pop out your pointer finger. “Are you married?"

The levity bleeds out of his face with a swiftness that makes you regret the question instantly, sure he's about to drop a bombshell directly on your head that's going to leave you hating him and yourself. But he shakes his head, holds up his ringless left hand as if in proof, as though nobody having an affair would've ever thought to slip a ring off beforehand. But then, very quietly, he adds: "Was. But not for a long time."

You nod dumbly, mutter, "Okay.”

For a second you wonder if you should apologize – you’ve clearly tripped on something raw by accident – but then he's poking you in the ribs and drawing in a sharp breath. "And number three?"

A little grateful, you pop out your middle finger ask your last question: "What do you do? What do you really do?"

The corner of his mouth gives a twitch. "Shit, is that all? Well. Officially, I'm a businessman. I own a sizable amount of shares in the Statesman distillery company. Which, incidentally, is where that fine stock of bourbon whiskey came from," he adds.

You lean back, eyeing him carefully. You don't think he's lying. And yet....

Your fingers find the catch of a scar against his ribs. "You're scarred to shit for a liquor tycoon, cowboy."

The twitch turns into a grin. "I have been known to get a little rough-and-tumble once in a while."

"I don't know if I believe that story any more than I did the James Bond bullshit."

Whiskey huffs a laugh. His jeans are in a puddle at the end of the bed and he drags them up, pulling out a thick leather wallet out of the back pocket. From one of the compartments he pulls a business card embossed in gold and black and hands it to you.

Jack "Whiskey" Daniels, Statesman Distillery, Kentucky.

You blink at it, giggling a little. "Jesus Christ that is actually your name?"

"More or less. Been Anglicized for flavor, among other things."

"What was it before?"

There's an odd sharpness in his eyes when he looks at you, a shrewdness you'd never have expected from the costume cowboy you'd met down in the bar. For a moment you're sure that not only is he not going to answer, but that you've overstepped a line you weren't even aware existed.

"That's four questions," he says, "not three."

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," you add with a tilt of your head.

The corner of his mouth curls slightly, and the sharpness fades. "Well now, how can I resist that a bargain like that?" He pauses a moment, as if reconsidering, then adds: "It was Joaquin."

"Joaquin?"

"Mm." He nods. There's only a moment of quiet before he tilts his hips to the side, jostling you. "C'mon, darlin. A deal's a deal."

You roll your eyes, staring up at the ceiling. And you tell him your name. He repeats it back, and you don't need to see his face to know he's smiling.

"Pleasure to meet you," he says. "Literally."

"Jackass."

#agent whiskey #jack whiskey daniels #agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fic #citrus variations #spicy spicy content babes #I really didn't mean for this to end up this long but here we are I guess #ao3 version and fic masterlist will be updated shortishly

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no-droids · 5 years ago

Text

A Show of Good Faith

Part Six of the Rough Day Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 7.1k what i fuckin tell yall

Warnings: SMUT, rough sex, dirty talk, creampie, canon-typical violence, slight description of blood/injury

***

Isn’t it weird that nobody really ever talks about what happens immediately after you have a dead body in front of you?

It’s the part leading up to it that’s usually the most crucial, obviously. The adrenaline of the actual moment is overwhelming—you react without thinking, danger pumping through your veins alongside your blood and sharpening your survival instincts until they’re deadly. You do what you have to do to stay alive, nothing more. So it’s not really until you have a still moment with the evidence of your actions right there in front of you, glassy-eyed and staring lifelessly up at the ceiling, that you suddenly don’t know what to do.

Shocking is a word.

Debilitating is another.

Things… things come in flashes. You have blood on your hands; it’s thick and cold and electric blue in color, not dark or warm or crimson. One of them is vibrating violently, clutched around something heavy and clunky and unfamiliar, something with a handle made to fit a six-fingered grip. The kid is passed out in your other arm after expelling all his energy helping you take down the brutal assailant, choking him with… with some unknown baby shaman toad powers and holding him in place so you could grab this knife and you could… and you could…

The body of the man you just stabbed lays in a bloody pile on the floor in front of you. It was self-defense, but the reasoning behind it doesn’t take anything away from the gore, the blank state of shock rendering you motionless for Maker knows how long.

Corellia is a fucking shithole, you knew that coming in. If it was a sewer even with the Empire’s shipbuilding industry boosting the economy, it’s even worse after its collapse. To circumvent any unnecessary danger or attention, you chose to land the ship in one of the dense forest areas on the outskirts of the tracking fob’s radius. But unluckily for you, rats like forests just as much as they like sewers, and one of them apparently crawled his way onto the vessel a few minutes ago.

You drop the vibroblade to the floor with a clatter and slide down the hull wall, clutching the baby to your chest and trying to calm your breathing. There could be more of his friends close by. What you should do is climb into the cockpit and find somewhere else to lay low, send Mando a coded message with word of your new location.

But there’s a dead body in front of you.

And it’s… it’s dead.

Strangely, you default to something you’ve never actually done before. Something you probably shouldn’t ever do, in case your companion is in stealth mode or trying to hide from something, because it’ll immediately give away his position. You could theoretically get him killed, but you’re not thinking straight.

Your wrist trembles as you hold it in front of your lips. “Uh… M-Man-Mando?”

The sound of blaster fire and grunting crackles through your emergency comm link, before you hear a quick, breathless, “What’s wrong?” come through the speaker.

“It, uh—” you stare down at the oddly-colored blood on your fingers, wondering how you voice is able to come out so calmly, “it s-sounds like you’re busy, I’ll—I’ll just—”

More grunting. A thud. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

You’re at a loss for words. You take a second to look down at the dead body, before lifting your wrist back up to your mouth. “I’m o-okay now, but I… but someone followed me into the Crest and he tried to… I-I mean he’s—he’s dead now, but—”

“Are you hurt?” He suddenly sounds urgent. It’s ridiculous that he didn’t actually sound urgent until now. “Is the kid hurt?”

“We’re—we’re both fine, but…” You look down at the child in your arms. “But the baby did something I—I c-can’t explain—and now he’s… I-I think he's asleep…”

“Good,” he replies shortly. You can hear him running now, pounding footsteps and heavy, quick breaths. Another blaster shot. “We need to get out of here. Rendezvous Sector-15, soon as you can. You’ll see me.”

“Do I…” Maker, you sound like an absolute idiot. “Do I just… just leave the body here, or…?”

“I’ll take care of it when you get here.” He doesn’t sound frustrated with you, but for some reason you feel incredibly frustrated with yourself. You should be able to pull yourself together, but your hands are all tingly and you can’t actually feel your fingers unless you really work for it. Stars, when’s the last time you actually blinked? “Can you fly?”

You don’t respond. You don’t even feel like you can stand up right now. The blaster shots scream through the crackling comm link for a second, and then you jump when he barks your name even louder than the gunfire.

“—Listen to me,” he urges, and you blink rapidly, the seriousness of his low growl hitting you right in the chest. “You can fly. Understand? Get the kid, get in the cockpit, put your seatbelt on. Fly out to me, right now. We’re leaving.”

His voice doesn’t call for argument. It’s abrasive and rough and unquestionable enough to get through to you. Of course you can fly, you can fly with your fucking eyes closed. Coming that firmly and doubtlessly from him, it’s a universal truth.

“Copy. Sec-Sector-15.” You say, adrenaline beginning to pump blood through your veins again. Just. Just don’t look at the body, okay? Don’t look at the body, you can do this if you don’t look at the body. “I’ll see you?”

“You’ll see me,” he repeats. And then the noise cuts off with a click.

You struggle up to your feet, heart pounding. You can do this. You can totally do this. You can walk, because you can fly. Duh. Mando said so.

You admittedly almost fall a couple steps down the latter while trying to climb up it one-handed, the baby held tightly to your chest, but you’re eventually able to get the both of you into the cockpit. The kid is carefully buckled into his little booster seat before you’re collapsing shakily into the pilot’s chair and swiveling forward.

Okay. Flight check. Now. To your left, flip down these few switches here—one two three four five—okay, good. To your right, press those two buttons sitting just above the nav console. Yep, got it. Up top now, those two red ones overhead. Good. Good, you can do this. Type coordinates into the nav comp. Sector-15, locked. Easy. This is easy. That big, knobless lever to your right—yes, the one with the exposed threading at the end, push that long metal stick forward and set thrusters to full. Okay. Left thruster, looks good. Right looks good, too. Okay. Seatbelt… seatbelt is… Seatbelt: on. Hatch: sealed. Shields: engaged. Flight check complete. Now all you have to do is take off.

Now all you have to do is take off.

All you have to do… is…

You stare down at the joystick in front of you blankly.

And then you shake your head back and forth frantically, hoping the rapid movement will jar some sense into you. Maker, get it the fuck together. What did Mando hire you for? You told him you were useful, didn’t you? This is what you do. You fly. So fucking fly, yeah?

You lift the ship off the ground and immediately take her around southeast, taking deep breaths and feeling the powerful rumble beneath your chair. Yeah, you can do this. Don’t think about the blood on your hands, the dark streaks of sickly purple now smudged all over the controls. Don’t think about the dead body in the hull. Don’t think about how you’re the reason it’s dead. Just fly the ship. This is something you can do.

You coast over the thick treetops and into the industrial sector, carefully scanning the gritty streets below. You don’t know what he meant when he said you’ll see him—until you suddenly see him. Smack in the middle of the airspace, rising phoenix strapped to his back and hovering a few hundred feet above absolute chaos wreaking havoc in the slums below. Blaster flares light up the night sky, though the sparks and flash grenades illuminating the dirty Corellian streets have nothing on the beauty of seeing those small twin jets in the darkness, the ones beginning to fly towards the ship.

“Got eyes,” his voice says through the comm link. Relief pounds through you. Stars, relief shouldn’t feel like this much of a struggle for your cardiovascular system, should it?

“Beginning deceleration,” you confirm breathlessly, slowing down and pressing a few buttons to open the hatch with your free hand. You bring both of them back down to swing her around until he’s got a clear path, feeling the ship dip just slightly with the sudden weight of him dropping in.

“Landed,” he grunts. “Set course for Nevarro.”

You floor it and elevate the Crest up through Corellia’s smoggy atmosphere, punching in coordinates in the meantime. The ship dips just a touch once more while the computer takes a few seconds to calculate a hyperspace path, and your eyebrows narrow before it quickly pulls back up again. It’s not until you see the manual hatch override indicator light blink next to the nav console that you realize he must’ve dumped the body before closing the door himself.

Well, that’s one way to handle that, you suppose.

The computer beeps quietly when it’s finished. “Standby for jump,” you tell your wrist.

“Copy.”

You triple-check the positive seal integrity readings before your hand is reaching for the double-reinforced hyperjump control, still trembling slightly. You lean all your weight forward into it, trying to keep your arm from buckling as the stars slowly shift across the observation shield for a split second, before you’re being hurled into the interdimensional wormhole.

Quiet. Hyperspace is fucking quiet. You forget, sometimes. Not how quiet it is—but how loud everything else is, not until you’re hurtling through the closest thing to purgatory you’ll ever experience in life. It looks… indescribable, even after the thousandth time. Empty space collapsing in front of you and expanding behind you simultaneously. Starlight streaking across the windows, space-time curving around the ship faster than the ship itself is moving through it. You take a moment to consider it as you unbuckle yourself shakily, before standing up and checking the seat behind you.

The kid is still knocked out cold, but you press the button to close the shield to his crib just in case, setting an alarm protocol to Mando’s remote arm brace should it open.

And then you slowly make your way around bulky cockpit chairs and down into the hull, shakily climbing down the ladder one step at a time. As soon as you turn around, there’s a caped wall of beskar rummaging through something with his back to you.

“Did you…” You announce yourself while looking around, trying not to sound as small as you feel. This is a such stupid question, you already know what he did with the body. But you… you should make sure, right? “You already took care of… of the…”

“Yeah.” Mando spins around and pulls out the cot from the wall at the same time, and you jump when the bed rattles loudly on its track and ricochets a few inches backwards after reaching its full extension. He quickly makes his way around it and over to you. “It’s gone. Come here, you’re hurt.”

“I’m f-fine,” you insist, feeling your hands shake when he abruptly grabs the left one and turns it over, pulling your wrist out towards him and up to the light so you both can see. “What about the qua—oh.”

There’s a long, ragged slice decorating the inside of your forearm, dried blood staining the ripped fabric along your sleeve. You blink down at it, not able to recognize its pain even with the evidence of the injury in front of you. It doesn’t look deep, but its edges are a little nasty and it’s still bleeding. Why can’t you feel it? Shouldn’t you be able to feel that?

He makes a noise through his helmet—something you can’t quite figure it out. Something between a short growl and a low huff of breath, before he’s grabbing your hips and steering you over towards the bed, lifting you up and setting you on its suspended platform when you’re close enough.

“Didn’t find the quarry,” the Mandalorian says quietly, turning around and looking through the first aid kit once more.

“You didn’t find the…” You blink down at your injury. He didn’t even find the quarry? But then what was all that ruckus about? And why are you going back to Nevarro to collect payment? Shouldn’t you be turning around and… and…?

He’s suddenly in front of you again, and this time he’s got a… a syringe in his hands? An E-bacta shot, you realize with an uncomfortable jolt. He pulls the cap off and sets it down on the bed next to you before holding out his gloved hand for you, waiting patiently but expectantly.

“No,” you immediately tell him, heart beginning to pump faster as you bring your arm up and hug it to your chest. You didn’t even know those things were street legal—they heal incredibly quickly but people have been known to abuse them because… well, because they’re supposed to give you a wicked fucking high. Bacta isn’t addictive and there’s no possibility of overdose, but this shit is concentrated. You can’t imagine how expensive it was. “Don’t b-be ridiculous, Mando—you—you almost bled out from a knife wound and we didn’t use one of those.”

“What do you think that is?” He looks down at your arm.

“It’s a scratch!” You exclaim, starting to feel a bit hysterical now from the adrenaline comedown. Maker, that needle is big. You knew bacta injections were thick but holy fucking stars. “It doesn’t even h-hurt! I could’ve… I could’ve done this to myself on accident for all I—”

“This has boosted antibiotics, too,” he cuts you off, quickly losing his patience and grabbing your wrist when you still don’t hand it over to him. He levers your forearm down, holding it parallel to the floor on your lap. “We don’t have any bacta kits left, I looked. This’ll work fast and it won’t scar. Hold still.”

“No—” you try to pull your hand away, hating the way your voice jumps when you’re aiming for calm and reasonable. “—I’ll be fine, w-we shouldn’t waste th—”

He tightens his grip. “Listen. This isn’t a scratch. It’s a torn laceration from a dirty Corellian vibroblade. Now I’m giving you at least a quarter dose, so hold,” he tugs your wrist forward, “still.”

You see the large needle heading towards your arm with determination and you’re instantly going rigid with panic, whipping your head away from him and squeezing your eyes shut as you suck in a terrified breath.

You wait like a statue for the pain, frozen in anticipation and fright, but it never comes. Slowly peeking one eye open, you look back to find a chrome visor staring intently at you, unmoving.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” you eventually gasp when he doesn’t say anything, and Maker, are your eyes actually starting to water? “I-I’m sorry, I’m just—that’s a b-big needle and—and I actually just k-k-killed someone and it’s just—” oh stars, here come the sniffles, “—I’m s-so sorry, I’m trying t-to keep it—keep it togeth—”

He carefully places the syringe down on the bed next to you as you turn your head away from him and try to stifle your short, panicked breaths with the back of your hand. But then you’re being caught and pulled forward, hauled into an iron chest without a single word.

It should be uncomfortable, you think. You should want to take the armor off and feel the muscles of his arms wrap themselves tight around you instead of cold metal, but for some reason, you don’t. He feels… right like this. Like the beskar is a natural extension of his body, like it holds just as much comfort as his bare chest does.

