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startrekfangirl2233-fic-recs · 1 year ago

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Oh my god. Bob is just the sweetest 🥰🥰🥰

I love him so much! And Molly! Wild, sweet Molly! Bob is in for a wild ride. And I don't just mean the ride he's in for once Molly takes him up to her apartment. I love that the nice guy is winning this story.

The Curveball Part 2 | Bob Floyd x OC

Summary: Bob got Molly's phone number, but he hesitated, and now it could cost him. When he finally manages to go on a date with her, he should have done a better job of preparing his heart. Because he's completely hooked on Molly, but he's not the only one.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, eventually 18+

Length: 5500 words

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Female OC (this story accompanies Batting Practice!)

Check my masterlist for more! Thank you to @mak-32 and @teacupsandtopgun for the beautiful banners!

When Bradley needed a few days off from tee ball to go to Lemoore, Bob was thankful that Molly's sister was able to step up as Team Mom and help him prepare for the game on Saturday morning.

It had been two days since he saw Molly. Two days since she kissed him goodnight in her car before he got into his truck and drove home with an erection. Two days since he managed to somehow not completely embarrass himself in front of his dream girl.

But now her phone number was burning a hole in his pocket. Bob wasn't smooth. He wasn't sure what he should do next. Maybe waiting to see if she showed up to another practice was his best bet? Or was he supposed to call her today? Was she at work at the hospital right now? Maybe he should text her first instead?

Flirting. Romance. Asking a girl out. He never did these things right. And Molly wasn't just someone random girl that he could try those things out on and not worry if he messed up. No, she was Molly. Bob would be lucky if he even got one chance with her.

"I'm here to help," his Team Mom told him as he set up home plate.

"You're a lifesaver," Bob replied, handing over his clipboard. "Can you read down the list and check everything off for me?"

"Sure," she replied, following him as he set up cones. When she got to the bottom of the list, she asked him, "Did you remember to text the parent who volunteered to bring the snack?"

Bob groaned as he set down the last base marker. "No. Bradley usually does that the night before, and I promised him I would remember to take care of it this week."

"That's okay," she told him quickly. "I have bags of goldfish crackers in my trunk as an emergency backup plan."

Bob felt so relieved as he said, "You're the best Team Mom in the history of Team Moms."

She giggled, and he smiled at her. She sounded like Molly when she laughed. But then she said, "So, I talked to Molly a little bit this morning."

"Really?" Bob asked, picking up the tote bag of balls and looking at her like he was hanging on her every word now.

"Mmhmm. She's kind of wondering why you haven't asked her out yet. She gave you her number. And it's been two days."

He was so flustered, he dropped the bag, sending balls rolling in every direction. He scrambled to pick them up, and she knelt to help him. "Does she really want to go on a date with me? Like just me and her?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, Bob. Probably more than one."

More than one. More than one date. Bob had only ever been on a handful of first dates and even fewer second dates. He wasn't the type who kept women coming back for more. He was too quiet and reserved. Too meticulous and not loose enough. He was probably honestly boring. But Molly wanted to go out with him, probably more than once.

"Bob," she said, breaking him out of his thoughts. "Her feelings are a little hurt that you didn't text her yesterday. If you like her, you need to make a move."

Bob had hurt Molly's feelings. He'd had his phone in his hands so many times last night, just looking at her contact name and number. But he never did anything about it. And now the game was about to start, and Bob's phone was buried in the bottom of his gear bag. He was tempted to dig it out now and text her, beg her to let him take her somewhere on a date.

Then the game started, and he went into coaching mode. But Molly was never far from his mind. When the game ended in a victory for the Tiny Eagles, Bob told her sister, "I'm going to text Molly right now. Does she have a favorite kind of food? And a favorite type of flower?"

She pressed her lips together, nodding and looking pleased. "Sushi. And those really ugly multicolored carnations."

"Thanks," Bob said, forcing himself to take his phone out right now. As he walked back to his truck with all of his gear, he typed out and deleted several messages. Nothing sounded right. He might need to call Nat for help. God, even fourteen year olds knew how to flirt over texts. What was wrong with him?

Bob tossed everything into the bed of his truck and took a deep breath. Then he quickly typed up a message and hit send before he could rethink it.

Hi, Molly. It's Bob Floyd. If you have an evening free this week and are interested, I would love to have dinner with you.

Then he stood there and nervously reread the message, already silently pleading for a fast response from Molly. Because maybe everyone else was actually wrong, and she was laughing right now at the idea of going out with him. At the thought of going out to dinner with a man who had to spend a full minute trying to come up with a response every time she spoke, because he got so flustered.

He tossed his phone into the cup holder and drove home. And not that he was counting, but it took Molly six hours and three minutes to respond to him. And when she did, his hands started sweating.

Molly: Coach Cute Glasses! Sorry for the late response, I'm working a double today. On my lunch break now. Dinner? This week? Are you sure you want to? You don't need to feel pressured to go out with me just because my sister is a bully.

Bob dropped his phone onto his kitchen counter. Molly thought he only texted her because her sister told him to. No, this was bad. But she wasn't completely wrong. He just didn't know he should have contacted her already.

Before he messed this up, he called Nat. She already knew about his crush on Molly. She kept calling him Cassanova at work. But Bob knew that Nat would help him without picking on him too much.

"Nat, I didn't know I was supposed to text Molly right away!"

"You didn't text her yet?" Natasha asked so loudly through the phone that Bob had to remove it from his ear.

"I sent her a message this morning. I asked her out to dinner."

Nat practically screamed. "Bob! You should have texted her like ten minutes after she left you at your truck on Thursday night."

"Nat, I don't know how to do this!" Panic rose inside him.

"Okay. It's okay. What did she say to you?"

Bob went into every single detail he could think of and sent Nat a screenshot of his text with Molly. And then Nat did scream at him.

"Text her back this instant! She's so unsure, Robert Charles Floyd! You need to reassure her that you've had a boner in her honor for weeks and would like nothing more than to wine and dine her!" Nat huffed as Bob juggled his phone and started to draft a text to Molly. "Between you and Rooster, my hands are full. And yet I'm the one who's not getting any pussy? Unbelievable."

Bob took a deep breath, verified his response with Nat and then ended the call. Then he hit send.

I've been thinking about you a lot. Pretty much nonstop. I want to go out with you if you're interested.

And then Bob stared at his phone for sixteen full minutes until Molly wrote back.

Molly: Thursday night? I could meet you at tee ball?

And just like that, Bob had a date. And now he needed to get a reservation at the best sushi restaurant in San Diego.

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Molly: Well what do you think of when you think of me?

Bob was on cloud nine. He and Molly had been texting constantly for days. Sometimes it was just a quick greeting. Sometimes it was flirty. And last night she sent him a selfie of her at work during her overnight shift. She was smiling in her maroon scrubs with her name embroidered on the top. She looked sweet and happy, and Bob had shamelessly masturbated to the photo.

When I think of you, I think of how bad your driving is.

Molly seemed to like it when he teased her. She told him over and over again how funny he was. Bob had never been this charming before.

Molly: You fly in a fighter jet, Lieutenant Floyd. Get over yourself! No wait, I'll bet you drive like a grandma. A grandma with a big, huge.... pickup truck.

Bob was laying in bed now, so excited for dinner tomorrow night.

You'll find out tomorrow when I drive us to dinner.

Molly: I can't wait.

After work on Thursday, Bob showered in the locker room, but instead of the baseball pants, he changed into jeans and a soft undershirt. He had a dress shirt hanging in his truck that he would put on for dinner. He just hoped he didn't get too sweaty at practice.

He took more time to fix his hair than he ever had before. It felt important that he looked good tonight. He had a vase full of the ugly flowers that Molly liked. Apparently you could only buy them at the gas station, and Bob laughed when they came to four dollars for a bouquet of a dozen. He bought three dozen flowers for Molly last night and put them all in an oversized vase. He carried them in to work this morning and left them in his locker all day so they wouldn't wilt. When he was ready to leave for tee ball, he grabbed the vase out of his locker along with his keys and wallet.

When Nat saw him in the hallway, she squealed. And then her eyes went wide. "Bob, no. Those flowers are hideous. You need to stop and get her something better!"

He laughed at the appalled look on her face. "She likes these ones. I verified it with her sister. Even sent a photo to confirm."

Nat studied him for a minute. "She likes ugly flowers and top tier sushi? And she's hot. And she thinks you're charming. She's quirky, Bob. Molly sounds like a treat. Like somehow... this makes sense to me." She patted him on the chest and then added, "Have fun! Don't forget some condoms!"

Bob gripped the vase in both hands before it could drop to the floor. Was he really supposed to do that? Stop and buy condoms? For a first date? Surely Nat was out of her mind. Bob laughed and headed outside to his truck. He buckled the vase in with the passenger side seatbelt.

"Condoms," he murmured, blushing. He was just hoping for some more kisses. He was going to let Molly take the lead on everything physical, and maybe after a few weeks and a few more dates, they'd start to need condoms. If he was lucky. If she wanted to keep seeing him.

When Bob got to the ballfield, he still felt calm, collected. But when his eyes caught on that blue car, his heart skipped around in his chest. Because there was Molly, and his brain was quickly flooded with all of the flirty text messages they had been sending back and forth since the weekend.

She had on a rather short dress, and Bob was filled with desire. It was almost like he forgot how beautiful she was since he'd been absorbed by talking with her over text. He had learned a lot about her as they chatted late into the evenings. Molly bowls in a league. Her favorite color is neither green nor blue but greenish-blue. She volunteers at blood drives. She likes spending time with her nephew. And she sleeps naked.

Bob had blushed for an hour when she casually told him that. And now he was blushing again and getting flustered. Because Molly was here. And she was beautiful to look at as well as lovely in every other way. Everything about her was a turn on to Bob.

But he still wasn't so sure he could continue to impress and entertain her. He wasn't cool. He wasn't sexy. Bob embraced his nerd tendencies. He was often reserved. Methodical. Meticulous. Molly was spontaneous and silly. She was perfect. A spitfire. The opposite of him.

Molly walked down to the ballfield directly toward Bob, and then she did the unthinkable. She planted her left hand firmly on his chest like it belonged there. And then she kissed him on the cheek before brushing his lips with hers. Right in front of everyone.

"Hey, Coach Cute Glasses," she said with a laugh that had Bob fiddling with his whistle. "I'm excited for our plans tonight."

"Hi, Molly." Bob mumbled as all the moms looked on. He could feel himself blushing as she patted his chest and went to sit on the bleachers.

He wasn't sure how he managed to keep it together, but he finished practice without getting too sweaty. Molly was lingering by the bleachers and talking to her sister as Bob talked with some of the other parents and said goodbye to the kids.

When he started heading for the bleachers, Molly shoved her sister and nephew toward the parking lot and said, "Bye!"

"Hey, I thought you told me you loved spending time with your family," Bob said with a laugh.

"I do!" Molly insisted. "But would I choose them over a hot guy who promised me sushi? Nope."

You took Bob by the hand and he muttered, "I still find it hard to believe you're talking about me."

Molly rolled her eyes and said, "You know you're hot. Now you promised me a walk around the park before dinner."

Bob couldn't help but smile as she tried to pull him toward one of the walking paths. But he gently pulled her closer to him. "Let me put my gear in my truck first."

She walked with him to the parking lot, and when he tossed his tee ball equipment into the bed of the truck, he heard Molly gasp. She was looking in the passenger side window as she said, "Oh my goodness, Lieutenant Floyd. Did you buy me gas station flowers?" She turned to look at him with adoration in her eyes. "I love gas station flowers."

"I asked your sister what I should get," he told her as he blushed.

Bob's limbs felt warm as Molly clapped her hands together and then bounced into Bob's arms. "I can't believe you took the time to ask my sister what I like," she whispered, lips brushing his ear.

Bob's hands came to rest on her lower back as he held her close. "I want to know everything you like."

She hummed softly and kissed the side of his neck. "I like you."

Now Bob felt too warm. He needed to cool down. He swallowed hard and said, "How about that walk through the park?"

Molly was like a force of nature, always keeping Bob's full attention on her. She told him stories about work and her sister, and she constantly asked him questions about himself. He wasn't interesting, so he tried to turn the conversation back to her as quickly as possible each time.

"So," she said eventually, chewing on her lip. "Bradley told me you don't have a girlfriend, but... how many women are you seeing?"

"Seeing?" Bob asked, looking at her pretty face and their linked hands.

"Yeah," she said softly. "I mean, I'm just curious if you're going on a lot of dates, but you don't have to tell me. Pretend I didn't even ask!"

Bob stopped in the middle of the path, and Molly came to a halt too. "Just you," Bob said slowly. He hadn't even considered that his original thought of Molly's collection of a hundred boyfriends could still be correct. Just because she didn't have a boyfriend, that didn't mean she wasn't seeing a bunch of other guys. And now Bob felt like an idiot.

"Just me?" she asked, surprised. "Oh. That sounds nice."

He forced the words out. "What about you?"

"Well," she said, ducking her head in embarrassment. Bob could feel disappointment thrumming through his veins. He'd already gotten his hopes up when he'd been texting her late into the evening every night. But he had never once thought that maybe he wasn't the only guy Molly was chatting with.

Then she cleared her throat. "Well, my ex, Casey, and I were kind of seeing each other again, but I cancelled on him after I gave you my number last week. I had high hopes, but when I didn't hear from you, I figured that you didn't want to go out with me."

"I'm sorry, Molly," Bob mumbled. He had hesitated, and it was going to cost him. He was so bad at all of this stuff, it was unbelievable.

She smiled up at him. "I thought maybe I came on too strong for you."

"I liked it," he said softly. And then he decided to be bold and try to make her forget about Casey. He leaned down and kissed her. But his plan backfired. Because instead, she made him forget he'd ever looked at any other girls. When he finally pulled his lips away from hers, his glasses were crooked again. Molly adjusted them before he could, and then she pushed her fingers through his hair.

She whimpered softly, which made Bob's entire body throb, and then she was in his arms and kissing him all over his entire face before settling back on his lips again. "I just love your glasses," she whispered against his neck as her hand trailed down the front of him to the button of his jeans.

"Molly," he groaned, which was a bad idea, because her hand dropped a few more inches, and he had to grab her wrist as she ran her hand along his erection. "Molly, let's go get sushi."

She nodded at him. "Yeah, okay."

He was aching for her, and now that he got a little taste of her touch, he wanted more. She sounded out of breath, and Bob was beginning to wonder if this is what chemistry felt like. This nonstop attraction. His inability to look away. His concern about being better for her than her ex. Better than anyone else.

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Molly held her vase overflowing with rainbow flowers while Bob drove toward the naval base. He had put on his dress shirt, and now the radio was playing softly as he followed every traffic law.

"I just knew you'd drive like a grandma," Molly said. "Your hands are at ten and two on the steering wheel. You don't go even a smidge over the speed limit. And you have absolutely no trash or anything in here." She glanced around the cab of his spotlessly clean truck.

Bob cleared his throat. "You know who taught me how to drive?"

"Who?" she asked, laughter in her voice.

Bob turned to face her at a stoplight. "My grandma," he told her with a smile.

Molly erupted into laughter that filled his heart. "It shows, Uncle Bob! I love it!"

Okay so this was clearly the best date Bob had ever been on, and he wasn't even at dinner yet. He had no idea how a good night kiss would go since Molly had already kissed him. Quite a few times. And she had touched him, too. She made everything so exciting, he kept looking forward to more.

"Have you been here before?" he asked, parking in front of what Payback and Fanboy had promised him was the best sushi restaurant around.

"Of course," Molly said, crawling across the seat toward Bob once he climbed out of his truck. "It's the best." He could see down the front of her dress as she made her way across the seat on her hands and knees. Bob was going to ask what she was doing, but he was just staring at her. He reached out to help her climb down, and her body skimmed along his.

"Did you come here on a date?" he asked as they walked into the restaurant, presumably just to punish himself.

After Bob gave his last name to the hostess, Molly shook her head. "I brought my sister here for her birthday. And again after her divorce was final. Never on a date."

Bob liked that. Molly was looking up at him like he was transparent, but he didn't mind that either.

When they were led to a table, he pulled out one of the chairs for her. When his fingers skimmed along her back, she looked up at him and followed him with her eyes until he was sitting across from her. Nobody had ever looked at him this way. It was so surprising, Bob felt completely off balance.

When he stretched his long legs out, he bumped hers. "Sorry," he mumbled, but Molly hooked her ankles around his legs and pulled them closer.

"That's okay," she said. Bob listened to her order a beer, a salad and some sushi. He couldn't focus on the menu at all. Not with the way Molly was rubbing his calf with her foot. He said something to the waiter, so he must have ordered something for himself.

Molly reached across the table and ran her fingers along his. "So, where are you from, Coach Bob? Your accent is cute."

He smiled down at his chopsticks. "I grew up on a ranch in Wyoming. My family moved to California when I was fifteen."

She bit her lip and stared at him before she said, "You're a country boy."

"Yeah," he replied with a laugh.

"I'll bet you ran around in cowboy boots and collected bugs as a kid. You probably had your own wildlife preserve on the ranch."

"I did, actually," he confirmed with a grin. "I've always been a bit of a nerd. Interested in the ranch animals and the way things worked."

Molly seemed to understand him, and all of his interests and nuances didn't bother her at all. "Good lord almighty, a nerdy cowboy. I could definitely get used to that," she muttered.

Bob wasn't sure what to say. Maybe Molly was feeling like he was? Maybe the more she learned about him, the more she liked? I didn't seem at all plausible, but there was just something about the way she looked at him.

"Do you have a cowboy hat?" she asked innocently with her hands folded in front of her.

"Not anymore," he said, and she was giggling now.

"I'll get you one," she whispered. "Or maybe I could wear it."

Bob could picture it. Molly, sitting on his lap, wearing a cowboy hat that was a little too big for her head before laughing and dropping it onto his head.

