Gates Of Dawn,  Herbert James Draper, 1900

I disagree. Ghost holds hands when he is eating you put to.stop you from squirming so much

A/N: Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader. Oral. Wet stuff.

Outside of their “moments,” Ghost won’t touch her unless he has to. He maintains a professional distance, and a part of her longs to stake her claim. Hold his damn hand, so the team understands how he gets on his knees for her or allows her to ride him.

He’s a legend to them. A myth. The lone wolf whose kill count is in the thousands. 

How many?

I don’t count ‘em. 

Oh?

I don’t lose sleep if that’s what you’re asking. 

They needle her, poke fun because she’s a woman, and it’s just so damn easy. Ghost never does, though. Ghost treats her like he treats everyone else with cool, stoic regard. 

Except when he fucks her. There’s that. 

***

It’s an uneventful night. The rest of the team is playing poker around a plastic card table. There’s smoke in the air from cheap cigars. Whiskey that’s sticking to her throat as she downs it. She leans against the doorway; arms crossed firmly over her chest. She should go to sleep. 

“Duchess.”

There he is. That voice matches the cigar smoke. It’s thick and impenetrable, and it licks up her spine. She feels his broad chest against her back, the heat of his bulk, and she wants the others to turn around and see. Sure it would appear like their lieutenant is simply chatting with her, but if they looked closely, they’d see...

He lowers his head so that his breath grazes her ear. “Needy, are we?”

She bites her lip, shutting her eyes. “No.”

“You may not believe I watch you, but I do.” If possible, his voice becomes even lower, dragging over gravel and full of suggestion. “Think about the sounds you make when I got my tongue inside you.”

She shudders, thighs squeezing together. Ghost’s pelvis shifts against her ass, and she restrains herself from leaning into his massive warmth. 

“It’s bloody distracting,” he exhales. “Tryin’ to give orders when all I can see is that wet little cunt in front of my face.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

“They don’t see how I look at you,” he continues. “But that’s because it’s mine. What we do...what we have...that’s all mine, darling.”

She buries her nails into her forearm until it hurts. She glances at him over her shoulder, and he’s staring straight ahead like he hasn’t just confessed some intimate truth. He’s so close she can see his blonde lashes, his deep sea eyes. They flicker toward her. “Ghost,” she murmurs. 

***

“Simon,” she moans, hips rolling against his face. He’s shoved his mask above his nose as he blows cool air against her cunt. He parts her folds and nudges his thumb against her swollen nub as she clenches down on nothing. His touch is practiced as he strokes and teases her cunt. He slips his fingers inside her before removing them. 

“Duchess,” he replies flatly, a flash of amusement like he enjoys wrecking her with as few gestures as possible. He holds her thighs open before he lowers his mouth and slides the flat of his tongue against the seam of her sex. She jerks, her foot knocking into the hard muscle of his torso.

“Easy, now,” he croons. “Stay still so I can eat you the way I like, yeah?” One broad palm slaps gently against her inner thigh and pins it to the mattress. He sinks back down and buries his face into her pussy, lapping and sucking with a deliberate rhythm. He feasts, switching between his tongue and fingers. He crooks them inside her, thrusts in time with the soft sucks on her clit. There are the wet noises of her pussy contracting around him. Ghost’s rumbling sounds of contentment as he tastes her. 

“Duchess,” he growls when she bucks against his face and potentially breaks his nose against her lower belly. 

“I can’t-I can’t help it,” she pants, and he sighs. It is impossible with the way he’s pulling pleasure from her. She feels like a naked branch in a storm, shivering and snapping against a glass window. Her muscles tense, her thighs twitch, and she can’t find leverage on this shitty cot. 

Finally, she feels warm flesh brush against her knuckles. She glances down as Ghost threads his thick fingers through her own. His hand dwarfs her fist as he pins it to the mattress. It anchors her body and allows her something to hold onto as she straddles the oncoming climax. She’s leaking all over him, slick running down her ass and staining the sheets. It encourages him. His hips grind into the bed, his pupils blown out as he watches her shudder; it feels so good. 

His thumb draws little circles against her hand as if to comfort her through it like this was a challenging task she had to win, an endgame for a mission. Her lungs are screaming - her heart thumps wildly against her ribs as the pleasure builds like smoke in an office fire. 

Tears prick her eyes. She swallows a sob as his stubble scorches her skin, his silky plush lips maneuvering against her cunt like he’s memorized it. Perhaps, he has. He's got a photographic memory, he handles her like he handles every precious weapon in his arsenal.

It’s coming - the pressure inside her core begins to cramp and fold until it slams right up against Ghost’s insistent mouth. 

“I feel it,” he groans as her walls spasm and her pelvis stutters against his chin. He tightens his grip on her hand, his other fingers sliding in and out in an even, lazy drag.

“It’s - fuck - it’s too much,” she whines, and he doubles his pace, prepared to shove her off the damn cliff. 

“You’re a big girl, love,” he coaxes. “You can handle it, yeah? I know how good you are.”

That’s enough. Ghost’s praise that he hardly ever gives to anyone. It shoots her straight between the legs, where her cunt pulses and throbs like a wound. There’s so much pressure before everything is liquid. She feels wet, dripping, and when he rises to his knees, she is all over the lower half of his face.

He grins, straight, white teeth burning in the dark like a star, and she is momentarily stunned. She’s never seen him smile, or his teeth for that matter. She wants to lick them, taste them, and swallow him whole. The corner of his lips twitches like he knows what she’s thinking before he rucks the ski mask back down over his chin that’s gleaming with her slick. 

She sits up abruptly, reaching for him. “You can’t-”

“I can,” he grunts, flipping her onto her side and slapping her thigh. “Get your pretty ass dressed. We’ve got wheels up in thirty.”

cigarettes out the window

A colossal, behemoth of a man, trapped in such a cramped room – he fills the space with brawn and the scent of wet firewood. Fresh rain on camp, sizzling coal that dies with a touch. It trumps the mould that functions as insulation, the dust that gathers on brittle rations – you’re a girl again, roasting honeyed marshmallows.

You run your tongue along your teeth, but all that clings is the bitter taste of smoke.

pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 9.5k summary: stakeouts and cigarettes warnings: cunnilingus, masturbation, tummy bulge, size kink, unprotected p-in-v, nicotine/smoking addiction, reader has a backstory, mentioned alcoholism and illness, self-loathing, anxiety, canon typical violence, light gore, squirting notes: absolute fucking beast of a fic that took me way longer than precedented. no plot, just vibes - listened to the tv girl song of the same name throughout this.

Tendrils of silver-blue smoke dissipate into sour air – a slow, creeping stench. You’d tried opening a window; it hadn’t been enough. Testosterone and mildew clings to this room like a second skin, crusty stubbornness, impossible to scrape even as the sickly yellow wallpaper peels off thin adhesive.

The stakeout wasn’t supposed to last this long.

Laswell had given you two, three days tops. But the sun drowns behind the horizon line, and a dull navy sky blankets over failed reconnaissance once more. Night seven – your gloves are just as much ash as they are cotton. 

A cigarette lays tucked between your forefinger and thumb. An ashtray, one you’d set, packed, glares up at you. Blown glass infracts a kaleidoscope of harsh fluorescents from the signage outside. Motel – warped on a divets edge. It’s empty.

You blink and draw another deep inhale. Your nose ignites with the acridity, tarnished herbs that rage as chemical warfare – a fog that clings to you.

Tar-coated throat, sticky with disappointment. You’d hoped for a blood red eventide, doused in merigold, full-saturation. You should have known better – Sudbury is stuck in perpetual insipidity. The season is verging on spring, yet pewter tones and lurid lighting are all that bloom. 

You’re beginning to rot alongside it; skin wilting, bruised. You never were a peach, but you think you must have held something – some ripeness, plush, primed to sink into. You feel it shrinking now, draining out to feed some ignoble cause. 

Or, perhaps, the tobacco carved it out of you years ago. 

The thought does little to temper your efforts. The stick has burnt to its end, wrinkled, blackened with dying embers. You should stop – throw your lighter out the window and wake Johnny up. It’s his turn for watch.

Instead, you light another.

The buzz is instantaneous, intoxicating. Clean water poured over a blistering wound, relief for a tender moment before the sting boils over to become unbearable. Cyanide; you rely on poison in sheep’s clothing. 

The door creaks open, rusty hinges a non negligible constant in discretion. You don’t have to peer over your shoulder to know; that manufactured energy, of which you pull from a box, triples, snapping bones to contort into something pulsing – genuine. His walks away from this decaying dollhouse are frequent; we all have our cravings. 

You wish he’d hang around more. 

The dank carpet blunts his heavy footfalls. Even then, you can’t miss his size. A colossal, behemoth of a man trapped in such a cramped room – he fills the space with brawn and the scent of wet firewood. Fresh rain on camp, sizzling coal that dies with a touch. It trumps the mould that functions as insulation, the dust that gathers on brittle rations – you’re a girl again, roasting honeyed marshmallows. 

You run your tongue along your teeth, but all that clings is the bitter taste of smoke. 

“He still asleep?” Simon – Ghost, with the hard-shell mask still fit to his face – asks. You take a puff and force your eye to train on the wet concrete outside. Softened cement, muddy puddles pool in potholes to mirror their miserable surroundings. It’s not hard to believe that the sidewalk could collapse in the weight of his presence. A distinct vacuum, all consuming yet contained. 

You wonder if he wears those layers for varied causes. Forked paths; keep out, stay in. 

In the time it takes for his laden stare to leave your back, you’ve blazed through your piece ten times quicker than the last. Crackling nerves brush across your most vulnerable parts, you’re skinned, but you manage to screw the loose bolts in your confidence. 

“Did nothing all day but act like he took a whole squadron on his own.” 