The Mandalorian stands there between your knees and silently embraces you, holding stoic and steady for you, tilting his head so you can calm your breathing into the crook of his neck. It’s covered in fabric but it smells like him, warm and soft and damp with sweat. You breathe him in, clutching him tight with your uninjured arm and feeling your heartbeat gradually begin to slow as it’s pressed against cool metal.

“E-bacta has calming properties,” he says quietly after a moment. “It’ll help more than this.”

“Shut up.” You mutter against his throat, doing everything you can to drown yourself in him. Maker, he smells good. He just got finished bringing down an entire Corellian sector, why the fuck does he smell so good? “I'm not—not letting you stick that thing in me.”

“Yeah?” He returns softly, dragging a hand up your back. “Bet I can make you want it.”

“Not happening,” you grunt, tightening your hold on him. “You’ll put regular bandages on my arm until we can resupply on Nevarro and save that torture device for another poor soul who needs it.”

“This isn’t over,” he eventually warns you, gently pulling away. He turns around and starts picking out gauze and tape from the first aid kit regardless. “I was just blindsided. Tears don’t work on me, but. Don’t ever do that to me again.”

You relax, smiley and dopey-eyed and happily sticking your arm out for him for whenever he comes back, so fucking glad he gave in. You’ll get bacta on Nevarro, that sounds perfect. “So… so all that fuss and you didn’t actually find the quarry?”

“Someone tried to take off my helmet,” Mando replies shortly, starting to rip open a few packets of sterile gauze strips without looking at you. And then he doesn’t say anything more, like that should be explanation enough.

“Ah.” You remark after a second, thinking about how many blaster fires you saw. Maker. “I see.”

What a pair you two make. Someone who went into shock from hurting another person in defense of your life, and someone who brought an entire block down because another person tried to take his helmet off.

Something he’s done with you twice now. Without ever being prompted.

Stars, you’re both so different, aren’t you? Such massively different problems, different ways of life. You’re suddenly struck with how much you could learn from him, if he was ever willing to share. How much the both of you could probably learn from each other. His assertiveness; your humanity. His decisiveness; your consideration. His secrets; your honesty. None of them are true opposites, not in the way people normally think. They’re not polarizing, they’re… complimentary. Filling in the gaps neither one of you can fill in yourself.

“Does that scare you?” He finally asks, when you’ve been quiet for too long.

“No,” you tell him blankly, watching his hands work. “Just… no. Not really. I mean. It makes sense. Was just thinking about how different life must be for you.” You tilt your head thoughtfully. “Showing my face, telling people my name. Things I take for granted, I think.”

Maker, maybe you’re getting a little too honest here.

“Is that why you never ask about those things?” He’s quiet. You both stare purposefully down at your arm as he begins laying down the strips of white cotton over your cut. “Because you recognize what it means to give them up?”

“What—like your name?”

“Anything,” he says, and though he keeps working, his hands start to slow down. “You never ask me about anything. My name, my past… why I don’t take the helmet off. Everyone always asks, but. You never have.”

You shrug a shoulder. “Figured you get tired of telling people no, don’t you?”

His fingers still, hovering over your injury. He doesn’t move, so you elaborate.

“I mean… yeah, I’ve thought about those things, but…” you speak slowly, choosing your words very carefully. Your eyes narrow with the effort, trying to pinpoint and voice your exact opinion without making assumptions. “But I respect you. And your creed. I call you Mando because that’s what you told me to call you. And if you don’t take the helmet off, then you don’t take it off.” You shrug once more. “Some things don’t need explanations. They just are, and I’m okay with that.”

It’s a while before he goes back to dressing your wound, and even longer before he speaks again. When he does, he’s almost completely finished securing the bandages and it’s barely above a murmur. “Nobody usually thinks that simply about it.”

“Well. Fuck ‘em.” You blurt. “I think it’s the simplest thing in the galaxy. You should be the one who gets to decide who you are and what’s important to you, right? No one else.”

He stops again, this time tilting his visor up to look you in your eyes. You blink up at your own warped reflection.

“I think that shit is yours. Fundamentally. Doesn’t matter if you want to share it, change it, hide it, or burn it away forever. It’s your decision, and you’ll tell people what you want them to know. So fuck ‘em if they don’t respect that,” you tell him bluntly. “They obviously don’t know anything about you at all. Else they wouldn’t be asking.”

He doesn’t move. He just stares silently at you for a few seconds, and Maker, for some reason you wish now more than ever you could see his face. Even though it contradicts everything you just said, you wish you could see his face. What color are his eyes? You bet they’re brown. You bet they’re a warm, deep brown—expressive and soft and lovely behind such hard, unforgiving steel. His features are probably just as warm as the rest of him. Dark hair, wavy hair. Plush, gentle lips.

His hand comes up slowly. Gives you ample time to pull away before he’s softly cupping your cheek, tilting his helmet to the side as he studies you.

“Would you.” He’s quiet for a moment. And then he clears his throat through the modulator, before he tries again. “Would you like to know my name?”

You go shock-still, blinking at him and barely breathing. Why? Why is he asking this? He wants to give you his name? Immediately after you just told him why you don’t need it?

Your throat is a desert. “Only… only if you want to give it to me.”

He tilts his head the other way and takes a moment to consider you, gently trailing the leather of his thumb along your bottom lip. Your eyes dip down the length of his body, heat suddenly filling you when you realize how close and well he’s positioned right now, how his hips are at the perfect height standing right between your legs like this.

Mando slowly lowers his helmet to look down at your parted thighs, too. And then he’s shifting the visor to the side just a bit, eyes catching on something on the bed next to you. “Want to give you a few things,” he says lowly.

You probably would’ve melted into a puddle if he didn’t immediately hold up the E-bacta shot in front of you in both hands.

Your heart starts pounding though, all the same. “No—”

“Listen to me,” he tells you calmly, as if you could do much of anything else right now with how much space he’s taking up in front of you. His size and proximity gave you a thrill just a second ago, but now he’s nothing more than a giant fucking metal wall armed with a needle and blocking your escape. “I want to give you a few things, but only if you say yes to all of them. Are you going to listen?”

Maker, your heart is racing, rapid calculations going off in your head as your eyes flick between the syringe and his visor. Where the fuck is he going with this? “Y-yes. I’ll—I’ll listen.”

He holds the shot up between the two of you, as if you didn’t see it the first fifty fucking times. “First. I’ll give you a quarter dose of this. I’ll be gentle and I’ll give it to you somewhere where it won’t hurt, where you won’t even be able to see it, and it’ll make you feel better. Even good. Okay?”

You narrow your eyebrows at him. “You’re not doing a great job at selling me h—”

“Second. I’ll give you my name.”

Your breath catches. He continues on casually with the terms of the deal, as if he didn’t just set your whole world on fire with five words.

“You can’t ever use it around other people,” he tells you. “Only here. With me, on this ship. In front of the kid is fine. But if anyone else ever asks, you don’t know it. Okay?”

“Okay…” you whisper after a second, your chest filling with flames.

“Third.” He slowly catches your uninjured wrist in a gentle grip and begins to guide it forward. “If you… if you want, I’ll… I’ll give you this,” he murmurs, bringing it down to cup his cock. “I… won’t be gentle. But I will make you feel good.”

Maker, he’s already rock hard under your palm, throbbing and swollen for you. Almost as quickly as the urge first came on, you suddenly don’t want to escape anymore. Instead, maybe you can just… appeal.

“What if we…” You carefully reach down into his pants, holding his hips still between your knees and beginning to caress his cock. His skin is like silk under your hand, as hard as the beskar he straps to his body but so warm, and pulsing with life. “What if we reverse the order, maybe?”

“No,” he grunts immediately. “You’ll take the shot first, it’ll be a—” his breath catches when you give him a good, rough squeeze. “—a-a show of—of good faith.”

“That’s literally the only thing I don’t want from this all-or-nothing deal,” you reason, wrapping your legs around him to bring him closer. He acquiesces cautiously, slowly moving forward. “I’d be an idiot to give it up first. Ideally it should go second if there are three terms.”

“I know what you’re d-doing,” he tells you flat out, though he makes no attempt to stop it at all. He just growls low in his throat when he’s close enough for you to lean up and bite down onto his neck, one of his hands landing on your thigh and locking down onto it tight. “It won’t… won’t work. You’re—you’re t-taking the shot first, that’s the deal.”

“I could try crying again,” you proposition breathlessly, squeezing his cock once more and feeling him shudder.

“Ngh—meant it when I—” he gasps when you brush your thumb over his head, dampening the fabric covering his neck with your hot breaths. “When I-I said that you—you need to w-work on your… your negoti—tiating—”

“What if I just ask you really, really nicely?” You whisper, slowly starting to jerk him off. Your grip is tight and strong, and he practically sags and grabs the metal bedframe on either side of you. “Will it work if I ask you to please fuck me? Please? And then I’ll take your shot?” But then you’re struck by a sudden thought, and maneuver your head away just enough to look up at where his eyes should be. “But we don’t… we don’t actually have to… y’know, do the other thing, though, if you don’t want to. It’s okay.”

Mando abruptly pulls back, pinning you with a blank chrome stare. “W-what?”

“If you…” You want to find some way to word this to get the correct sentiment across, but it’s difficult with him looking at you so hard. The last thing you want to do is sound ungrateful. Your hands stop moving, carefully letting him go and resting on his hips instead, so he knows this isn’t you just trying to find some way out of this. “You don’t have to tell me your name, y’know. It’s okay, I’ll—I’ll take the shot, it’s fine. We don’t need to… to turn something like that into a. A deal, or anything. You can still tell me if you want, of course, I just… I don’t want it to be part of like, some sort of… agreement between us, or something.” You tap a thumb over his hipbone, tilting your head. “So I’m taking it off the table. Even if you were the one who put it on there. No pressure. I’ll take the shot. And then you can tell me whatever it is you want to tell me after that. Apart from that. A… a show of good faith.”

Mando holds still as a fucking statue in front of you. If you couldn’t feel the warmth of his skin under your hands, you’d say he looks like a droid in sleep mode almost. He stays like that for so long, you actually start to worry a little bit. Was that a thankless, bitchy thing to say to him after he offered to reveal such a big secret about himself? Should you have just kept your mouth shut?

You suppose he was right, your negotiation skills could use a bit more work. You did technically just… willingly give up something incredibly valuable in exchange for absolutely nothing in return, didn’t you? Actually not absolutely nothing, you just agreed to have an actual fucking needle shoved into your body just so he wouldn’t feel any sort of obligation to reveal himself to you whatsoever. That’s like… rule number one of what not to do when negotiating, isn’t it? Fuck, what have you done? Is it too late to take half of that shit back? Can you start this whole thing over real quick? How much pressure do you think that glass syringe can handle? You know you can’t outrun or overpower him, but do you think you’d be able to smash it with your foot before he can stop you? No. No fucking way, you would. Don’t be stupid, don’t be fucking stupid.

And Maker, he’s… he’s still not moving. You actually start to squirm a little bit under his unreadable gaze, before he eventually brings both hands up to your face and gently cradles your jaw in his gloved palms, bringing you to a still.

“Unbelievable,” the Mandalorian says softly, tilting his helmet at you and carefully brushing his thumbs along your cheekbones. He doesn’t sound upset. He sounds truly mystified by you. Stumped. Reverent.

You blink at him. “What?”

“Nobody w-would… but you’re…” He seems like he’s trying to find the words to describe what he’s thinking, but he can’t. “You can’t—you… t—? Not just. But be—because of. On—on… pr-prin…”

“I… I do still want you to fuck me, though,” you eventually whisper when he never finishes his sentence. He’s not the best with words, but that’s okay. You’re perfectly willing to entertain other mediums. “First. Even if it is part of a deal, I don’t give a shit.”

You bring your hand back to wrap tight around him, beginning to pull up and down in strong, steady strokes once more. The tips of his fingers tighten just slightly on your jaw.

“Please,” you whisper, turning your head to kiss one of his palms. “Just show me, it’s okay.”

He stays like that for just a split second more.

And then he’s suddenly whipping one of his hands down to grab your wrist. The other wraps itself more fully around your jaw in its absence and firmly holds your head in place in front of him.

“I won’t be gentle,” he tells you once more, voice coming out hoarse and shaky. “I—I c-can’t—”

You nod in affirmation as much as you can with his iron grip wrapped tight over your chin like this. “Th—”

You can’t even get a single word out before Mando shoots both hands down to grab your hips, abruptly yanking your ass off the bed. Your legs have just enough time to buckle once they hit the ground, but then he’s spinning you around and practically shoving you right back on top of the metal platform, facedown with half your upper-body and both arms hanging over the edge.

Your pants are being snatched over your ass and down your legs as you still work to adjust yourself to the chaotic shift in position. Holy fuck, he wasn’t ki—

Something blunt presses up against the apex of your thighs, pushes forward, and oh, holy fu—

—oh—holy fuck—

You’re surprised you have enough breath to shout as loud as you do when he slams full-force into you, rattling the bed as he sheathes himself in your slick warmth to the hilt, fully armored behind you and pressing cold beskar tight up against your ass and thighs. You claw your fingers over the smooth metal surface under the cot and try to brace yourself on something, but there��s nothing to hold onto. Fuck, he’s so fucking thick. Forcing you to yield to his hardness, tightening his grip on your hips and keeping you locked in position.

And then he pulls out and then slams back in—starts pounding into you, using your body as a counterweight to thrust himself into and Maker, you would probably be screaming if you could even breathe right. The inability to inhale just means you can hear him groan through the modulator, shuffle up closer to you and start to drill into you harder.

“Sweet, sweet girl,” he murmurs, and fuck, you would think he was suffocating you if it weren’t for both of his hands being anchored to your hips. It blazes through you like wildfire, burning your lungs and setting your body alight with flames. He leans over you and clamps a hand down over your shoulder, and your eyes roll back when he moves up and adjusts his angle just the slightest bit, pounding down into you instead of just into you, and—

“Maker, h-how did I deserve this?” He whispers quietly to himself, delirious and tight as stars explode behind your vision. His helmet rests on your shoulder blade, the beskar as heavy and unyielding as his thrusts are as he pummels into that one blinding, heavenly spot, over and over and over again. “What did I d—where were you when I was—when I was—?”

You finally gasp a ragged, desperate breath in like you’ve been underwater for the last minute instead of under him, taking his cock the way he needs to give it to you. And then you’re writhing, grinding your body back against his as much as you can, choking on the burning air and trying to put your needs together into a coherent sentence.

“T-take your helmet off,” you finally manage to lift your head up and beg, “please—please, I-I won’t—I won’t look, I sw-swea—” and then your cunt clamps down hard when he shoots up from you and practically rips the thing off his shoulders without another word, the sound of steel clanging loudly on the floor by your feet.

His hand comes around your throat and yanks you to the side before his teeth are sinking into your neck, not a single break in his hard, pounding rhythm.

He probably gets about ten good thrusts in like that before you’re going rigid under him and cumming—hard.

Everything below your waist locks down tighter around him than a fucking vice, and then you explode wet and hot around his cock with a hoarse shout, squeezing him and spasming through each rough, steady thrust as it launches you higher, and higher—

“Fuck—” he snarls into your neck, and then he suddenly kicks up from the rapid slapslapslapslap that got you over the edge to a surging, brutal bam—bam—bam that wrings a sharp, ragged cries from your throat. Your face screws up and you try not to scream at the sensation, wondering how it was possible that he could make the bliss even more debilitating. “Fuck, th—your cunt gets… s-so fucking tight when you cum—”

You just whimper for him helplessly, listening to the vulgar sounds of him fucking into you, the loud squelching as he keeps rocking mercilessly deep.