"You'd look cute in it," Bob confirmed, and her eyes lit up. "You'd look cute in anything."

"You know what I think I'd look great in, Lieutenant Floyd?"

Bob shook his head, mesmerized by the way Molly's lips looked when she spoke. "Tell me?"

Her eyes dipped down to his collar as she said, "That shirt you're wearing. It'll look pretty great on me tomorrow morning."

Bob's cock registered the meaning before his brain did. She was rubbing her foot along his calf and looking at him expectantly as she pressed her beer bottle to her lips. Was she suggesting a sleepover? Bob made a grunting noise, but he was saved from having to try to speak when their food was dropped off.

As Molly picked up her chopsticks and went to take her first bite of sushi, Bob managed to say, "I'd like to see that."

She froze and looked at him. Her eyes were so expressive and unguarded. She wore her emotions on her face, and even Bob could tell that she wanted him. It didn't make sense, but it was true. It was obvious.

He sat a little taller and smirked as he started eating. Because if a woman like Molly was interested in him, even if he wasn't the only one, it was something to get excited about.

"How's your sushi?" he asked, one eyebrow raised above his glasses.

"So good," Molly replied softly, her food still held in midair in front of her.

Bob smiled. "You haven't eaten any yet."

"I know," she assured him. "But when I do, it's going to be perfect."

Bob ate quickly after that, not really tasting his food. Molly seemed to be enjoying herself though, little moans and gasps of pleasure filled his ears as she ate. And she shared her food with him. He liked that.

"Here, Bob. Try this one," she said, holding up her chopsticks instead of setting the sushi on his plate this time. Then she fed it to him and watched his mouth work as he chewed. "You're really sexy," she gasped before setting her chopsticks down. Bob watched her run her hand along the back of her neck as he ached for her. "I'm sure you get that a lot."

Bob almost never got that, but he didn't want to tell her. He didn't want her to think of him in any other way.

"Molly," he whispered, pushing aside his plate as she ran her foot up along his jeans again.

"Wanna take me home?" she asked softly, and Bob was nodding and reaching for his wallet. He dropped three fifty dollar bills onto the table, confident that would cover everything plus a tip, and then he was on his feet.

Molly abandoned some uneaten sushi and the last few sips of her beer in favor of his arms. She kissed him on the cheek right there next to the table and whispered, "I just want to take you and my gas station flowers back to my place for the night."

Bob let her hook her index finger through his belt loop, and he followed her wordlessly toward the exit. He opened the truck door for Molly while she ran her fingers through his hair and kissed him softly.

"Do you want me to take you to get your car?" he asked as her lips met his jaw. "Or... do you want me to-"

Molly dragged her fingernails along his scalp, and Bob's cock throbbed against her belly where she was pressed tight to him. She must have been able to feel him, but he wasn't embarrassed about it at all. She whined softly and kept kissing him as she spoke. "Take me home, Bobby."

Bobby. Shit. He was unbelievably turned on. Letting Molly take the lead physically was maybe a bad idea, because several of his shirt buttons were undone, and her lips were on his Adam's apple. She was so warm and sweet. Never hesitating to show him affection or tell him she liked something about him.

And he liked everything about her. What was he waiting for? Once again, Molly made the next move, pulling her lips away from him and patting him gently on the cheek as she climbed into his truck and got buckled in with her flowers. Bob felt cold where her body used to be pressed against him as he closed her door and walked around the bed of his truck.

But when he started the engine and turned toward Molly to ask for directions, she kissed him again and rubbed her hand up along his thigh. "Turn right out of the parking lot," she whispered. After a few miles of following her directions, Molly whined, "I even find it sexy the way you drive like an elderly person. What is happening to me, Lieutenant Floyd?" Her head was tipped back against the headrest, and her palm was resting so high on his jeans, she was about to nudge his erection.

"Molly," he gasped, unable to say much else. He had never been this turned on before, and now he was afraid she was going to want to have sex with him. He'd never done that on a first date. Or a second date. Or a third date. His last girlfriend made him wait until they went out eight times, which was fine, but then she lost interest in him after a few more dates.

But Molly made him feel the same way flying in a Super Hornet did: she was exciting and fun, but the element of danger lurking beneath the surface made it even better.

"Park there," she told him, pointing to her assigned spot in her apartment complex. And then her seatbelt was off, the vase was sitting on the floor, and she was straddling his lap. There was no way he could hide how hard he was, so he didn't even try.

"Molly."

She devoured his lips, kissing him nice and slow while she took both of his hands in hers. Carefully, she guided his hands to her bare thighs, easing them up underneath her dress a few inches. Then she carefully worked on the rest of his shirt buttons while she kissed him. Molly's skin beneath Bob's rough hands was the softest thing he had ever felt. And the more he explored, the louder she got.

Then she wrenched her lips away from his, and Bob sat there staring at her as she looked at his mouth. There was a little crease of concern on her face as her brow scrunched up, and her eyes met his as she said, "Wait."

Bob started to pull his hands away from her legs, embarrassed now by how forward he'd been. "Sorry," he murmured, but Molly took his hands in hers once again and placed them back on her legs.

She kissed his lips gently one time before she said, "I really, really like you, Bob...maybe we should slow down?"

"Okay," he agreed, realizing he was running purely on adrenaline at the moment. "Slow. Okay. Yes." That was the speed he knew best anyway. But Molly's lips were back on his neck and she was scooting a little more snug up against his body.

"Slow," she murmured against his skin. And then slowly, she untucked his undershirt so her hands were on his abs, and Bob's head tipped back. Slowly, she kissed and nipped at his neck. Slowly, she rolled her hips against his. He had to squeeze his eyes shut as she slowly unbuttoned his jeans and licked his ear.

"I thought you said slow," he whispered, panting as he gently squeezed her thighs in his big hands. "Molly."

"Keep saying my name," she gasped, shaking as he dug his fingertips into her soft flesh. "Bobby, please."

"Molly," he grunted, sucking in a breath and kissing her mouth. He swallowed down her soft whines and whimpers as he pushed her back against his steering wheel. She leaned back like she was on display for him, still rolling her hips gently against his.

Bob had never seen a more beautiful woman in his life. And as she ran her hands down over her own body, she stopped at the hem of her dress. "Keep saying my name," she demanded.

"Molly," Bob whispered, watching her ease her dress up higher. "Molly," he groaned, both syllables coming out a little rough. She wasn't wearing underwear. Her bare pussy was resting on the fly of his jeans, because she wasn't wearing any underwear. "Molly!"

His hands were on her waist and his lips were skimming across the soft swell of her breasts. Bob was rutting gently against her now, but he couldn't stop as she cried out one word. "More!"

"Molly," he panted, imagining how good he would feel wrapped in her warmth. "You said slow, honey."

"I don't want to go slow!" she moaned. "But I don't want you to think I always do this!"

Bob looked her in the eye. He didn't care if she did this all the time. He just wanted her feelings to be as strong as his, so maybe she'd want to just be with him now. Because he was already completely addicted to being around her. And if they had sex, he knew he wouldn't recover from it with his heart intact if she turned around and grew tired of him.

"Molly," he whispered, running his knuckles softly along her cheek so she'd look at him. "I don't care if we go slow or fast or somewhere in the middle. But I really like you, too. And nothing's gonna change that."

She nodded as he cupped her cheek. "You're too sweet," she whispered, leaning forward and kissing him. She knocked his glasses crooked and let her forehead come to rest on his. "Let's go inside."

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I am so obsessed with Mob. Don't forget, Bob fucks. Thanks to @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls and everyone when bugged me to make Molly and Bob a thing!

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cap-winter-barnes · 3 months ago

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Kiss Me Lieutenant (Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Reader)

It's not often that you find yourself out drinking with friends on a Thursday night, but your week at work has been a stressful one. One angry customer after another has you in need of a drink, or a few. After convincing your friends that a night on the town is what you need, you find yourself three drinks deep at The Hard Deck.

You're not a stranger to the company of Top Gun personnel during your evenings of socialising, but tonight you're only interested in drowning your sour mood with alcohol. Forget the men who always vie for your attention tonight, they're never successful in their attempts anyway.

Nursing a cocktail, you stand with a hip leaning into the bar, deep in conversation with your girlfriends. The topic of work off limits. Yet you can't help but keep diverting your eyes to that of the handsome Lieutenant across the room. Everything about his exudes masculinity and you can't help but be drawn to not only the gorgeous smile on his face, but how nicely fitting his uniform is on his body. God, you're such a perv when you've had a drink or two.

"Earth to Y/N!" You're snapped out of your ogling by the voice of your best friend finally reaching your eyes. "My God, just go and talk to the guy!" All of you chuckle before you down the last dregs of your drink.

"Fine, I just might." They both protest, trying to stop you in your tracks, albeit futile, as you make a beeline for the one and only, Jake Seresin. In his peripheral, Jake spots you making your way over to him, pool cue in hand, he stands up straight, a cocky smirk on his face.

"And what do I owe the pleasure, ma'am?"

"Kiss me, Lieutenant!"

Without a seconds thought, Jake welcomes you into his body as you press your lips to his. Your hands snaking around his neck and pulling him closer. The hand holding the pool cue quickly passes it onto one of his squad mates before finding purchase in your hair. You moan into his mouth, teeth knocking together as you breath him in. You can hear cheering from surrounding patrons, some even clapping at your public display.

"Let me take you home." The words leave his lips with a groan as you nip at his bottom lip, your nails grazing the nape of his nape before trailing through his sun-kissed hair again. "Let me show you how much I've missed you darlin." With one last forceful kiss, you both pull apart for air. The flush on his cheeks bringing a bigger smile to your already beaming face.

You take a glance down to the dog tag that hangs around his neck, and with a raise of your eyebrows you loop your finger around the chain and pull him closer towards you.

"Are you married Lieutenant?" The gold wedding band that sits proud against his dog tags glistens in the light. A scoff leaves Jake's throat as he tucks his thumbs through your belt loops, your hips flush against his own, the feeling of his arousal sending another wave of want through your own body. "Why, yes Mrs Seresin, I am."

"Well she's a lucky girl to get to take you home, sir."

"No, I'm the lucky one darlin'."

Like a teenager, you giggle at your husband, pulling him in for another kiss before he takes your hand and swiftly leads you towards the exit of The Hard Deck, a majority of the crowd cheering and clapping in your wake. Even Penny rings the bell as she watches you leave, shaking her head in disbelief. She's never seen two people so in love.

Buy Me A Coffee

#hangman imagine #jake seresin imagine #jake seresin fanfic #glen powell x reader #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin #hangman x reader #hangman imagines #hangman top gun imagines #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin imagines #hangman fanfic #hangman top fun fanfic

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sugarcoated-lame · 1 month ago

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Fanfic Covers

thank you so much for the tag, my dear jana @guiltyasdave this was so much fun!! 🧡

this amazing penguin classic front cover template is by @saradika 💕

the works:

easy like sunday morning (joel miller x f!reader)

into the woods (joel miller x f!reader)

wake up call (joel miller x f!reader)

always a bridesmaid (jake seresin x f!reader)

hourglass (bradley bradshaw x f!reader)

warmth (bob floyd x f!reader)

no pressure tags: @sebsxphia @pedrospatch @sunlightmurdock @joelsdagger @hangmanssunnies @mrsmando @itsokbbygrl @gracieheartspedro @tonysopranosrobe @rhettabbotts @honeyedmiller @topherwrites @floydsglasses @floydsmuse @elusive-honeydew @aurorawritestoescape @ohtobeleah @almostfoxglove @joelsmochi @mayhem24-7forever @amanitacowboy @iknowisoundcrazy @wethairjoel @roosterbruiser @bradshawsbitch @roosterforme @punk-in-docs @joelslegalwhre @blue-aconite @whatislovevavy @glowingxeyes @magneticecstasy (sorry if you’ve already been tagged 🧡)

this was so much fun, i’d love to see all of yours! 🫶🏼

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wreckedandpolemic · 5 months ago

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dancing is a dangerous game - matty healy

(mdni) in which a last-ditch attempt to garner respectability may just hold the key to your lovelorn heart after all... 10910 words.

warnings: fingering, oral (f receiving), period-typical misogyny, excessively purple prose

You snap the Society Papers shut with a huff, glowering at your mama over the top of the paper. As if it weren’t bad enough to be married off to some stranger, must the entire ton know about it? You already know what they’ll say; false compassion murmured behind fans, just loud enough for you to hear. Poor thing. Three seasons out, the family must be getting desperate. That marriage is sure to be a loveless one. Perhaps there’s something… not all there about the girl. Your fists clench, blinding anger rising in you the longer you stew over your predicament. Sold off like cattle to a man you don’t even know, your entire marriage a spectacle in which you’re an unwilling performer.

Well. You know Lord Healy, in much the same way a chamber-maid knows her mistress. You remember him well, his last season your first, every girl in your set tripping over herself to catch his eye. You remember him as handsome, certainly, but little else; not worldly or clever, not remotely interested in propriety or the role he long should have stepped into by now. Content to just lounge about, rakish, his utter lack of interest in taking a wife had only served in making the mamas more ambitious and their daughters more desperate. Then, as the season came to a close, he had announced his distaste for polite society and disappeared, ostensibly to travel the world.

His return had already been sure to cause a stir, not in the least after his mother had sent yours a letter you can only imagine to be pleading for you to take him off their hands. The news had spread fast, gossip travelling faster than wildfire among the gentry, and you can’t imagine the bedlam he’d been greeted with when he docked has made him any more amenable to the idea than you are. And yet, you can hear gravel crunching under wheels and hooves, your skirts splayed out and arranging you into a perfect, demure little picture as the shackles you’ll wear for the rest of your life stroll up the steps to your door.

“You’ve a caller, my lady,” says the maid, curtsying hastily as you wave a hand to have her beckon him in.

Getting to your feet as he enters, your breath catches slightly in your throat. He’s more handsome than you remember, once-cropped curls now loose in a halo around his head, the silver in one ear standing out starkly against the dark backdrop. His sleeves are rolled up, and… good Lord, does he have a tattoo? As if you weren’t enough of a laughing stock to the ton, the only man willing to have you is a pierced, inked rake whose defining characteristic is flagrant disregard for the aristocracy. He holds his hand out to your mama, bowing politely. “Lady Marlowe. A pleasure to see you again.” His voice is smooth and rich, yet tinged bitter, expensive coffee poured over your senses.

You curtsy to him as he turns to face you, taking your hand in his own, calloused from hard work and smudged with ink. “My lord,” you murmur, eyes to the floor as he lifts your hand to his lips, warm where they meet your skin. Something sparks between you, flaring to life as you meet his eyes.

“Miss Marlowe. So lovely to finally make your acquaintance. I was rather… shocked, to return to England and find myself betrothed, but I suppose I ought not see a woman so beautiful as you as anything less than a blessing.” You flush, swallowing hard. Of all the reactions you might have expected from your first meeting, this certainly isn’t a turn of events you could have predicted.

You give a high, tinkling laugh, polite and artificial. “You flatter me so, my lord. I am not deserving of such–”

“You certainly are,” he interrupts, his smile disarming. Your traitorous heart longs to trust in his honeyed words, your rational brain desperately beating out the smoke before anything can catch alight. “Would you care for a turn about the garden? I find it so stifling to be cooped inside on days like this.”

With your mama following at a distance, you loop your arm through his and allow him to lead you through the garden. The last lingering raindrops clinging to the grass wick into your skirts, cold and grounding as they brush against your stockings. “My lord,” you begin, low enough that your mama won’t overhear.

“Matthew, please. I have spent three years travelling the world simply as Matthew, and I’ve taken quite a liking to it. Lord Healy sounds to me like someone rather tiresome.” The nails of your free hand bite into your palm. It’s all very well and good for him to flout every maxim of polite society, scoff and bite his thumb at whomever he likes; you don’t have that luxury.

You’d been perfectly happy to live as a spinster, well-learned in the thin line you’d have to tread for the few remaining years before the season closed its doors on you, and you resent that he has the luxury of walking out of his own volition, that open arms were waiting for his return. “That isn’t proper, my lord,” you reply, clipped and irritable.

Lord Healy’s answering smirk is exactly what you’d expect, louche and irreverent. He leans close, and you shiver. “Fuck proper.” You give a shocked little gasp. “Listen, darling. I can tell there isn’t anywhere in the world you’d like to be less than here, but I’m afraid this is our lot. The way I see it, proper’s what’s trapped us like this. Won’t you break the rules with me? It can be our little secret.”

He smiles earnestly, and you feel a sick sense of guilt even as you swoon. So charming and handsome that he could have had any woman he liked, now saddled with a girl best known for being a lost cause. And yet there’s something undeniable and sincere in his eyes, and you find yourself meeting them boldly. “Very well, Matthew. I suppose a little secrecy never hurt anyone.”

“Well, I’m glad that we settled that. I suppose if we’re to spend our lives bound together in matrimony, we ought get to know each other. Tell me about yourself, love, please.”

You smooth your skirts, the practised spiel springing easily to your lips; the laundry list of qualities that might make you a suitable wife, a successful mother. “I am accomplished on the pianoforte. I am fluent in French. I am talented at needlework.” You don’t even attempt to sound as if you care for any of it.

Matthew makes a short, disparaging noise. “That all sounds… incredibly dull. I feel as though you agree, love. I want to know what you enjoy, not what you think might please me to hear.”

A flush creeps up your chest, a traitorous stain high on your cheeks. You aren’t certain whether that question has been asked of you once in the last ten years. “I am… an amateur novelist, I suppose. I was, in youth, a skilled fencer, although I am out of practice, to say the least.” The admission feels tight as it escapes you, a confession that belongs buried in the drawers of your writing-desk under piles of correspondence and spilled ink.

Matthew smiles, boyish and almost fond. “A fencer. You must remind me to cower behind you, should we ever encounter bandits.”