Your chuckle lacks the humour you wish it held. Bone-dry, forced – it doesn’t tend to be that way with him; with his morbid jokes, shared between gunshots and close fatalities. 

Alrigh’. I’ve got another for you, Scout. Husked in your ear, over the channel only used by the two of you.

Hm? You’re crouched on a rooftop, sniper fixed on a potential target talking to a member of the 141. It was snowing in Holland that day, powdered-ice a blanket for your moored elbows. 

What kind of streets do Ghosts haunt? 

Go on then. Spit it out.

The target had pulled a knife out on your operative. 

A dead end. 

His chuckle warmed you enough to pull the trigger with little shake.

Dead ends, dead ends. 

He provides you with a noncommittal grunt that’s lost amidst rustling fabric. Your spine is stiff, reinforced titanium, ice-cold with frigid winds that pull in from the north. You can’t look back if you tried. 

There’s little to discern from his reflection in the grimey window – where Simon starts, where Ghost ends. Deft shapes move between shadows, dressed in all black. There’s the metallic glint of a zipper, dragging down. The white smear of his mask. His shoulder catches dim light; he’s in his combat shirt, long sleeves, fit to tree-trunk arms. That familiar hum in your core returns, singing its pleas. 

You swallow back the urge to continue the conversation, to extend the joke at Johnny’s expense. Instead, you prop your foot up on your seat to rest your chin on the curve of your knee. A boot remains anchored to the ground, keeping you balanced on the broken stool. One leg shorter than the others; it hadn’t been that way when you’d gotten here, but someone had insisted the wooden piece could hold his weight. 

You slide your gaze to the man in question. He’s spread across the small cot in the corner, an arm thrown over his face. He’s rigged, gun in holster, pinky curled in its direction. In a slow wave state, but a soldier still. 

You take turns resting, you and Soap. He says you snore. 

He’s jus’ taking the piss. 

And how wad ye know that, Lt? Ye're never around.

You hid your smile, then. It was a half truth. Ghost doesn’t rest, not here, but he makes a point to take his eight hour shift when you do. 

Ever-present, as fleeting as twilight. You’ll wake every now and then to find him standing by the window (never on the seat.) In your transitional consciousness, you think his body might be slightly angled to you. But chalky stibnite smears over his eyes, and your quiet nightmares flicker like worn film – you can’t tell whether he’s looking at you; whether he stays to have your back or so he can leave when you wake.

“Anything new?” He’s crept up behind you now. A full-bodied voice, it’s muffled canon fire, sliced with that cockney inflection. Does he know his query is command? 

“Feral cats got into a fight.” You settle on something to lessen the blow of his dissatisfaction – syrup, a flavouring agent. Additives to a sharp-pill mission. “Calico attacked that ginger kitten, over there. Mother was furious.” 

If he notices your frantic dodge, he doesn’t comment on it. 

He huffs instead, and places a white plastic bag on the table next to you. In it, styrofoam cartons stacked atop one another, pressed for space. You reel a string of focus to the street outside, still on the job, then scoot a little towards it. In spite of the lack of logo, the contents are unambiguous. A heady aroma, poignantly familiar; shallots, ginger, garlic, chilli. 

Chinese. Your favourite. Yet–

You’re enraptured by sycamore; heavenly ascension into the woody musk of the overbearing body next to yours. He’s close, still standing, hips at eye level. You credit your sudden heat to his permeating warmth, and not the flush that crawls to your cheeks.

No, certainly not heaven. Purgatory – an intermediate condition. You’re waiting on some higher power to tell you what to do; move closer, hold back.

Dead ends. You itch for a third cigarette; should you offer one? You picture pink lips puckered around white paper, a sight for sore eyes. You’d suck the cancer from between his teeth, perched on one thick thigh. 

Atta’ girl. Nice shot, Scout. Hit that one right on the mark. Kandahar, Afghanistan – the mark being a general’s eye.

You’d bathe in the blood of a thousand more men to rehear the feathered praise. It sits, ingrained in the gummy lining of your skull, there to stay until you’re cleft open to the world. It’ll happen one day. 

Atta’ girl, whispered crackle into your ear.

Your heart lurches, beating on the hollow bars of your ribcage. It takes every bit of willpower to combat the reckless abandon that floods through you at the feeling. 

With trembling hands, you take out the top box and ignore the way your elbow brushes the fabric at his crotch. SZC is scribbled on its cover with dried-out ink. Szechuan chicken. 

You refuse to face him when you ask: “How’d you know?” 

He moves to hand you a bottle of flavoured water, wrapped in a large palm. Clementine.

Right.

Jaunty cheers, claps on the back. You’re squeezed between Gaz and Price on one side of a booth, still equipped in full gear. The aftermath of your first assignment with Al Bravo, minimal damage. Your cheek is cut up, but you hardly feel it in the hazy satisfaction. Dim, golden lights. The tabletop is sticky with spilled booze. 

Outlined eyes linger on the site longer than the pain does. You squirm and tell yourself it’s for lack of wiggle room. 

“--and your plans?” Laswell nods, curving attentions to you. She’d been talking about her wife, about returning to a house someone has kept alive. Watered plants, betta fish too. You search for an answer that’ll hold as much significance and come up empty. Your lone fern is long dead by now.

“Order take out. Chinese probably, something spicy. Sick of the protein bars.” 

“Mobile cooks are rare to find.” She chuckles. “but hey, I’ll drink to that.”

You don’t reciprocate, though; she turns to talk to Price in lieu of your frown. Simon’s still on you; hawk-like, scrutiny framed by the dark fabric of another mask. Bulky arms cross over his chest, his shirt folded to his elbows. You’d been surprised to find tattoos, ink shading the entirety of an exposed forearm, folded to the contours of rippling muscle. Missiles, dog tags, barbed wire.

You hope your droopy lashes are enough to hide the way you study him in turn.

Soap, ears tinged pink, beckons the barmaid. “Round o’ beers for the table, lass.” It pulls you from your stupor. 

You wave at her – “Just a LaCroix for me, thanks.” – and bite your lip through the onslaught of objecting groans. It’s your second one, she knows to get you the orange kind.

Gaz: “How d’you ever let loose?” 

Price: “You deserve as much of a break as the rest of us, Scout.” 

You grimace and shake your head until they temper down to bemused grunts. 

Then –

“You don' drink?” 

It’d been a while since he’d spoken. His voice seeps like molasses onto snow. You think of the backyard maple popsicles from girlhood, your mom on the porch, drunk as she watches, uninterested. 

“No,” You chortle. “Dangerous when I’m loose lipped.”

He’s spread across the ratty couch you’ve never bothered using – diagonal to you – legs parted with both feet on the ground. You look anywhere but the space between his knees. 

“Don’t understand why we’re still here.” Capsaicin blazes up your tongue, vengeful in the fresh bout of air as you speak. Your stomach weighs heavier, cushioned in the swell of your gut, twinging uncomfortably – not for lack of space. Uncertainty; it looms like a mushroom cloud, the devastating fallouts of nuclear strife. You can’t imagine the Lieutenant a perverse man. Yet, to be eating alone like this–

“Chicken?” You offer, tipping your box with the prods of your chopsticks.

He cocks his head to the side, pupils trained on your conciliatory expression.

“More of a sesame guy, myself.” 

Of course. Sesame; honeyed, cloying.

Las Almas – Graves’ betrayal too deep a wound to do anything but smoke as you wait for Soap to find his way back to you. Rendezvous at the church. 

I’d murder for a whiskey. 

You mean scotch? 

I drink bourbon.

You’d giggled into the collar of your coat. Ghost’s tense leg tips towards yours, bumping knees. 

Got a sweet tooth, Lt? Hummed for only him to hear.

Problem, Scout? 

Negative, sir. 

He’d taken your cigarette and extinguished it on a decorative cross, half-moon stare fixed on you as he did. 

Simon’s one for caramelised spice, smooth sugar on the senses. Johnny had been shocked – like a good ol’ boy – but you thought it fit, oddly. This life means constant calamity, precipitous wrecking balls to unsteady foundations you try to rebuild. Bones, flesh – they shatter and rip and leave you with nothing but sand-grain memories that slip like water. 

It’s hard to indulge in something so fragile. Heedless, stupid. 

There are constants assured to never waver; you all have your vices.

“They’re in there. Jus’ a matter of waiting for ‘em to show their hand.” He adds to your initial inquiry. Sighing, you push your food away.

“Can’t we send in an extraction team?” 

His silence is telling. Bottomless pits pin you down, an anvil in influence alone. Your lips thin to a pursed line. 

It makes sense why Laswell won’t act on it – the compound across the street, said to be packed with chemists in cahoots with foreign extremists. If they’re truly a threat to national security, their circumspection is indicative of the havoc they could wreak. A treacherous threat is a quiet one. 

Your pocket droops with evidence to the fact, your shoulders alongside it. 

Bowed posture, loaded brow – exhaustion slowly inches up on you. You hadn’t noticed your arid state, sandpaper eyes, stooping lower with every blink. You foolishly wonder if he did, though; if Simon reads you like you do him. Does he know you trace your palm when you’re tired, marking the creases an old fortune teller read long ago? Your life line is vague, hun, so too is the sun. But would you look at that, oh! Your mother should be so proud – as thick and long as a tree root, that’s your heart line, right there. Sweet girl.

Your mother couldn’t have cared less. 

You roll your neck to loosen knotted kinks and reach for the paperboard container in your hoodie’s side. 

The cigarette doesn’t fit right in your hands this time; a paper-thin thing you draw life from,  too easily collapsible. There are more substantial materials in this world. Rocks, erosive seasalt – a hobby or two. Muscle, timbre, blue-black eyes. A skull that meant death to most, but not to you. 

You hold out on lighting it. Partially for current company. (More so than you’d like to admit.) 

Simon’s arms rest on the back of the couch. He looks sinful like this, tempting. Freshly ripe apple at the centre of Eden; you don’t think he’d lead you to damnation, but his cold study tells you otherwise. 