“You hear that?” He murmurs next to your ear, and the slick sound of it echoes obscenely through the silent hull. His voice is soft, contrasting blindingly with the way he’s holding you down and fucking you so strong and steady through the aftershocks. “Fuck—you get fucking wet after you cum, too, don’t you?”

You try to move, try to adjust yourself just slightly, but he locks down around you and holds fast to his rhythm. Fuck, it feels like he’s fucking the air out of you faster than you can breathe it in, grip like iron and tightening the more you struggle.

“‘M never leaving this,” he slurs, dropping his head to rest between your shoulder blades. “Never. Fuck, I’m—you’re—you’re never getting rid of me, sweet girl, I’m—I’m never—never f-fucking leaving—”

“Fuck, I’m—” you gasp, closing your eyes and trying to focus on the spark of a feeling deep inside you. “Stars, I think I-I might—”

And then Mando licks a slow, warm line up the curve of your spine and a second orgasm is suddenly burning a fucking hole through you, tearing another broken wail from your throat. You spasm and arch under him, bearing down on his thick cock and trying not to sob.

“Fuck, there we g-go—” he grits against your skin, picking up his speed and fucking hammering into you, completely deaf to your hoarse squeal at the change in tempo. “Good. Ngh, fuck—you—y-you want me to cum now?”

“Please,” you beg. “Please cum, p-please—”

“Where?” His voice is tight, breathless and shaky. “Tell me where—quick—”

“Fuck—inside,” you moan, eyes rolling back at the thought of taking his load deep inside you.

Mando’s hips stutter. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, they jerk back in before they could fully extend all the way out, and your abused lower muscles start to squeeze him in anticipation.

“I can’t—” he rasps, “—I’ve—I-I’ve never—and y-you’ll—”

“Safe,” you wheeze, because you don’t have enough air in your lungs or composure in your thoughts to tell him you have an implant contraceptive. All you can manage is a shameless, breathless, “Cum deep,” half-tossed over your shoulder.

Your hair is gathered and locked in a tight fist behind your head and if you thought he was fucking you full force, you soon realize he was only at about an eight. He flattens you against the bed and yanks your head up, arm coming around to brace across your chest and starting to just fucking wreck you from behind.

The change in angle forces his cock to spear up against something that blinds you, something so raw and impairing that you can’t speak anymore, even if you could find the air to.

“Fuck—m’gonna cum,” the Mandalorian grits, the bed rattling on its tracks as his head drops to your shoulder, “f-fuck, s’too fucking good, sweet girl—m’gonna f-fucking cum, I—”

He plows his hips into you just like that once, twice, three—

You lock down and everything goes blurs and goes out of focus, white hot pleasure ripping you apart from the inside as you do scream this time, clamping down and straightening your spine and convulsing in ecstasy.

He snarls and bites down on your neck, grrriiinndding his cock as deep inside you as it’ll go and shuddering above you. You can feel him pulsing, throbbing as he growls his way through it, breathing heavy and giving you his load just how you asked.

Mando pulls out of you much quicker than you want him to and stumbles backwards, suddenly dropping to his knees on the floor behind you with a metallic clang. He doesn’t do anything more than that, though; he just stares at your fluttering hole as you slowly start to leak his cum, one of his hands coming up to brace itself on the back of your thigh as he catches his breath and watches.

Fuck, you’re spent. Panting and exhausted in the same position he left you. You try to move, but you can’t. You just sprawl there on your tummy and slowly wait for the feeling to return to your body.

But then he says something. It’s too quiet—a soft, one syllable word you can’t quite make out.

“Wh—?” Your muscles feel like lead. “I couldn’t hear y—”

Gloved hands trail gently over your ass. And then you feel a small, sharp little prick on the swell of one of your cheeks, but it’s gone after a split second.

And then… fucking bliss.

You sag into the metal bed, feeling the room begin to spin. Fuck. He gave you the shot. The fucker just gave you the shot. How dare he? Before you could even work yourself up to the point of tears again? While you’re still… still fucking dripping with cum right in front of his face?

Until—

“Din,” he says softly. “It’s Din.”

Din.

How perfectly appropriate, you think.

Short, simple, and to the point. No flourishes. A quick, one-syllable punch of air. One singular, closed I vowel sitting quietly between two consonants, guarded on all sides. Hard at first, but then tapering off to a soft sound if you let it. Din.

“Din,” you whisper, fighting the overwhelming high with every last fiber of your gradually depleting consciousness, wanting so desperately to hear the word out loud with your own voice before you’re pulled under, trying to make sure it’s real. It comes out sounding that way, too; weak and quiet and straining for these last few precious moments with him.

Both of his hands wrap around the back of your knees and you feel his plush lips press gently against your upper-thigh, just below the curve of your ass. He opens his mouth and licks hot and warm along your damp skin, pulls both your knees apart just slightly and then starts to drag his tongue to the side a bit, and then—

And then everything goes dark.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #pedro pascal #fanfic #no-droids #smut

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secondhand-trash · 4 years ago

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All Hands On Deck

Kinktober 2020 — public sex

A/N: Heart of the Ocean was the favourite fic I’ve ever written and I’m so glad that I get an excuse to revisit him for kinktober uwu

Pairing: pirate!Dabi x reader

Description: You seek reassurance from your love when you woke up from a dream where he wasn’t here anymore.

Warning: public sex, fingering, vaginal penetration, creampie, slight degradation, Dabi is Touya

Word count: 3030

this is a continuation to Heart of the Ocean, but you can read this on its own too;)even though I recommend reading that one for maximum enjoyment;)

It was always the sound of waves that calm you down when you wake up in cold sweat.

You blinked, trying to force out the feeling that was looming in your head and making it hard to breathe. Your chest heaved as you slowly steady your breaths, letting out a heavy sigh when you looked around to see that you were in the cabin you had fallen asleep in instead of the dreadful place you saw in your dreams.

You were back there again, at that pier during those god awful years when the love of your life was gone missing. You kept telling people that he was alive, that you needed to go find him but they just kept shutting you down. The panic when they dismissed you by saying that you were not thinking clearly after your fever was far too real that you could feel the suffocation in your chest. The ache at the back of your throat making your words came out as nothing but sobs as you tried to open your mouth to prove yourself but failed.

There was a moment when you thought that it was all real. and your reunion with him was just your subconscious protecting your shattered heart from the reality with a beautiful fragment of your dreams.

The ceiling you stared mindlessly at swayed softly, the gentle creaking of the wooden floor coaxing you down as silent tears ran down your face.

Thank god, you were still here.

The light was filtering in through the small window at the far corner of the cabin and you rubbed your eyes to accumulate to the illumination. You had no idea what time it was, you didn’t really need to know when you were not asked to follow any routines anyway.

You protested the way he coddled you at first, claiming that you wouldn’t be able to sleep knowing that everyone else would start working at the crack of dawn, but was unable to win over the absolute authority he had on this ship. You got along with his crew just fine, but none of them would dare to defy the captain’s order no matter how hard you try to convince them.

The pirate Dabi held treasures more valuable than most people could ever begin to measure, but the only possession he had that truly mattered was you, and god have mercy on the fool who makes a scratch on you.

“The only work you need to do,” he kissed the center of your palm when you brought it up to him on one of the nights when you first boarded the ship while he was sliding his hand up your chemise, "is to be here, in my bed, by the time the sun sinks. Don’t worry your pretty little head over all the other unimportant things.”

“But Touya...” you whined, pushing yourself off the bed so that you could press up against him. He groaned he felt the softness of your breasts and the way his old name rolled off your tongue so naturally. The fearsome pirate had set his mind to leave his old self behind years ago, but had allowed you to reminiscence on the simpler times when you were under the intimacy of being alone.

You always managed to crack the front he put up for years with just a flutter of your lashes, but he was determined that he wouldn’t let you have your way this time no matter how sweet your voice was as you panted by his ear.

He had always been somewhat protective of you, but it had only gotten worse after he experienced those years that probably tormented him as much as or even more than it did to you. It pained you every time when you imagined what he had gone through away on the high seas as the lone survivor on the ship he sailed out on and you poured all the tenderness in your heart into each of your lingering touches against his torched skin. The consequence of that was he now knew how easy it would be for him to lose you again and he wasn’t about to let that happen.

He promised that he would treat you like a princess and he had all the intentions to keep the promise.

“No ‘but’s,” he cut you off short by pulling you onto his lap, his hands digging into the side of your hips as he rode up your chemise. You tried to protest but the speech you had prepared in your head was replaced by a lewd whine when he thrust up to grind his clothed erection against your bare cunt.

If there was anything you could say about Dabi, was that the years of surviving in a world where the strong devour the weak made him a much more domineering man than Touya ever was.

You never brought it up again, knowing that he could be very stubborn when he made a decision. It was nice to be taken care of sometimes and you slowly settled into your role on the ship as the captain’s girl. You had managed to find ways you could help around the ship too, and getting your hands dirty helped made everything feel a bit real.

But occasionally, when you woke up shaking like you had this morning, there was still only one thing you could think of that could shake the fright in your mind away.

You picked up the woolen shawl that was draped over the nearest chair mindlessly last night and wrapped it around your body, covering up the low-cut collar of your linen shift. The floor was cold as you crawled down the mattress with your toe touching the wooden boards first, sending shivers down your spine as you searched for your felt slippers that were shoved to the side. You could hear the sound of people shouting above your head and you slipped out of the cabin door, knowing exactly where your love would be.

It was probably early in the morning, you had noticed that there was still a hint of the pink and orange burn left by the sun at the edge of the skyline. You greeted the men of the crew with a murmured good morning as you walked along the side of the ship, the smell of salt in the breeze evoking your senses as you paced towards the helm area at the very front.

You slowed on your feet as you got closer and closer to the figure standing in front of the wheel, letting out a soft breath as you stared.

The helm was supposed to be handle by a man specific for that position, but it didn’t stop Dabi from getting down to the deck in the early morning to take control. His back looked broader when decked in his long coat and the silver accents of his sleeves glimmered under the morning sun. A long, curved blade was strapped onto the side of his waist, tapping lightly against his thigh as his hands held onto the handle of the helm.

What a man, and he was yours.

“Love,” he muttered when he felt your hand on his arm, glancing at you as you leaned your face on his shoulder, “why are you up?”

You sighed at the warmth that was lingering on his coat, rubbing your face against the leather. “Got waken up by a bad dream.”

He stiffened under you. He knew what it was about. Of course he did, whenever you two woke up with a shudder, it was always over the same thing.

The worst nightmare for you both was to wake up to find the other person gone again.

“Come here,” he held your hand gently, tugging your arm so that you were standing in front of him with you between the helm and his chest, “didn’t you say you want to learn how to work the wheel? Since you’re here already, might as well teach you a trick or two.”

He swelled at the light chuckle you let out when he threaded his fingers through yours, holding the wooden wheel over your smaller hands. He crouched down so that he could lean his jaw on the nape of your neck, His arms caging you in as he stared at the sea the ship was sailing ahead.

“It feels more like you’re just finding an excuse to feel me up.”

“Such big claims, you know I don’t need an excuse for that,” his breath fanned at the little patch of skin that was exposed with your shawl sliding down your arm and you felt goosebumps when the rough texture of his scarred lips brushed past your neck. His hand gave you a warning squeeze when he felt you tilting your head back, “now eyes on the sea, princess.”

You whimpered when he untangled his fingers from your hand and slid up your arms, the graze of his hand had shivers tingling down your skin. He darted his tongue out to lick at the delicate skin where your neck connected to your shoulder. A soft hiss slipped past your lips when he bit down, just hard enough to leave a mark, before sucking and licking at the sore spot alternatingly. Your shawl had fallen to the ground, pooling at your feet as your hand gripped tightly at the helm and trying hard to make sure it was stable instead of giving in to the weakening of your knees.

His arms now snaked around the side of your ribcage, taking advantage of how little obstacles there were with your open arms. He licked a long strip up along the pulse on your neck, stopping just below your ear as his hand pulled down the collar of your shift. Your breath hitched at the cold wind that brushed past your bare chest, your nipples standing up for attention under the sudden chill.

“Better focus on the helm, so no one will know what we are up to,” he nibbled at your earlobe. He pushed your tits up with his palms, giving them a squeeze before rolling the two perky buds between his fingers.

You could still hear the talking down on the deck. If any of them bother to look up and took in the way he held you there, there was no way they wouldn’t notice that your knees were bucking together while he continued to bite down on your neck. Each pinch and pull at your chest had you all the more aware of the wetness that was starting to seep out of you. You tried to rub your thighs together to ease the burn but he was one step ahead of you, shoving his knee between your legs to force them apart.

A silent whine fell short on his ears when he smoothed his palm down from your chest, bunching up the pale linen of your frock in hand and yanked it up to your waist. You lost balance when the calloused pad of his finger brushed past your clit, frantically latching back onto the helm when the ship had a sudden shift from its track.

You grimaced when you heard the confused murmurs of the crew, people looking around from the shake of the ship. Dabi let out a wolfish chuckle, parting your folds to collect the juices leaking out of you before bringing it to rub against your sensitive bud.

“Is everything alright, captain?”

“No worries, everything is dandy,” he replied with a yell, not turning around to face the men as he peered down to watch your cunt sucking his fingers in, “everyone resume your positions.”

Your lips hurt from how hard you were biting down, desperate to keep your voice down as he slowly pumped his digits within your velvet walls.

“That was close,” he grumbled in your ear, licking his lips as the bob of your throat when he scissored his fingers, “you’re getting careless..."

He let out a mocked gasp and you squeaked when he glided his fingers in and out of you at an increasingly fast pace, “Or did you do it on purpose? Do you want my entire crew to know you’re getting fucked on deck?” he cackled when you whimpered, unable to say anything in fear of other sounds slipping out too, “Do you want people to watch you cum on my fingers?”

Your cunt clamped down on his long digits at the sneer and nothing could stop you from whining out loud at the sudden emptiness when he pulled out. He pushed your upper body forward with a forceful shove until you were laying on the helm. He gripped onto the side of your hips, leaning back slightly to take a good look at your clenching hole that was now on display.

“Suck,” you took his fingers that were dripping with the clear essence of your arousal into your mouth obediently, the saltiness expanding in your mouth as you tasted yourself on him. The sound of his belt buckle rattling had you arching your back and he snickered at your eager form as he pulled his cock out of his pants.

“Ass up.”

You complied, a soft moan rolling off your tongue as he pulled his fingers out of your mouth with a pop. He kneaded your cheeks roughly as he lined himself up at your entrance, rubbing the leaking tip along your pussy to spread the wetness around.

You latched onto the helm for dear life when he hilted in you with one push, your lips parted but no sounds came out as he slowly dragged his cock along your walls until his tip was barely inside of you.

“Fuck yourself on my cock.”

Your slick gushed out from his earlier teasing, but your face still burned at the thought of humping him right on the open deck with everyone just a platform below.

A soft tuck at your scalp had you clenching around nothing but his tip dipped in. “Or would you prefer to let the entire ship behind me see my hips thrusting up against your slutty cunt?” he asked, surging his hips forward just a little and smirking at the sigh you let out, “because I’m not letting you get down here without cum dripping down your legs.”

He let out a shaky breath when you slowly pushed your hips back, the plush flesh of your mounds pressed up against his pelvis as your hands clawed at the wooden wheel you were holding onto. Your walls pulsed to accommodate the stretch, and you started rolling your hips when the itch in your core was too much to bear even with the concern of ears all around you in mind.

You were cautious of the squelching when you slammed yourself down on his length at first, but bit by bit you lose your restraints to the tides that were starting to rise up in the pit of your stomach. Dabi gave you an approving squeeze on the side of your waist as you started throwing it back faster and faster, pants falling off your lips as his cock rubbing against your walls set your body on fire.

“I always know you are no princess behind closed doors but it seems like you have no issue acting like a whore in public too,” you mewled when he unexpectant thrust up, shocks of numbing pleasure jolted down to the tip of your toes when his cock slammed right against the spongey spot deep inside of you.