Scowling, you slip your arm out of his and fold it across your chest. “If you were going to tease, I don’t know why you would ask.” That butterfly of hope you had foolishly allowed to flicker in your chest is snuffed out, and you curse yourself for even letting it take root in the first place.

A warm, concerned hand rests against your arm. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to be hurtful.” He draws a deep breath, tipping his head back and exhaling slowly before he speaks. “I know this isn’t remotely how either of us pictured spending this time. But, truly, I am trying to make the best of a bad situation. I’d like to make this as painless as possible for the two of us, so I implore you to humour me, just for a little while. And I promise, if the thought of being my wife still reviles you by the time we’re wed, you’ll live out your days wanting for nothing with as much freedom the constraints of society allow you.”

His words are sweet, flowery, surely born from the ink staining his hands. On the surface, it sounds a charmed life, an ideal outcome; to you it’s nothing more than empty words, the bitter taste of arsenic disguised in sweet almond marzipan. You’ve long accepted living without love, made your peace with the pitying looks of the ton, and yet he presents you with further ways you might be humiliated, arranges them on a silver platter like you wouldn’t notice the rotting centre.

You aren’t an imbecile. You understand what such a marriage would mean for your already-tattered reputation. You can practically hear the murmurs, read the gossip rags, feel the prying stares. Can you believe it? The new Lady Healy couldn’t keep her husband’s interest for even a month. I can’t say I’m surprised. Always an odd one, wasn’t she, like a repellent of the opposite sex. Certainly, you’d be free, with your husband in any bed but your own, but free only to wither and rot in the darkness of his country home with only a swaddled heir for company.

It’s been too long since you’ve spoken, Matthew expectant at your elbow. “I don’t believe I have much of a choice, my lord,” you murmur faintly, and his face falls.

Your conversation is stilted, polite but stiff as you make your way back to the house. At the door, Matthew bows to you, lips warm against your hand. “Please, think on what I have said. I eagerly await seeing you again.”

No sooner has he climbed into his carriage than your mama practically accosts you trying to climb the staircase. “Well?” she demands. “What on earth did he say to you?”

You sigh, fighting the urge to bury your face in your hands and scream. “Not an awful lot, mama. That is what happens when you attempt to force a rake and a spinster into matrimony.” Folding your arms across your chest, your mama presses her lips into a thin line, displeasure etched into her features.

“You are not a spinster, dear.”

You scoff. “No thanks to you. I hope that whatever agreement you reached with the Healys is worth the cost of my happiness,” you say bitterly, not staying long enough for your mama to formulate a response and sweeping up the stairs. For the best part of an hour, you sit at your writing-desk, quill poised above parchment, writing and scratching out the same handful of words over and over in a Sisyphean rhythm. By the time you decide to give up and go to bed, ink-stains blotch your hands and bloom across your skirt with nothing at all to show for it.

Your sleep is restless, dreaming of engagement rings looming into shackles, binding at your wrists and ankles. Matthew’s smirk and his honeyed words drift through your dreamscape, a cruel torment disguised as remedy. Relief fills you as sunlight slants across your bed, your eyelids cracking open and letting you shake off the dream. You sluice cold water across your face, scrubbing the sleep from your eyes gratefully. Naturally, though, your relief is short-lived, your mama bustling into your room with three housemaids in tow, far too chipper for the hour.

“Good, you’re awake. Come, we are to the modiste this morning,” she says firmly. Resistance is futile, so you stand, letting yourself be primped and squeezed and poked at until you at least resemble a respectable lady. You rattle through the streets of London, the bustle of the city only serving to feed your longing for the worn paths and quiet streets surrounding your country house.

You hesitate deliberately at the door to the modiste, long enough that your mama scowls in frustration and seizes your arm harshly to drag you inside. The seamstress bustles over, your mama immediately lighting up and engaging her in conversation about the quality of her fabrics. Quickly, you tune it out, wandering idly across the shop floor. A hushed conversation drifts into your ear, and you pretend to be admiring the bolts of fabric stacked to the ceiling as you inch closer to its source.

“...Cannot imagine he’ll stay that way,” says a first voice, high and haughty. “Lord Healy was always the rake of his set, and has since travelled the world, surely… sampling many worldly women on his travels.” She pauses to allow her companion to titter snidely, giving you time to place her voice; it belongs to Evelyn Mountfitchet, a girl your age who had married in her first season, her tongue sharp and cruel, weaponised with her seemingly endless stores of gossip. Her companion, then, must be her sister Elizabeth, surely thrilled to be out in society and now privy to scandal. “I tell you, he’ll take what he wants from that girl, then leave her ruined and without a ring. It wouldn’t even be the first time,” she adds smugly, and you feel a pit open up in your stomach.

You hadn’t even considered the possibility of such a scheme, and now you feel even worse the fool for not seeing it. Everything dichotomous about him clicks into focus as if Evelyn has lifted opera glasses to your eyes. It couldn’t be plainer — his sweetened words, promising what he surely knew he couldn’t provide; his disinterest fading into persuasion as he determined you a desirable, susceptible target. You’re trapped, utterly and completely, worse than you’d thought. Until moments ago, the worst-case scenario had been living with a husband who carried on behind your back, with at least the respect tied to being a lady to cushion the blow. This is worse than you could have imagined. Lord Healy is going to leave you utterly ruined, whether you give yourself up or not: if that is precedent, that will be what the scandal sheets announce, that will become gospel to the ton, leaving you cast out, dishonourable, utterly unmarriageable. You won’t even be able to retire peacefully as a spinster with the stain that will stick to you.

“My goodness!” gasps Elizabeth, shocking you back to the present. “Who is the poor girl?” She sounds eagerly scandalised, a voracious little gossip-monger in the making.

Evelyn makes a non-committal sound. “I know not. The family are being ever so tight-lipped. Although, I suppose I should be, too, knowing my fate was either to have my daughter married off to or ruined by a man like him. Do you know he has tattoos? As if he were a shipyard worker or some other such lowlife,” she scoffs bitingly.

“He is ever so handsome, though. Perhaps the girl is so vile of face that his progeny will save the family from ruin. Or overwhelmingly poor, and they–” Elizabeth’s excited diatribe is cut off by exaggerated hushing, and you slowly sink into a chair as you attempt to process all that you’ve heard.

“You shouldn’t speculate so. Not where anyone could hear, at least.” Evelyn’s smirk is audible. “It is most likely that the family are simply desperate, that the girl failed to capture any man’s attention in her seasons, and must be married before she winds up in spinsterhood.” She pauses to giggle. “Perhaps it is the Marlowe girl.” Your blood runs cold. “Pretty enough, I suppose, but ever so odd. Fits the bill exactly, I’d wager.”

Nausea roils in your stomach. Having the news broken at a debutante ball would have been scarring enough, even with dozens of other girls for the vultures to circle. But having it found out early, allowing the scandal sheets days to pick over you and your history before you even set foot in a ballroom? It’s the stuff of nightmares. Delicate footsteps pick their way toward you and you scramble to stand, ducking around a corner to escape from view. No such luck, though. “Darling, where did you go?” your mama calls, obnoxiously loud. “I must see how this fabric will look against your complexion.” Face flaming, you pick your way back to your mama and the seamstress, letting them drape a delicate lilac silk across your shoulders.

“Oh, how wonderful you shall look, miss,” the seamstress declares. “Your engagement shall be the talk of London, I will make sure of it.” Your heart sinks, so fast and far that you’re sure it lays in two pieces in your slippers, Evelyn and Elizabeth exchanging a proud, shocked glance, and you know for certain you’ll be plastered across every gossip sheet in London the instant they come off the press.

You grit your teeth. “Yes, I am certain it will.” Your voice comes out scraped over gravel, your venomous glare in the sisters’ direction most definitely not helping matters. The dresses you paid for will be beautiful, to be sure, but hardly worth the stinging slap of humiliation you endured to get them.

When Lord Healy calls on you the next evening, you don’t even attempt to hide your scowl, listless as he attempts to ply you with flattery while leading you into the gardens. “News of our engagement will reach the gossip rags by morning,” you warn, tone flat and eyes directly forward, lest he disarm you with that deceptively sweet smile of his.

“Bollocks,” he swears. “Nobody in this godforsaken city can mind their fucking business.” His jaw clenches, furious, and you hate yourself a little for how undeniably attractive you find the emotion on him.

“Must you be so vulgar?” you snap. “Are you not putting me through shame enough for your selfish goals that you think it fair to humiliate me even before this farcical engagement meets its end?” The words come out bitter, corrosive and acrid on your tongue, genuine hurt written across Lord Healy’s face. “My lord,” you add poisonously.

His nails dig into your arm, halting you in your stride and forcing you to face him. “Are we really back to my lord? Damn. I had thought you might be warming up to me.” He throws you a grin that you’re sure makes the women he’s used to weak in the knees. When it doesn’t work, he switches tack. “Look, love. I don’t know what you’ve heard to make you think so lowly of me. I would have thought you of all people would know not to believe the scandal sheets, but–”

“Do not patronise me,” you hiss, wrenching your arm from his grip. “I know that you were engaged before, that you ruined some other poor girl. I know that you plan to do the same to me. I plead that you at least allow me some final months of dignity before you leave me with nothing.” Something sour has rooted in your chest, decaying from the inside out; your insides withering to match your reputation.

To your surprise and disgust, Lord Healy tips his head back and laughs. Revolted, you start to turn away, and he reaches his arm out. “That’s what this is about? Love, you couldn’t be more wrong. I was never engaged, I was courting the girl.”

“Oh, well, I’m ever so glad that was clarified. I suppose it shouldn’t matter, then.” Anger is boiling in your veins, his flippant tone only serving to further enrage you.

Lord Healy takes your hands, his skin soft and warm against yours. “If you’d let me finish,” he scoffs, but there’s fondness colouring his tone. His wide, brown eyes shine earnestly, and something convinces you not to pull away. “That girl was a friend, and I was doing her a favour, I swear it. She needed a way out of the ton, all its rules and restrictions, in order to live and love freely. And she is. Much happier these days, lives a more honest life than this.” He waves his hand, collecting your house and gardens in one insouciant motion. “I’ll take you to meet her someday, if you like. If you won’t be too scandalised by the kind of unsavoury company I keep,” he adds with a smirk, and some of the ice in your veins thaws.

Really, you have no reason to trust Evelyn Mountfitchet over him, spiteful woman that she is. Mollified, you slide your arm back through his, and his relief is palpable. “I’m not such a delicate flower, you know.” You pause, weighing your words carefully. “That was a kind thing to do for her, knowing what the scandal sheets would say.” You’re certain you know what sort of love the girl wanted, to necessitate such a sure and dramatic departure from polite society, and it’s a comfort to know where he stands in regard to such relationships. “I think that, perhaps, if it is til death that we may part, we ought to be friends,” you say cautiously. Matthew’s answering smile is brilliant, so dazzling that your heart melts just a little, like fondant on a hot day.

“I’d like that very much,” he says softly, something like affection in his gaze. “And, it was only the decent thing to do. I hate to see a friend struggling, especially not when I could help. Besides, it was rather mutually beneficial — the ambitious mamas kept away as if I were diseased,” he laughs.

“And now you are saddled with me,” you say. It’s intended as a joke, but it comes out self-deprecating and a little pathetic.

“There are far worse women I could be saddled with,” he says, playful enough that you aren’t offended. He pauses, still and pensive. “Truly. You are a most unique manner of woman, and I mean that in the most earnestly complimentary way possible. If I were the marrying type, I would surely have devoted myself to capturing your affections.” You flush, pressing an embarrassed palm to your heated cheek. “I must commend your skills in deception, to convince so many that you are undesirable. Kind of you to allow the other girls in your set a chance.”

At that, you laugh outright, clapping a hand to your mouth in embarrassment. “It isn’t an act. I simply have no time for such things. Or, had, I suppose. I should have liked to be a spinster and utterly invisible to society, but I see that fate had other plans.” You wander your gaze over him, the soft curve of his mouth, the gentle slope of his cheek, the alluring lines of his body. You wonder, briefly, if maybe your life isn’t over. Maybe, just maybe, Matthew is a gift.

Something must change in your expression, because Matthew mirrors it exactly, a fond smile crossing his face and his hand moving from your arm to low on your waist. The contact is thrilling, scandalous and precious, a thing to be held onto and treasured. “We do make quite the pair, don’t we?” he chuckles. “An aspiring spinster and a rake with the heart of a romantic.” It’s eerily similar to what you said to your mother, yet woven through with the thread of gold that links you; a flimsy, frail thing, but shining nonetheless, and you allow the hope you had killed to flutter back to life, a butterfly beating its wings against your ribcage.

“A romantic, hm?” you begin, circumspect. “I don’t know if I believe that. If you are only playing the rake, you play him very well.” You hope your tone is coming across light and teasing, that you’re only curious at his motivation behind the falsehood, if one exists. “I have seen your behaviour firsthand, you know. Three years past, my first season out. You were quite the catch, and I don’t recall seeing you ever dance with the same girl twice.”

“Do you want the truth?” You nod eagerly. “My first season, I truly looked forward to the prospect of finding love. But there was never any thrill, any excitement, any romance. Every girl just a two-dimensional caricature of what is considered desirable, and most just sold off to the highest bidder. It’s all so proper, and it disgusted me. Earnestly, it reviles me that you haven’t a choice in this arrangement. If I could grant you one, I promise I would in a heartbeat.”

Your chest warms, heart softening with every word, passion spilling over every syllable. “I know,” you say softly, and mean it.

“The reputation as a rake came that year, I suppose. Polly and I came to the arrangement that we would pretend to court, and I would leave her ‘ruined’ and free. The scandal sheets simply ran with the idea, and I didn’t stop them. It kept the expectations off of me, but the more I came to know how the rest of England lives, the more I was overwhelmed by the sheer unfairness of it all. A friend of mine, my best friend, is deeply and irrevocably in love with a woman, a beautiful, kind, intelligent woman. The kind of love that should be shouted about from the parapets and paraded in the streets. And yet, he is forced to love her in secrecy and solitude, because she is not the ‘right kind of woman’ for a man like him.”

You frown, filled with sympathy for these lovers. “It sounds like a love story in a novel I would be forbidden from reading.” He laughs, liquid and mellifluous, the sound worming its way into your chest and cradling your thumping heart. “Well, that explains the rake. When does this supposed romantic heart come into play?”

Snorting, Matthew digs you in the ribs. “I’m getting to that. So impatient, aren’t you?” Something about those words runs cool water down your spine, a feeling you can’t place buzzing to life under your skin. “When I left England, I fell a little bit in love with everyone I met. So many people, so many places, so many lives, all unique and blessed in their own way. The wide world is true poetry, and I suppose that I long for a romanticised place in it.”

Your tongue feels thick and clumsy in your mouth, words you might struggle for hours to pen falling easily and thoughtlessly from his plush lips. For the first time, you notice that your mama has retreated inside, affording you the tiniest moment of snatched privacy. Emboldened, a wave of brazen desire overtakes you, so strong that you go lightheaded. Your mouth opens without permission, words spilling free before you can stop them. “I think I’d like to kiss you.”

Matthew smiles, eyes crinkling as one of his hands comes up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek. The simple touch makes you weak in the knees, your gaze curious as he leans down, so close that his lips are a hairsbreadth from yours. He murmurs one simple word. “Please.”

Your lips connect, head spinning as his mouth moves against yours. You’re floundering a little, at a loss in unfamiliar territory. Time slows around you; Matthew’s lips on yours the only feeling you know, your head going hazy like you’ve drunk far too much wine. It feels like you’ve been struck by lightning, like you’ve lived all your life in a sketch and suddenly been ripped into three dimensions.

The world blurs around you, grounded by his hand at your waist, his lips on yours. It’s all top lip, shockingly chaste despite the passion spinning between you, all your desire poured into the kiss. He’s breathing heavily when you pull apart, lips slick and face flushed. “Was that… I… I’ve never…” you trail off, suddenly riveted by the grass beneath your feet.

“Then you are a natural,” he praises, and you flush impossibly redder. “So adept on your first try, darling. I’ll surely die a happy man if you continue to kiss like that.”

“So presumptuous,” you tease, audacious bravado fuelling you. “Who says I’ll continue? Perhaps the desire has been flushed from my system,” you say with a smirk, laughing when he clutches his heart in mock-horror.

“You wound me so,” he laughs, taking your hand. That butterfly seems to have multiplied in your chest, a kaleidoscope of them fighting to burst free from your chest the longer his palm warms yours.

You find yourself forlorn when he leaves, the mere hour you spent in his company having shifted your worldview on its axis. As you had expected, your engagement is plastered across every gossip rag you come across, but you don’t find yourself debilitated by it; you have a confidant in Matthew, at the very least, and a chance for companionship to bloom into something more. You don’t dare tease yourself with the word, refuse to prop open the window for him until you’re certain of what you want.

That night, your pen flies across paper, inspiration flowing free. You even pen a letter to Matthew that will never again see the light of day, a messy, raw untangling of your sudden feelings that bares your soul uncomfortably. Instead of dreaming of shackles and snide words, your head is filled with sparkling jewels and soft lips, hands in your hair and… You wake flushed and sweating, the mirage of his touch still on your skin, certain that you wear your shame plain on your face.

To make matters worse, your mama has invited a dozen respectable, recently-married ladies to pass the morning in your home, insisting that you must become acquainted with your peers in ladyship. Among them, of course, will be Evelyn Mountfitchet, sharp tongue poised to entertain the other ladies with a colourful recounting of your every misstep disguised as concern. Really, it’ll be an open forum to discuss your shortcomings while you’re forced to smile like you’re being lavished with compliments, and you’ll hate every minute of it.

Nonetheless, you are dutiful first and foremost, and knowing now that your married life shan’t be an utter torment buoys your spirits a little as your maid laces you into a sage-green daydress. Sipping at your tea, you peruse the morning’s scandal sheets, grateful that the vultures seem already to have moved on. The day’s transgression appears to be a lord having taken a fancy to a merchant’s daughter, leaving the family horrified when he presented her at dinner. You really ought to stop purchasing the gossip rags, but your curiosity wins out each time your fingers hover over the paper. In all fairness, the gossip is already printed — is there such harm in you being one of the hundreds of readers?