The hush isn’t awkward, not really. You can continue; you know he’d prefer it. 

But something in him is blinding. Not a sun – red-hot, sweltering – he doesn’t make you sick after too long in his presence. No – more akin to an interrogative light; harsh, illuminating the sweat that beads at your temple. He urges you to spill, spill, spill, until what squeezes your chest releases its iron clutch and you’re panting with the release of a secret you never wanted to keep.  

So–

“Where do you go all day, anyway?” You tease, cheeks rounded with a soft – or what you hope to be soft, and not an unsure grimace – smile. 

“Out.” Simon responds, a scratch in his words. His chest squares, broadening into a behemoth that should intimidate. That’s why no one talks ta ye, Lt. Soap broached once. Ye’re too big.

All for weeding out pointless chatter, he’d said.

This is pointless. But he’s still here, drawn to bite back at your ludic jabs, tuned in to the miniscule breaths that escape you as you scramble for a response. You think you know him, think he knows you. You lick your lips. “Mmm. That’s news to me.” 

And if you hadn’t been you – if you hadn’t been talked through a bullet to the thigh by his brute reassurance and dry humour alone – you might’ve missed the amusement that laces through his next syllables. “And where do you think I go?” 

The reciprocation licks at the base of your spine. Yearning. 

You suppress a shiver; seven trumpets to the apocalypse. His deep tone calls for devastation, Armageddon. 

You spit the first thing that comes to mind. 

“To shag it up with the girl in apartment eight.” 

And still with the revelation of what you just said. 

Your hands bury into your lap, embarrassment rising like a high tide in the pit of your bowels. If you were Soap, you’d have gotten away with it. Banter; she's aye asking about ya, Simon. Y’should give ‘er a chance. 

But you’re a schoolgirl again; fresh-faced, wide-eyed. Pencil shavings, question erasers – flip it and ask about the boy you like. You’re naive enough to try it until ‘yes’ faces upwards. 

“Afraid she’s not my type.” 

And that’s all he gives you. 

A silly hope bubbles, absent of all logic. You want to push it; to tear at delicate petals, chanting. He loves me, he loves me not. Silly recess games, dancing around each other on the playground: what is your type, Lt? Girls in sheer dresses to welcome you at the door? God forbid – the sergeant? John Mactavish with his stupid little mohawk and sunshine grin? 

Probably far away from women who have their inhibitions compromised – who run on nicotine and not much else. Vacant husk.

But if it were him. If he was the force between your fingers – blood-filled, thickset, shooting into your willing mouth – you’d abandon it all in a heartbeat. Cheek on his shoulder, cunt speared on his knuckles. Pumping, slick. Licking the salt up off his forehead. 

Fuck. 

You tut and flip your cigarette – unlit – to put back in amongst the others. The exposed end, stuffed with grey cinders, sticks out like a sore thumb. 

You’ll come back to it when you’re over this, when your dependency singles down to material things. Thirteen bucks, that’s all a pack costs – your wager on Ghost veers dangerously close to bankruptcy. 

“Go to bed, Scout. I’ll take next watch.” 

You don’t tell him Soap called dibs. They can hash it out between themselves.  You dream of kissing covered lips. Dead ends.

You: Ran out of shampoo. 

read at 3:25 am 

He brings you 2-in-1, head and shoulders. Sandalwood. 

“Didn’ know what you liked.” 

You’re beside yourself – barely contained, beaming ear to ear. Your lungs push for space against the pitter-patter rhythm of your heart. 

“Is this the one you use?” It comes out softer than precedented. Warbled, almost a purr; your chin is mere centimetres away from his chest as you look up at him. They bump when he mutters an affirmative. It’s convenient. 

In your proximity, he fills the entire expanse of your vision. Simon’s massive on his worst days, titanic as he bursts through a sea of soldiers – but here, now, he’s larger than life. Impossible. Enigmatic. Either shadow or brick wall if you reach out, press yourself into him. A crook of the elbow and your hand would be at his groin. 

You can smell it on him. The thin barrier of his balaclava doesn’t prevent it from reaching you; santalol. Mixed into his firewood, earth. He has fresh paint on his eyes. 

It reminds you of scorched newspaper, doused in stimulants and the bite of tobacco. You crave it, even when your last still clouds bitter at the back of your throat. It’s more muscle memory than anything; a nervous tic. To flick a lighter and chase that short headrush. 

He’s enough to hold you over for now, a drug in his own right, but you know – you know the second you turn to the cramped bathroom, door shutting behind you, your knees will buckle. You’ll step over grimy grout and scrub yourself until your skin is irritated, red. 

You hold out for just a moment longer, peering up at your Lieutenant. 

Anxiolytic. 

Then, when you start to outline the rest of him, following the planes of his mask, you force yourself to pull away with an overturning ache. 

You lie and insist you’re not too far gone.

Yet, you touch yourself to the thought of him. 

Holed in the small square shower, your hand clamped over your mouth. The water runs discontinuous, broken by loud hisses and weak pressure. It’s cold at this point, nipping away at heated flesh. Has he left by now? 

No, you hear muffled mumbles right outside. Johnny’s laugh barks loud. 

You’ve long since finished cleaning off, engulfed in a heavy perfume. Sandalwood, masculinity. Ghost. Simon. A projected image lights your closed eyelids; him looming, cornering you into the tiled wall. The showerhead would come to his browbone at full height, but he’d crouch down and kiss you and his hair would drip, droplets beating your cheeks. 

Atta’ girl. 

Husky compliments for only you to hear, cleaving you open on his cock. (Your fingers slip faster over your clit.) Folding you in half, pumping you full, overflowing. (You whimper into your palm.) Biting down on his shoulder, divotting yourself amidst battle-borne scars. 

He’d pinch your guts, you’d feel him in your chest. Tummy bulge, too much, too big. (Your hole quivers around the meagre thrust of your hand.) Spitting in your mouth, filthy, pushed down into a pillow, a wall, the floor. Bruised glutes, pistoning hip. (A bubble in your core nears popping.)

Problem, Scout?

Euphoria builds, a swelling cacophony of string-plucked and pressed pedalboard longing. A colourful sunset bursting into sight. Your legs squeeze; the air tastes like mist and warm sex – you chase the hints of masculinity that drift into the mix. His shampoo, his eyes. A presence more profound than anything else, unmoving and stubborn in the undercurrent of your life. Lodged into a river bank, a buoy when drowning.

A constant assured to never waver – blameless vice. Like sweets, like cigarettes. 

You picture his broad spread – shadowed gaze, hulking thighs. Arms powerful enough to manhandle you into anything and everything, wet clay to his ministrations. It’s not enough – this frantic rutting, hurried masturbation confined to a cubby. You need to feel the extent of him, every bit of skin pressed into yours. To trace those tattoos with washable markers, idle and lazy on a couch, laid up on his lap after a long nap. Domesticity, the type you lacked back home.

A knot clusters at the base of your spine, stuttering in and out of existence. You won’t be able to place it, can’t coax it out. Only him, only him.

Simon.

“Ya almost done, lass?” Soap raps at the door. 

Your heels slide on wet ground. You’re able to pull your hand out from between your thighs in time – smacking against cool walls to stabilise yourself – but not before you let out an emphatic yelp. 

“Bonnie?” He exclaims, louder. 

You gather your breath, blinking. The world tilts.

You’ve been in here too long. 

“Yeah! Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll come out in a bit.” 

Bloody hell.

You halt the spray of water and towel off in a stunned silence – floodgates locked once more. You will yourself to think of anything else – the threat across the street, chemists, terrorists, flavoured water and the saltpetre you shoot off with little thought. Kerosene, bullets lodged in gaping wounds, your mother’s liquor cabinet – closed off, cold heart. 

They always round back to him, duplicitous hands that lead you astray. Off on the wrong path.

Prominent veins that disappear behind painted gloves. Knives strapped to bullet-proof vests. Remembering you liked Chinese, and returning with supplies mere minutes after you’d sent the text. His voice, burrowing deep into marrow, thrumming the very sponge.

Or – maybe he’s everywhere, all at once. 

Dead ends.

When you emerge, your skin is still slightly damp, clinging to the loose clothes you’d thrown on in a fit. Soap leans against the door frame, waiting on you.

“Had us worried for a second.” He smirks. Us – you glance at the other. Simon stands by the window, diligent. “Hope ta God ye didn’ use up all the hot water.” 

You mimic his shit-eating expression. Faux mirth, it doesn’t quite resonate. “The cold is good for your skin, Johnny.”

“A'll take yer word for it, then.” Soap nods, patting your shoulder before slipping past.

You’re left alone with him. 

There’s a persistent twinge, still lodged up velvet walls. It returns with gnawing sincerity at the sight of him. You hold it back, dismissing your internal pleas for a promised release, and tentatively pad over to where he stands.

“Hey,” You whisper. His head tilts the slightest bit, just enough for his spilt-ink irises to latch onto yours. Your gaze flickers down to the jut of his chin. 

“Alright?” 

Three beats before your response. No. Never. Can’t be. 

“‘Course.” The tremble in your legs speaks to the contrary. Nails bite into your palm. You add – “Nothing happened?” – with a vague motion to the street, redirecting your tension to something substantial – a mission with a foreseeable goal. 

“Kitten lost its mother.” He echoes, taking in the way your expression lifts. “Roadkill.” 

“Oh.” Your chest throbs, a faint bang of the doldrums. 

“And,” He appends. “Laswell’s informants say the targets will make a move sometime tomorrow.” 

You ruminate on the knowledge, turning it over in your head. It doesn’t exactly fit, too slippery to be anything to trust. You concede for the time being.

“And when they do?” You ask. 

“We’ll be ready for them.” 