His fingers dug into your sides as he took over, viciously slamming you down on his length as your body trembled on top of the helm. He pushed your shift further up to get a clearer sight of his cock disappearing inside of you with each thrust, your essence coating his shaft and running down your thighs. You buried your face onto the helm when you cum, muffling the moans you could no longer hold in as your cunt clenched around him. The burn spread all across your body and you were practically holding yourself up with the support of the steering wheel he was fucking you on and his arms propping you up.

“Not that I mind,” he let out a choked laugh, the staples on his face feeling like they were about to pop off with how wide his grin was at the sight of your shaking figure. He threw his head back slightly when the muscle in his stomach tightened up, “not when you are my whore...”

Dabi held you still, burying his cock deep inside you as he came with a shudder. His lips parted, a low moan coming out as a purr as ropes of his release filled you up. You whined at the warmth, scratching down on the helm as he pulled out. The sudden emptiness had you clenching around nothing and he leaned back to watch his cum seep out of your abused cunt.

You instinctively pressed your thighs together to put a stop to the sticky substance from trailing down the root of your legs and he chuckled, throwing his arm around you before pressing your back against his chest and pulling your collar back up.

“Feels real enough for you?” he whispered, his thumb rubbing at your collarbone.

You nodded, turning your head back when he tilted your chin to place a soft peck on your lips.

“Good,” Dabi let you go from his grip, giving your ass a light smack and earning a glare from you, “now I want you back on the bed and get some rest. I’ll come down once I have time.”

“Aye, aye captain...” he huffed at your playful tone, watching as you saunter away after picking your shawl up and wrapping it very tightly around your chest.

He spotted the faint marks that peaked out from it on your neck and hummed to himself in satisfaction. He turned his eyes back to the sea for once, sighing as the blue waters expanded out to the sky with no end.

Today seemed like it would be a good day.

#bnha imagines #bnha imagine #bnha x reader #bnha smut #dabi x reader #dabi imagine #dabi imagines #dabi smut #kinktober 2020

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sisterspooky1013 · 3 years ago

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Only One Choice, Part 2, Chapter 12

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

He’s surprised how nervous he feels knocking on her door. This is far from their first date and, while not exactly planned, he’s already stayed the night at her place. But this date feels significant to him, and perhaps what he’s nervous about is how she’ll react to what he has planned. He takes a moment to pull in a deep breath, tugging at the hem of his T-shirt, but when she opens the door all his nerves subside.

She’s wearing jeans and a pink tank top that has thin straps and is relatively low cut, a small bow pinned to the center right above her breasts. Over it, she has on a black cardigan worn open, her hair down and a little mussed. She smiles warmly and his heart lurches.

“Hi,” she says, and steps forward, pushing on to her tip toes and placing a hand on his shoulder so she can kiss him. Is this the first time she’s been the one to initiate the kiss? He thinks it might be, and it makes his knees wobble.

“You look beautiful,” he says, openly dragging his eyes over her, feeling grateful that he doesn’t have to hide it.

“Well, after the other day I’m sure anything is an improvement,” she comments self-deprecatingly.

He cups her chin in his hand, tilting her face up to look at his. “You are always beautiful. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.”

She scoffs and looks away.

“You don’t have to try that hard, Mulder. You were already gonna get lucky,” she says playfully, pushing past him into the hallway.

He stands there for a moment, stunned by her candor and wondering what that means. Does that mean she wants to have sex? Or is she just referring to what they’ve already been doing?

“You coming?” she asks, and he snaps himself out of it, stepping into the hall so she can lock the door behind them. “Where are we going?” she asks, slipping her hand into his.

He has half a mind to ask if they should just spend the evening on her couch, but he resists.

“You’ll see,” he says with a smile, and gives her hand a squeeze.

When they park outside the Queen Vic she gives him a curious little glance, but doesn’t say anything. In the lobby, he leans in to ask the host for a particular table, speaking softly so she can't hear him. When the host leads them to the same table they’d sat at the last time they were here nearly a year ago, she smiles broadly, but again makes no comment. She orders the same IPA, and they both get fish and chips. So much is the same, and yet it’s so different; her foot hooked around his ankle under the table, the times she reaches out to touch his hand, the unabashed way she beams at him, laughing at his jokes and peeking at him from underneath her eyelashes. They drink, and eat, and talk. They talk about their childhoods and their teenage rebellions, she tells him how she gets through particularly rough autopsies and he tells her about the Gunmen and how they keep asking to meet her. It’s so easy between them, and so right, as it always has been. But now, his heart fills to bursting knowing that they can see this thing through, that he will later get to kiss that little mole above her lip that she tries to cover with makeup, feel her perfectly manicured fingernails scrape against his scalp. There’s so much more to learn about her, but he knows he will. They have another chance, and it makes him feel like he could cry just thinking about it.

After dinner, he drives them down to the wharf and they get ice cream cones from a little stand by the water; she picks cookies and cream and he opts for rocky road. They walk along the boardwalk hand in hand as the sun eases its way towards the horizon.

“Are you going to maintain control of your ice cream cone this time?” she asks with a smirk, the first mention she’s made of the fact that he’s replicating their first date.

“Well, a lot has changed since last time, however the fact that I can’t take my eyes off of you isn’t one of them, so the ice cream cone is still at risk,” he retorts, rotating his cone dramatically for effect.

She laughs, the sweetest sound he has ever or will ever hear, and he pulls her over to the rail that separates the walk from the water. She leans her back against it and he bends down to kiss her, holding his ice cream off to the side. She tastes sweet, her lips slightly chilled, and the kiss devolves into lapping tongues and soft moans unexpectedly quickly.

She puts her free hand on his chest and pushes gently until he pulls back, then smiles dreamily up at him, licking her lips.

“Should I expect an after-hours baseball session?” she asks coyly, and he frowns.

“No, sorry. Byers, that’s my buddy who got the keys last time, said there’s a private event going on there tonight,” he says regretfully.

“Oh, thank god,” she says with a relieved sigh, and he quirks his head at her quizzically. “The only thing I enjoyed about that, Mulder, was you pressing your body against mine, and now we can do that whenever we want, no batting practice facades necessary,” she says with a smile.

“That does sound a lot more fun than baseball,” he replies huskily, “and I really like baseball, Scully.”

“I know you do,” she says in a syrupy voice before she captures his bottom lip between her teeth.

“Are you done with your ice cream?” he asks, and she looks at her half-eaten cone before giving him a determined stare and nodding her head.

He squirms in his seat on the way back to her apartment, stealing glances at her across the console intermittently. She seems perfectly calm and not at all affected, and he wonders if he’s misreading the situation. His cock jumps a little, threatening to spread into a full fledged erection every time he lets his mind wander to what might happen next. He suddenly wonders if he should have brought a condom, but then assumes she probably has them. But what if she doesn’t? It’ll be fine, they don’t have to have sex tonight. But he’d really, really like to. It’s not until they are parked outside her building that it occurs to him that she hasn’t actually invited him up and, not wanting to be presumptuous, he doesn’t ask.

———

Mulder seems jumpy, nervous even, and she finds it mildly entertaining. She’s been toying with the idea of sleeping with him, but ultimately decided to just let things unfold how they would; he’s already clearly demonstrated his skill in the area of foreplay so she can be sure to have a good time whether or not sex is part of it. They pull up in front of her building and he sits there with the engine running, looking at her apprehensively. She smiles, and decides not to mess with him.

“You wanna come up?” she asks plainly, and he lets out a huge exhale.

“Absofuckinglutely,” he says, unbuckling his seat belt and killing the engine.

They make their way into her apartment, Mulder still acting awkward and uncomfortable, and she thinks that maybe should mess with him just a little.

“Make yourself at home,” she says, draping her purse over the back of a chair and kicking off her shoes, “I’ll be right back.”

He nods and sits on the couch, and she ducks into the bathroom. She’d worn a decently cute bra and panty set, but not the kind that can be classified as lingerie. After emptying her bladder and freshening up a bit, she sneaks into her bedroom and changes into a red lace thong and matching bra. She considers herself in the mirror, debating whether she should put the clothes she was wearing back on, or something else.

“Hey Scully?” She hears Mulder call through the crack in the open door.

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to watch a movie?”

Her mouth quirks, an idea taking shape.

“What?” she says in response, brushing her palms over her bare hips.

“Do you want me to put a movie on?” he repeats.

“I can’t hear you, Mulder, can you come in here?”

Her heart starts up a steady thrum of excitement, but she keeps her demeanor calm, watching her reflection and smiling at herself.

She hears the door open behind her.

“I was wondering if you wa-” he begins, then stops abruptly.

She can’t see him from this angle and she waits a beat before looking back over her shoulder. He still has his hand on the doorknob, his mouth hanging open mid sentence and his eyes hooded with desire. She glances down and sees him growing stiff under his jeans, the knowledge setting off a throb between her legs. She turns to face him, slowly crossing the room and threading her arms around his waist. As soon as they make contact, he puts his hands firmly on her hips and slides them down to cup her bare ass cheeks with a little groan.

“Do you want to watch a movie, Mulder?” she asks rhetorically, flexing her pelvis against him.

He shakes his head, stooping to lift her off the floor before he walks them over to her bed. Setting her down gently in the middle, he moves to hover over her and she bends her leg, planting a foot in the middle of his chest.

“You’re wearing way too much clothing,” she observes, then watches him as he strips off his shirt and jeans, standing before her in black boxer briefs. She hasn’t had a chance to really see his body yet and she sighs as she takes in his firm yet slim torso, muscular but not bulky. Her eyes wander down further to where his erection tents the fabric of his boxers, and she smiles. “You look good without clothes on,” she says softly, and he smirks self-consciously. She almost asks him to take the boxers off too, but decides not to deprive herself of the opportunity to do so, so she motions for him to join her on the bed instead.

He carefully crawls up beside her, lying on his side while she remains on her back. He reaches out tentatively to brush his palm over her belly, his eyes poring over every bit of skin he can see until they rest on her face. They hold eye contact for a beat and she reaches up to touch his neck, inviting him to kiss her. They start slowly, softly, and he trails from her lips to her cheek, down her neck until he’s dipping his tongue into the space between her breasts. His hands trace along the hem of her panties, brushing up over her knees and back down the inside of her thigh. His touch is soft and exploratory, igniting nerve endings and building anticipation for a firmer touch in a more exciting place. It’s a slow burn and she is happy to let him take his time.

He slips the tips of his fingers just beneath the hem of her panties and slides them back and forth from hip to hip.

“Can I take these off?” he asks, his teeth grazing her hardened nipple through her bra.

“Mmm, yes,” she answers.

He sits up and peels her panties slowly down her legs; the damp gusset is easily visible against the red fabric and she’s only had them on for about five minutes. When he reaches her feet, he plucks them off her ankles and bunches the fabric up in his palm, pressing it to his nose briefly before tossing it on the floor. She gives him a surprised smile but recognizes that even if she finds it a bit odd intellectually, it does turn her on.

He returns to his spot beside her and she rolls onto her side so that they are facing each other.

“Can I get some help here?” she asks in mock incompetence, tugging at the strap of her bra.

“Of course,” he answers in mock seriousness, reaching behind her to deftly unhook the band and watching as the cups slide away from her breasts.

He helps her pull the straps free of her arms, then sighs as he looks over her naked form.

“You look fucking amazing without clothes on,” he says, full of awe.

“Thank you,” she replies, tilting towards him until he has rolled onto his back, then hitching a leg over his hip, straddles him. Sitting fully nude on his lap, his erection pressing into her ass as he stares up at her with lustful eyes makes her feel like a goddess, like Aphrodite at the altar. She brings her hands up to gently cup her breasts and he groans, his fingers flexing against her thighs.

“Scoot up,” he commands, and she gives him a questioning look but does it, now planted on his chest with his sparse hairs tickling her damp lips.

“More,” he says, in an equally authoritative tone. Normally she wouldn't appreciate being ordered around like this, but the look on his face makes her want to comply.

She shifts her weight to her knees, preparing to scoot just a touch higher, when he threads his arms under her thighs and slides down, pressing his face into her vulva.

“Oh god!” she startles, totally caught off guard, and reaches one hand out to steady herself on the headboard.

For a moment she just perches there, out of her element as Mulder begins to flick his tongue across her clit before dragging it up and down over her lips. This isn’t something she’s ever done before and while it doesn’t feel bad, it doesn’t necessarily feel good, either; it’s hard to relax while holding herself up over him.

As if reading her mind, Mulder wraps his palms around the tops of her thighs and pulls her down hard until she is fully sitting on him, her weight no longer her own to support. She’s afraid she’s suffocating or hurting him, but then he starts humming and moaning against her like he’s enjoying the most delicious meal of his life and she realizes that this is exactly what he wanted; to be suffocated by her pussy. She leans forward and rests her head against her forearm, further relaxing and acclimating to the position.

Unlike the flicking and licking sensations of the typical position for cunnilingus, this affords more pressure and area of contact. Something, must be his tongue, is probing at her opening, flexing against her walls deliciously, while something else, perhaps teeth, scrapes gently against her clit. The more she relaxes into it, the better it feels, and the heavier she sits on him, the more he groans and sucks at her. She feels a slight rhythmic jostling and glances back to see that he’s freed his turgid hard-on from his boxers and is pumping up and down vigorously, and the image pushes her close to the edge. She drops her head back onto her arm and starts flexing her hips against his face, putting the pressure right where she wants it to be, and feels the tingle of an impending orgasm building in her toes. The more she moves and flexes against him, the more he moans and the harder he pumps, and the more she can tell that he is clearly getting off on this, the more turned on she becomes. The cycle builds and builds until it crests, the gathering pleasure bursting all at once as she comes hard against his mouth, his tongue tucked snugly inside her as she pulses around it, coming undone. Soon enough he cries out and she feels his cum spurt hot on her back, running down over her ass and pooling on his sternum.

As her own orgasm subsides, she suddenly feels like she’s made of jelly and slumps to the side, cringing in realization that the cum on her back is now on her comforter. She looks over at Mulder, his chin glistening as he breathes heavily, his eyes on the ceiling. She looks down at his spent cock, shrinking away from the pool of liquid it left behind.

“Well,” she says, “that was...different.”

He turns his head to the side and gives her a lopsided smile. “Was it?”

She shrugs. “That was a first for me,” she says shyly, feeling silly.

“Oh,” he says, clearly a little surprised but not unpleasantly so. “Well, what’d ya think?” he asks with an expectant look.

“Uh, it was...it was terrible, honestly,” she says, feigning a very business-like tone. “I hated it.”

He gives her a cheeky smile. “Oh, you did?”

She nods with a matter-of-fact look on her face.

“Do you normally come that hard when you hate things?” he asks curiously.

She grins at him then, done with the joke, and he grins back.

“Let me get you a towel,” he says, rolling off the bed carefully to contain the mess.

“And they say chivalry is dead,” she retorts, earning a chuckle.

After they have cleaned and re-dressed, they do end up watching a movie. She falls asleep halfway through, the comfort of his large frame wrapped around her making her feel so safe she can’t help but drift off. This time, she invites him to stay the night, and is delighted to find him wrapped around her again when she wakes in the morning.