You curtsy idly to the women as they cross into the parlour, mentally reciting their names over and over to save yourself from any faux pas. Tight, awkward smiles and knowing glances thrown at your expense across the table in lieu of conversation, until the silence is miraculously broken. “My compliments to your cook, Miss Marlowe. I don’t know that I have ever been so delighted by tea and cake in my life,” says Mrs Vincent, a woman you remember as having a good, sensible head on her shoulders. You had been rather disappointed when her attentions were captured, hoping that you might have found a friend whose ideals lay in a similar bent to your own, but she and her husband seem a true love match, which is rare enough that you cannot begrudge her for choosing happiness.

“You are most kind,” you say, grateful for a conversation topic that allows you to hold your own. “Our cook comes from France, brings with her the most wonderful French cuisine.”

Evelyn titters snidely behind her hand, and you swivel to face her, annoyed. “Don’t you find it rather fanciful? Personally, I prefer a good, honest English meal. But, I suppose you ought ensure your palate is discerning to the tastes of your betrothed. He has rather a taste for the European, no?” The implication is clear, the other ladies watching with bated breath for your response.

Careful, practised calm holding you still, you take a pointed sip of your lemonade before you reply. “My betrothed is well-travelled, certainly. I could not be satisfied with a man who has no regard or curiosity for the wonders of the Earth beyond our borders.” It’s a simple, dignified response — that doesn’t acknowledge or address her insult. Exactly what the women at the table expect. You can see pity in their faces; they think you haven’t perceived it at all. “Although…” you add, a dozen heads suddenly perked up with interest. “If I recall correctly, your husband took a similar trip just months after you were married. Perhaps you concern yourself with the wrong man’s European… proclivities.” You try not to grin too smugly, eyebrows raised across the room and Evelyn turning an unattractive shade of puce. None of the other women thought you had it in you, and you know it.

Having spent years curbing your tongue, sitting in shadowed alcoves at balls, you’ve enough repressed wit and stockpiled gossip to start your own scandal sheet, should you so choose. Keeping your lips sealed and your cards close had seemed the best option when you were aiming to avoid notice, but with your position changed, you suddenly harbour a most esurient need to make the ton take notice of you. “Would anybody else like to offer their unsolicited opinion of my intended, or should the discussion perhaps turn to something more productive and befitting women of our station, hm?”

Newfound respect is written across their faces, carefully reframing their social games in order to take you seriously as a player. You even enjoy the conversation a little, filing away each new piece of gossip with a grin and accepting invitations to social events you’d never have even glimpsed before today. Proud, satisfied and even a little excited as you wave your guests off politely, your mama stands smugly at your shoulder. “It is lovely to see you engaging willingly in your role, dear. Perhaps you might allow me to gloat a moment, for I recall telling you numerous times that if you would just–”

You square your shoulders. “I shan’t,” you say brusquely. Ordinarily, you’d never speak so bluntly to your mama, but the knowledge that you’ve mere weeks until you’re a lady in your own right emboldens you. “There is a difference between going somewhere willingly, and going there without complaint due to the executioner’s axe at your back. It is fortunate that Lord Healy is a good man, and one I could come to love, yes, but that could easily not have been so. He could have been any manner of man, a gambler, a drunkard, a sinner.” You aren’t yet entirely sure he isn’t the lattermost, if the heat you feel under his gaze is any indication, coiling under your skin and knotting in your chest, working its way down, down, down… Heavens, this is hardly the time! “And nonetheless I would be his wife. So, I implore you, do not mistake my acquiescence for forgiveness. I had made a choice, and you took it from me.” Your mama gapes at you as you leave, stalking into the library to lose yourself and forget all your troubles.

The passage of time escapes you, and you don’t realise how long you’ve been in the library, resting in a patch of sunlight like a house cat with your nose buried in a book until a maid finds you and informs you that you must dress for dinner. In all your distaste of the morning, your evening engagements had entirely escaped your awareness, and you dimly remember dinner with the Healys scheduled for the night.

Your ride is spent in stony, cold silence, your parents looking anywhere but your eyes. It’s not a long journey, thankfully, but it feels like an eternity before your carriage pulls to a stop and a footman helps you to the ground. You dip into a polite curtsy to Matthew’s parents, softening into a smile when you lock eyes with your betrothed. “You look wonderful. Doesn’t she, Matthew?” his mother says, nudging him unsubtly.

Matthew clears his throat, shaking his head as if to clear it. “I— Yes. I don’t quite… have the words for how lovely you look,” he says, his gaze intense as you meet it boldly.

“Thank you, my lord. You are too kind.” It’s a stiff response, measured and polite, born from uncertainty over your company.

His smile is winsome, your mama pinching your back as if to say I told you so, and you bite back a scowl. “I am afraid dinner is not quite ready yet,” he says with a polite nod to your parents. “Perhaps you might like a brief tour of the house, Miss Marlowe. It is soon to be your home, after all.”

Your mama makes a soft noise of protest. “That would be rather improper, no?” she says, casting glances at Matthew’s parents for support she evidently doesn’t find. You conceal a smirk; perhaps if she’d had a care to learn anything about the man she was marrying you off to, she wouldn’t need to be so concerned of what was proper.

“Oh, I do find the rules of propriety so stifling at times, don’t you? They are a young, engaged couple, we ought allow them a few moments of privacy. Come, we will take tea, and the men can have their whiskey and cigars. Dinner shan’t be long,” she says, and though your mama desperately wants to argue, a retort hanging from her lips, her own imposed rules of politeness prevent her — they are the hosts, after all.

Matthew takes you by the hand, the contact sending a pulse of warmth spreading from where his skin touches yours, and leads you deeper into the house. The moment you’re alone, he pulls you against a wall, his hands falling to your hips and grasping tightly. The closeness thrills you, heat prickling under your skin as he watches you with heavy, lidded eyes. “I have thought of nothing but your kiss since your lips left mine. May I kiss you?” he asks, hushed and reverent, and you nod slowly, eyes closing and head tilting up in anticipation. His lips meet yours, sweet and soft and gentle, but interlaced with a foreign, breathtaking hunger.

You melt against him, letting him take control of the kiss, determined but tender. You part your lips eagerly for his tongue, the taste of him suddenly overwhelming your senses. Breathing hard as you pull apart, you look up at him with wide eyes, feeling foolish and lovesick, some unfamiliar feeling of want pulling under your skin. “Is there really going to be a tour, or was that simply a facade to get me alone?” you tease, and Matthew smirks, interlacing his fingers with yours.

“I have often found that mixing an honest goal with an impure one can be… pleasurable… for all involved,” he answers, almost a purr. Something unknown thrills in your belly, licking down to settle in your core, forbidden. Then, his intense gaze breaks into a smile, and the tension breaks. “No, there really was somewhere I wanted to show you.”

Your footsteps echo through the cavernous halls, interspersed with breathless giggles when he pulls you a little too fast and you stumble into his arms, meeting in a sweet kiss before you start off again. You almost can’t believe your luck, that you’ll get to spend your days traipsing through these halls and kissing him whenever you like; you feel as though you’re waiting with bated breath, like pride must come before a fall.

With a dramatic flourish, Matthew comes to a stop before a grand set of double doors, flinging them open to reveal an even grander library. Your jaw drops as you marvel; stacks of shelves that must stretch the entire height of the house press against both walls, light filtering through a pane-glass window and puddling on the floor. He seems to sense your awe, his body warm at your back as he takes hold of your waist. “You seem like the kind of woman to appreciate a good book and some peaceful, private space.” He leans heavily on the word private and mouths at the shell of your ear, a shudder running through your body at his ministrations.

“I do,” you say shakily, though you can’t think of a time you’ve cared less about books than standing here with Matthew’s lips hovering against your neck.

“May I ask you something rather…” he says, slowly spinning you around so you’re face-to-face. “Improper?”

The look in his eyes is familiar, now, but impossible to define, eyes wide and crow-black. “It’s a little late to be seeking my permission for your indecorousness, no?”

Matthew smiles, the expression slow and salacious as it creeps across his face. “Perhaps,” he says, taking your hands and walking you deeper into the library. “But this is a question of a more… intimate… nature.” You’re acutely aware with every step that, should anyone else enter the library, the two of you would stay obscured from view. “I want to know…” he begins, voice low as he pulls you down onto a chaise, tucked neatly away in a shadowed corner. “What do you feel when I kiss you?”

Your heart speeds, stomach swooping as clumsy words stumble to your lips. “I— I don’t… I can’t describe it.” You lower your eyes, looking up at him through your lashes, that same, indecipherable look in his face.

“Would you like to know what I feel?” You nod minutely, breath caught in your chest. The air around you feels charged, like the minutes before a thunderstorm when your hair starts to stand on end. “I feel desire. Have you ever known desire, sweet thing? A quickening in your pulse, heat under your skin, smouldering in your chest.” Matthew inches closer with every word, pressing you back against the cushions until you’re almost prone, rucking up your skirts with one knee.

His every breath against your lips is incendiary, the feeling rushing under your skin finally given a name as you breathe out the word that might be your unmaking. “Yes.” Matthew crashes your lips together, slides a hand into your hair, all pretence at being a gentleman cast aside in favour of a frantic, consuming hunger. His tongue is greedy, his teeth sharp, pulses of pure want skittering down your spine and settling between your legs. The sensation thrills you, illicit and sharp and new, the heat of his body against yours soaking through your clothes.

“I was not entirely honest, before,” he says, and your blood runs cold. Your fear must be evident in his face, because he cups your cheek gently before he speaks. “When I said I had thought of nothing but your kiss. I thought of you constantly, certainly, but in a rather… filthier way.” His low tone washes over you, stomach clenching in some sort of sick anticipation as his lips meet your neck.

“What…” The words catch in your throat, desire clamping your neck like a vice. “What did you think about?”

A gasp slips from your lips as Matthew catches your earlobe between his teeth, kissing softly at your pulse point and pressing a soft hand against your leg. “I thought about you while I pleasured myself,” he murmurs, and you go hot all over, your skin feeling far too small to contain all you’re becoming, your chest tight and pulse racing. “I spilled in my hand with your name on my lips. I thought of how you might look, undressed beneath me, caught in rapture. Have you ever felt pleasure like that, darling?”

His voice is low, raked over gravel. You can sense his restraint, that he longs to teach you. “We cannot. Not now, not here, not before we are married.” You taste regret as you speak, so consumed in desire that you want to discard every carefully-learned edict of society, but the warning bells that chime for this act are too much to ignore.

Matthew huffs a quiet laugh. “So, you haven’t. If you trust me, sweet thing, there are ways I can show you pleasure without fucking you.” He leans heavily on the curse, an answering thrill clenching in your stomach as his fingers find the hem of your chemise. “Would you like that, darling?”

“Please,” you gasp, a breathless invocation from wanton lips. Matthew’s hand creeps up your thigh, higher and higher until… Your eyes fly open, your entire body jolting as a spark of pure sensation catches you alight. “Oh, my God,” you cry, back arching up as he slowly circles with the tip of his finger.

“I also answer to Matty,” he smirks, and though you groan, you’re grateful for the diffused tension. Your hips move of their own accord, chasing the pleasure that spills from his fingertips. “My God, you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he groans, his gaze fixed on your face as you slip into bliss. “Have you ever touched yourself like this?” You shake your head, whining quietly when he pulls his hand away and takes hold of your wrist. The tips of his fingers are wet where they meet your skin, and you flush crimson. “I’m going to show you how to pleasure yourself, and, tonight, when you’re laying in bed with your lights turned out, I want you to bring yourself to that peak as many times as you want; get to know your body in the most intimate way. And then,” he leans close, whispering into the shell of your ear, his filthy words coiling under your skin and licking deliciously down your thighs. “I want you to tell me all about it. As your husband, I must know exactly what brings my wife to ruin.” In the same moment, he slides two of your fingers into you, the sudden stretch between your thighs unlike anything you’ve ever felt. Matty’s thumb comes up to circle your bundle of sensitive nerves, puppeteering your fingers in and out of you torturously slow. “Can you do that for me, sweet thing?”

It takes a moment for your hazy mind to register what he’s asking, whining as your hips rock up into his touch. “Only if you go faster,” you gasp, choking on a whimper as he speeds his motions, pleasure washing over you and wiping your mind clean.

“Anything you want,” Matty murmurs, tugging on your wrist so your fingers speed up, pressing deep as your eyes roll back in your head. “Curl your fingers for me, love,” he instructs, and you obey unthinkingly, gasping as a shock of pleasure ripples through your body, drool pooling in your mouth as Matty watches you adoringly. “Does that feel good?”

You moan out an affirmative, writhing under his touch and slowly picking up a rhythm of your own, too caught in a haze of pleasure to find words for what he’s making you feel. Tension coils in your belly, your body limp and loose on your bones. “Oh, God, please,” you whimper, not even sure what you’re begging for. He knows, though, somehow able to show you exactly what you need as he slides two of his own fingers alongside yours.

“Oh, love, you’re soaked,” Matty croons, following along with your rhythm and steering you to move faster, every movement sending a ripple of desire pulsing through your veins. “I think you needed this, didn’t you, sweetheart? Needed someone to show you how to feel so fucking good?” His palm is warm against the back of your hand, calluses pressing rough against your skin as your body stretches out around him. Your eyes fall closed, head swimming in slick, gleaming ecstasy. “Come on, love. Watch,” he instructs.

Obediently, your gaze falls to where your hands are joined, your wetness dripping over your fingers and a slick sound embarrassingly audible; sounding in time with the thumps of pleasure rolling over you. You moan helplessly, letting Matty take control as you fall into bliss, his breath coming in hard gasps against your lips. There’s a pulling low in your stomach, a twisting tendril of carnality tugging at every muscle of your body. A final swipe at your bud of nerves sends you pitching over an edge you hadn’t even known you were approaching, biting down hard on your lower lip to keep yourself from crying out wantonly. You flutter around your fingers, gasping and rocking your hips, chasing the high as it fades from your grasp.

“That was… incredible,” you murmur, Matty’s expression at once smug and awed. “I’ve never felt anything like it. I just… fuck,” you breathe, almost a laugh as the curse slips from your lips, the only word that feels fitting for the feeling rolling through your body.

“I promise you, darling, that was barely the beginning. Just you wait until we share a bed.” He smirks down at you, the eye contact deliberate as he slides his wet fingers between his lips, swirling his tongue purposefully, desire spiking in your core all over again. “And you taste so sweet,” he praises. “Go on, have a taste for yourself, love,” Matty urges. Cautiously, you bring your hand up to your lips, softly licking at the pads of your fingers. The taste of you is unfamiliar, but you strangely don’t hate it, pressing an eager kiss against Matty’s lips and licking carelessly into his mouth.

You trade lazy kisses for a few long, sweet moments, breaking away only to giggle against his mouth and gaze deeply into his warm, honey-brown eyes. Eventually, regretfully, you pull apart and climb to your feet, legs shaking a little until Matty loops an arm around your waist to support you. The dinner is lovely, to be sure, and his parents are perfectly pleasant, but you can think of nothing but Matty’s eyes on you, his tongue in your mouth, his fingers stretching you out and pulling you into oblivion. The barest brush of his lips against your hand, a polite goodbye, is almost enough to set you off again, a shudder running through you as a knowing smirk pulls at his lips.

Matty’s gaze meets yours, sharp and challenging, and he mouths think of me just as you leave. A flush creeps up your cheeks, and you look away, the intensity of his eyes too much to bear. And yet, you obey, moonlight slanting across your bed as you push your nightdress up around your waist. Matty’s voice circles your brain, his name sweet on your lips as you drag yourself to that peak countless times. Your body is exhausted but insatiate, an endless well of greed tapped and free-flowing. You can barely stand to clean yourself when you finally give in to lassitude, legs trembling and a voracious cramp in your wrist.

Your mama gasps in horror at the circles under your eyes the next morning, shameful imprints of your long, desire-soaked night. “Goodness gracious,” she gasps. “What on Earth kept you awake all night? Good Lord, you aren’t a child anymore. You simply cannot spend your nights with a candle and your nose in a book any longer. You have responsibilities.” You nod idly, stifling both a yawn and a smirk. “Go back upstairs. Get some rest — you might at least attempt something resembling respectability for the ball this evening.”

Oh. In your daze, you’d utterly forgotten. Ordinarily, you’d refuse out of spite, and your mama gives a long-suffering sigh, expecting a fight. But something thrills you about showing off your engagement so publicly, staking a claim on the man so many debutantes failed to ensnare. The chance that you might slip away with him into a shadowed alcove or a private garden certainly doesn’t hurt either. So, with nothing more than a slight scoff, you go back to bed, snatching a few hours of much-needed sleep. Visions of Matty dressed in full finery fill your head, a surprising, sudden excitement growing in your chest.

You can’t hold back a gasp when your mama produces your gown; you’d never bothered examining the new season’s dresses, already resigned to misery. Your fingers trail gently over the sparkling fabric, running like water under your touch. “You shall be the most spectacular thing in the room, dear,” says your mama smugly.

The word thing hits you like a splash of ice-cold water. Of course. “Yes,” you say faintly, your voice sounding muffled to your own ears. “I must pen a letter of thanks to the modiste,” you add pointedly, your mama’s face falling. She sweeps out of the room without a word as if to say, see how well you’ll look without me.

It turns out, unsurprisingly, that your ladies are even more proficient at their craft without your mama’s hawkish gaze picking and prodding at whatever she pleases. You gaze at yourself in the looking glass, awestruck. Your cheeks hold a healthy glow, dusted with rouge that matches the stain on your lips, and as you smile softly, you realise that, for the first time, you find your reflection pretty.