Naturally. You hold onto his tone, that grim determination fizzing through you, charged particles, rallying electricity. And the lightning, that devastating bolt that burns with every bullet, every spotted threat, is a credit to him. Lieutenant, spearhead of your team. 

You find yourself thinking about the after. When sloshing alcohol fills their stomachs in celebration, and the report has been typed, filed into a manilla folder to spoil on some general’s desk – would this memory, too, gather dust? The glimpse of you, doused in his scent, flushed. Takeout, asleep with company – a semblance of true home abandoned between these musty walls. 

It’ll be hard not to miss it. 

You click your tongue, still on the precipice of something. Like hanging off a cliff – you can’t see far enough to gauge whether there’s water to break your fall. Your orgasm is a forgotten prospect by now; you’ve depleted the limited alone time you have for the day.

But–

You search for your cigarettes, that familiar grittiness stuck to the roof of your mouth.

They’re laying on the table, next to Simon’s car keys and gun. 

You take the smallest step forward, wrist spasming. But a large hand wraps around it, completely overtaking you. 

You’re stopped before you can even reach out. He’d been following your eyes. 

“MacTavish’s certainly got bad timing, hasn’ he?” He starts, slowly pulling your hand up to his face. You’re a ragdoll, succumbing to his command. 

What did he mean by that? Bad timing? 

Your gut bottoms out, sinking to unfathomable depths. 

He can’t know. Can he? 

The Sahara Desert. Cracked lips, sunken skin. Your nose burnt, peeling under an unforgiving sun. 

He’d noticed you lagging behind. I’ve got water in my bag. 

I’m good. 

You’re not. Drink. 

And unscrewed the bottle when you proved too weak. 

Ghost is renowned for that brutal efficiency, barked demands in a chaotic field. His strength rings louder than any grenade, released strikers, thrown into your line of vision. As it charges, you picture death and the unfulfilling void your life had been. Mud blows onto your face. Mud, and flaming plastic, and the gore of other victims. A shrill sound only you can hear; danger of going deaf. Danger, danger. A final fatality. No survivors. 

He doesn’t miss a thing. 

He halts when your fingers bump the stretched fabric of his mask. You can feel his breath, hot steam. Skin prickles, and your panties pool with the reminder of his mortality. A ghost, but living nonetheless. 

He draws a deep inhale. 

He knows. 

“Didn’t finish, pet?” 

Shit.

That fucking voice – pestle onto mortar, grinding you down into a candied paste to gorge on. He’s a century old being, emerging from a prison – Tartarus – only to find you, supple and sweet as nectar and completely willing. You blink up at him with lidded eyes, damp eyelashes fanning the crease of your lid. 

“No.” Barely a whisper, all breathlessness. 

His head dips, stooping low to match your height. You can trace the lines that paint seeps into. 

“Turn around. Face the window.” 

Chastised, guilty as a child caught doing something naughty, you swallow the stone in your throat and do as he says.  Somewhere, floating in the deep recesses of your mind, you’re aware you can refuse. He won’t strike up a counter – would pat your hip and send you off to bed.

But your back is to his abdomen now, swapping body-heat and the groans of your internal organs. He’d almost bled out on you once; on a mission in Russia – limping, bread-crumb trail of maroon ichor on untouched snow. Your fear had you heaving into a metal bowl, tucked away in an aeroplane bathroom, refusing to leave until he’d been stabilised next door.

You’d be the traitor that shot him before you pass this up.

A widow’s sky; bedarkened, weeping. Clouds roll over the moon, kraken-cruel, coughing great gouts of water onto the drab buildings in your area. It’s hard to see much beyond the hazy neon sign, scintillating behind fog, and the lone street light. The weather is ideal for enemy attack; they could camouflage in the great pour. 

As it stands, though, all you focus on are the gloves that brush up and down your arms. 

“Keep an eye out. Got it?” 

Wet hair shakes when you nod – so quick to succumb to his every whim. His torso rocks from behind you – a soundless chuckle – and the air shifts as he moves, occupying himself with something, just out of observation.

You’re determined to do right by him. Atta’ girl, rumbled in that inflection of his. Squinting, you leer out on that wretched building, as it has been eight hours a day for the past nine. 

But warm hands start to run up your shirt. Calluses skim, finding the knife-wound scar at your side, pressing into dimpled flesh. He kneads you – tapping into that lush centre, tender as a peach, still there. You’re ripped from your moniker, Scout, and transformed into a blubbering miscreant. 

It takes you a stupidly long time to piece it together. You feel it before you realise; the rough-leather touch, dry enough to scrape gooseflesh. Fingernails, cut short, scratching nerves, wheedling so they shoot liquid desire down to your core.

He’d taken off his gloves. 

Your back arches with renewed vigour, jaw hinging, no barrier between the empty room and your drawn out moan. He’s fucking fire on you, licking up the available expanse of skin until his thumbs brush the plush underswell of your breasts. 

You frantically search for his forearms, scrambling for purchase in his onslaught.  It’s not exactly ecstasy, far from it — no rainbow blooms, tingling gold from your toes to your nose – but it’s been ages since you were last caressed like this. Enough for you to feel brand new, wrapped gift in a prim little bow, eager to be spread, undone. 

A plea balloons in you, knocking teeth, choking. He pinches your pebbled nipples in reprimand, a speechless warning, and you understand, tilting upwards to keep an eye out, lips shut. 

“Look at you, desperate little thing.” He groans, working your tits with Herculean strength. You nearly collapse at the glorious pain it elicits – unwavering focus pointed solely on you, that pragmatic means to an end. You tighten your hold on his wrists, his frame your only support.

“O-Only for… ah–” One hand travels down your navel to coast on the waistband of your sweats. You hiccup, forcing your resilience, staying on task. Keep an eye out

“This what you think about? When you stuff those tiny little fingers up your cunt and tell yourself they’re enough?” 

But you see nothing; nothing but glowing prospects, the sight of what you could be. Rain – inundated, broken to blacking out, sparking power lines, exposed wire. 

You wobble and tail end into a prominent bulge, lower back skimming coarse denim. Simon meets you halfway, lugging you closer, until you fit perfectly against him. Head to chest, back to –

He grinds his pelvis into you, etching himself permanently there. An invisible scar, another brand for your time with the 141 – one marked in black, virile crest onto wool. He’s massive; no one can ever be enough after him – if it was up to you, there won’t be.

“Fuck.” You pique into a whine. “Please… Please, S–” 

“Not here.” He says, slotting his nose above your ear. It’s damnation, this game of tug-of-war, tightroping the line between seething torture and bliss. 

“We can be quick,” 

And he growls, ripping into a feral noise that stuffs your senses as he cups you, finding your soaked distress at its source. “I’ll take my time with you. With this–” He twists a nipple, a sharp sting. “With this–” He pinches the plump fat of your cunt. “Fuckin’ hell, pet. Wicked, is what it is – what you do to me.” 

You bite your tongue and drink the blood that beads, vision blurring with hot tears. It’s the lull after an extinguished tab, the crawling addiction – more, more. 

You need to see him, to look straight ahead at an eclipse as it darkens your world. 

“Yours. I– D-Do whatever… you want,” 

Simon shudders, shaking you along with it, as though you’re one. “I’ll ruin you.”

“M’already there.”   

And then two digits press into your folds, gathering the slick that drips. It must be phantom, with the way the sensation shoots through you, undeterred, stirring that coil of buried pleasure. It must be – supernatural, unreal, startlingly mythological, spoken only through word of mouth for fear of what legends can wreak on paper. 

But it’s fucking real. You’re far too familiar with fleeting dreams, of grinding down on pillows that are too pliable to compare to him. Reading fairy tales to take you someplace else, those books burnt, along with your oak shelves.

This tangibility – the true ripple of muscles under, behind, around you – is nothing of the sort. You feel it in your liver, your throat. Picking the plaque that lines your lungs. 

Simon absolves you of all treason, all guilt. You only exist as you are now, a puddle of divinity.

But as he starts circling your clit, you’re able to discern a slip in the shadows through your bleary lust. 

Along the perimeter of the compound walls, just across the street. 

“H-Hey–” You croak. He tugs you tighter against him, thick finger starting to breach you. Seizing his arm, you bury your lips into his sleeve. “Simon.” 

He slows his efforts, buried quarter way, at the first knuckle. It twitches within you – he can taste the gravitas in your tone. 

“Lt… I think– I think I see something.” 

Destiny switches on its axis, warping back to grim reality. When Ghost instantly withdraws, bolting for his gun, you emerge from the pool of ignorance you’d so willingly dove into. Disappointment, devastation. Undeserving of more than this fleeting touch, non-ordained. Whatever good deed you’d committed to be able to encounter heaven, combated by the kills you’d enacted – hellish girl. 

“SOAP, OUT, NOW.” Ghost bangs at the bathroom door.

He turns to order you – something about spotting him as he goes to confront the threat. 

You’re at a standstill, paralysed – your irises the only things that move as you hunt the cause to his sudden urgency.

Why’s he so worried? 

It was only a shadow. 

Could have been the kitten. Or the Calico that terrorises it. 

A car. Some teenager reckless enough to drive in this downpour. 

You’d ruined your one chance. Your position will be compromised, and when the gunpowder clears, he’ll wake from this purgatory and paint you just as you are. His teammate, relative rookie, nicotine kiss. 

And him, Ghost – Lieutenant. You’ll be stuck searching for Simon in the fissures. 

But your name is not for nothing. 

Scout. You’d earned it in Mexico, on your first mission with him. Spotted a cartel’s corps from a mile away, crouched in the undergrowth, dressed in all green. 

You’re the reason we’re alive, kid. 

It comes to you clear as diamond, purified with static pressure and graphite. Filling in the scratches, glinting – winking – at you. 

A red laser, pointed straight at your chest. 

Sniper. 

“GET DOWN.” That cockney cadence, launched louder than ever before. 