#the x files #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #gillovny #msr #sculder #x files fanfic #alternate universe

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bvccy · 4 years ago

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Tenderness and Ferocity | 3. The Dream and the Third Day

Pairing: Winter Soldier!Bucky Barnes x Hydra!Reader Fic Synopsis: The Winter Soldier is starting to make stupid mistakes in the field, which is Bucky's way of trying to wrest back control and sabotage his handlers. Hydra brings a new doctor to figure out what's wrong with him and fix it. As she spends time with him, she becomes fond of the Winter Soldier, and he becomes fond of her. Bucky has other ideas. Or, a fic in which the Winter Soldier is the good guy and Bucky is actually the bad guy. Warnings for this chapter: Angst, Smut, Noncon Word count: 2334 Read on AO3: [link] [Previous Chapter] [Fic Masterlist] [Next Chapter]

"Life in essence can only be sustained because of the discontinuity. Why else does one sleep? Not to rest, but above all to forget. [...] If one could prevent mankind from sleeping, I am convinced that a massacre without end would ensue; it would mean the end of history." — Emil Cioran

All the useless gadgets clattered, without clattering, to the floor. The exposed skin of her back shone against the pressing dark, under a light that wasn't there. Her arms stretched out in front of her to grab the table, to clench in little fists, to crawl away from him... He clasped both her wrists in one heavy hand while he held her by the hip with the other. The stranger looked unfamiliar and out of place, yet boyishly handsome, a lissome thoroughbred cut from pale stone.

He'd already yanked her shirt halfway down her back, leaving a delicate pair of peachy straps to cut into her shoulders as she tried to pull herself up and away. With his other hand, he raised the black flag of her skirt inch by hurried inch. Two flesh hands, pawing at her squirming silhouette.

Those legs that had teased him so were now buckled in a tangle of red lace, at once parted and constricted and leaving her fully victim to him. Above her he loomed, then leaned, slowly down to feel her warmth, his dark green shirt sticking against her back.

In a voice dry with disuse he taunted her to say that she wanted it, to beg for it, though he sounded utterly disinterested and his eyes — he couldn't actually see his eyes, but he could hear that same disuse and disinterest ringing in their glare. She whimpered underneath him but said nothing, insulted from both directions by his grimy touch and transparent insults.

"Ignorance is bliss, isn't it?" said the stranger — but not to him, nor to her — as he buried his face in her fragrant hair and his hips into hers and himself into her... But no relief came, nor satisfaction, and it felt like no matter how close he got to her, couldn't be further away.

He battered and battered and broke through, with great delight at just the effort, and he made tremors rise then relent in her tense legs. Her high heels tapped against the floor in a trembling rhythm that undercut her plaintive moans until he stopped, and settled inside her, and laughed against her shoulder in a harsh exhale. He taunted her over how she sounded, how she felt, how he felt in her.

The more she withdrew, the more aggressively he followed, always fighting her and pulling the fight out of her in honeydew dollops that had nowhere left to go but to seep and stain his nice trousers. Her shoulders went up in a useless attempt to hide, but he squeezed her wrists in warning and bit her shoulder, the nape of her neck, anywhere he could reach that would punish her until she learned to stay still.

"Oooh yesss, that's it... I hate you so much." he laughed in manic joy, eyes falling closed against her throat.

The hand that held her hip squeezed her closer, pressing her so desperately against him like he was trying to crawl up inside and never leave. She whined in pain, muffled by her arms and the table. The stranger cooed against her ear and teased against her hips, turned her inside out and back together, discordant with her mewls and wails as he clung to her and she unconsciously to him the more his galloping pace opened her up and brought her out to meet him.

He wasn't so much pleasing himself as punishing her, and only interrupted his focus to laugh or hiss at some new-discovered throbbing, a frisson to rub against, a frothy surrender that he worked hard to push through until she took it again.

"I'm gonna kill you," he snarled down at her. "I swear I'm gonna kill you..."

No amount of resistance could carry her through his punishing thrusts, and no surrender was enough, and it all went on and on until the threads holding her up started to unravel, leaving her a blushing rough and bloody shade that the stranger could claim as an extension of himself. He rubbed away the parts that weren't base and grimed up what was left. Only thoughtless sounds came out of her now as she struggled to fit him, and fit into him.

The stranger heaved hotly with the effort of holding still, feeling over and through her deliberately and seeking still more, pressing his body down to suppress her new, aching, wet shivers.

With a pain melting through her surrender, down, down into pleasure, she tried to plead with him and she moaned his name, his real name, but after the first flush of recognition he stopped caring because he knew he wouldn't remember it anyway and —

Wait, why wouldn't he remember it?

Eyes shot open only to be greeted by the cement ceiling of his cell. The Soldier sighed and turned his head, looking at the corner where the bulbous little camera was. He looked to the door and saw the parting screen still closed shut — he was awake too early. With a groan, he turned over in his cot and pressed the cold metal hand where he ached.

On their third session, after the guardsmen left, he stepped into the room to find a collection of strange equipment and wires on the table, and a mix of subtle scents coming from two wooden containers. She sat in her chair, waiting for him with a smile, her sleek legs crossed together tightly. She wasn't wearing her lab coat anymore.

"Good morning." she said as they closed the door. "Come on in, sit down. None of this stuff is going to hurt you, I promise."

Reluctantly, he obeyed, his boots sounding slow and heavy through the room as he made his way toward her. He let himself fall in the seat and rested his hands on his tense thighs.

"It's just a GSR monitor. I'll only strap these around your fingers, you won't feel a thing." She demonstrated by wrapping one around her finger, wiggling, holding it up for his doubtful eyes. He had no choice anyway, so he rested his right arm on the table. She took his hand and opened the palm up, holding it gently while her other hand went to a little tube and scooped up a salty-smelling goo.

"For conductivity." she explained as she rubbed it just barely in his tough skin. "Be grateful it's not an EEG, otherwise I'd have to rub this stuff into your scalp. You'd look like a punk that got lost in the rain." she laughed, but it died quickly as the Soldier frowned and shifted in his seat.

Then she took two of the straps and wrapped one around his index, another around his middle finger, and turned his palm back down. She clicked the machine on and it beeped in confirmation, beginning a reading of his skin and what was going on underneath.

In plain terms it was a rudimentary lie detector, meant to scan for stress and some primitive emotions. Maybe he knew that or he didn't, but she could tell she had to work him into it, calm him down before she could get an accurate reading of what moved him.

"Do you know what time it is?"

"You have a watch." he grunted, looking at the worn leather strap around her wrist.

"Yes, but do you know?" she smiled.

"0803 hours."

"Yes. Do you know where we are?"

"Headquarters Alpha 3."

"Good. Do you know what day of the week it is?"

"No."

"Did you sleep last night?"

"Yes."

"Did you have any dreams?"

"No." he said with a sardonic smile. The line on the monitor moved ever-so-slightly, but it could just be a reaction of their tiff about it the other day. Or, he was lying to her again.

They spent the rest of their session with him strapped up to it while she made use of a couple of boxes and the little things inside. With eyes closed, he had to guess what she placed between his fingers: a piece of velvet, silk, a pocket watch, a cufflink, a snow globe.

The edge that separated the Asset from whoever he was before was smudged only so slightly, by necessity, the way it was with all the other soldiers in the program — they could still talk, after all, and read and write, and still employ the complexities of hand-to-hand and armed combat, all things they learned in a past life and used now for Hydra's ends. What made her soldier the best was how sharp that edge was, how steady — until it wasn't.

He retained good coordination, if his finely drawn clock was anything to go by, a steadiness that an unbalanced brain would have found difficult. They had tried, with past soldiers, to split the two brain hemispheres physically, severing the membrane that bridged between them in an effort to isolate the old soldier from the new.

The right hemisphere housed contextual perception and feeling, while the left was honed and focused and precise. They even grew to slightly different sizes, in parts, even though the skull that covers them is evenly shaped. It remained in mainstream medicine a mystery, one that Hydra explored with relish.

But all that resulted from their experimental surgeries were monstrous malfunctions. As it turned out, the left hemisphere dominated most of the body even when separated, and Hydra's soldiers were left imprisoned in the right brain, at best controlling one arm and some eyesight.

Removing the whole left hemisphere also didn't yield any improvements, even after recalibrating what remained. There were even more extreme experiments suggested, but they were deemed too damaging to put the soldiers through, too harmful for staff morale, and too uncertain in their results.

It was clear that a successful subject had to keep all his faculties, all the useful memories in whatever form, while imposing the dominance of the right hemisphere over the left. In a way, the Soldier had been there all along, growing with the unwitting owner of that body, learning, judging for himself and reaching, inevitably, different conclusions.

There always was something slightly more sinister in the right hemisphere, which only emerged when it was freed from the left, or when the left was in a dream state and its control dropped. So it was clear which side Hydra drew its soldiers from, when it freed that part of them with their infernal brain-machines.

The wavering of that edge also explained why her Soldier had such excellent memory, remembering even obscure European countries well, but also their capitals, which Hydra never saw fit to teach him. And as she went through more little things that stood out against the strictures of their base and his missions, it emerged that, though steady, the line that separated her Soldier from someone else was kept at his convenience.

The man underneath was generously lending his memories of what fancy little cufflinks and snow globes felt like, just so the Soldier who had never seen them before could give the right answers. But what she needed to figure out was how much of the control was the Soldier's intention, and how much was unconscious reflex. If the man aimed to sabotage his missions, would the Soldier even know? Worse, if he wasn't aware of anyone else sharing his brain, could he really control him?

Would he want to?

For Hydra, her mission was simple: root out the part that dissents, make it submit. They were too focused on efficiency to know what they were truly asking for. They had no idea how bad it could get, or how good...

"That's enough for now. You can open your eyes while I get the next batch, we're almost done. This last bit is just some food tests."

"As long as it's not from the mess hall."

She was halfway to the sink, a small wooden crate in her hands, when she started laughing. "I promise it's not. So it's true what they say? Way to a man's heart..."

"Is through his rib cage."

Her laughter rang through again, but he kept his eyes straight ahead, focusing on the sound of her running her hands under the water, arranging things on a plate, and wiping her hands dry on the threadbare cloth that hung there.

"Close your eyes now." she spoke as she stepped closer from behind. The plate clinked as it met the metallic table, right by his hand, and he smelled and felt the heat of her as she stood right in front of him.

"I'll give you some things to taste, and you just tell me what they are. And they're all pretty soft. Alright? First one. Open..."

Something was nagging him from the back of his brain again, jeering at him for the childish position he was in, but he couldn't think of anything to feel ashamed over.

"Strawberry."

"Good. Now, swallow and... again..."

"Grapes."

"That's right. This next one is a bit, well... Just open and tell me."

He bit into a soft and shapeless thing that tasted like, if anything, a green paste. "I don't know what this is."

"Avocado. Maybe you've never had it before. Better make a wish, then."

"What?"

"Never mind. Open for me again..."

"Mint?"

"Yes, that's a mint leaf. It's perfectly safe, you can swallow. Now, this one will come in a spoon, so open wide." She let the cloying thing slip on his tongue and the taste spread in his mouth in a way that was familiar but unusual.

"Tastes like... roses."

"Yes, that's rose petal jam. If the Director only knew what I spent my funding on, spoiling you..." she giggled, but it died quickly as he kept frightfully still and his jaw tensed. From the corner of her eye she saw the GSR give an angry twitch.

"Right, one more and we're done. Open, and tell m—"

"Plums."

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blkgirlcafe · 4 years ago

Text

Professor Nasty Pt. 2

Professor! Florian Munteanu x Black! Reader

Warning: Rough sex, unprotected sex, cheating, undefined age gap, dirty talking, slight degrading.

I keep my description of the reader pretty vague, make her how you want, but she black fosho. I am trying to get better at writing from a Y/N perspective, so any constructive criticism is welcomed.

Thank you @dersha89 for the inspiration. Thank you love!

The Chinese food they ended up ordering was just being pushed around her plate.

“What's wrong, you've been so quiet since you got here. Did he fail your paper again, dude can be so hard.” Fynn shoved fried rice into his mouth, bits dropping everywhere.

“Just tired.”

Fynn rolled his eyes, “Then go to bed.”

Y/N stood, taking her plate and shoving it in the fridge.

“I’m going home, you can play your game without being worried about me.”

Part of Y/N knew she was taking her bad attitude out of Fynn not that he deserved it, she had literally cheated on him hours ago and now she was being bitchy.

“Fine, maybe we can link when you fix your attitude, I didn't do anything to you.”

Y/N didn't even stay to hear the rest, just grabbed her stuff to head back to her apartment, where she should have gone in the first place.

Thank god her two roommates were out, she closed and locked the door to her room, not wanting to be disturbed. Y/N turned on her soft music playlist and tried to get some studying done, but nothing was clicking. She kept thinking about Mr. Munteanu and what had happened. She opened the text thread a few times, reading the message, trying to decipher things that weren't there. His message was clear and concise, he wanted to see her again. And Y/N wanted to see him too.

So she texted him back.

Where am I headed?

“Hello trick, you off in LaLa Land?” Chris waved her hand in front of Y/N’s face.

Y/N snapped out her daydream, today was Friday and she was absolutely frazzled by what could happen tonight. He had sent her an address, one not far from the school, and told her to dress sexy.

“No, just tired.”

“If I hear that shit one more time, I swear.” Chris grabbed a fry from Y/N’s uneaten plate.

“Well I am, what you want me to say.”

“The truth, first you fight with Fynn for no damm reason, you been MIA all fucking week, and I finally track you down and you barely can string a sentence together. I’m not stupid.”

“You sure, cause you went back to Jason 4 times.” Y/N snapped.

“Ohh that was low, you def hiding something chick. Let me find out.” Chris was staring her down and it made Y/N squirm.

“Look I am sorry, that was low, my bad. But I am stressed, school, being away from family, being one of the few black women at this school, not being able to find decent hair products. I could go on.”

Y/N could tell that Chris was not buying it at all. They had been friends since freshman year and they could read each other.

“Imma let you slide, but when you are ready to tell me the truth, just know I am here. And Fynn getting on my fucking nerves, he keeps asking me whats wrong with you and how he can make it better.”

That made Y/N feel even worst, Fynn was trying his hardest to be a good guy and here she was out here being scum.

“I’ll make it up to him.”

“Hopefully with this that you ask me to bring.”

Chris put a bag on the table, and Y/N smiled on the inside. Chris was the queen of dressing fly and sexy. She made anything look good. Whenever Y/N need an outfit she shopped Chris closet.

Y/N had asked Chris to bring her dress and she had delivered. Y/N pulled the dress out, giving it a look. A blue mini dress that sparkled, it left very little to the imagination. This was a no bra type of dress, the straps super thin.

“Damm this is dope, thank you.”

“No problem and I dont need it back, what is it for?”

“Going to surprise Fynn.” Y/N lied.

“Pair it with those clear pumps you have and girl you will be looking irresistible. Promise. Look I gotta go, hit me up and let me know how it goes.”

Chris stole a few more fries before blowing Y/N a kiss and leaving her to sit and wonder if she was making a good choice.

Y/N checked herself one more time before she went downstairs to wait for her cab. The blue mini dress looked perfect against her brown skin. The twist out that she did had came out perfect, light makeup, a gold necklace with her initial sat center on her chest. Another coat of lipgloss and finally a spray of Rogue by Ms. Fenty and she was ready to go.

And of course Chris was right about the clear pumps, they went perfectly with the dress. She looked great, Y/N snapped a quick picture before grabbing her clutch and heading out. Trying to sneak past her roommates was not an option, they whistled as she walked past, paying her compliments and saying how lucky Fynn was.

If only they knew that Fynn wasn't the lucky one.

The whole ride to his condo was nerve wracking, Y/N alternated between bouncing her leg and checking her phone obsessively. Part of her hoped he would cancel, and she could go see Fynn and make it up to him.

The cab dropped her off in front of a high rise, she didn't know the going rate for a professor but she didn't think it was this. The place was nicer than she expected with a doorman outside.

Stepping into the elevator Y/N knew there was no turning back, she was here and her panties were already damp and the possibility of fucking Mr. Munteanu again. The quickie they had on the desk was just a taste, a teaser of what it was like to be with a man.

“You look gorgeous Miss Y/F/N”

Y/N shyly looked down as Mr. Munteanu looked her over, he sucked his bottom lip in as he traced the hem of the short dress.

“Thank you Sir.”