Even the now-familiar cold silence of your journey fails to dampen your spirits, the glittering warmth of the ballroom enveloping you as you cross the threshold. You search the room for Matty, a little crestfallen when his wild curls aren’t immediately apparent. Of course, you shake off your parents as quickly as possible, surprised by your sudden enjoyment of the atmosphere without the crippling burden of a dance card looped around your wrist.

Lost in the wealth of colour and light surrounding you, you jolt at a gentle touch to your elbow. Expecting to meet Matty’s warm, adoring gaze, you turn eagerly, only to come face-to-face with a lord who’s practically withering into dust where he stands. “Good evening,” he says, a sinister smile revealing half-rotted, missing teeth. “May I have this dance? I don’t believe we’ve met.”

You don’t think so either, but you’d be surprised if the man could remember how to button his own waistcoat. His fingers are like sandpaper against your bare arm, the sensation positively emetic. “I am spoken for, my lord,” you say, without even attempting at politeness. He’ll hardly remember it tomorrow, age-addled as he is. As if on cue, a murmur ripples through the young ladies, eagerness turning to disparagement as it reaches their mamas, and you look up to see three young men burst into the room.

On the left, the most serious-faced one holds up a pocketwatch, evidently admonishing the other two for their more-than-fashionable lateness, while the tallest one laughs him off. In the middle, you watch Matty slyly ribbing the former until he relents, smiling exasperatedly. “Ah!” you say brightly, grateful for the out. “There is my betrothed now. Good evening, sir.” You curtsy politely and blow out a relieved breath as soon as his back is turned, beelining for Matty and his companions.

“Hello, love,” he says warmly, something in your body instinctively relaxing in his presence. He takes your hand, warm in his calloused palm, and brings it to his lips. You smile a little self-consciously, hyperaware of the other two sets of eyes on you. Nodding politely to the other two men, you bite your lip and jerk your head at Matty; it isn’t polite for a lady to introduce herself to a gentleman, and you’ve too much company to publicly flout the rules of conversation.

When he doesn’t pick up the hint, the more solemn one shakes his head with an annoyed yet fond laugh, bowing politely. “Mr. Hann,” he says. “Adam, really.”

It seems to spur the other into action. “George,” he says simply, and you raise an eyebrow. “Lord Daniel, if you must be an utter bore about it.”

You curtsy, but flicker your gaze to the ceiling in the universal gesture of Lord, give me strength. “Great heavens, there’s two of them.”

Adam snickers. “Four, actually. I’m certain it shan’t be long until you discover that for yourself,” he adds with an enigmatic grin that makes you like him all the more.

“Fuck’s sake, Hann,” Matty scoffs, and you still jump a little at the vulgarity and how easily it falls from his lips. “I told you how hard I had to work to get her to like me, don’t go turning her against me now. I’m not all that likeable, you know.” He turns to you, and the full effect of his disarming, fathomless-deep gaze settles on you. You run hot all over. “Would you care for a dance, my lady? Before I allow you to be poisoned any further against me,” he chuckles, and you accept with a gentle smile.

Matty sweeps you into a waltz, leading commanding and effortless, and you can’t keep a smile off your face as you lose yourself in him. “You look radiant, love. Truly, a beauty like yours is mythical.”

Heat floods your cheeks, and you look away, demure and slightly disbelieving. “You’re quite the dancer, my lord,” you say, in an obvious and unconcealed attempt to divert the subject.

Thankfully, he allows it. “You sound surprised,” he says, mock-affronted. “I’m a musician at heart, darling, I could lead a waltz in my sleep.” You smile, but your attentions are drifting; snatches of conversation pass you by, murmured but not so low you can’t hear them. An odd pair… Surely ruin her… Heavens, look at him… Isn’t nearly pretty enough…

Matty is utterly oblivious to the noise, watching your face fall with obvious confusion. “What are we doing here, Matty?” you murmur, suddenly helpless. “Even if we could be happy together, how can that possibly be enough? Endless whispers, following us anytime we set foot in society; this stain stuck to us forever.” Pain is written clearly across his face — he wants to argue, but he’s at least allowing you the courtesy of coming to the point before he does. “You could still leave me,” you say quietly. “Find safety with the devil you know. Play the rake until the perfect girl comes along, one without all the collateral I carry.”

Fittingly, the song draws to an end, Matty pulling you to the edge of the room with eyes full of frustrated consternation. “I’m not going to fucking leave you,” he hisses, crowding breathlessly close. “You want me to go searching for the perfect girl, yes? I have travelled from nation to nation, spent days upon weeks in the open seas, visited wonders on every continent, and yet… if you were to ask me the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen? That smile, that first real smile you gave me. Without a question or a second thought. Please, darling, let me love you. See yourself the way I see you.”

Your resolve shatters, that greedy, hungry part of you that’s gone starved for love all your life snapping to the forefront in your chest. “How do you see me?” you breathe, low and pleading, hunting for an answer in his eyes.

“I know this house well,” he says, and your brow furrows at the sudden change of subject. “The thought of an audience for the maudlin display I am about to put on is almost too much to bear.” You huff a quiet, disbelieving laugh and let him lead you through a maze of winding, labyrinthine corridors until you come to an empty parlour. The air is still, quiescent, like stepping into a still-life portrait as you sit delicately at the edge of a divan. Matty sinks to his knees in front of you, resting his palms against your skirts over your thighs. “You want to know how I see you? I see a fierce, clever woman, one who has, perhaps, never been truly seen before. I see the woman I want to make a life with, who I want to share my thoughts, fears, dreams with. Who I hope will respond in kind.” Pure, earnest kindness shines in Matty’s gaze, a frail hope you recognise as a twin to the butterfly that perches on your ribs.

You can’t do anything but smile down at him, at a loss for words. “I simply… I just… I cannot…” you stammer, stopping and starting as if you’re hunched over your writing-desk.

“Do you trust me, love?” You nod mutely. “Then trust this, trust what you feel, trust yourself,” Matty urges.

Damn him. Damn him to hell. “Come here and kiss me.”

His wide, adoring smile turns to a slow smirk. “I’m perfectly happy where I am, love.” His hands fall to the hem of your skirt, slowly inching up your legs, familiar heat coiling to life between your thighs. “Now, tell me. Did you do as I asked last night, darling?”

“Yes.” The answer comes rushed, breathy, shameless. Matty gazes up at you, encouraging. “I thought of you, only you. I wished it were your hands bringing me to ruin over and over again, wished I could do the same to you.” His eyes are black with desire and your mouth goes dry. “I know that you have… experiences, and I do not wish to–”

“All that means, darling, is that I have the privilege of being the one to teach you,” Matty insists, pressing a kiss to the side of your knee. Your skirts brush against your heated skin, pushed up until he’s gazing at your exposed, glistening core. Your eyes follow him, questioning, as he leans ever closer. “You’ve felt pleasure by hand, yes, but what I really want is to get my mouth on you. Would you like that, sweet girl?”

You shudder. “Please.” No sooner has the word left your lips than his mouth connects with your core, lapping up your arousal with an ebullient hunger. A moan escapes you, blinding heat flashing across your skin. Your breathing is instantly ragged, pleasure burning in your chest as he buries his tongue deep inside you.

Your hands slide into his hair, anchoring yourself to reality. His answering moan against your skin ripples through you, muscles tensing and loosening in keeping with your hammering heartbeat. “Just like that, darling.” Matty murmurs against your skin. “Good girl.”

The praise draws a long, pleading whine from your lips, a cavalcade of desire marching through your bloodstream. “Matty, oh, fuck,” you gasp. The profanity still feels foreign on your lips, but there truly isn’t another word in your lexicon that can describe the pure ecstasy coursing through you.

Matty presses soft kisses to your inner thighs, smearing your arousal against your skin and licking you clean. A flash of teeth scrape against your tender flesh, pulling a gasp from you as you drag his mouth back to where you need it most. Euphoria winds under your skin, an insistent hum at the base of your skull growing louder with every passing second. His tongue works over you in sure, fast strokes, dragging you higher and higher.

He sucks on your nerves, your legs flailing out helplessly in response. One of his hands creeps up, teasing your nerves as he fills you with his tongue over and over. A filthy sound fills the room, slick and wet and lustful, and you clench your hands into fists in his hair. You clench your thighs around Matty’s head, his tongue driving deep into you as you clench your thighs around his head, whimpered obscenities dripping from your mouth. His pace speeds, slows, never allowing you to get complacent in a rhythm, flames stoked in your core.

You’re half-delirious with it, implorations for something you couldn’t name falling slurred from your lips. Pleasure balls into a fist in your belly, hot and demanding, knocking the wind out of you as it slams into your gut. You gasp out his name in an endless litany, writhing with need as pure bliss rolls over you, loose and free on your bones. “Oh, my God,” you breathe, still pulsing with aftershocks as Matty pulls away, lips and chin soaked when he smiles up at you.

“No God, darling. Just me,” he says smugly, and you scoff. He quirks an eyebrow, licking his lips exaggeratedly. “What? Look around, love. Do you see God in this room? Or do you see a man, bringing you pleasure?” You bite your lip, chest still heaving with the tangible, real evidence of what you felt. “In any case, I am kneeling for you. Not for any God,” he finishes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, your slick obscenely visible against his alabaster skin.

Matty stands, pulling you with him, and tugs you in for a slow, deep kiss, the taste of you blooming in your mouth. “That’s blasphemy,” you say, appalled and intrigued in equal measure. “You could be prosecuted for that.”

He grins against your mouth. “Are you going to turn me in?”

Your heart thuds where your chest is pressed against his, heartbeats aligning in a perfect, rhythmic duet. “Never.”

#this was soo fucking fun to write Omg #lowkey this is like top 5 most Sweet romantic things ive ever written probably #matty healy x reader #matty healy smut #matty healy imagine #the 1975 fanfic #the 1975 smut #writing #smut #dancing is a dangerous game

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allastoredeer · 8 months ago

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*Turns on megaphone* Lucifer Morningstar is a Service Top! ...That is all.

THANK YOU!

Can we all readdress the fact that Lucifer is a canonical switch? I understand liking bottom!Lucifer, I really do, but let this man top. As a RadioApple fan, is it really too much to want Alastor to get properly railed 😩

I suppose I'll have to be the change I want to see in the world, but I still wanna read/see it.

I'm pretty sure this is why I've been consuming so much RadioStatic content lately. Their dynamic is amazing AND Alastor gets to bottom. It's perfect.

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pepperpixel · 8 months ago

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+ Butch 4 Butch +

(Except neither one of them is rlly that butch but holy fUCKING SHIT THAT SONG IS LITERALLY THEM… the version of them I made up in my mind palace… it’s them.)

Anywayyyy. Yeah! Have a tagr art dump..! aka, those vibes when you, out of a series of moments of temporary insanity, end up finding, taking in, nursing back to health and eventually falling into a tangled messy yearning situationship w the asshole tsundere alien who tried to destroy your entire planet… rlly extremely relatable vibes!!

#invader zim #gaz membrane #tak #invader tak #tagr #iz tak #iz gaz #doodles #caption for the 3rd pic:#ton ten photos taken seconds before a goth girls plushie security system shoots you in the head.#anyway… yeah… I love these two #I think a lot my ideas for them are informed by this one fanfic I read as a young teen/child… but I don’t actually remember anything #concrete?? just general story beats? and I’m pretty sure my ideas deviate from it a good bit. but #I think that fic def formed the basis for my tagr love and appreciation #I think they could be complicated and messy and painful and fun as fuck #I have ideas for them lol. and some more art. so hopefully I’ll be able to post that soon too #but for now… enjoy sketch dump of messy goth saphics #*top ten moments. not ton. spellings hard ghgh #I think tak is very hesitant about initiating physical contact and intimacy and being cuddly. cuz of pride and also repression #but I saw a post talking about irkens being naturally very touchy feely affectionate and I def agree…#so. tak is wary of stuff like that at first. but once u break thru that initial barrier of her denying herself she’s actually sUPER TOUCHY #gaz has unleashed a pda beast she just doesn’t kno it yet

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eliashirsch · 6 months ago

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God Tier Top Gun Fanfictions. A Masterlist. (4/3)

More Top Gun fic recs:)) Different pairings ahead.

Winner Categories:

1. Best of the Best Authors (1/3)

2. Best of the Best Series (2/3)

3. Best of the Best Fics (3/3)

4. Honorary Mentions (4/3)

REMINDER! READ THE AUTHORS' TAGS AND WARNINGS!!!

Honorary Mentions

gold rush by gamerring @asimmutableasgravity

All his life, Jake Seresin has wanted to live his life as loud as possible. So that when he dies, people can place flowers on his casket. When the light hits him, sunbaked and smiling and grinning. He's whole and happy and everything he could ever want. He bites down on his teeth. Later, he hunches over the porcelain, petals falling out of his mouth, and is already one step in his grave. - Flowers, fighter pilots and the true fatality of your feelings spilling out.

Jake angst:)) And here’s another one from gamerring:

it's nice to have a friend by gamerring

"Will you marry me?" Ice is on his knees. His posture screams military, but his face is genuine. His eyebrows are furrowed in worry and a hesitant smile plays at his lips. The ring sits in a green velvet box. The band is gold and shiny, with a diamond inlaid in the middle. The rock seems to glow under the sunset, and Maverick's heart starts beating against his chest. This- it's spectacular. It's breathtaking. It's not for him. He bites his cheek for a microsecond, and then forces a smile."That's great. She can't say no to that." And a traitorous part of his soul hopes she does. - Three times Maverick should have said something, and the one time he did.

Just read the summary:) (This is canon.)

Lessons in pushing boundaries by will_thewisp

Maverick never needed lessons in pushing boundaries. Not if those boundaries are about going faster, further or screwing up on an ever increasing scale, because he'd run off the edge of the world before he'd let a thought that scared him shitless take root in his mind. It was enough that it was already in his heart. Or Maverick crashes the Darkstar and needs a very long time to learn that there's things that can and should be fixed. And that he's always had the tools to do it.

Don’t forget a tissue when reading this!

Amen by demiclar @demiclar

"What do you want done with your body when you die?" Pete Mitchell grieves his best friend.

Can you tell I love Mav angst?:)

Vanilla Milk by Specter_Ross

After the mission, Rooster is struggling to sleep so Maverick pulls some old methods out from when Bradley was a kid, in hopes of helping him.

I never get tired of reading MavDad and Bradley:)

A Perch Built for Two by chase_acow @cowsalot

Rooster is well known for keeping his own company, but between Maverick's reemergence and the suicide mission, Hangman manages to weasel his way into Bradley's attention. He's never let an alpha so close to him before, but Hangman might be the best choice - experienced and unlikely to ask for more than Bradley was willing to give. Unfortunately for him, it's Bradley who wants more, and he has no idea how to ask for it.

Another win for Hangster!

A Little Unconventional by McDanno50

Maverick didn’t know how he ended up here a month after the mission – on his back with his legs spread for not one, but two, hungry alphas. These alphas wanted Maverick so much that they no longer fought but worked together all in the name of mutual pleasure. It felt too good to be true, like a fevered dream conjured up by a broken mind. But even if he couldn’t believe his eyes, he had four other senses to rely on. A self-indulgent fic in which Omega!Maverick gets fucked by Alpha!Bradley and Alpha!Jake. That's literally it.

Mav/Bradley/Jake:)))))

Not Clamorous For Pardon by Arsenic @arsenicjade33

Okay, but what if the Navy didn't outlaw flogging as a punishment in 1896? Asking for a friend.

Another one of my favorite tropes: Mav being bullied by the Navy:(

still dangerous by cygnettine

Where was he? Jake was to his right, Bradley in front of him, the girls between their dads. Someone was missing. He was missing. Why was he missing? He was supposed to be there; that was a family dinner and he was family, he was his whole soul, why wasn’t he there? *** Maverick loses himself and wanders helplessly in his own mind until someone finally comes to his rescue.

Mav has Alzheimer's Disease:(

take a chance on the edge of life by Lacerta

It was a suicide mission. Of course they didn't succeed on their first try. - When Maverick dies, he loops back to the morning before.

An Edge of Tomorrow AU. Love this one.

you've got the win in your bag by discosleaze @paulmezcal

“I’m going to go in and get something pierced, and if you’re a good boy, it’ll be my nipple. If you’re not, it’ll be my tongue.” Speaking of tongues, Bradley just about swallows his. “Why would that be a bad thing?” he croaks out, not enjoying how amused Jake is, mocking, even. “Well, Bradshaw, because I wouldn’t be able to blow you for weeks afterwards.” Jake contemplates a second piercing, Bradley contemplates nothing.

asdfghfghjkjhgfdsadfg. This one’s too hot for me.

How Big? by thenofutureshoe

"Most people would have had to give themselves a pep-talk, most people would have been nervous or unsure of the whole thing, Maverick Mitchell was not most people. He was a fucking power bottom and proud of it. This was not his first rodeo, pun intended. And he always got his man." Once Maverick hears the story behind Slider's callsign, it sounds more like a challenge than anything else.

This one… I never thought their difference in size could be this hot…

a dream of crashing by thefireplanet

Maverick buys a plane. Somehow, this becomes Iceman’s problem.

THIS ONE’S NOT COMPLETED! But it’s still so fun to read and the characterization is spot on!

and the bunny goes 𝒽𝑜𝓅, 𝒽𝑜𝓅, 𝒽𝑜𝓅 by Meadow_Wanderer

Contrary to expectation, he rarely measures time by the number of years he's lived without his father. Instead, he appraises in happenings. Every birthday, school graduation, and precious firsts; every milestone passing as the memory of his father becomes fainter and fainter until finally he reaches the last occasion where the end and the beginning meet, the son and the sire a breath's width apart, like reaching to touch one's reflection in the mirror. The very same one he'll face in just shy of a few hours.

Weird and fun!

you are not alone (i watch over you) by redwithlove

“Bradley, do you remember the time when you were eight and you wouldn't let me near your Pops for two days?” “What, really? Why?” “Yeah, for two whole days, can you believe it? And it all started over a can of Pringles.” Or—Bradley with Ice and Maverick over the years.