Your Lieutenant doesn’t yell, not at you. 

At Soap. At Gaz. Sometimes even at Price. 

Never at you. 

“SCOUT.”

A careening mass throws you down onto the carpeted floor – a crushing boulder in weight alone. You hardly register the solid arms that wrap around you – the hard-plate chest you’re tucked against – before a clamorous whistle strikes the motel.

The blast bursts near your head, spewing merciless fusillade. The walls cave in, fire rupturing from the screeching bomb. 

Red clouds your vision – blood or ire or your harrowing life, flashing before your eyes.

There’s a ringing in your ears. You think of Simon, of climbing sycamore trees and sleeping on its branches. Eating honey from a pot, disposing of your damned habits – that one upturned stick, to be lit once you’d moved on. Your Papa had told you the tale, skin-wrapped bones, laying on his deathbed. 

Back in the trenches, my friends and I would invert a single cigarette upon buying a new pack. If we lived long enough to smoke it, we were of the lucky few.

You lose consciousness, buried beneath rubble and a hulking body.

Kerosene, arson – gunmetal sulphur pouring into your bedroom in the dead of night. You had owned a collection of vintage dolls, dressed in decorative lace and bonnets, given to you by a distant relative. Their porcelain faces had melted in the heat. 

You’d been counting stars the evening before, perched on a ledge, waiting for one to blink onto the obsidian. There was a meteorite instead, a streak of glimmering marvel on the edges of a tree, dissolving in earth’s atmosphere. You hadn’t made a wish, but you’d left the window open for your Papa to come back. 

It was the only exit out when your door crumbled to ash. 

A vermillion blaze versus a two story drop. You took your chances barefoot when your mother’s liquor cabinet fed the flames, inferno now. Jumping out into the muggy yard, your nightgown snagging splinters. Cushioned by a rosebush she had stopped tending to – dry, with razor-sharp thorns. 

She was too inebriated to rise on her own two feet. Dead, along with the house, once home.

When you come to, you’re in the medbay back on base. 

You suffered a second-degree burn on your shoulder and a head trauma worth eight stitches, and not much else. 

Your brain, switched out for bromine-doused cotton, takes a while to recall the events that led you here. You play a game of catchup before you greet the world, memories stuck behind a blurry pane of overwhelming emotion. You don’t exactly remember so much as you feel; desire, confusion, a terrifying sense of peace while embraced by a force that meant safety. 

No, that’s not quite right. 

Your neck aches. When was the last time you ate? 

You need a cigarette.  

Not embraced. 

Your eyes fly open. 

Simon. 

“Hey, hey.” Gentle hands press your torso, thumbing you back down on the stiff cot. The voice is higher-pitched than his, softer. Laswell. “Easy there, Scout. You’re still hurt.”

The monitor picks up on your alarm, beeping in tandem to the staggering tread of your heart. Your ribcage closes in on itself, paradigm of dread – you can’t stop the nervous tremor in your fingers. 

A white halo frames the Inspector General, highlighting the flyaways on her blonde bun. Her blouse, typically steam-pressed to perfection, gathers in wrinkles instead. 

You’re sure you look worse. Your tongue wilts with lack of hydration.  

“W-What happened,” Thankfully, she picks up on the croak in your tone and hands you a bottle of water. Unflavoured – not clementine. 

She goes about explaining as you drink. Faulty information, distorted by word of mouth. Turned out to be one day off. They’d been intent on transporting their cargo – the unlawful compounds worked on for months – until someone tipped them to your location. One too many sightings, I’m afraid. The boys were reckless with how often they left. 

You digest the events with little more than a nod. Building anticipation constricts your throat; your attempt to address it comes out unsteady,

“And…” The question dies before it's posed, breaking off to clot the air. Your fears; too afraid to speak them into fruition.

But Laswell gives you a small smile, patting your blanketed calf. 

“They’re alright. MacTavish is still out – he got the worst of it I’m afraid. Was as naked as the day he was born when we found him, but he’s stable.” A cold wave of relief urges the humourless chortle to tumble from your lips – an excavation of a grim unease, fossilised deep in your gut. “The Lieutenant was discharged last week.” 

Biting your lip, you duck your head to idly observe the IV taped to your forearm. A new haar of synthetic smoke purges you; for once, a deep inhale of a substance that won’t rot. The knowledge that he’s okay – fully whole, out there, somewhere – lends itself to that tantalising urge, fulfils it better than thirteen bucks every will. 

You follow the tube that pumps you full of drugs and land on your phone, glowing on your nightstand. 

“We were able to salvage a few things. It’s broken, but it works.” 

You blink and hope your appreciation flashes through.

Lemon antiseptic, the metallic tang of stainless steel left out in the open. An intercom, someplace distant, blares static orders to the late night nurses that bustle down the hall.

It’s not until Laswell leaves and you’re alone, restless, entangled in taut sheets, that you check your messages. 

Two unopened. Both under one contact – Lt.

Found him in the wreckage.

sent tuesday

Accompanied by a photo.

A ginger kitten with a scalded nose, curled up in the crook of a tattooed forearm.

You don’t see him for a month afterwards. 

The Captain and Kyle visit after Soap wakes. They crowd into your room, in full arms, and tell you stories about Damascus. 

Kibbeh, they call it. I was just about ready to stuff ten into my pockets. It was just that good.

Don’ tempt me, Garrick. A'v been livin’ off soup an jello for two weeks.

You slump into your single pillow and imagine you’re anywhere but here. 

Bulgur wheat pounded with meat, rolled into a ball – toasted pine nuts and spice. Standing below mosaic arches, cover from the light shower and a fragile, pellucid sky. Backgammon in a cafe. 

Atop a windowsill, legs swinging as you look for your Papa in the night. Still full from your peanut-butter and jelly sandwich dinner, made with grubby little hands, tiptoeing to reach the kitchen counter. Roses, just watered, still thriving.

Coffin nail, death stick. Flipping a cigarette, seated across a man who refuses to let you light it. Szechuan chicken smeared down your throat, a disused motel transformed sanctuary. That titillating crush, culminating to desperate gropes, attuned to what you like. 

As your sutures dissolve, you spend an endless stretch of time hovering over a keypad. Your last sent message – what’d you name him – left with no response. Dead ends.

You ask Laswell to get you a pack of Marlboro red and deplete the twenty before you’re discharged. She brings along a fresh set of clothes; leggings, a hoodie and gloves. They keep you snug when you step out into the winter wind. 

Snow detonates under the crunch of your boots, the world around you imprisoned in a glair-white silence. Nothing sounds, nothing stirs, nothing sings. Your breath is visible, glittering like angel-fire. A buzzing mind – founded in two cigarettes over the past hour – entices you to act beyond reason. You rent a car and drive three hours out. 

It’s 9:02 pm when you text him, curled up on the couch in your safehouse.

You: finally out

[attached: current location] 

And you don’t wait for a response. You place your phone face down and click to a random gossip network. All on D-list celebrities – you forgot to pay your cable bill. 

Actress baby bumps and divorce scandals sing you to sleep.

read at 9:03 pm

Broad shoulders – dusted in powder from the storm outside – occlude your entryway. 

You bat away the exhaustion roiling your senses, breathing through the obnoxious lurch of your stomach. 

Ghost towers over you, ball cap and mask covered, larger than you remember him. 

You’re the one who invited him. And yet–

His actual appearance unnerves you to the point of emphysema. 

It all comes swarming back to you.

The pulsing ardour, renewed vitality pumped into a hollow conch. Wet firewood, camp smouldering as fat droplets, sobbing clouds, splash on a barbecue. That smell that carries in with harsh weather – coal and warmth from an unknown source, snuggling under a quilt with a window swung open because you just can’t get enough. 

Bottomless chasms, anointed scelaras – central heterochromia, flecks of blue and a ring of black painted onto pupils that pin you down. 

Your brow furrows, indents to store the unspoken, bereft of assurance. Your inquiry cracks with a petrifying amount of vulnerability.

“How are you?” 

He takes a step forward. “Your head–” 

“Almost a scar at this point,” You grin, brushing over the wound. 

“And Johnny?” 

“Better than ever.”

“You mean to tell me, you haven’t been in contact with anyone since Sudbury?” 

A candle flickers from its place on your television console – peppermint and the aroma of melted wax. You’d muted the program at one point. Now, all there is to go on is the polychromatic motley of cartoon characters, suffering injuries that progressively grow more animated. 

The scene illuminates Simon’s otherwise shadowed form – pink and blues lighting the skull on his face mask. You’d travelled to your couch, spread across its length with him seated at your feet. His thigh tenses by your ankle. 

“Hm.” Pinky twitching, it brushes your heel. 

“Sent on some other mission, then?” 

“Negative.” He gruffs, the clipped answer popping like kindling logs, and shifts towards you. Cushions sink, unused to his musculature, and LED hues warp along the exposed skin of his forehead. His hood is still up, hat fixed on his head – you can’t see his hair – but ashen eyelashes tell you it's blonde. 

You watch the way his knee jumps, boot tapping the hardwood floor. Since you invited him in, suspense has radiated off everything he does. Like he’s primed, in that instinctual mode that triggers before a fight, panther on its haunches. 

You think you know why. 

“It’s not your fault, Lt.” 

His brow bone sets, hanging over the boundless stare that slides to you. 

Knees bending, you tuck your legs underneath you to move closer. Pandora’s box.

“I left too often. Got spotted too many times.” 

The concession comes in an earth-shattering quietness. 

Simon tends to corners, alleyways too narrow to fit him, eclipse, his subtlety the upper-hand in every battle. Dressed in tenebrosity – a gloaming shade, stibnite eyes – he veers on the precipice of anonymity. He had been, for the longest time. Ghost and that’s all, assurance to a quick kill before he fades from the radar. No safehouse, no name, a quick glimpse at a face. His file, composed of black bar censors.