“Here, you can call me Flo or Daddy sweetie, come in.”

The door closed behind her and suddenly she was pushed against the wall. Florian grabbed Y/N neck, making her look up at him. He kissed her, soft at first before aggressively overpowering her. Y/N hands landed on his chest, the feeling of the hard muscle of her hands. Y/N gasped when he pulled away, her chest heaved as she gulped down air.

“This is going to be fun Miss Y/F/N.”

“If I can call you Daddy, I'm sure you can find something better to call me.” she smirked.

“Is that right babygirl, don’t worry I have all night to come up with names to call you.” Florian dragged Y/N to the couch, pushing her over the arm.

Y/N ass was in the air, the dress which was already short, pushed up. Florian parted her legs, standing between them as he ran a finger up and down the wet crotch of her panties.

“Guess I should call you slut for being wet already, I’ve barely touched you.”

“I’ve been thinking of you all week.” her voice was weak.

“Good.” was all he said as he pulled her panties down. Florian kneeled between her legs, the first bite surprising her. Y/N squirmed and Florian gave her ass a light smack.

“Let Daddy take care of you.”

Y/N moaned as Florian bit and sucked her thighs, slowly working his way up to her dripping wet pussy.

“I like to take my time baby, what's the point if I can't slowly devour you.”

“Please…”

Y/N was not used to this, Fynn was only her 4th sexual partner. Foreplay usually lasted a few minutes if she was lucky.

The first kiss to her wet core sent shivers up her spine. The professor slowly made out with her pussy, the sloppy kissing turned into his tongue slowly licking her from top to bottom. His pace was so slow and torturous that Y/N’s hips tried to follow his movement. He repeated the same move and his teasing was too much for her to take.

“Please Daddy, more.”

Y/N pleas feel on deaf ears, he was enjoying this too much. Y/N gasped when he sucked her clit into his mouth, the small bundle of nerves suddenly over simulated. Y/N never felt a pleasure like this, he was being a teacher in more than one way.

His lips released her clit, his wide tongue driving into her wet slit. Quickly diving in and out, Y/N rocked on his face. Y/N fist balled as her legs shook, Florian was being merciless, eating her with a passion that she never felt. Y/N was just paralyzed with pleasure, the way he changed pace from slow to fast, back to slow. The way he sucked her clit then tongue fucked her. He was a man that knew what he was doing, a skilled man.

“Oh my God!!” moaned Y/N, the way the orgasm took over her whole body, she felt it rushing through her veins.

Florian stood, his jeans grinding against her wet and sensitive pussy.

He leaned down, kissed her neck before whispering,“ Do you want to know what I'm going to do to you all night?” Right in her ear.

Y/N was still breathless from the mind shattering orgasm, that she couldn't speak, she just shook her head. Florian grabbed her hair, so that she was facing him.

“I’m going to fuck you like a man should, you will never want a boy again when I am finished with you.”

With one hand still tangled in her hair, something she would never let Fynn do, Y/N heard the sound of his jeans being undone. Her body still recovering from the tongue lashing that he gave her didn't have time to prepare for him or his thick dick.

“Fuck!” they both said. Y/N from the way he stretched her out, and Florian from the way her walls wrapped around him.

Florian released her hair, putting his hands on either side of her, slowly feeding her inch by inch, wanting to savor the feeling of her walls hugging him. Y/N didn't want that, she wanted all of him and now.

“Please go deeper Daddy, I need it.” she begged, her nails dug into his arm. Y/N pushed back, wanting all of his thick length to be inside of her.

Florian moaned, he promised himself he would take his time, but he couldn't hold back. He snapped his hips into hers, burying every last inch into her. Gone was the slow tender strokes, he pounded into her.

“Give me a kiss baby girl.”

Y/N turned her face to kiss him, but couldn't focus because of how he was fucking her. Soft kisses barely made it to his lips until he stopped moving. Florian grabbed her jaw and kissed her, tongues battling it out, he grinded his hips into her, watching her melt. Florian finally pulled away, resting his forehead on her back.

Y/N felt surrounded by him, his powerful arms on either side of her, digging into the material of the couch. His chest against her back, she couldn't move if she wanted to, she was trapped and happy about it.

Pain mixed with pleasure as his strokes sped up, both chasing their own orgasm. Y/N clung to him as her legs trembled and she let out a loud moan.

Florian kept fucking her through the orgasm, he never experienced this with any other woman, wanting to completely consume her in each way possible.

“Fuck, Im cumming baby.”

His body went riding on top of her, as he released a flood inside of her. Y/N wasn't sure she would move if she wanted to, she felt drained of energy and completely happy.

When Florian finally moved off of her, pulling up his boxers before sitting on the couch, Y/N stood on unsteady legs. Y/N looked around for her panties and bag. She fixed her dress, she could feel his seed dripping out of her. She had turned around to pick up her panties when she felt his presence behind her.

She stood, panties in hand.

He moved her hair out the way, softly kissing her neck, “You don't need them, I am nowhere near done with you.”

#Florian #florian munteanu smut #florian x reader #florian x black!reader #creed #smuttywriter

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glimmerglanger · 4 years ago

Note

Hi glimmer! I thought of some prompts for the spicy week that I’d love to see come to life in your talented hands! Of course I don’t expect you to do all of them, and if you don’t want to write any of these that’s totally fine, they’re just suggestions: rimming, sex toys, sleepy sex, lingerie (also I’ve seen a few kinktober lists floating around but they’re all wildly different and none are “official”). have a lovely day!

Anonymous said:

r u interested in lingerie-wearing obiwan? eg: anakin hyperventilating when he saw a hint of lace peeking out of obi's tunic

So, this is for the lingerie prompts. I never considered that much before, and I hope that I did it justice. Established relationship (an accidental theme of Spicy September Week, I don’t think I have any first-times!) set at a time post-war. I’m not sure what happened to Palps in this ‘verse. Maybe Anakin accidentally dropped him down the elevator shaft, such a shame. He’s dead, in any case.