Mav and Ice and Bradley being family:) My favorite genre of topgun fics:))

PHEW! That's all the fics I've got! Thanks for reading until the end! Don't forget to leave a comment on these fics if you enjoyed them!

Here's my google doc for all four categories! >> God Tier Top Gun Fanfictions: A Masterlist

#as always if you know these authors' tumblrs feel free to tag them!#and tell me if i tagged the wrong person or put the wrong link:')#this was a fun journey and i was reminded of how much fun i had reading all of these!#i hope y'all enjoyed my yapping:)#icemav #pete maverick mitchell #tom iceman kazansky #iceman x maverick #top gun 1986 #top gun maverick #top gun #hangster #jake hangman seresin #bradley rooster bradshaw #fanfic rec #top gun fic recs #fanfiction recommendation

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whohasthecards · 1 year ago

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Just imagining, that in a scenario where Mav adopts Hangman or realizes that Jake is his son and takes him in. And it was rough at first as they get to know one another, the growing pains and all that, but they eventually found stability, strength, and love with one another.

But one day, Hangman did something that scared the shit out of Mav, that pissed him off so badly that he starts berating Hangman, shouting and all that. Hangman and the others have never seen Mav mad often, but Mav was just so terrified.

Jake just stands there jaw clenched, as he took it all. Scared that he fucked it up for good, putting his hands behind his back to make sure that Mav doesn't see them trembling.

Eventually Mav ends with a, "What can you say for yourself, Lieutenant Seresin!?"

And Jake opens and clenches his mouth shut, like a gaping fish, brow furrowed, but eyes looking straight forward, as if he was staring at nothing or at the wall behind Mav. Looking straight ahead, yet no where at the same time.

Everyone waits with baited breathe, waiting for Hangman to fight back, retort, or snap back with snarky comments because it's Hangman.

"I'm sorry, da-" Jake audibly snapped his jaw shut, wincing, "I'm sorry Captain Mitchell, it won't happen again." Jake paused, "I'm sorry." He said the added apology quietly, but it reverberated loudly throughout the room.

Mav took a deep breathe before dismissing all of them, leaving him in the empty classroom to collapse on his desk. Wondering if he had ruined the relationship with the son he just got. Thinking if he could have handled it better. Was his son scared of him, now?

Jake's limbs was heavy as he trudged back to his apartment. He was wracked with guilt, wondering why was he so abrasive, why did he always push, push, and push. Why did he fuck up so constantly. Why was he so Hangman and why couldn't he be better?

He went through the motions of cleaning himself up after he went home and curled up in bed to just, sleep the sadness away.

Mav lugged himself into Ice's office, where his husband was working on his desk and he moves behind his chair and wraps his arms around the man, burying is face in Ice's hair, as if to hide his shame.

"What's wrong, Mav?"

"I-I think I scared, Jake," Mav mumbled. "He couldn't even call me, dad."

Ice pulls the whole story out of Mav before he tries to comfort him saying that he and Jake will work things out. How fathers and sons always will have their ups and downs. Fathers are always scared that their sons will turn out too much like them, after all. Also, they are still captain and lieutenant, Jake was probably trying to keep rank.

The last part even Ice said hesitantly, Mav was never shy about letting his kids call him what they want. Neither was Jake.

"Oh god, I-I left him, Ice, I didn't talk to him, I--"

"Shh, maybe so, but you both needed some space, you can go to him, now, bring him home." Ice said, turning to pull Mav fully in his arms. "Everything will be fine."

Mav ends up outside of Jake's housing. Ice waiting in the car, he knocks. No answer. He knocks again. No answer. He gets worried, checking back to see if Jake's car really was there. He grabs a spare key and opens the door, the apartment eerily quiet.

He never notice how bare the apartment really was, Jake always took a lot of space.

His boots were there, though, so were his car and house keys.

He walked into his son's bedroom, softening at the sight of him curled up in bed. He moved closer sitting on the edge as he ran a hand through his son's hair, frowning at the warmth emanating from the boy's forehead. Although, he did see the boy's face softened.

Jake's eyes fluttered open, blearily peering up at him, "Dad?" He asked softly tugging at Mav's heart, inspiring him to lean down and kiss his forehead.

My son.

"Hey kiddo, you good?"

Jake blinked up at the soft kiss, before the day's events came rushing back to him, "Sir I--"

"You never have to call me, sir, okay? It's fine if you don't want to call me dad," Mav said, choking out the last part. "But, you'll always be my son, even when I'm mad, or even if you are mad, you will always be my son, unless you never want to be again."

Jake stared up, suddenly fully awake before jolting up and quickly wrapping Mav in a tight hug. The angle was awkward, but Mav didn't care. His son was in his arms.

Mav tightened his hold around his boy, cradling his head on the crook of his shoulder. Hushing him softly.

"I'm sorry, dad," Jake muttered.

"It'll be okay, we're okay," Mav muttered, holding his son a bit more tighter.

#fanfic #top gun maverick #top gun #top gun fandom #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin #pete maverick mitchell #mavdad #tom iceman kazansky #ice pops #iceman x maverick #icepops #icemav #father son #found family #for some reason I write more when I have a looming deadline #i am procrastinating so hard right now #but he this is more fun #need some escapism in my life

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mitchellpete · 1 year ago

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Kinktober Day 16 - Begging

pairing: pete “maverick” mitchell x f!reader

cw: established relationship, unprotected sex, teasing, begging, penetration

word count: 1623

kinktober masterlist here.

18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI

You knew Maverick before your relationship blossomed. You knew the kind of man he was. You had known his peers more, had heard their stories about his arrogance and his ego. That was all before he’d finally approached you one night at the O Club, a smirk on his face like he’d already swept you off your feet from the first hello. It was proven to you instantly, how much of it was true. He had been so sure of himself that night, so convinced he was gonna take you home. And he had. There was nothing you could do to prevent yourself from liking him.

You’d expected your little fling to last maybe a week or two, had it already set in mind that he’d probably play you and then immediately move onto the next girl he laid eyes on at the bar. Or according to Slider, maybe replace you with Iceman, what with all the weird eye contact and all.

Maverick was good looking; had a sweet, crooked smile and sharp eyebrows and the biggest green eyes. The kind of face that just drew you in. A lot of people looked at him. It wasn’t like he was gonna be yours to keep.

Except he totally was.

And, as the weeks passed, you came to realize how much of his demeanor was simply a facade. Maybe not entirely, but to a certain extent.

Frankly, Maverick was just extremely well-guarded. As he told you more and more about his past—years and years of foster care, not getting into the Academy like everybody else, his ongoing grief for the family he’d lost—you understood very well why he behaved the way he did. His defiance was freedom, invincibility. Something he could hold onto.

He had you now too.

With you, Maverick was able to let his guard down. Easily. He confided in you in ways you wouldn’t expect. He preferred your company over the San Diego nightlife. Skipped out on volleyball games and nights out drinking to cuddle on the couch watching shitty rentals and eating pizza with you. Simplicity went a long way for him, and you quickly grew accustomed to that side of him.

Maverick was still Maverick, however. Unfolding himself for you didn’t mean that that mischievous little glint ever left his eye, nor did it mean he’d let you off the hook when it came to his games. He was the sweetest, most attentive boyfriend in the world, and somehow the most frustrating, too.

It’s almost humiliating, how desperate you get under his touch. He relishes in the excitement that courses through him every time you murmur a please. In fact, he loves it so much that he’s made it tonight’s little game; he’s not gonna touch you unless you beg him. Out loud, everything you want him to do to you. You nearly doubled over and groaned in frustration at his stupid demand. Maverick simply grinned at your exasperation.

“I’m not begging,” you retort. “That’s humiliating.”

Maverick tsks with a slight tilt of his head. Theatrical. Toying with you. “Looks like we got naked for nothing, then.”

Unbelievable.

Your clothes are indeed discarded on your floor. Maverick pretends to reach down to grab his shirt, and you stop him. Pulling his arm, you manage to roll him towards you. He hovers over you, a tantalizing smirk on his face.

You pout and try to bat your lashes at him, hoping he takes pity on you.

“You want me to pass you your clothes, dear?” he mocks instead, ignoring your pleading face. He wants words.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you groan. “Maverick, please.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Please what?”

Your hand wraps around the back of his neck, and you eagerly pull him down for a heated kiss. He lets you, moving his lips against yours with enthusiasm that only deepens your desire for him. You almost think you’ve got him as the kiss escalates, lips turning into mouth and tongue and teeth too. You’re wrong though, your eyes opening mid kiss when you feel the fabric of his shirt against your bare torso. He’d reached for it in the midst of the kiss, bunched it in his fist so that you’d feel it and then feel compelled to actually fucking beg before he pulled away to slip it on.

You push at his chest, lips disconnecting. “Maverick,” you whine, reaching for the shirt.

He grins again, moves it out of your reach as you squirm around trying to grab it.

You reach and reach and he moves it, up above your heads, to the side beyond your grasp. “Can you—stop it!”

He tosses it to the ground again, leans down closer to you. “All you have to do is tell me what you want.”

You stare at him. Fuck.

Fine.

“Please,” you whisper. “I want you to fuck me.”

You watch the intrigue in his eyes. He responds at an equally soft volume, “How bad?”

Your desire pools in between your legs, a small buzz beginning in the pit of your stomach. “Badly. Now.”

Maverick complies immediately, arm reaching in between your bodies to grab his cock in his fist. He squeezes around himself, groaning slightly at the feeling. Your hands gently cling onto his arms, but your nails dig into his biceps when he rubs the tip against the slick of your folds.

“Tell me again,” he hisses.

“Please,” you reiterate. “I need you now.”

“Hm.” He shifts to his knees, palms on either side of you, dog tags dangling above your face. He reaches down to stroke himself a few more times before aiming his dick against you again, pushing in slightly with a shallow thrust of his hips.

You groan, eyes closed, feeling him stretch you open just an inch.

You expect the sting to increase—there hadn’t been much foreplay, which was fine; you were aching for one another—but it doesn’t come. You open your eyes to the sight of him staring down at you, lips parted in shallow pants. Waiting.

You exhale, frustrated. “Fuck me.”

Another shallow thrust of his hips, stretching you a bit more. He halts again, his other palm returning to the mattress on the other side of you.

The buzz inside of you heightens, your breathing growing heavy. “Maverick, please. Please.”

Content with your pleading, he moans, allowing himself inside of you another inch. You can’t wrap your head around his persistence; how he’d gladly deny himself just to toy with you. He’s aching to fuck you hard into the mattress, but he’s taking his sweet time instead just to hear you beg.

“Please, please,” you murmur under your breath, both hands squeezing around his arms.

“Okay. Okay, sweetheart,” he breathes, pushing his hips forward in a swift motion to bury himself inside you entirely.

You cry out, nails digging into the flesh of his arms again. “Oh, fuck.”

He leans down to capture your mouth in his, kissing you languidly as his hips meet yours. You inadvertently grab at his dog tags, keeping him close even when he pulls apart. Forehead to forehead, he hisses again, your tight heat enveloping him sweetly. Your legs come up around his waist to trap him there, to make sure he doesn’t back away and torture you further, but you realize he still wants to hear you when he remains situated inside of you, unmoving.

“You want it?” he asks.

“Yes,” you gasp, hips sputtering. An attempt to feel him move. “So bad.”

He moves slightly, eliciting a little happy sigh from you. Your body feels frozen from his relaxed, unhurried pace, and anything, any movement, feels like a burst of flames inside of you.

It sparks a restless urge in you, and you suddenly remember his demand to know your every want. How that alone will fulfill you.

“Need you to cum inside me,” you blurt out, strained and shaky, back arching off the bed.

Maverick moans, your words edging him on, and he responds with a sharp slam of his hips.

That does it, and he can hardly hold back anymore. Sudden hard thrusts take you by surprise, your heels digging into his lower back as he makes it his mission to give you what you’ve asked for.

You cry out again, and more and more as he fucks into you with the fervor he’d been holding back all along. He’s got his own limits, after all.

He leans down entirely at one point, off his palms and onto his forearms instead to cup your head in his arms and kiss you. His mouth is sweet against yours, tongue prying at your lips to slip inside. His tongue against yours only adds to the overwhelming parcel of sensations coursing through your body.

When he feels himself close to the edge, he grunts against your mouth. “Where?” he pants. “Where do you want it?”

He knows. He just wants to hear you say it again.

You whine, loud and unstable. “Nngh—inside,” you wail. “Please.”

Maverick’s sounds get stuck in his throat, and the sight of his flushed, dazed face pushes you over. It’s when he cums too that a string of repeated moans and whines spill next to your ear, intensifying your orgasm. It’s shaky and feels incredibly overdue, your body releasing tons and tons of tension from the torturous prolongment.

Your throat almost feels dry from having begged and cried for him, but the glowy aftermath leaves you content.

Maverick eventually pulls out, his release dripping out of you. He takes a 2 minute breather, collapsed beside you with an arm thrown over your waist, and then gets up to clean you up.

You smile warmly. You love both sides of him.

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enthyrea · 9 months ago

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“I do,” Mav says, “May I…?” He holds the clasp and hook of the chain up, like he wants to put it on for Javy. “Oh–“ Javy registers that that is exactly what the captain is intending to do– “yeah– yeah of course, thanks.” He shifts over in the bed, letting his legs swing over the side and leans closer to the other man, ducking his head slightly. Maverick’s hands come around his neck, calloused fingers that have seen years of flying brushing against his nape and the curls at the base of his skull. Javy doesn’t dare look at the man– doesn’t dare to even breathe– just waits until he hears the hook click shut, terrified of interrupting this.

FIRST CHAPTER OF MY MAVCHADO FIC IS UP!!! this has been a long time coming for me and i'm so so so excited to get into it after six months of being head over ass for this silly ship. please do check it out!

read it here: something comforting

more chapters (and accompanying art) to come :3

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necrotic-nephilim · 3 months ago

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Is you think each of the batclan is a dom or a sub in bed (also add if they're a top or bottom if you want)

oooh good question. typically my answer depends entirely on the fic i'm writing and just. what makes the most sense for the scenario, so i don't see any of them as hard and fast subs or doms bc that's the joy of fanfic. *but* if i'm ignoring ships and just headcanoning based solely on the characters themselves, these are my thoughts-

Bruce Wayne: dom/top. it's the boring answer, but it's the true one. that man demands complete control of every situation and i think that extends to his wants and needs during sex. sex can be a lot like fighting in the way you take control.

Dick Grayson: switch, but i think he prefers bottoming whether he's the dom or the sub. he'll top if his partner prefers that, bc his nature is to be a giver. but he prefers bottoming and really enjoys getting to ride his partner.

Jason Todd: sub/bottom. listen. in fic 90% of the time, i *will* write him as the dom bc i *love* him as a mean dom. but Judd Winick did not tell us that Jason Todd cries during sex just for us all to make him an emotionless dom. he insists he's a dom and will dom, but deep down, he's a sub. i think he both wants soft praising sex and fucked up CNC shit, just for different reasons.

Tim Drake: dom/bottom. power bottom Tim. that's the whole headcanon. much like Bruce, i think Tim needs control in sex. i'm obsessed with him being fucked but still having *complete* control of the other person. controlling when they get to come, how they fuck him, etc. it just. suits him.

Damian Wayne: i can really see Damian go either way. but given i'm a fan of Damian having a mommy kink, i think my answer is sub and vers. he talks big game but he folds like a house of cards the minute you get your hands on him.

Stephanie Brown: sub/bottom. i think Steph just wants to be taken care of during sex, yk. she would enjoy bratting and sparring a bit as foreplay, but in the end she does want to be forced to submit and just give in to the person she's with.

Cass Cain: dom/vers. soft dom Cass supremacy. that's the whole take. i think it's fun for people to expect her to be a sub bc of her inexperience, but when Cass wants something, she'll take it. and she likes having control of her own body, it makes her more comfortable.

Helena Bertinelli: dom/top. idc who she's with but she's wearing a strap. she will fuck anyone. i think she'd be willing to bottom for the right partner, but she'd have *no* interest in being submissive in bed for anyone she's dated.

Jean-Paul Valley: he's tricky for me, bc if we count the Azrael personality, then dom/top. but if we're talking Jean-Paul, sub/bottom. he likes being told what to do and how to do it. also just. worshipping his partner bc brrr religious kink.

Alfred Pennyworth: dom/top. i think Alfred should be included in the batcest scene more. i wanna see him dom ppl. something about the control a dom has not needing to be physical but instead mental fits Alfred very nicely in my opinion.

Barbara Gordon: dom/bottom. similar to Tim, i think Babs prefers being in control from the bottom the most. giving clear instructions and telling her partner how to please her. for her it's less about the control and more about having someone submit under her that's fun.

Kate Kane: sub/vers. i feel like this is my most controversial take. but i think Kate is a sub. Kate gives energy of someone who talks *big* game about being butch but ends up a pillow princess in bed. i cannot explain it. it's just a vibes thing.

Bette Kane: switch/vers. either she's a very bratty sub or she's a very mean dom, there's no in-between. i think she genuinely enjoys both and likes to mix it up for fun. like Bette just gives me vibes she'd get bored of sex being the same every time.

Duke Thomas: switch/top. i think Duke prefers to top, but he's fine with going with the flow of what his partner wants. he gives me vibes that he slightly enjoys domming more, but still enjoys getting to sub for the right person, it just requires a lot more trust.

Harper Row: she's harder to pin down for me, but i would say switch/vers. Harper gives me "I'll try anything at least once" energy, even if she thinks she won't like it, she's willing to experiment a lot. bc of that she has a lot of weird experiences and enjoys whatever her partner does.

Luke Fox: he depends entirely on who he's with, i think. but i do think he leans toward being a dom/top just because of the energy he has in relationships. he easily takes control in the bedroom unless it's challenged by his partner, he'll default to assuming he's the one in charge.