Who’s he? Newly introduced to the 141, tail of liquor not far behind you. 

That’s your Lieutenant. You’d do well to keep him as just that. 

When you were a kid, you thought twilight was when the world would be plunged into the slag, a stygian crypt. Darling child, you should be in bed. When the moon turns its back on you and you’re left with nothing but the northern star.

But your Papa pointed the truth out on one of your several camping trips, just the two of you in the midst of a congested wood, laying against thick Sycamore trunks. 

Twilight is when the sun rounds just below the horizon. 

That little clarity, paling blue. When you wake up to the reflection of its rays blushing your tent walls, and you’re able to see the outline of your hands. Still dark enough to go back to bed, but a sign you have a new day waiting on you. The tipping point of tranquillity. 

He’s twilight; here, now. Laying down a slice of guilt he stuffs bone-deep.

“And you saved my life.” 

Simon takes a moment, then nods, a minute incline of his head. 

“I’m sorry too, y’know.” You smooth over the hair that feathers his forearm. This one is a blank canvas, completely bare save for the white scars that cross it. “If I hadn’t distracted–”

“No.” His hand is sweltering when it engulfs yours. “Don’ apologise for that.” 

An ignored promise rustles. Not here. I’ll take my time with you.

“Simon…” 

He murmurs your real name in response, the sound pulled deep from within the recesses of his chest, as though it’s been stored there for aeons. A gem in a dragon’s den. It calls to vertigo, a surge of adrenaline, free-falling. Like tilting your body back on a swing, legs kicked to the air – knowing there’s sand to break your tumble but screaming nonetheless. 

“I still–” 

His head dips low to face yours. Nose on nose. A warning rumble as he snarls. 

“I know, pet. Me too.”

Your pulse thumps, centred in on that bundle of nerves at your core. Cornered prey, backed into the arm of your couch. Touching yourself to the thought of this very thing, enclosed in a shower, him right outside – he fills your view. All you see are those eyes that light with lechery. All you feel is his arm, rounding your waist.

“Y-You– haven’t… haven’t seen my bedroom yet.” He shudders, then stiffens, clasping you securely to his man of steel. His mouth tucks to your ear, subsequent whisper a savage vow.

“I think I’ll be able to find it.” 

With one swift heave, he throws you over his shoulder, resolute against your coquettish squeals.

“Don’t you fucking hide from me. Spread your legs, pet, let me see that cunt.” 

An iron wall presses you down onto the duvet, suffocating, completely submerging you in skin-wrapped sinew, meaty arms caging you in on either side. Your panties were the last to go, stubbornly moist and clinging to glossy lips. He had helped you slip them from your ankles. 

“J-Jus’ fuck me… We can do the oth… other stuff– ah-” 

He’s still in his jeans, a staunch contrast against your nude, slot between your trembling legs. Nails graze the edge of his belt buckle. The bulge constrained by denim is enough to tempt you in forgoing the foreplay.

But he slaps your thigh, the blow sharp as the sting that blossoms under impact. Your hips buck, a hiss blowing from between your teeth.

“It won’t fit like this,” Simon grits, hooking those large hands under your knees. He manoeuvres you with little effort, folding you in half to bear your pussy to his wandering eyes. The hoodie slips off when he hangs his head low. 

Honey tresses, dirtied blonde – streaks of brown. Cropped short at the sides but unkempt where he’s able to brush it back under the balaclava. 

Your panting halts for the second you take him in. Eyes flicker up to your open expression, lips parted. You don’t see it, but he smiles – just the slightest bit – under the mask. 

“You’re quivering.” 

“Huh?” 

His thumb swipes over your hole. 

“Oh–” 

He takes advantage of your reverential state and dives, sliding to lay on his front. You’re hardly able to register it when he flips off his mask, before his nose presses to your clit, stifling heat completely engulfing you. 

“Fuckin’ hell.” A groan, muffled by lewd slurps and squelches. Your back arches, and his arms move to support it as you thrust into his eager mouth. 

Simon fucking devours you, absorbed in the endless slick that seeps. Dextrous, mimicking the motion’s you’ve long since memorised in your fantasies. Those nights in Sudbury, where he kept you company as you dreamt of being splayed on that cot, three fingers plunging into your airtights depths. He sucks the moisture, that sticky sweetness that transforms into something else in his presence. From polluted waste, toxic chemicals rung from cigarettes and self-loathing, to nostalgia, nectar – life before it had gone to shit. 

He’s stone while keeping you in place, intractable, offering you no choice but to clutch onto fresh sheets and sob out to nothing. No prayers, no pleas; you’re an incoherent mess in his onslaught, tangent syllables of Si…mon and so g-good. You don’t beg for release or deceleration – nothing you say goes. It’s just him, just that fucking… expert tongue, sinful desire. Fingers buried into flesh, calling sore bruises.

To find purchase in that hair, clinging onto locks that are still somewhat damp. He’d showered before he came, soaped in sandalwood – 2-in-1. It’s convenient. You’ve gained an affection for the fragrance, foraging for it everywhere. Cologne, air-freshener, chapstick. Jotted on your grocery list, shampoo, body wash – timbre tinted, essence of him. You capsize into the masculinity that emanates from those honey curls, pushing him onto you, tongue swatching deeper. Deeper. 

You’d take him raw, too. Post-workout, sweat-coated. Stripping those layers after a mission, laying him down. Lemme take care of you. Musk, unadulterated redolence. The salty tang down his pecs, licking fervent adoration, a four letter word spelt in glistening spit upon a muscled abdomen. Cupping his balls with steadfast devotion, gaping fauces clicking with the ram of his tip, swallowing him deeper. Deeper. 

The digits that had been there – testing waters before the motel was bombed – return, gathering the liquid that pools down the crest of your ass. He brushes the tight ring of muscle, pauses, then carries on in his endeavour to stretch you open on his fingers. 

Nothing could prepare you for the empyrean pleasure that wracks through you when the two are fully situated, up to their ends, quirking back to hit that spongy wall. 

“So fuckin’ tight. Can barely move ‘em, pet.” He groans. Your eyes squeeze shut, neck thrown back, rising into salvation. Paradise. 

No; beyond that. This gratification wasn’t born in strife, no wars were waged in its name – the first crusade, witch hunts. It’s a thread, separate from it all, diverging from literature and alcohol, taking with it nicotiana, an uprooted plant. It’s something new, something the two of you create – Simon, Ghost, embedded into someone who’s waiting a lifetime for him. 

“I– I’m–” Your insides entwine, tingling self-indulgence skipping up your spine, hightailing your head. He’s added a third, scissoring your velvet walls apart, giving into the vacuum and delving with twice the power. “Simon! Ple… Please–”

“Give it to me, c’mon.” Your calves curve over his back, holding him there. Gut, intestines, your heart; they threaten to snap, to succumb to the eternal gravitas of the force between your legs. 

You gush into his wide mouth, flooding him in a heady ambrosia. 

And Simon – leviathan that prospers in the cavernous wet – swallows it all, kneading tempting circles under your knees.

“Atta’ girl.”

“I bought you something.” You mention between hushed moans.

His heavy body wraps around yours, holding you to a bare chest, his hips pistoning lazily into the plummet of your pussy. A swollen cock spears your open, wedged so deep it touches your cervix with flighty pecks. 

Likewise, he presses sloppy kisses on the bend where your neck meets your shoulder. His chin is still soaked with liquid sex. 

“Yeah?” The taunt vibrates through you. You feel it settle in the place you reserve, just for him. 

Delirious, stuffed chock-full of your favourite vice, you giggle. “Mmm. Chocolates.” 

Rough fingertips seek your clit, deliciously abrasive as they rub it in, unyielding. Your fourth orgasm slithers up on you. 

“Chocolate?” 

You turn to meet his lips, clacking teeth. When you speak again, you realise with dizzying lucidity that the taste of tobacco is long gone, replaced by the evidence of intimacy and lingering bourbon. 

“Y-yeah… Sweet tooth.” 

Simon drives himself deeper into you.

“There are sweeter things.”

He’d named the kitten Tommy.

taglist: @allekat1988 @rattlemyb0nes @simonrileywife @nqberries

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keith ward's reynard the fox illustrations (via splog)

and wouldn't you love to love her?

Warren Rojas x Fem!Reader

djats masterlist

Word Count : 2.1k

Summary : basically my fic they long to be (close to you) with a warren!ending. OR the one where Warren reveals he can't sleep without you anymore.

Warning!! I have not read the book or the show!!! All info I have gathered has been from other x readers I have read. sorry in advance if I have butchered your fav show/book because I have plainly made shit up in favour of satiating my own need for more warren fics xoxo

Moving to LA had been much more isolating then you'd ever thought it'd be. Sure, you'd moved with there with some of your closest friends, but it still felt harrowingly lonely compared to what you were used to in Pittsburgh. In your small hometown, everyone knew everyone, so wherever you went, you saw someone you knew - here, in LA, you felt lucky to accidentally make eye contact with a stranger on the street.

Warren was the number one person happy to fill the needed affection you often sought out since moving to LA. He, himself, was quite the lover - always one to take a cuddle and hold onto a hug for way longer then most would deem appropriate - which was exactly what you needed. The two of you had spent many nights in bed together in LA just for the company of it, and not that you didn't like it, you just wished it was with someone else, instead.

"You coming to bed, sweet girl?" Warren asked with a tired drawl to his words, extending a hand out to you while the other held the remainder of his joint to his lips.

"In a little." You hummed back, taking a hit out the joint he offered out to you, the joint being held to your lips by Warren instead of taking it into your own hands. "I'm not tired enough to sleep."

Warren pulled the joint back to his lips, his other hand coming to brush your hair out of your eyes and behind your ear, his hand resting against your hair and keeping you tucked in the crook of his neck. "You want me to wait up with you? Or you can come keep my company? I'll put on some Fleetwood Mac, it'll help you sleep, baby girl."