INCREDIBLY NOT SAFE FOR THINGS STARTING WITH “W.”

~~~~~~~~

Obi-Wan had not meant to fall asleep after meditating, much less on the couch when his bed was a scant handful of feet away. Still, they were all still on the road to recovery after the end of the war. He had not realized he was so tired when he sat down to review more notes from the latest Senate session, and would have, likely, slept through dinner had not a strange sound from the door awoken him.

He cracked his eyes open, taking in the glow of late afternoon light through his quarters. There was warm light flooding in through his open door, as well, shining past a familiar figure.

Obi-Wan stretched a bit, his meditation tunic riding up with the movement - there was an ache in his back from how he’d laid - and smiled. He said, “Anakin, I didn’t expect you back until tomorrow.”

“My trip ended early,” Anakin said, his tone strange and tense as he stepped into the room, the door shutting at his back. He had a bag slung over his shoulder and dropped it to the floor without looking. He was just… staring.

“Mm,” Obi-Wan said, pushing to sit up, tugging his thin tunic to order. Coruscant was going through the hottest summer he could remember and even the Temple’s massive cooling system was not quite up to the task. It had been warm inside his rooms, bordering on hot, for weeks. “Well, I haven’t had dinner yet, if you want to--”

“What are you wearing?” Anakin asked, crossing the room and hesitating in front of him, his eyes dark in the afternoon light.

Obi-Wan arched an eyebrow at him, glancing down at himself. He shifted, just a little, and said, “My clothes…?”

Anakin made a sharp little sound and asked, “What else?”

Obi-Wan resisted the urge to flush, fought with his expression and knew he won. He had long years of experience bluffing, after all. He should have expected trouble when his shirt rode up, and asked, with all the innocence he could muster, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Anakin put a knee beside his hip on the couch, reached out, grabbed the hem of Obi-Wan’s tunic, and lifted. Obi-Wan heard his breath catch and braced for the inevitable teasing. He’d really hoped to have finished with Luminara’s foolish prank before Anakin got back.

“I mean this,” Anakin said, his voice gone, abruptly, lower, as he trailed the fingers of his other hand down across Obi-Wan’s stomach, brushing across the lacy straps rising above the waistband of his leggings.

“Oh, that,” Obi-Wan said, determined to play the entire situation off if at all possible. He had no desire to be teased about it for the rest of both of their lives. “I’m afraid I lost a foolish wager with Luminara and as a result--”

“What?” Anakin asked, gaze snapping up to meet Obi-Wan’s, finally. “It’s -- you’re wearing lingerie as part of a bet?” He felt both relieved and confused. Obi-Wan wondered if he realized that he was slowly sweeping his thumb back and forth across the lace.

Obi-Wan shrugged, shivering a little. He’d found the lace annoying, for the most part. But something about the touch of skin through it was… making him feel warmer under his skin. Or perhaps that was just Anakin’s closeness, after a few weeks apart. “Why else would I be wearing it?” he asked.

“I don’t…” Anakin looked to the side, a muscle in his jaw jumping. He swallowed, hard. “I thought, maybe, you were… you know. Wearing it for someone. Someone else.”

For a moment Obi-Wan could only stare at him, chest aching sharply, before he shook his head and leaned away from the couch, sliding his hand to cup Anakin’s jaw, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I’m not wearing it for anyone,” he said. “And there is no one else, Anakin. I don’t want anyone but you, I hope you--”

Anakin made a hungry sound, surging forward, and Obi-Wan found himself pressed back against the couch. Anakin kissed him, properly, pushing closer, desire overspilling the edges of his control. And this was, in fact, far more of the reunion that Obi-Wan had expected. He groaned, threading fingers into Anakin’s hair, pulling him closer.

He managed to find his thoughts after a moment, as Anakin moved on to sucking kisses to his throat, rasping, “It’s terribly uncomfortable, really. Perhaps you’d be interested in helping me take it off?”

Anakin went still for a moment, groaning, and then his hands were on the hem of Obi-Wan’s shirt, tugging it up and off, and freezing, as he got a look at the… contraption beneath. Obi-Wan didn’t know what to call it, really. The entire thing was lace and straps, all connected, somehow, to a little ring of metal at his sternum.

Anakin, staring at it, dark-eyed, demanded, “What the kriff kind of bet did you have with Luminara?”

“You know,” Obi-Wan said, because he preferred not to say, really. He heaved a sigh and added, “Look, go ahead and laugh, if you must.”

Anakin sucked in a breath and then he was kissing Obi-Wan again, hard and deep, grabbing Obi-Wan’s hand and dragging it down, pressing Obi-Wan’s palm to - to his cock. Obi-Wan made a surprised sound, touching him through his slacks, the hard length of him. Anakin panted, against his mouth, “Does it seem like I’m laughing?”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan gasped back, because he’d expected, honestly, amusement. Probably some less-than-gentle teasing. But Anakin only felt like… hot want, shoving at him until he fell sideways across the cushions, mouth at Obi-Wan’s collarbone and slipping lower as he yanked and tugged at Obi-Wan’s leggings.

“We -- the bed is right there,” Obi-Wan rasped, shivering as Anakin caught one of the straps of the ridiculous… thing in his mouth, and then let it go, snapping against his skin. “We can just--”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Anakin said, roughly, breath hot through the lace across Obi-Wan’s skin, sucking a kiss right through the fabric, and, oh--

It was a different sensation, rough and soft all at once, a rasp of pressure disappearing as Anakin tossed his leggings aside and shifted up to just… look at him. Anakin was breathing hard, hair mussed, tunic hanging open. His gaze blazed a trail down Obi-Wan’s body, across dark lace and the, frankly, insufficient wisps of fabric currently serving as negligee.

“Force,” Anakin panted, sliding his palm up Obi-Wan’s thigh, until his thumb brushed the lacy little thing over Obi-Wan’s cock. It had fitted decently earlier, but wasn’t currently up to the task. The lace clung to his cock, making him feel hyper-sensitive as Anakin gritted out, “You look like a kriffing picture.”

Obi-Wan meant to ask what kind of pictures Anakin had possibly been looking at, though he knew well enough that some of the troopers had gotten… more than a bit explicit with the materials they circulated during the war; Hardcase had nearly had a stroke when Obi-Wan accidentally discovered his stash, though some of the images were certainly a good likeness, Obi-Wan could admit, even if they misplaced the freckles, and-- And he got distracted when Anakin ground out, “I want to just… make a mess of you.”

The words hit him below his gut, made his cock twitch, helplessly, and he reached up to grab Anakin’s shoulders, hauling him down, groaning, “Do it, then.”

Anakin made a low, hungry sound, and suddenly his hands were everywhere, his mouth sliding across Obi-Wan’s ribs. He nipped at the edge of the lace again, fingers sliding across the little wisps caught here and there, electrifying.

Obi-Wan groaned aloud when Anakin kissed down his stomach, exhaling hot over the head of his cock. He expected, for some reason, that Anakin would pull the lace aside and perhaps -- But Anakin just - just licked across the lace, heat transferring so easily through the thin fabric, wet heat and the rough-soft sensation of the lace across his skin.

Obi-Wan curled fingers into Anakin’s hair, panting as Anakin mouthed down the underside of his cock, making wet, hungry sounds, sloppy in a way he usually wasn’t and-- And Obi-Wan’s spine bowed quite without intention as Anakin hooked a finger into the lace and tugged it to one side, the edge biting against his skin, the rest of it pulled tighter against his cock.

“What--” Obi-Wan started, when Anakin lifted his mouth away for a moment. He curled his shoulders up, trying to see what was going on, and watched Anakin suck briefly on two of his fingers, mouth wet and red. “Force--” Obi-Wan dropped his head back down, heat flowing through his body as Anakin sucked the head of his cock through the lace and - and slid his wet fingers back.

They had plenty of lubricant in the bedroom. That was, apparently, too far for Anakin at the moment, and something about the desperation, the need of it, made Obi-Wan’s cock jerk, made his gut get tighter and his pulse faster.

The push into his body burned, just a little, but he didn’t - Anakin knew well enough he didn’t mind that, not at all. He liked feeling the stretch, liked the slide of knuckles catching at him, strong and sure and implacable.

Anakin appeared to be in no mood to play around. He crooked his fingers, knowing, and sucked when Obi-Wan jolted against him, crying out. Obi-Wan was aware, through the haze of his own pleasure, of Anakin’s other hand moving between his own legs. And there was something delirious intoxicating about Anakin needing to touch himself, about the hot wetness of his mouth, and the demanding movement of his fingers.

And, layered on top of all of that, the sensation of the lace, clinging to his skin, constant pressure and sensation.

Obi-Wan clung to the back of the couch with one hand, kept his other anchored in Anakin’s hair, and it had been weeks since they touched. Anakin groaned against his cock, brushed a third finger against Obi-Wan’s rim, and Obi-wan let out a punchy cry, because three with only spit was--

Was on the edge of too much, grounding him into his skin, into the raw beauty of what they were doing. He barely heard Anakin rasping, “Come on, come on, give it up for me.”

Obi-Wan cried out, harsh, giving in to the sensation, the pleasure, making a mess all over the inside of the silly negligee, or adding to the mess Anakin had already made. Anakin tore another sound out of him when he dragged his fingers free, and Obi-Wan would have been indignant, if not for the expression of wild hunger on Anakin’s face as he shifted up onto his knees, bracing one hand by Obi-Wan’s shoulder, the other--

The other stroking his own cock, brutal, short thrusts as he stared down, just - just looking, his red bottom lip caught by his teeth, his eyes dark and intent. “Fuck,” Anakin ground out, gutteral, when he came, only moments later, come splattering across the lace and Obi-Wan’s stomach. “Fuck,” he repeated, dropping his head, finally, and taking a kiss.

Obi-Wan curled a hand around the back of his neck, pleasure still beating through his body with his pulse, and murmured, “Welcome home.”

Anakin huffed a little laugh against his mouth, smearing a hand through the mess across Obi-Wan’s stomach. “I suppose I should get cleaned up,” Obi-Wan said, nudging at Anakin’s shoulder, preparing to roll off of the couch, and Anakin made a dark, protesting sound, pushing him back down.

“Oh,” Anakin said, voice warm and rough, breath sliding across Obi-Wan’s skin, dark as a promise, “no, you’re not going anywhere.”

#obikin #glimmer replies #ask me anything #Spicy September Week #lingerie #nsfwizards #VERY SPICY #SO SPICY #established relationship

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fortheloveoffanfic · 4 years ago

Text

Protective Service

John Wick x Reader (A/n-What happens when you click on instinct without looking you ask? Well, you delete a perfectly edited chapter. At least that's what happened to me the first time I tried to post this.)

Masterlist Protective Service Masterlist

Warnings- The tiniest NSFW mentions, infidelity (sort of)

Chapter 10 All of Nothing

Y/n sat at her vanity, sifting through an antique jewelry box in search of a pair of earrings that would suit the outfit she'd picked. For the most part, she was so consumed with her menial task that Y/n hadn't noticed the person coming to stand behind her until he placed one hand on her silk clad shoulder, using the other to sweep her hair away from her neck. "Hi," her mirth was audible and her lashes fluttered as she raised her head, meeting John's softened gaze through the rounded mirror.

"Hey," he threaded rough fingers through her soft locks, moving on to trailing them along the column of her neck when he’d swept her hair away, “You look beautiful this morning, you always look beautiful,” he corrected, grinning at the blush painting her cheeks. No one had ever made her feel what John did, the giddiness, the glee, the little flutter in her heart when she recognized another thing in him that complemented her perfectly.

“Thank you,” Y/n leaned into his touch, admiring how relaxed and at ease John looked; no shirt, hair still damp from his shower and exuding this warm aura of safety that made her just want to lose herself beside him. “What are you doing?” She taunted lightly when he started edging the top of her robe open, never breaking their shared gaze.

Smirking, John licked his lips when one side of the garment finally gave way, revealing the top of one lace clad breast, the scalloped edges of the fine material standing out against her skin exquisitely. “That depends on what you want me to be doing,” his low, husky words were intertwined with desire and when he slid his finger beneath the strap of her bra teasingly, a shiver ran up Y/n spine. She watched closely as John crouched down behind her, just so he could lean forward and press his lips to the back of her shoulder, his straying hand travelling lower to undo the knot holding her robe closed as the other felt around her curves.

“Why don’t you put this away for now?” He probed quietly, weaning the carved box out of her smaller hands before letting a calloused palm venture to the valley between Y/n’s silken thighs, “Do you have anything important this morning?”

Reluctantly, Y/n recoiled, knowing that if they continued, she would certainly be late. “I do actually,” she cringed, her expression only falling further when John pulled away altogether, bracing himself with a grip on the cushioned armrest, offering her a look that suggested that anything but ‘no’ was the wrong answer, “I have a meeting with Balinski and his head of campaign finance. It really is important,” shifting slightly to face him, hooking one leg under herself, Y/n reached out, laying an affectionate touch on his arm, hoping he’d understand.

Huffing an exasperated sigh, “Fine,” John leaned forward to quickly peck her lips, “Rain check until this evening then,” already, he’d repositioned his hand to her lower back, his thumb rubbing absent circles into the fabric.

“Uhh,” hesitating, Y/n gnawed on her lower lip, only succumbing to telling the whole truth after John’s gentle nudging, “Maybe later in the night?” Scrunching her nose, she broached the matter with great caution, bracing herself for the worst, “I’m having dinner with Donavan tonight, we might be a while.”

Even if they’d lapsed into some semblance of a relationship, things had really just happened unconsciously; one night together turning into waking up in Y/n’s bed, intimate touches became unconscious caresses in quieter moments and steamy kisses turned to sweet endearments. They hadn’t discussed mutual exclusivity though, yet John had somehow assumed that the talk they’d had at the Continental had implied it. Or maybe he just hadn’t thought of Y/n’s relations with Donavan at all.

Sensing the shift in his mood, Y/n searched his features, “John, it’s….it’s just….we know we haven’t really figured this out yet.” In that moment, Y/n knew that whatever the right words were, she had not just used them. She did however, manage to make things worse, in record time too.

"Oh," standing abruptly, he was about to stalk off when Y/n grabbed his wrist, her eyes pleading with him to stay and hear her out as she tried to fix things, "I should go finish getting dressed," he mumbled when she wouldn't let up.

"Can we talk about this later?" Her plea was genuine, Y/n really wanted to make things right, even if she didn't quite know how to do that.

Shaking his head, John resisted, "You don't have to say that because you think it's what I want. I know what I mean to you," he huffed, finally breaking away from Y/n, "And clearly it's not the same as what you mean to me. You can do whatever you want later," he grumbled, snatching his shirt off the foot of her bed.

The legs of the little bench scraped loudly against the tile as Y/n stood, following John as he neared the door, "That is not true and you know it. But things are complicated with me and Donavan, I need to work them out and what I want later is to talk about this, about us, with you." He stopped, his hand closed in over the knob and his stance stiff, "Please John."

When he released the knob and turned back to her, Y/n let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, the tingle of relief spreading to her toes and fingers. "Fix this, by tonight, or we're done."

She wasn't used to ultimatums, or at least, Y/n wasn't used to receiving them. But she knew that arguing with John wouldn't fare well and all she wanted to have things go back to the way the were mere minutes ago, "Okay, I'll fix it and not because I think it's what you want," stepping forward, Y/n took his hand again, bringing it up to her lips and pressing a kiss to his knuckles as she drew closer, "But because of how much you mean to me and because I don't want anything or anyone to make you question that, okay?"

Swallowing thickly, John nodded slowly, bending his head so his forehead was pressed against hers, "Okay," he kissed her, his free arm engulfing Y/n as they continued, smiling at how she sighed against his lips and melted into his chest. It felt right when they were like that, as if every moment tangled up in Y/n’s arms had been meticulously orchestrated to ensure that there was nowhere else that he’d rather be. She was becoming his safe place, his haven, his peace. John didn’t know how she’d react if he told her, but he didn’t have any plans of letting her know soon anyway. Though, he did, for dear life, hang onto the hope that she felt the same, after all, what was the point of a second chance if it was going to slip right out of your grasp in the end?

She shouldn’t have felt guilty, just over a month ago, she wouldn’t have. But that evening, laying there in the mess of sheets with Donavan, right after they’d touched each other in the way they had for years, Y/n had never felt dirtier. Of course, she’d never guaranteed him exclusivity, and she had also firmly reminded herself that she had done the same with John, but still, the thought gnawed at Y/n. The wounded expression he’d flashed her that morning before playing it off and the way John had kissed her when she promised to fix things for them, like he trusted her. Not a lot of people trusted her, but knowing John did paled everything else. She did want from others what she’d found in him.

So she had to fix things. For him, for them.

Shoving the sheets down her bare body, Y/n worked on easing off the bed, ignoring Donavan until he roused her attention, “You’re leaving already?” They’d gone to his place in Manhattan and Y/n had found herself preferring it that way, at least she could leave when she wanted to, not have to pay the extra effort to drive him out. “I thought you’d stay a little longer,” he stated, a strange air about his tone as he followed her out of the bed, pulling on a pair of sweats.

“I can’t,” Y/n offered briskly, already pulling on her grey, tweed slacks, quickly looking for her blouse after closing up the front, “And I uh-”

“I have a proposal,” he cut her off, surprising Y/n just as she was shrugging on her black shirt, pausing before she could do the buttons.

Taken aback, Y/n eventually continued with the task at hand, though slowly, keeping her eyes on her old friend as he approached his dresser, rummaging through a drawer in search of a t shirt, “Okay,” she encouraged, “Well what is it?”

He was just turning, pulling on the cotton jersey before finally approaching Y/n. Donavan only stopped when he was less than a foot away, towering over her, leaving her face to face with his broad chest, “Will you marry me?”

To say the least, Y/n was definitely not expecting a literal proposal, worse yet one that casual. Though, she supposed that Donavan wasn’t the get on his knees type anyway. And she wasn’t the marry her fuck buddy type either. “Excuse me?” Was perhaps the most polite thing Y/n could muster up.

“I said-”

“I heard you,” heading to an accent chair near the bedroom door to collect her suit jacket, Y/n got into it as she spoke, chuckling and hoping her dismissiveness would speak for itself, “Donny, I think you’re mistaking this for something it's not. Why would I marry you?” Y/n chortled again quietly, her grin faltering when she met his more serious expression.

“Because I-” He cut himself off, presumably before saying something they would both regret, “Because, this partnership with Balinski could expand your enterprise, I just thought that you might need help running things. And seeing as I’m the only one that knows the ropes almost as well as you do, I thought it would be the most logical way forward.”

Smirking, Y/n shifted her weight from one leg to the next, folding her arms, “So you’re suggesting some sort of political marriage?”

“In a nutshell,” he nodded.

Humming, Y/n straighten her back, ready to clear the air once and for all so she could get back to trying to make things work with John, “The sentiment is……sweet,” she hadn’t meant for her words to sound so taunting, but they had, and there was no taking them back, “But I’m not interested. I don't want you to help run things, I’ve got this.”

Sighing heavily, Donavan seemed desperate to get her on board, “Vila,” he pleaded, “Please, just consider it.”

But Y/n was already done with the conversation, and not knowing how to let him down easy, and not thinking that he needed it anyway, she did things the way she thought best, letting her icy disposition ring through, “I don’t need to. This conversation is over,” she started out the door, collecting her handbag as she entered his living room, “And we need to stop seeing each other like this.”

“What?” Confused, he probed incredulously, following her to the door.

“I’ll see you at work tomorrow Donny,�� Y/n pulled his front door open, not even sparing him one last glace, “And only at work.”

Merely two hours later, Y/n stood in front of John's door, swallowing down the events of the evening before knocking in three brisk taps. He didn't need to know the specifics, he just needed to know that she'd ended things with Donavan. Before she could even raise her fist again, he was pulling the door open, "Hi," she smiled softly, hoping he'd returned the gesture.

John took a minute to drink Y/n in. She looked so young, more like her age actually, dressed simply in a black lace robe with a short matching nightgown beneath it, her fluffy slippers not affording her much height and the absence of makeup allowing the glow of youth to radiate unhampered. She looked lovely like that, softer somehow. "Hey," John breathed, longing to reach out, but wanting to know for sure where they stood first.

She'd showered before coming to him, and that in itself said so much, too much. "How was dinner with Donavan?"

Quickly, her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, barely glancing down at herself before meeting his stare again. Y/n knew what he was thinking, and they both knew he was right. In retrospect, she couldn't really put her finger on the reasoning for having Donavan one last time; maybe it was her way of trying to soften to blow. As if to tell him that it wasn't his fault, but he just wasn't the man for her. "It went well," she began stiffly, not knowing how to continue. Y/n wasn't used to that sort of thing, and knowing that John could tell she'd been with Donavan before coming to him was making things harder. "It's over now, but John-"

She was so, so close to telling him everything. Everything that he knew, and then probably much more that he didn't. And deep down, or perhaps right on the surface, John knew it would hurt him; he didn't want to see her differently or hear her reasoning for why she'd done things that way. Besides, as long as she didn't confirm it, it could all just be in his head, and he would much rather keep guessing until he could manage to bury it down instead of hearing the painful truth. "Doesn't matter," John cut her off before anything too damaging to depart from her lips, "You're here now," he bent, pressing a slow, sensual kiss to her soft lips.