Onyx Adams: dom/top. listen that's the only answer that makes sense for her. she takes what she wants when she wants it and i respect her for that. i think she just enjoys having someone underneath her, at her whim.

Julia Pennyworth: sub/bottom. definition of a woman who's convinced she's a dom until someone actually fights her for it and she folds like a pancake. she's not even a brat, she 100% is a service sub but does not realize it.

Claire Clover: also sub/bottom, similar to the above. except she is a brat and will make you earn topping her. she seems like the type to like violent sex that's a fight as much as it is fucking. like she's subbing but she is going to be kicking the whole time. very CNC vibes.

Minhkhoa Khan: dom/top. pretty sure this one is just canon. no notes this man is just like that. he fucks for meditation. does he look like a bottom.

Carrie Kelley: sub/vers. i could see Carrie being a switch, depending on who she's with. but mostly she just likes to give and serve her partner, giving them control. she wouldn't mind spicing it up in the bedroom every now and then tho.

Helena Wayne: this can depend heavily on the version of Helena Wayne, but i'm going to go broad and say dom/vers. most versions of Helena very much have dom energy, *especially* New-52 and JSA (2022). she 100% enjoys a "fight for dominance" type sparring match to decide who gets to dom, except she literally always wins bc she will play dirty.

#necrotic answerings #batcest #nsft #note: if i didn't include someone it's not bc i forgot them #it's bc i genuinely don't know enough to have an opinion on them #but you gotta give me credit i think i got most of 'em #i will defend my position as representative of underrated batfam members #esp in the batcest scene.#most of these opinions i can go into more depth about #esp the ones who are my faves like tim or jean-paul or helena b or bette or claire #largely i don't hold too tightly onto any of these headcanons #bc like i said the fun of fanfic is getting to play with them like barbies #so sometimes they top sometimes they bottom #and sometimes it depends entirely on the ship yk #i'm gonna be so mad if I realize i forgot like a rlly obvious character in my attempt to remember the niche oens #i do that someitmes.

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scrollonso · 21 days ago

Text

Angel — Pierresteban (+ Kika)

Pierre has dreamed of this moment for a long time now, if he’s honest with himself.

He’s had a thing for Esteban for as long as he can remember, and they’d had brief encounters here and there when they were younger and single and just reckless enough to mess around with a coworker and close friend without worrying about all the ways it could backfire. But those moments were fleeting, far too rare to ever truly satisfy Pierre — if he could even be satisfied at all.

He’s greedy, and he knows it.

He’s with Kika now, and he’s happy. Absolutely head-over-heels for her, and their love life — and sex life — leaves him wanting for nothing. But, damn, Esteban is hard to ignore.

Especially lately.

Esteban was attractive back in the day, sure. The shaggy hair and lean build, the boundless energy, and his unfailing patience with Pierre, even when he was being difficult, were undeniably appealing. But now, Esteban’s matured into stronger, more masculine features, adopting a polished, well-kept look — even at his most laid-back — and a broad-shouldered build that makes even Pierre feel small. His kindness, however, hasn’t changed. If anything, as they’ve grown closer over the years, Esteban’s tolerance for him has shifted into open affection; especially since Pierre’s softened a bit himself, no longer hiding behind snarky remarks and finally accepting the care and appreciation Esteban offers him — albeit a little reluctantly.

So yes, he’s very much greedy, and he knows it. But he thinks it’s justified when Esteban looks like that. When Pierre remembers just how good he was in bed, how attuned he was to Pierre’s body, and how he could say exactly the right words to make him lose control. He misses it. Misses being held down, told what to do, misses the thrill of it all.

That’s why he brought it up to Kika, after a lot of careful thought and some very cautious phrasing, so she wouldn’t get the wrong idea or think he was hiding his true self or using her as a cover.

No, Pierre isn’t gay. Bisexual, yes, proudly so, but not gay.

And, no, Kika isn’t a cover for anything. He loves her more deeply than he’s loved anyone in his life.

Whatever. He’d unpack all those feelings later. For now, he just needed to tell Kika that maybe he wanted to open things up a bit more, take their relationship a step beyond the bedroom.

Preferably not while he’s on all fours, as bare as the day he was born, waiting for Kika to do something.

“God, we should’ve done this sooner,” Kika says. Pierre can’t see her, of course, but he feels the warmth of her breath fanning over the back of his bare thigh. “You’re a sight to behold like this.”

Kika’s fingers start grazing the backs of his thighs with delicate, teasing touches that make him buck his hips back, trying to get more��more pressure, more heat, more anything—but she’s quick to step back entirely, a small, derisive sound escaping her throat to remind him he’s already getting ahead of himself.

There’s a natural confidence in the way Kika takes charge that’s always left Pierre a little awestruck. He should’ve brought this up ages ago — his desire to be dominated and put in his place every now and then. It would’ve saved him plenty of rushed, unfulfilling sessions in the shower, biting his fist to keep from making too much noise.

So when she finally places her hands on his ass, kneading at the flesh the same way he often does to her, his legs nearly give out.

“Might have to fuck you myself sometime soon. Not fair that Esteban gets to have you like this and I don’t.” The pout in her voice is one Pierre knows well — the one she uses when she’s aiming to get the upper hand, as if she doesn’t already always have it. The fact that she’s using it now, when he’s given himself over entirely to her, borders on absurd.

"You like it when I use my strap on you, don’t you?” Pierre moans in response, any hope of articulate speech long gone, and Kika takes his sounds as the affirmation they’re meant to be. “Hm. Maybe next time, I’ll make you fuck me with a dildo inside you. Can’t let you have all the fun, you’ll end up spoiled.” Her fingers start tracing his spine, her perfectly manicured nails drawing shivers down his back.

“Yes. Yesyesyes. Whatever— whatever you want, just— yes. Please, yes.”

“God,” Kika chuckles, breathless and a bit amazed, but Pierre couldn’t care less that she’s seeing just how needy he is. She’d better get used to it anyway. And quickly, considering Esteban’s due to join them soon.

Kika takes a moment to collect herself after hearing the full force of Pierre’s begging, her hands wandering over his back, pressing down just enough to tease him further. He wants nothing more than to be pinned into the mattress, held in place so he has no choice but to take what she gives him. But when she’s ready, she lets him know by dragging her nails down his back a little harder, and Pierre can only wonder why he hadn’t thought to ask her for this sooner.

Her hands slide around his waist, fingers pressing into his skin, nails leaving small indents that make him grip the pillow under his head even tighter.

“I see why Esteban didn’t hesitate to say yes,” she murmurs. “You’re so pretty like this, I don’t know how he’s gone all these years without having you bent over for him.”

Pierre, spurred on by her words and by all the teasing she’s put him through since they’d talked with Esteban weeks ago, tries to grind down against the sheets.

But Kika is quick to pull him up by his hips, delivering a slap to his thigh that leaves a lingering sting and a sharp echo in the room.

It’s the first time Kika’s done anything like this, and if Pierre were a simpler man — or just a bit more desperate — he’d probably come from that alone.

But he’s got a little more pride than that; a decade’s worth of experience being roughed up — properly roughed up — has taught him restraint.

Still, he can feel himself already leaking, and the whimper that escapes him as the sting fades into a warm burn is shameful in a way that only makes him ache even more.

“God, Pierre. I knew you were a slut but a pain-slut? That’s extreme even for you.”

She gives him only a second of reprieve before she brings her open palm down on his asscheek this time, her free hand already at his hip so he doesn’t even think about sinking down onto the bed. Pierre's breath hitches in his throat and he bites down on his lip from the surprise, tasting blood almost immediately.

“Kika,” Pierre says, voice already hoarse.

“What is it, baby?” there’s an abrupt shift in her tone, worry seeping through it loud and clear. “Want me to stop? Slow down?”

“No, no, please don’ stop, I just— Do that again, please.”

Kika doesn’t answer, not really, just hums in acknowledgment and waits a second before striking him again, a little more forcefully so Pierre knows she has committed to giving him what he wants. Pierre can only whine, biting his already abused lip harshly, because he is a painslut.

Kika presses a light kiss over the offended skin and steps away, the empty air behind Pierre immediately feels colder and he whines, high and needy, to try and get her back near him.

She’s standing next to the bed now. Pierre knows, not because he can see her since his face is half-pressed against the pillow and his eyes are clenched shut, but because she’s running her fingers through his hair as a reassurance.

He doesn’t have to see her to know what she’s doing, either. The sound of their nightstand drawers as they open and close is something Pierre could recognize in his sleep, much like its meaning. So he’s not surprised when he hears Kika uncap the bottle of lube or when he feels the cold drag of the metal plug as she traces the outside of his thigh with it.

This is familiar territory for both of them.

One of the first things Pierre had asked for when their relationship was in its earlier stages and he was starting to feel the restlessness of wanting more was for her to finger him. She’d taken it in stride, as she did with everything else Pierre asked for. He is really fucking lucky to have her.

The first time they tried it at all it’d taken a lot of instruction from Pierre. A lot of “Hold on," and, “Alright move,” and, “Curl your fingers right there,” until Kika muttered a comment about it not being much different from fingering a girl which prompted Pierre to raise a brow in an unspoken question Kika managed to avoid answering by hitting his prostate just right and making him forget all about it.

The first time they used a plug came only a little after that.

Because, although getting fingerfucked by his girlfriend was something straight out of his fantasies, Pierre always found the lingering sensations from it to be yet another tease about something he couldn’t have; not without a lot of conversations, ones he hadn’t felt prepared for yet.

They didn’t even have to buy the plug. Pierre had it stored away with some other toys Kika had eyed with glee when he showed her his little collection. It's always been his favorite thing. A heavy, stainless steel plug that managed to keep him floaty and grounded at the same time with how full it made him feel. It’d been Este's favorite thing too, back in the day. He loved to plug Pierre right after coming inside him, and Pierre was never one to say no to a good deal. Kika, too, took a great liking to it, openly declaring to him how amazed she was that he could take so much, how he was such a good boy for it.

However, it was the first time she was going to be doing all of this when he was in such an obscene position when he knew what would come later.

It was hotter, too, because of that.

Kika starts like she always does, with soft touches all over his ass and just toying with him further. Pierre shoves his hips back towards her, moaning loudly when his naked skin meets the rough fabric of her jeans.

Kika isn’t happy at his antics and she lets him know by smacking him on the side of his thigh, harsh and unforgiving, before stepping away from him once more. Pierre feels like he’s about to cry with how much he wants and how little he’s being given. Kika sighs, much like she does when Simba makes a mess she’ll have to clean up, and lets him just wallow for a moment without saying anything.

“If you’re so hellbent on getting what you want then you probably don’t even want my help, do you?”

Pierre is about to respond, to plead with her, really, not to stop touching him — that he’ll take whatever she wants to give, even if it’s just incendiary touches and nothing else. But Kika is already grabbing one of his wrists, pulling it away from the pillow he’s been white-knuckling for a while, and covering his fingers messily in lube.

“Go on, then. If you want to be full so badly that you can’t even wait for me to do it, you should open yourself, baby.”

She drops his hand over his ass, and it falls like dead weight, Pierre too boneless to exert any control over his limbs.

“Go ahead and make it interesting for me, since you and Esteban are having all the fun tonight.”

The reminder of what’s to come pulls him out of his stupor, and he’s rushing to fill himself with his fingers. It takes less than two minutes before he’s got two fingers inside himself, thrusting wildly — he’s never been fond of moderation.

Kika laughs sweetly behind him.

“You’re gonna make yourself come before me or Esteban even get our hands on you. Is that what you want, babe? To be already fucked out and useless when Esteban gets here? Won’t be too fun for him, I bet.”

Pierre tries to shake his head but is still pressed tight against the pillow.

“Maybe he’ll fuck me then, and we’ll just make you watch,” she says conversationally. Pierre whines, somewhere between a protest and a plea. “No? Are you going to be a good boy, then, and wait for Esteban to fuck you? Or are you so needy that you just can’t help yourself, baby?”

It takes Pierre a moment to push past the fog of his arousal, his brain sluggish with want, and it’s only when Kika yanks his hand away and presses it harshly against his lower back that he realizes she’s asked a question.

“Pay attention, babe,” she says softly, but the underlying warning is unmistakable. “Are you gonna behave or not?”

Pierre tries to fight her hold, but his body already feels like jelly, and his thrashing only makes Kika dig her nails into his wrist, making him bite down on his cheek to keep from squealing.

“I’ll be good. I promise. I’ll be so good, please, just let me— I need—”

Kika rewards him with a light slap to his thigh. “I know, babe, I know. I’ll give it to you, yeah? And then Esteban will too, but for that, you need to stop being so needy, okay?”

Pierre nods as best as he can, and thankfully it’s response enough for Kika, who lets go of his hand but stays hovering over him.

“Go on, then. Open yourself for me.”

And he does, to the best of his ability while Kika distracts him with soft touches and murmured praise, the heat of their bodies echoing between them and searing Pierre’s skin. He’s three fingers deep and dangerously close to coming when Kika stops him again. She silences his complaints with tender touches and light kisses pressed between his shoulder blades.

“Good boy, look at you. You’re doing so well for me, baby,” she says. “Gonna get the plug now, okay? Do you still want it?”

Pierre babbles his affirmative, and Kika kisses his shoulder once more before getting up. His thighs are starting to strain, and he’s so hard it hurts, but he wouldn’t change a thing.

Kika sits back on the bed, and Pierre hears the lube uncapping again. He tries to breathe, hoping not to come just from the idea of the plug.

He gets no warning before Kika presses the cold metal against his hole. This time, when Pierre tries to rut against the mattress, Kika doesn’t stop him.

She has her fun, fucking him slowly with the plug, letting it get to the widest part before taking it back, only to do it all over again. Pierre isn’t sure he can handle much more; he’s already so spaced out, and Esteban hasn’t even arrived yet.

“Kik—Kika, ‘m gonna—”

“No, you’re not,” she says dismissively, finally pushing all of the plug in and immediately stepping away.

Pierre could cry.

“Stay still now, babe,” Kika commands. “I’ll go get Esteban, yeah?” She doesn’t wait for his response before she leaves.

Kika, damn her, knows exactly what he likes and where his limits lie. This whole “stay just like that while I go do something else” shtick is one he’s well accustomed to. It’s a test of his obedience and a tease for his exhibitionist side.

And he’s never failed a test of obedience before — not unless he did it on purpose, that is. So, he stays mostly still, shifting a little on his knees to get more comfortable and rolling his head on the pillow so he can press his forehead against it.

Waiting isn’t hard. He’s been waiting for years.

Pierre only knows Esteban has stepped into the room because of his familiar giggle.

He and Kika exchange pleasantries, and Pierre knows, from Esteban’s tone and Kika’s barely concealed laughter, that it’s only to mess with him. He’s so focused on not moving an inch that he doesn’t notice Esteban next to him until his hand maps out his back. Pierre keens at the sudden touch, and Esteban shushes at him.

“It’s alright, mon ange, it’s alright,” he says, “I’m right here. Gonna give you what you want, yeah?”

“Please, oh, please, I’ve been good, I’ve been so good, please—”

“Oh, really?” Esteban says, his hand stopping right at his nape. “That true, Kika?”

“A bit needy but yeah. I’ve seen him do worse.”

“He’s probably just excited. Right, doll?”

Pierre wants to tell him — both of them, really — that he’s been waiting for fucking years for this, but all he can manage is another choked moan that gets a laugh out of Esteban.

“Use your words, baby, c’mon,” he says, and Pierre realizes the one thing he didn’t miss about Esteban was that fucking phrase. “Tell me how badly you want me,” he adds, a little lower.

“Want you so bad, Esteban, please, please, s'il vous plaît—” he starts babbling, but Esteban just tuts unappreciatively.

“Didn’t ask you to beg, honey. Y’know I don’t like it when you’re a slut, yeah?”

“Sorry, ‘m sorry.”

Esteban chuckles, “That’s not good enough, doll. D’you remember how we show we’re sorry?”

And, oh, he does remember. But the apology Esteban is demanding from him is not something he ever thought Kika would see. Sure, he knew he’d get fucked in front of her — that was most of the appeal — but for Esteban to ask this of him…

“Yes, sir.”

Esteban’s hand leaves his nape and leaves him untethered. He has a second to ponder on what he should do next before Esteban solves that for him, saying, “knees.”

It’s a well-practiced command. One of the many single-word instructions that made up most of their vocabulary back in the day; when there wasn’t enough time for proper dirty talk and details. Pierre remembers every single time Esteban dragged him into a dressing room or a bathroom or a supply closet and said the exact same word. Knees. Pierre doesn’t dwell on how the timber of it has changed, doesn’t have time when he has to regain control over his muscles and shove himself off the bed, landing in front of Esteban on his knees, his eyes fixated on Esteban’s boots — just how Esteban likes it.

He regrets his carelessness when his knees hit and drag on the carpet floor, knowing he’s going to be feeling the pain for weeks on end, but he thinks the burn of them is worth it when Esteban pets his hair soothingly.

“You ever have him like this, Kika?” Esteban asks. Kika doesn’t say anything, but she must shake her head because Esteban continues, “Shame. I think you’d like it. He’s so pretty on his knees.” Pierre keens. “C’mere.”

Kika’s heels appear right behind Esteban’s boots.

The next command he gets isn’t spoken. Esteban only has to tap the base of his jaw for Pierre to look up.

The image of both Esteban and Kika towering over him, Esteban smiling softly and Kika looking intrigued, is one he burns into his memory.

“Hi, mon ange,” Esteban murmurs softly, “Fucking missed you.”

And then Esteban’s bending down, his hands cradling Pierre’s face, guiding him into a kiss that feels years overdue. He lets himself be kissed, his own hands coming up to hold Esteban’s wrists in an attempt to stabilize himself.