That was another thing that you missed about Pittsburgh; the constant nicknames you let the others call you. Back in Pittsburgh, everyone had some kind of name to call you except the one you were born with. Now? Karen called you sweet-pea, Eddie called you birdie, Camilla called you sunshine as did Graham and even Billy, but Warren? Warren called you whatever he liked; sweet girl, baby girl, baby, doll, his.

"No, it's okay Warren, you go to bed." Warren scooped you up in his arms, placing you down in the spot next to Graham who had already opened up his blanket for you, then pressed a kiss to your cheek. "I'll leave the door open for you."

You let your head fall to Graham's shoulder, who pulled his arm out from between the two of you and wrapped it over the back of the sofa. He allowed you to tangle your legs up in his pyjama covered ones, making sure you were comfortable before he turned his attention back to the tv screen.

"You and Warren are sleeping together?" Karen had been the one brave enough to ask, the conversation between the two of you not unnoticed by the rest of the group - it being the only thing to break the silence in the past 40 minutes. 

All heads turned to you, attention suddenly on something that had the potential to be more interesting then the rerun of Scooby-doo that had just started. "Not like that." You answered softly, eyes still focused on the cartoon dog and his gang on friends, not noticing how everyone else was now looking at you. "We both just like the company of it. I don't think either of us realised how lonely it would be coming out to LA."

"Cute." Camilla mused, a warm smile curling on her lips as she took in that even in your sleep you were reaching out for the touch and warmth of someone else.

"You're always welcome in my bed, sweet-pea." Karen added, a smile curling on her own lips as she managed to take your attention away from the tv. "I swear you run cold. Would be nice in the LA heat."

"You can't steal my blanket buddy." Graham gasped, pulling you tighter against him and furiously tucking the blanket around the two of you. "She's the perfect amount of cold. The windows open, with the blanket, with y/n is the perfect temperature for me."

"I'm going to have to pass on that one Karen, unless you want to come down to my room." You countered her offer with a soft smile, attention moving back to the tv once more. "Warren says your room is haunted."

Laughter spread through out the room as you sided with Warren even in his absence; he was so sweet to you, and that's what friends do, so how could you not?

"What?" You asked, laughing yourself. "We left it empty until your arrival for a reason." That caused another round of laughter to break out in the room, everyone enjoying the way the two of you were slowly but surely morphing into one person with the more time you spent confined in the LA rental.

A particularly loud shout of "scoob!" from the TV had everyone's attention turned back to the cartoon, letting the nature of your relationship with Warren lie for at least the time being.

By the end of the third episode, only you, Graham and Eddie remained in the room. Graham was fast asleep, his head leaning against yours making you trapped in his hold, and Eddie was sat in the armchair against the wall, legs curled into the seat and a bottle of warm beer in his hands that he'd been nursing for the last half an hour.

As the intro to the next rerun of Scooby-doo blasted from the TV, Graham startled awake, literally jumping out of his seat and pulling the blanket with him. He grumbled some attempt at what you thought was a goodnight, and stumbled sleepily out of the room, the warmth of him and the blanket leaving you alone on the couch.

Eddie got up from his seat without a word, joining you on the couch with his arm stretched over your shoulders and across the back of the couch cushions.

"I know you like him." Eddie teased, letting his arm fall around you and pull you into his side. He pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and placed it over the two of you, trying to keep you warm now that Graham had stolen your provisos blanket. "I can tell, I think we all can."

"Everyone except Warren, I guess." You complained, letting your head fall back against his shoulder, taking the warm beer he held in his hands and having a sip of it.

"He likes you too you know." Eddie laughed at the face of disbelief you pulled, taking the beer back from you to have another sip for himself. "All I'm saying is, you don't see me in his bed every night, and he likes me just fine."

You hummed into him, tucking your head away from the light of the tv screen, thinking about what Eddie was suggesting. His fingers moved to run through your hair, soothing you to sleep even if he hadn't meant to.

It wouldn't be the first time you had ended up in this predicament, you and Eddie cuddled up together on a couch in someone's living room, the night having gotten away from you. But it was the first time since coming to LA, the first time since you'd basically moved into Warren's bed, and if it weren't for the fact you were already half asleep, you would've felt sick about it.

Eddie wasn't far behind you when it came to falling asleep, his fingers shortly stilling and beer left half drank and held loosely between his fingers.

As people slowly began to filter into the living room the following morning, you made yourself plenty comfortable in Eddie's lap - instead of taking up the whole couch - allowing him to wrap an arm around your waist and hold you up and against him by your thighs. You lazily tuned into the conversation everyone else seemed to be having, mainly focused on eating the bowl of cereal Camilla had given you and the feeling of Eddie's fingers toying with the hem of your shorts. Picking up another spoonful of food, you offered him a mouthful, him taking it with a grateful smile.

"I thought you and Warren were sleeping together?" Billy asked, gesturing at you and Eddie with the tip of his spoon accusingly.

"And I thought we discussed this last night." You deflected with a shrug. Everyone apparently knew of your feelings for the curly haired brunette according to Eddie, but that didn't mean you had to admit them to them. It would only give them more ammunition to tease you with anyways. "Me and Ed's stayed out here last night, tried to stay up watching scooby-doo but failed, that's all."

"You and Ed's, huh." Graham asked, his eyebrow raised in suspicion.

"You're just jealous that she doesn't have a cute nickname for you." Eddie spat back, quickly coming to your defence as you offered him another bite of your cereal.

Scanning your eyes around the room, you took notice of the lack of a certain member of the sixes presence. "Where is Warren, actually?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Graham teased, earning a smack on the chest from Eddie who came to your defence as you left the room, leaving him with your cereal and an unusually rowdy Graham.

You crept into Warren's room, quiet as a mouse, hoping not to wake him up as you made your own way to bed. Despite your claim last night, you headed over first to the record player in the corner, pulling out your Fleetwood Mac vinyl and skipping to where Rhiannon should start. Turing the volume down enough that it wouldn't go outside the room but would reach you from Warren's bed. Cracking open the window just enough to let in a cool breeze, you finally got into what had become your side of Warren's bed.

No sooner then you'd lied down and turned on your side to slowly wake him, Warren was cosying himself into your side, nuzzling into your shoulder and wrapping his arm around you, intertwining your fingers.

"I didn't mean to wake you, m'sorry." You murmured, wiggling your arm out of his hold to wrap it over him, tangling your fingers in his mess of curls. You scratched gently at his scalp, Warren preening into your touch, yearning for it. "Well I did actually, but not like this, it's nearly 9."

"You didn't wake me, sweet girl." He purred, pressing a kiss, then another, then another to your shoulder. "Can't sleep without you, just been sat here all night trying to."

"Warren." You whined, shuffling to face him better at his confession. "You should've said so. I would've come with you when you first asked. You could've come to get me."

"I didn't want you to think I was needy." He whispered, avoiding your eyes as he busied himself in trying to get comfy now that you were in his arms again. "Plus, when I did come out to get you, you seemed pretty cosy with Eddie."

"We just fell asleep watching tv, that's all." You promised, feeling as a smile creeped onto Warren's face at your admission. "Nothing else. If I didn't have the blanket I would've come here, to you. I promise."

"You're here now, baby girl. That's all that matters to me." Warren was already dropping asleep, his need for it catching up quickly now that your presence was beside him, now that he was safe in your arms. "All that matters."

At your lack of response, Warren began to move, exhibiting the most life you'd seen in him since you'd walked into the room minutes ago. "C'mere hot stuff." Warren opened his arms to you, letting you shuffle down until your head rested against his chest and your arms were wrapped under his, going up his back and holding onto his shoulders from behind.

You gently scratched your fingers up and down his back, lulling him to sleep just as he was lulling you sleep with the soothing circles he was rubbing into your hip. You were quick to fall asleep again in his hold, as you did every night in Warren's bed, as did Warren, who, like he'd just admitted, couldn't sleep without you in his arms.

You matter to me

Eddie Roundtree x Fem!Reader

✧.* requested by @itzajeanspears — Hi!!! Love your writing so much!! Not sure if you’re still doing requests lol, butttt I have a really specific one so if you’d be able to do this I’d like actually die omg. Okay so I’m a fashion student from LA and I was thinking, the reader is like basically siblings with billy and Graham, (her dad and their mom started dating when they were kids so they were practically raised together) but she’s closest with Eddie in particular. They’re best friends. They’ve basically been attached at the hip since they were kids. They’re both secretly harboring feelings for each other and everyone knows it but themselves. She’s been there for them since the band started, like Camilla, making them outfits for gigs and stuff. and Eddie even takes her to prom when her date ends up being a jerk to her. Butttt the reader ends up moving to LA to go to fashion school (maybe eventually she can be their costume designer for the aurora tour 🙏) and Eddie slowly stops talking to her god knows why. Fast forward- The band moves out to LA and they stay with her until they’re stable enough to be out on their own. The tension is super high between her and Eddie and EVERYONE notices. Super Angsty. Ends in fluff and love confessions 🫶 maybe angry billy lol. AGAIN THANK YOU!!! I know that was super complicated. YOUR WRITING AND EDITS ARE AMAZINGGGG !!

✧.* you're reading part two, here's the part one — A letter?

✧.* summary — Eddie was waiting for your response, and when it never came... A wall was built between you.

✧.* warnings — none.

✧.* word count — 3.5k

✧.* 🎸 — Eddie's masterlist

✧.* mandy's notes — I know it took me forever!!! I'm so sorry, please enjoy! And let me know your thoughts about it :)

I have no idea how to start this, my head has been a mess since our last conversation. I'm sorry for the way I left, I should've been more polite involving all we've been through in the last couple of months. I confess that I don't understand why you thought I couldn't support you in this situation, I've seen you dreaming about this day since I was ten years old, where we chatted about school and unattainable plans for the future… Seeing you achieve everything you dreamed of is like being hit by a ray of sunshine, I am deeply proud of you.