"And I wouldn't rather be anywhere else," she mumbled against John's bourbon flavored lips, letting him lead her into his bedroom, kicking the door closed behind her.

******

Tagging- @harrisongslimited @magnificentclodpiebanana @keandrews @greenmanalishi @rdjloverxxx @danceoftwowolves @planetkt @wheretheriversrunintothesea

#keanu reeves #john wick #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick x y/n #john wick fanfic #keanu reeves fanfic #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves x you #protective service.#fanfic #fanfiction

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after-avenging-hours · 4 years ago

Text

Virtue & Valor [2]: Steve x Reader

Series Masterlist

You and your husband have the perfect life. Jobs that you love, a happy marriage, an amazing sex life… You couldn’t ask for anything more. But when something unexpected shows up on your front doorstep that completely turns your world upside down, can your relationship survive the fallout? Or will you have to let your feelings go in favor of the greater good? Letting go of the past can be difficult, especially when the future looks so bleak, but maybe you can figure out how to move forward together. You may just make it out to see the other side.

Word Count: 4144

Warnings: Canon typical violence, brief mention of blood, slight hanky panky (not quite at smut level), and shit getting real

A/N: I wasn’t going to post this until a little later, but I’m really eager to know what you all think about it, so here you go!

“Mayday! Mayday! Engine one has been lost and engine two has begun to fail! Does anybody copy?! Hostiles have engaged and we are going down. Last known coordinates are-”

The sound of crunching metal is deafening to your ears. The world tilts and spins. The cross straps of your seat belt are the only thing keeping you in place with each violent jolt and shudder. An explosion of pain in your chest alerts you to the potential threat of a broken rib… or many. When you cough, red splatters against the console in front of you. The last thing you feel is the lick of hot flames against your skin before everything goes black.

You wake with a start, shooting up in bed and clutch at your chest. Your heart is beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings. It pounds against your fingertips and echoes in your ears. Panic holds you in its vice-like grip, making your skin crawl and your lungs tight. Your hands desperately move over your collar and down your chest, searching for any evidence of injury.

“You okay?” the groggy voice makes you jump and whip around defensively. Steve tries to blink the sleepiness from his eyes as he looks you over with concern.

“Steve…” you breathe his name, the tension already lessening just by seeing him there. It’s okay. You’re safe. Your thoughts come in quietly, barely heard over the blood rushing in your ears. You try to slow your rapid breathing, taking in deep lungfuls of air.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, sitting up and pulling your body into his chest.

You seek the comfort of his embrace. Resting your head on his shoulder, you wrap your arms around his thick torso, allowing his warmth to seep into you. “Nightmare,” you whisper in explanation.

He wraps his arms around you and holds you until you’ve stopped shuddering. He whispers soothing words into your ear and gently rubs your back to help you calm down. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, wanting to help, but not wanting to force you to talk if you’re not ready.

“I dreamt that I was in a plane crash,” you admit, barely above a whisper. You release a shuddering breath. “Maybe it was just because of that movie we watched, but… it felt so real.” A shiver of dread travels up your spine.

Steve’s arms tighten around you as he pulls your body into his lap. “It’s okay,” he soothes. “It was just a dream. You’re back with me now. Just focus on me.”

You listen to the steady drum of his heart beneath your ear and focus on it until yours slows down to match. Finally, the last of the tension eases out of you, before your body collapses against his.

“Do you want to get up or do you want a glass of water or anything?” Steve asks.

You shake your head, keeping your forehead pressed to his shoulder. “I just want you to hold me.”

“I can do that,” he assures you. After several minutes pass, you begin to doze off. When Steve is pretty sure you’ve fallen back asleep, he carefully lays back against the pillows and pulls the blankets up and over the both of you. He continues to hold you close until you’ve both fallen back asleep.

He wakes up again a few hours later with the first rays of morning beginning to creep in through the curtains. You’re still tucked in close, so he leans his head down and presses his lips to your forehead. “Good morning, Mrs. Rogers,” he wakes you with his rough morning voice.

Your breathing changes with a deep inhale as you begin to shift against him. “Already?” you protest blearily.

His chuckle makes you bounce against his chest. “I’m afraid so.”

You release a pouty groan, but move to sit up nonetheless.

“You sleep okay?” Steve asks watching as you cover a yawn with your hand.

Your hand drops back to your lap as you give him a curious look over your shoulder. “Yeah, Why?” you counter, noting the concerned look in his eyes.

The concern turns to confusion. “You had a nightmare last night,” he states like he’s trying to jog your memory.

You frown a tilt your head. “I did?” You try to think back, but nothing comes up. “I don’t remember that…”

Steve raises a brow and observes you for a moment before removing the thought from his head. “Probably for the best, then.” He pushes himself up and places a swift peck to your cheek. “We should get up. Don’t want to be late for school.” He stands and performs a quick back stretch before stepping out of the bedroom to get the coffee going.

You spend another minute trying to recall any sort of dream from last night, but when nothing surfaces, you shake the thought away and move to get up and join Steve in the kitchen. “TGIF,” you comment with another yawn.

Steve sends a smile of amusement your way. “You love your job.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t still look forward to Fridays.”

“Doesn’t hurt that Fridays are half days either, I guess,” Steve chuckles.

“No, it certainly does not,” you agree with a grin. Normally Friday afternoons were reserved for teacher and department meetings, but a faculty-wide email had gone out at the end of the day yesterday telling everyone that the meeting had been postponed this week.

You and Steve share another quick breakfast before changing out of your sleepwear and heading out to the school. “Do you ever feel like our life is a little too perfect?” you find yourself asking as you stare out the car window at all the cookie-cutter houses with white picket fences and lush green lawns.

“How do you mean?” Steve asks, keeping his eyes on the road.

You purse your lips as you try to find the best way to speak your thoughts. “I don’t know. It’s just… everything seems so easy, doesn’t it? Every day we wake up, go to work, go back home; wash, rinse, repeat. And yeah, that’s fine and all, but aren’t there supposed to be like little life issues sprinkled in between? We never have issues at work, never have issues with the house or the car. Hell, even our marriage is perfect! Aren’t normal couples supposed to argue over everything? We never have to compromise on what we’re having for dinner or whose turn it is to do laundry, we just do it. And don’t even get me started on the sex!”

That last one makes Steve laugh. “Are you seriously complaining about our sex life?”

“No!” you insist. “But Deborah did make a comment yesterday about how unusual it is that we still go at it like we’ve never left our honeymoon phase. It’s weird, right?”

Steve reaches over to grab your hand, threading his fingers between yours. He lifts your hand up and brings it closer to his face so he can place a kiss to your knuckles. “I think, in this case, it’s better to be the exception rather than the rule.”

You eye him curiously. “But you’ve never thought it was strange?”

He gives you a quick side glance before turning back to the road with a shrug of his shoulder. “I’ve had the thought before, yeah. But then I just think about how lucky we are to be so compatible. It’s a good thing that we don’t have any problems. Our life could be so much worse. Wouldn’t you rather be happy if you were given the option?”

“Yeah…” you agree, looking back out the window. “You’re right. I don’t know why I even brought it up.”

“I mean, if you want me to argue with you, I’m sure I can find ways to piss you off,” Steve sends you a goofy grin.

You laugh and shake your head. “That’s not necessary.”

The school day itself is uneventful. Sometimes you worry that it will be more difficult to wrangle the kids into paying attention on short days, but your classes manage to go smoothly with most students still excited about the martial arts training.

Steve meets you at the locker room doors at the end of the day with a soft smile on his lips and a quick kiss of affection pressed to yours. The two of you stop for a quick lunch at a deli not far from the school before you head home. “How would you like to spend your afternoon, Mrs. Rogers?” Steve asks you as you both step back into the kitchen from the garage.

You release a hum while you think over your options. “I think the bathtub might be calling my name.”

“Oh yeah?” he questions, eyes lighting with interest.

“Care to join me?” you grin suggestively up at him.

His grin matches yours as he wraps an arm around your waist and yanks your body to his. If that’s not enough of an answer for you, then the hungry kiss that follows sure is. His tongue slips into your mouth, his taste mixing with yours and causes a delicious heat to pool between your legs. His hands grip your hips and he starts to walk you backward, through the kitchen and down the hall. You both know the way so instinctively, that you don’t even need to pull apart to see where you’re going. A trail of clothing begins to form in the hallway; your shoes, socks, and yoga pants mixed in with his boots, belt, and jeans.

You’re working the buttons loose on his shirt by the time your feet hit the tile in the bathroom. You let your hands make one quick swipe over his glorious abdominals before pulling your mouth from his with a gasping breath. His lips latch onto your neck before he’s gripping the backs of your thighs and is lifting you up onto the counter for the sink. The cold tile is a startling contrast against your heated core, making you moan.

“Oh god, we could probably take a bath in my underwear, I’m so wet,” you whimper, feeling the clench between your legs as Steve’s hips slot against your spread thighs.

Steve pulls away with a sharp laugh of amusement. “You’re always wet,” he remarks, a slightly prideful tilt to his mouth.

“Well maybe if you were a little less sexy,” you tease.

His eyes flash with want, “I’m a natural aphrodisiac.” Your laughter makes him feel like he’s flying above the clouds. Leaning forward, he places a quick peck to your nose before stepping away to open the faucet for the tub. “You want to light any candles?” he asks, holding his hand under the water to gauge the temperature. Once it’s warm, he flips the switch to close the drain and lets the tub fill up.

“Yeah, I’ll go find the lighter,” you jump down from the counter and make your way passed the trail of clothing back into the kitchen. You riffle around briefly inside the junk drawer, which really can’t be called much of a junk drawer because Steve keeps it impeccably organized, before grabbing the candle lighter.

You begin to head back to the bedroom when you hear a knock on the front door. Diverting course, you head down the opposite side of the hallway. Unlocking the door, you open it partway, making sure to stand mostly behind it to shield your bare legs. You find two people standing out on your front porch, a gorgeous redheaded woman, and an attractive man with dark hair and warm brown eyes.

Both of them look at you in shock. “Val?” they speak in unison.

Your brow furrows and you tilt your head in confusion, “Yes… Can I help you?”

They share a startled look. “We didn’t know you were here. Our intel only told us that Rogers was here,” the woman states.

Her words only confuse you further. “That’s correct. I’m Mrs. Rogers…”

The man begins to choke on his own saliva. “Wait, what?!” he sputters in between coughs.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

“Val?!” you hear Steve call from deep within the house. “Bath is almost ready. Where’d you go?”

You give the two strangers an odd look, before tilting your head back toward Steve’s direction, “Front door,” you call back.

“Oh… I didn’t realize we were having guests,” Steve states, stepping up behind you and looking over your shoulder at the two outside. “Hello. Is there something my wife and I can help you with?” he asks, not recognizing either of the people standing in front of him.

“Wife? When the hell did you two get married?!” the man asks, still in complete shock.

Steve frowns, hands moving to grasp your hips to pull your back against his chest, his protective instinct kicking in. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think that’s any of your concern.”

“Sam,” the woman reaches a hand out to her companion’s shoulder, giving him a warning look. Her cool gaze then flickers back to the two of you. “I’m sorry for the strange introduction. My name is Natasha Romanoff, this is Sam Wilson. We’re currently looking into a missing persons case, and we were hoping to ask the two of you a few questions.”

You and Steve share a look of concern. “Missing person?” Steve questions. “Is it one of the kids?”

That question seems to catch the woman off guard. “Excuse me?”

“We’re both teachers at the high school,” you explain to her.

She quickly composes herself, “Oh… No, I’m afraid it’s a little more complicated than that. Is there a chance we could come in?”

You and Steve share a look, silently communicating with each other. He jerks his head to the side, indicating for you to go put on a pair of pants before he lets the two of them inside. You move down the hall, quickly grabbing your yoga pants and Steve’s jeans off the floor. You step into the kitchen first, slipping your pants back on and drop the lighter down on the counter. You then make your way to the living room.

“Forgive me for my state of undress. We weren’t exactly expecting company,” you hear Steve. He steps into the living room, hands buttoning up his shirt as the two strangers follow behind. He takes his pants from you with a grateful smile, bending down to place a swift kiss to your temple.

“Please, have a seat,” you gesture for the two to sit on your couch.

After Steve has his pants back on, he pulls you over to the lounge chair, taking a seat and pulling you onto his lap. The two of them give you a strange look, making you slightly uncomfortable. You wonder briefly if you should move to sit somewhere else, but the only other option is the floor.

“Have you both been married long?” Natasha finds herself asking.

You and Steve share a fond smile. “A few years,” he tells her.

She keeps her features fixed despite recognizing the vague response. “And you both teach at the high school?”

You nod, “Yes. Steve teaches art while I teach PE.”

“And how long have you been doing that?”

You purse your lips as you try to think about it. “Gosh, I’m not even sure. It feels like forever,” you laugh briefly.

Steve steps back in, “So, how can we help with your case?”

Natasha has to bite back a smirk recognizing his need to take control and get things moving in the right direction. “Tell me,” she starts, “What do you know about Captain America?”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “You mean the guy that left the Avengers? Not much besides what they’ve been saying on the news. That he walked away from the team and never looked back.” You nod in agreement.

“That’s not exactly what happened. You see, he left on a mission with one of our agents.” Natasha’s eyes flicker to you, looking at you expectantly. When she doesn’t see the reaction she was hoping for, she continues. “The two of them tried to infiltrate a research facility run by the terrorist organization called Hydra. Turns out the intel they had was fake and they’d been lured into a trap. Their plane was shot down before they could make it to the facility. They’ve been missing ever since.”

“That’s horrible,” you mutter quietly. You feel bad for them, but there’s a sort of emotional detachment like you’re not invested in the situation.

You feel Steve sit up a little straighter behind you. “What exactly does this have to do with the two of us?”

Sam releases a frustrated huff, “Steve, you are Captain America.”

You both stiffen in surprise, Steve’s hands tightening at your waist. “What are you talking about? Is this some kind of joke?”

“Sam.” Natasha sends a sharp glare of warning his way. She softens her features before turning back to the both of you. “Look, I understand this may be hard to believe and very confusing, but it seems that you both have completely forgotten who you really are.”

A long, uncomfortable silence stretches out between you all.

“Do you honestly expect us to believe that?” Steve finally asks incredulously.

Sam makes another sound of annoyance. A sense of urgency lines his features as he turns to his partner. “Nat, we’re wasting time. We don’t even know where they are!”

She places a pacifying hand on his shoulder. “And we won’t be able to find them until we get their full cooperation,” she responds to him before turning back to you. “I’m afraid that we really must insist that you listen to what we have to say.”

“What do you mean ‘find us’?” you ask, the confusion plain on your face. “You’re in our home.”

The two of them share another apprehensive look. Natasha releases a long sigh before speaking. “There’s no easy way to say this,” she begins. “But you’re not actually here. We’re not actually here,” she gestures to herself and Sam. “None of this is real. This isn’t the real world. This is a virtual copy.”

“A virtual copy…” Steve repeats with a blank face.

“Did you guys get that from the Matrix?” you ask with a wry smile that’s bordering on amusement.

“We’re being serious,” Sam cuts in.

“No one has the kind of technology required to build a virtual world,” Steve argues. “Let alone the ability to download a human mind into it.”

“Hydra does,” Nat counters. “They’ve been able to digitize the human consciousness since the 70′s.”

You and Steve share a look of doubt.

“When your plane went down,” Sam catches the way Steve’s gaze sharpens and he corrects himself. “When the Quinjet crashed, it took the rest of the Avengers several hours to get to the wreckage. By the time we showed up, there was no sign of Captain America or Agent Valor. The crash was bad. There is no way anyone could have walked away from it. Even the Captain.”

Nat steps back in, “We could only assume that Hydra made it to the crash site first. They moved the bodies to a secure location and we’ve been searching ever since.”

“You’re spinning two very different tales here,” you speak up, barely understanding what they’ve been saying. “What does this plane crash have to do with a virtual copy of the world?”

“As Sam said, the plane crash was horrific. It would have been a miracle if anyone survived, and even if they did, it couldn’t have been without severe injury. When Hydra took the bodies, the only possible way of sustaining the life within would have been to download the consciousness into a virtual world until the body could be repaired.”

“We don’t know where they’re keeping your real bodies,” Sam tells you both.

“Do you realize how crazy you both sound?” you find yourself asking, staring back at them in disbelief.

Nat’s gaze hardens slightly. “Can you honestly tell us that you’ve never once questioned the reality of this world?”

That makes you pause when you remember the conversation that you had with Steve just this morning. Could your life really be so perfect because it was… what? A computer simulation?

“Do you have any proof that can validate the things you’re saying?” Steve asks.

“Our main goal was to establish contact,” Sam responds. “We didn’t know if we would even be able to reach you, let alone that your memory would be wiped.”

That makes you frown, “Our memory is just fine.”

“You’re the one that said you can’t remember how long you’ve been working at the school,” Natasha counters.

“That was just an expression!” you argue back.

“Okay. Then tell us exactly how long you’ve been married. When is your anniversary date?”

You open your mouth to respond immediately, but the words can’t seem to form on your lips. Your brows pinch together as frustration builds inside you. Why can’t you remember your anniversary? “I… I don’t understand,” you falter, glancing back at Steve. He looks just about as lost as you. “But… I can remember our wedding… And our honeymoon…” you protest weakly. You just can’t seem to remember the date.

“Hydra must have planted false memories. They have complete control of your minds. They can do whatever they want,” Natasha explains.

“The two of you aren’t married in the real world,” Sam breaks to you. “It’s fake, just like the rest of this,” he gestures vaguely around the room.

His confession feels like a punch in the gut. “That… that can’t be true,” you whisper brokenly. This seems to shatter everything around you more than anything else they’ve said.

You feel Steve shift beneath you. He lifts your hips enough so he can slide out from under you, leaving you to sit in the chair alone while he stands and moves to the other side of the room. Him physically distancing himself from you shakes you to the core. He can’t honestly believe in the things they’re saying, can he?

He crosses his arms over his chest pins your two guests with a long stare. “The things you’re saying sound impossible,” he starts. “But if, and this is a big if, it’s somehow true… why would Hydra keep us alive? Why not leave us for dead in the plane crash?”

“Hydra has a long history of turning our friends into our enemies,” Natasha replies ominously. “If they can find a use for you, they’ll use you until there’s nothing left.”

“Does this look like we’re getting turned into Hydra terrorists?” you ask, your frustration at this entire situation bleeding through your tone. “We’re high school teachers, for Christ's sake!” You shoot to your feet. “You know what? No,” you swipe your hands through the air. “I don’t have to sit here and listen to this bullshit. Feel free to talk to Steve as much as you want, but I’m done. I’m sorry we can’t help you any further on your missing persons case.” Leaving it at that, you walk out of the living room and down the hall into your bedroom, letting the door slam shut behind you.

You feel a little bit like a sulking teenager, but your entire body is shaking and you just can’t seem to handle what’s going on. You step into the bathroom in your bedroom, frowning when you recall the tub full of water in the other bathroom that’s probably gone cold. “What a waste,” you huff before moving to the sink. You splash a few handfuls of cold water against your face, trying to calm your racing thoughts and bubbling emotions. Resting your hands against the sink, you let out a long sigh and stare at yourself in the mirror. “Why can’t you remember your anniversary?” you ask yourself as if the version looking back would be able to respond. She doesn’t.

“Great… now I’m the one going crazy.” You roll your eyes and then grab a towel to dry your face and hands.

You pace around your bedroom, too wired to sit still. You can hear the conversation continuing out in the living room, but you can’t hear what any of them are saying. You just want Steve to tell them to go away.

None of this makes any sense and the more you try to think about it, the more your head begins to ache. Releasing a groan of discomfort, you make your way to the bed to lie down. You curl up on your side, grabbing Steve’s pillow to clutch to your chest like a teddy bear. You draw a small amount of comfort from his scent, but it’s not the same as having him wrapped around you.

A part of you almost wishes that this whole place really was just a computer simulation. Because maybe then you could just hit a re-do button on this whole day.

Part 3

#steve rogers x reader #captain america x reader #steve rogers x wife!reader #virtue & valor #sam writes

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