Esteban’s kisses, if possible, are better than Pierre remembers. So easy to sink into. So good he’d be content with just this — Esteban’s lips on his, kissing him like it’s his life purpose — and nothing else, tonight and forever.

“Really fucking missed you,” Esteban muses a little breathlessly when they part.

Pierre can’t take the adoring look on Esteban’s face for too long. It sets him alight in a gentle fire that feels placeless in this scenario and makes him restless for another thing he can’t have — not yet anyway. So, he looks past Esteban’s shoulder to see Kika already looking at him, equally as fond as Esteban, but the affection doesn’t feel as uncharted when it’s written over her face.

Whatever he did in a past life to earn himself this pair, he doesn’t know, but he’s incredibly grateful for it.

Esteban is the one to snap him out of his trance, turning Pierre’s face so their eyes meet again.

“Look at me, doll. Don’t go getting distracted now,” he says, his fingers digging into the permanent baby fat in Pierre’s cheeks.

“Sorry, sir.”

“Second time you’ve said that today and I only just got here, mon ange. Is that how you’re gonna be all night? Messing up at every turn? Another sorry, sir every five seconds?” Esteban has a talent for sounding demeaning while keeping his voice soft and low. It makes Pierre whimper with how overtaken he is by the need to do better, be better for him.

He tries to shake his head but Esteban’s grip on his jaw tightens, and he can’t do much more than whine another, “Sorry, sir. ‘m sorry, I’ll be better, please,” that makes Esteban scoff and let go of him again.

Pierre falls forward, his hands land on Esteban’s hips, and he looks up pleadingly. Esteban doesn’t even extend the courtesy of meeting his eyes, looking back at Kika over his shoulder.

“I swear he didn’t use to be like this,” he says, like Pierre is just a restless pet.

“He forgets his place sometimes,” Kika says with a sigh. Esteban tilts his head in understanding and looks back at him. Pierre’s grip on his hips tightens a bit, trying to express the plea that he knows Esteban won’t want to hear.

“He better learn quickly, then,” Esteban says. “Belt. Be quick about it.”

Pierre fumbles, his unsteady hands not making the process of taking the belt off of Esteban any easier. Esteban throws his head back, groaning theatrically.

“You’d think he’d be faster with how eager he is,” he says to Kika. Pierre pouts, still fighting a war against the belt loops that seem to be conspiring against him.

“Not all sluts are good sluts, Esteban,” Kika says, making Esteban chuckle.

Pierre finally gets the belt off. He folds it haphazardly and offers it to Esteban with both his hands. Esteban’s looking at him unimpressed. “So you can follow instructions. Good.” Pierre doesn’t quite know what to do with himself, stuck between loving the dismissive edge to Esteban’s voice and chasing after whatever praise he can get. “Go on, you know what to do.”

Pierre nods, his hands going back to fumbling with the button and zipper of Esteban's pants, vaguely registering how the leather belt is tracing the skin on his shoulders. It’s making him shudder, making his job clumsier all the while. It’s a ploy he knows well; Esteban will give him an instruction and then try to distract him from it — genius in a very evil way.

“You know, Kika?” Esteban says. Kika hums, but it sounds further than before. “I’ve always thought he’d look pretty with a collar. What do you think?” Pierre is just about done with his job when Esteban taps the underside of his chin again. He’s barely lifted his eyes to meet Esteban’s when the belt is wrapped loosely around his neck; Esteban fastens it so the excess hangs from his hand.

“I can see the appeal,” Kika says, sounding disinterested as ever. “Maybe one with a dog tag and a leash.”

Esteban chuckles at that. “He’s already our bitch. Might as well make him look the part.”

“Please,” Pierre whimpers.

“Yeah?” Esteban pulls on the leather around his neck, bringing Pierre closer. “C’mon, finish the job that you started.”

Pierre quickly pushes Esteban’s pants down and pulls his dick out, his mouth watering at the sight. He sticks his tongue out and leans forward a little, showing Esteban he's ready and looking up at him for approval.

"Go on," Esteban encourages, "show us you can be a good boy."

Pierre submits to his control easily, allowing Esteban to lead his mouth onto his cock. The weight of Esteban’s dick in his mouth is yet another thing he missed, and he shows his appreciation for it by pulling out all his old tricks — the ones that helped rush their clandestine meetings along.

“That’s good,” Esteban says, his voice smooth and patronizing. Esteban’s praise, though laced with mockery, is more than welcome. Sadly, he doesn’t get to properly cherish it before Esteban gives his next command. “Enough. Stay.”

Pierre stops moving, Esteban’s cock halfway in his mouth. He drops his hands, holding them behind his back without waiting for Esteban’s instruction. He lets his eyes flutter closed, diverting all his focus to keeping as still as possible and being mindful of his breathing and how he’s starting to drool around Esteban’s dick.

It almost feels like a gift. Getting to sit there just holding Esteban's cock in his mouth, finally able to relish it properly now that there's no rush or threat of anyone walking in on them. Pierre pushes away the thought that maybe he's always been a little too into Esteban, and how he's already missing this even as he's right in the midst of it.

A pair of hands on his shoulders do away with those thoughts, though. He can tell it’s Kika by the softness of her palms, meeting at the base of his neck. She takes the belt that's still wrapped around his neck and pulls back toward her, eliciting a whine out of Pierre, making him squirm under the pull of the makeshift collar and the urge to stay still to please Esteban.

“So you just have him sit with your dick in his mouth?” Kika asks.

Esteban nods, carding his fingers through Pierre's hair. “He's an overeager little thing. Kept stepping out of line and saying sorry. Until I got tired of sorry and told him to put his mouth to better use. But then, since he loves sucking cock so much, I thought he could just sit there and take it for a bit, learn a thing or two about patience.”

Esteban forms a fist with his fingers tangled in Pierre’s hair, pulling on his scalp just enough to make it sting. “And it seems he has learned. You’ve done so well for us, pet. I think it’s time you get taken care of. What do you think, Kika?” Pierre whines around Esteban as Kika hums noncommittally.

Pierre's eagerness, if possible, burns even harder within him.

Kika delivers his next instruction, far more polite than Esteban, “On the bed, babe,” with another tug on the belt.

Pierre's dizzy with want and excitement, and he jumps to kneel on the bed before Kika's even done telling him to. He’s confused and a little saddened when only Esteban is with him on the bed, Kika sitting a couple of feet away from them on the chair he had brought up earlier for this exact purpose. He’d been enjoying Kika and Esteban’s teamwork so much, the mixing and mingling of their voices and touches, that he’d forgotten Kika is here only to watch him get fucked.

He’s about to bring out the pout and start begging when Esteban's hands start lighting fire across his skin again.

“Sir, please.”

Esteban’s hands are all over him, running over his back and sides, caressing his stomach but avoiding Pierre’s hard dick. Esteban tuts derisively when Pierre shoves his hips forward, trying to get some contact.

“Thought you were going to be a good boy for me.” Esteban places his hand on the middle of Pierre’s back, his fingers light as they tickle over his skin.

Pierre nods again, ever desperate to please. “I’ve been so good, sir, please. I’ve done everything you’ve asked.”

“Suppose we can’t expect much from a slut like you,” Esteban muses, his hand trailing down Pierre’s back, slipping between his cheeks and pressing on the end of the plug. Pierre holds back a whimper, biting on his lip, clenching his hands. He wants to beg for more but he also wants to behave; he has to be good for Esteban to get what he wants. Esteban plays with the plug some more, pulling on the end and teasing him with it before letting it slip back inside Pierre.

“Why are you so quiet all of a sudden, doll? I want to hear you.” Esteban reaches a hand around Pierre’s torso to grab his dick, jerking him off steadily. Pierre cries out loudly, hanging his head, his arms shaking to hold him up. It's very little but it's also too much. The onslaught of sensation after coasting by only on light touches, mixed with the still rising anticipation, is enough to have him on the edge in seconds.

“Fuck. Fuck, I’m going to come, sir, please.”

Esteban chuckles a bit, “You’re not allowed to come until Kika says you can.”

Pierre can’t tell what Kika’s response is, too lost in the pleasure washing over him. He’s started fucking forward into Esteban’s hand, too far gone to stop, small pained sounds falling uninhibited from his mouth.

“You’re so good to me, Este baby, I feel so good, please just, fuck—“ He tries to move away from Esteban's hand, feeling his orgasm coil in the bottom of his stomach, closing his eyes as the heat threatens to take him over. “Kika please, let me— fuck, Esteban. I—“

Pierre cries out again, and just before he feels he is going to come he hears, “Go on, babe,” and then he’s releasing all over Esteban’s hand and the bed below him, pained sounds falling from his mouth when Esteban’s hand continues to move over his sensitive dick. He squirms to move out of his grasp but Esteban doesn’t let him, holding him tighter.

“It’s— huh— it’s too much. Fuck.”

Esteban's response is a dangerous thing, whispered right next to his ear. “Oh, I’m not done with you yet, doll. Gonna fuck another out of you. D'you want that? Want to sit on my dick and ride me? Show Kika how pretty you are when taking my dick? I bet you look great stuffed full and with your thighs shaking. Imagine the sounds you’ll make, what a pretty show you'll be for Kika."

And Pierre is making more of those sounds now, cut-off whines, choked by the next sound rising from his throat. Esteban presses a kiss to the side of his neck.

“Let’s give you a little break, yeah?” Esteban says, taking his hands off Pierre. There is another pair of hands on him, cool to Pierre’s hot skin, tucking against his waist and rolling him onto his back. Pierre smiles up at Kika when he falls back into the pillows, closing his eyes when she pets his cheek.

“Do you need anything, babe? Some water maybe?” she asks.

Pierre loves that she's checking in on him. It’s the perfect balance to being roughed up by Esteban.

He shakes his head, gently grabbing her wrist and kissing the palm of her hand before turning to look at Esteban who is still partially dressed, his hands pushing his pants down the rest of the way. Pierre licks his lips, eager for what’s going to come next, shifting a little on the bed to feel the plug inside him. Kika’s hand leaves his face, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze before moving away.

Pierre watches as Esteban unbuttons his shirt, slipping it off his shoulders, glancing up at him. He looks almost shy when their eyes meet, some of his dominant persona fading away. Esteban had always been gentle with Pierre afterward, kissing him softly, offering quiet reassurance before they had to leave each other, always making sure Pierre knew he was cared for.

Once Esteban has fully undressed, he climbs up on the bed beside Pierre and cups his jaw with one hand, pulling their lips together. Pierre melts against him, pressing his hands against his chest and waist, elated to have Esteban again after so long.

They linger like that for a while, kissing mindlessly, simply for the sake of kissing and basking in each other’s presence.

It’s both everything Pierre had missed and something entirely new. It’s Esteban, yes, but in a way Pierre had never really had the chance to experience. It’s Esteban giggling into their kiss and tracing his skin, pulling him closer even when their fronts are already molded to each other.

Pierre lets himself sink into it all: the featherlight touches, Esteban’s rushed breathing, and the slide of their lips together. He only realizes he’s been grinding his hips against Esteban’s own when his movements are halted almost forcefully.

Esteban pulls back, and Pierre can see in his face, even before he speaks, that they’re back on track. “I want you to ride me, doll. Do you think you can do that?” he asks, looking for assurance in Pierre’s eyes.

“Yes, yeah, I wanna,” Pierre responds, breathless and eager, his words running into each other with how quickly he's trying to get them out.

Esteban smiles and kisses him again briefly, moving away to settle against the headboard. “Come on, on my lap.” He beckons him with a pat to his thigh, like you would a pet, and Pierre flushes as he crawls towards him.

Esteban stops him. “Ah, aren’t you forgetting something?”

Pierre whines, confused, stopping just shy of Esteban’s lap. He hates this little guessing game Esteban plays sometimes, preferring clear instructions. It’s cruel of him to make Pierre focus on anything other than getting what he needs, while looking pretty for Kika.

Esteban smiles and pets Pierre’s cheek lovingly, but when he speaks, it edges on mocking. “You’ve gotta take that plug out, baby.”

Pierre nods and leans in for another kiss, wanting reassurance. Esteban obliges briefly before guiding Pierre’s hand back, smoothing it over the curve of his backside. Pierre tries to balance himself with one hand on the mattress as he pulls out the plug, biting his lip as he pants, doing his best to follow instructions, even though the bed feels like water beneath him.

“Good job,” Esteban’s voice grows distant, almost disinterested, making Pierre shudder, caught between wanting to earn back his attention or protesting.

“Turn around for me, doll. There you go.” Esteban helps him turn, maneuvering him a bit onto his knees, his legs straddling Esteban’s thighs. “Yeah, facing Kika, just like that. Wouldn’t want her to miss out on how pretty you look.”

Pierre glances at Kika now, pristine as always, sitting at the foot of the bed, legs crossed as she watches intently. Her steady gaze makes Pierre blush a deep red, turning his head instinctively.

Esteban pulls him back, their hips meeting as Pierre whimpers from the contact, reveling in the warmth of Esteban against his bare skin. Esteban’s hands start at his hips, holding him close, then travel up his sides, exploring his skin. Pierre squirms as one hand teases his nipple while the other strokes the sensitive skin inside his thigh. Esteban hasn’t forgotten any of his weak spots.

Pierre glances at Kika again. Her intense gaze amplifies everything he’s feeling; if Esteban doesn’t take him soon, he might lose himself from the teasing alone.

“Sir— let me, please,” Pierre begs, almost delirious, needing more. He tries to stay focused — this is his chance to prove himself, to both of them, he can’t let himself falter now.

“Already falling apart, and we haven’t even started yet,” Esteban murmurs against his shoulder, his smile pressing into Pierre’s skin.

“Please.” Pierre’s voice sounds desperate even to his own ears, and he looks away from Kika’s face as he sees her smirk at his vulnerability.

“Alright, mon ange, we’re going to give you what you need.” Esteban tugs him gently, guiding him. “Sit up for me? There we go, good pet.” He helps Pierre position himself so he’s hovering just above him, and Pierre bites down on his lip when he feels Esteban’s readiness pressing against him.

Pierre sinks down slowly, bracing his hands on Esteban's thighs as he does, shuddering and hanging his head when he bottoms out. He leans back against Esteban slightly and moans at the stretch. It’s not that he hasn’t had a dick in his ass in years; it's that he hasn't had Esteban's dick inside him in years. It still feels as perfect as the first time. Esteban has always filled him up so well, right on the verge of being too much, making him feel proud of himself for being able to take it so well.

Esteban grabs Pierre’s jaw, his fingers pressing into his cheeks as he brings his line of sight back to Kika. Pierre keens at the suddenness of the motion. “I want you to look at Kika while you ride me, think you can do that?” Pierre nods his assent as best as he can with Esteban’s hand gripping his jaw while he shifts back, already trying to fuck himself.

Esteban holds him steady, his lips pressed behind Pierre's ear. “Alright, mon ange, show me you can be a good boy. Fuck yourself on my dick for us.”

It’s a crude show, he thinks, to see him chase his own pleasure so brazenly; the way he can’t find a grip on himself or anything around him, holding onto Esteban’s arm like it’d bring him any balance. He’s never been too careful with sex, always overeager and doing his best to fulfill his cravings.

This is no exception. Pierre sets a frantic pace from the get-go, bouncing eagerly on Esteban's cock, trying to make up for the years of having this need remain unsatisfied.

That was mistake number one. It doesn’t take long before his thighs are straining, and he’s falling forward, barely staying upright. He's too into this, enjoys the feeling of being fucked far too much to try to please anyone but himself. Greed is his fatal flaw, and Esteban doesn’t hesitate to point it out.

“Come on, if you’re gonna be a greedy bitch—" he doesn’t even sound winded as he speaks, "—I think you can do better than that,” Esteban chastises, and Pierre shakes his head, his eyes teary as he rocks himself down, gasping when Esteban grabs his hips and holds him there, his hold punishing when Pierre tries to grind back against him.

“What? You’re tired already? How disappointing. You get so weak for a dick in your ass that you can’t even show Kika how well you take it. What should we do about that then? Hm?"

Pierre really hates the constant questioning. Maybe next time he’ll ask to be gagged, see if that keeps Esteban's conversation at bay. He's here to get fucked, not to be quizzed on how he wants to get fucked. He tries to convey his frustration by shifting his hips some more, letting Esteban know that he doesn't care how; he just wants him.

It does the trick well enough, though Esteban sighs like he’s tired of him.

“Wanna get fucked so bad but you won't even work for it. Spoiled fucking slut is what you are,” one of Esteban’s hands lands between Pierre’s shoulder blades and pushes him down until his face is smushed against the mattress. The change in angle pushes Esteban's cock further inside him, and Pierre keens at the feeling, squirming under Esteban, who's kneeling, tall and proud, behind him. “Can you tell Kika how you feel while I fuck you, or will that be too hard for you, too?” Esteban doesn’t seem to be actually waiting for a response if the way he continues to manhandle him is anything to go by.

Pierre feels like things are starting to fall back into place, though he’s not entirely sure when anything went missing at all. Still, there's something just beyond his reach, close enough that he can taste it, right behind his teeth, but he can't sink his hands into it. Esteban is giving him everything he’s wanted — or everything he thought he wanted. And it's good. Amazing, even. It's bringing him to the edge of delirium, but he can't help but still crave for more.

Maybe if he could have this more often. Maybe if he didn’t have to miss it. Maybe if he could always have it. Maybe if Esteban wasn’t a novelty brought into his and Kika's bedroom for a couple of hours, only to leave again. Maybe if Esteban was a permanent fixture in their life. Maybe then he’d be satiated.

Esteban lifts his hips a little higher and starts to fuck him hard, driving his hips against his own with vigor; it’s all Pierre’s wanted for years now. He's white-knuckling the sheets, letting Esteban do whatever he wants to him, not caring to hide the pathetic sounds that are getting punched out of him with every thrust, sounds that lie somewhere between moans and cries.

Both Kika and Esteban stay quiet, and the backdrop of silence it creates makes the lewd noises E

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