I wish you all the best on this new journey in your life, you are great and your talent is not left behind! Know that you wouldn't be there if it weren't for all your extraordinary talent. There is something in everything you do that exudes originality and no one can take that away or dispute it from you.

I decided to respect your choice and not go to see you on the day of your departure, I confess that this is demanding a lot from me, but I do everything to see you well. I hope you have a great trip and a great life there too.

I don't want to lie to you, I really hope you write me back, I have a huge hope that you'll give me another chance and we can work things out... I'll understand if you don't want that, I just want you to keep in mind that I love you. Fly towards your dream, and when you miss home, maybe my words will warm your heart.

Yours, Eddie Roundtree.

The bassist seals the letter with trembling fingers, he knew you would leave tomorrow and he still had his doubts about what he was going to do.He wanted to come see you before the match, kiss you gently, hug you as if you were going to escape at any moment... But he couldn't, if that was your choice he would respect that.

He knocks on the Dunne house three times, his hands trembling as he waited impatiently with the letter in hand.

"Eddie? What are you doing here so early my dear?" Mrs Dunne's sweet voice asks, she was quiet, probably because she was the only one awake in the house.

"I— I came to give this to Y/N." He extends the paper to her, confused, the older girl takes the object.

"Do you want to come in?" She asks, opening the door for him.

"No no, thank you." He seemed nervous, afraid that you would show up at any moment. "I really just came to leave this"

The madness was crazy the morning you were going to leave, you waited in secret for Eddie, a hope that he would appear was growing in you even though you wanted to kill it. Everyone else had made a point of saying goodbye, even Warren had stopped by to leave you some chocolate for the flight, but nothing from your boyfriend.

That's what you were, right? After all, there was no ending, not formally in so many words... Anxiety made you fear that when he left that had been your final point.

You open your arms to hug your considerate mother, Mrs. Dunne had been very present to you since she came into your life and saying goodbye was harder than you thought.

"I'll miss you so much." Her choked voice says, and you hold her closer.

"Oh honey, I'll miss you too." She answers, still holding you. "Anytime you need us, you just have to call. You have a family here."

At this point you were already in tears, and you let the hug go to wipe them away.

"Look." She starts to say, opening her bag to hand you something. "Eddie asked me to give you this."

Your eyes widen, you take the letter in your hands and leave for your new life.

…

You open the drawer of the nightstand next to your bed and return the letter to the place it always rests still not being able to open it, a sigh leaves you as you relive the night you had just had. Now that you were in the same city everything was more vivid, it was like living your teenage years again and it was frustrating. Of course you missed your friends and your brothers, but feeling Eddie's look at the back of your head was a huge distraction that kept increasing many questions in the same.

Eddie let the air out of his lungs as his body collapsed onto the bed he had fought for hours with Warren for, He lights a cigarette while staring at the ceiling and gradually sees the smoke draw your face, He hated how all the feelings he had put so much effort into hiding returned like the tide flooding over him, it was frustrating how you could make his heart race in a way no drug could ever manege to.

He knew that maybe all he had to do was just get over it, and that's all he was trying to do since you left Pittsburgh and him. Eddie was never the kind to get attached to relationships easily, he was used to having one night stands or just casual dating, so when his heart was captured by your gaze and the funny feeling of falling in love... He didn't know what to do.

The cigarette had come to an end and sleep had not even threatened to arrive, Roundtree sits on the bed regretting it before even finishing what he planned to do. He might not have talked to you during the party, but he was a good listener, something he didn't know if it was a blessing or curse until then.

He puts his leather jacket over the blouse he had worn to the party he attended hours ago, also grabbing some cigarettes before going down the stairs of the new house towards the keys to Rojas' van. He considers going to the drummer's room to tell him that he had borrowed the vehicle, but settles for writing a note in letters large enough for him to notice while he looks for it.

He let in his breath once again, shaking his head as he starts the van and heads towards what haunts his mind.

...

The three rings on the door make you lazily get out of bed, your arms go to the blouse thrown on the table before answering.

"Eddie?" You say between shock and yawn, your hands fix your hair automatically.

He avoids your gaze, looking directly at the ground as if he is very anxious. You wait for an answer, but nothing comes out of his mouth, you take a step forward taking his hand and leading him inside.

"Is everything okay?" You ask, after you both sit at the table in your living room.

"I don't know." He lets it out, wondering if he should actually do what he had planned. "I wanted to talk to you about everything."

"In the middle of the night?" You let out a weak laugh, trying to lighten the mood.

"I couldn't sleep, sorry I woke you up." He looked embarrassed, but it was as if being there was more comfortable than anything he had been doing before knocking on the door.

"We can talk, no problem.”

"With us moving here I imagine we'll see each other more often than we have over the years." He looks you in the eyes, the red of the cigarette in them. "And I don't want there to be a fight between us, I don't want there to be things that aren't clear."

You let the air out, trying to look as if you were mature for this situation. "What do you mean by that?"

"Even with our history, is everything ok between us?" He wanted to tell you that the answer was no, that he hadn't forgotten you, but it stayed in his throat just like the growing knot.

"For me yes, but for you I'm not sure." You are honest, letting the frustration go with your words. "You were the one who ignored me the whole party, I felt seventeen again."

"You don't need to be sarcastic." He says rolling his eyes.

"Since when do you call the truth sarcasm?" He arches his eyebrows at your response, you click your tongue against the roof of your mouth. "What I meant is that I'm over it, I just don't know if you are."

"You know what..." He gets up, adjusting his jacket on himself. "I think we've cleared that up, let's just be polite to each other and that's it. I see you around."

"You're kidding right?" A mocking laugh is let out by you, disbelief shines through. "Is that what you consider resolution?”

"I'll see you around." He says, you get ready to close the door. "Let's just keep things between us, like before."

Your eyes roll back and you slam the door shut, anger and confusion rising in your chest. How can he just show up in the middle of the night to turn your life around like that? You only feel the tears when they fall on your arm, was it frustration? You preferred to believe so, but seeing him treat you with so much indifference was painful.

Still angry, you go to the nightstands and open the drawer to take the letter in hand. Your vision blurred with emotions growing, you tear it apart and as soon as the first cut is made the rest are just a trigger for the pieces on the floor. You cry, regretting it and at the same time wanting to disappear... It hadn't even been twenty four hours since he had returned to your life and everything was chaos.

You collect the pieces and place them inside the box you found, trying your best not to glue the pieces together to read something that could be your answer.

...

You had done a good job of trying to forget about Eddie Roundtree, you had gone out with a few people and avoided running into him as much as possible when you met the band. But that became impossible when his brother went to rehab and his niece was born.

You moved into their house to help with the baby, Camila had never been so vulnerable and you couldn't feel more angry at Billy than in those first few months. Of course, you knew he wasn't one hundred percent to blame, addiction wasn't easy and it made you very sad to know he was like this.

Your move wasn't complete, you slept there some nights and other nights you went back to your house or studio to create some pieces of clothing. It was hard to face Eddie every day, but you two made a point of avoiding each other as much as possible.

It was hard to remember why you didn't like Eddie much when he was being so kind every day by your side, you start to remember why you fell in love with him in the first place. He was kind, funny, he helped everyone, but he was still the one that left you. And that was certainly the impasse for you to sympathize with him once again.

Night fell on the horizon as you leaned over the counter, a cigarette between your lips as you thought about everything at the same time.

"I see you still like the sunset, sunshine." The nickname makes your spine shiver, you don't turn around, you just let him get closer to you. "It always reminds me of you."

The chill comes to your belly, you turn away in disbelief. "What are you doing?"

He rolls his eyes, “Trying to get along with you, is it that hard?"

You let out a sigh, avoiding his eyes. "You want us to be friends?"

"What's the harm on that?" he asks, resting himself.

You shrug, trying your best not to ask every single question that haunted you over the years.

"You made yourself pretty clear that day in my place." That's all you say.

"Why are you acting like I'm a bad guy?" He's confused, upset in his eyes.

"You can't just keep doing this to me, appearing in my life and just leaving me!" You let out your frustrations, he looks at you without understanding. His gaze fixed on your eyes was overwhelming.

"What do you mean?" His voice was trembling, he took a deep breath. "Look, I know I acted childish that night, I shouldn't have just popped at your place and said those things. But I mean what I'm doing right now, I made one mistake... You're really going to blame me for the rest of my life?"

"One mistake?" You tried your best to hold back your urge to cry. "Look Eddie, it's been a long time. I understand if you forgot everything we've been through, I don't want to..."

"You're acting like I didn't care for you. Like I don't care." His voice was calm, it left you disconcerted.

"How can you say that you care for me if you haven't even reached for me all these years?" You turn to face the sky, trying to keep calm.

"I was respecting you!" He avoided coming closer, even though he wanted to take your hand in his. "I told you that! I—...

He stops when he sees your confused eyes, concern takes over his.

"You didn't read the letter, did you?"

You swallow hard, he waits for your answer but you open your mouth and close it without saying anything.

"Did you receive it?" He asks, you nod your head. "I don't understand..."

"I never read it." You confess, looking at your feet.

"Why?" He felt exposed, hurt.

You don't answer, he seems devastated.

"Fuck." He says passing his hands through his hair. "I can't believe this."

He left, leaving you alone with the sunset.

You made a point of coming home that day, there was no way you wouldn't go back to read that letter, your heart was aching with all the emotions that came up this afternoon. You were overwhelmed and feeling guilty, but at the same time confused... You needed answers.

When you managed to put the pieces together it was difficult to tell what was there, but your body softened and your heart tightened. There was your answer.

...

Daisy Jones was responsible for the band's growth after Billy's relapse, 'Honeycomb' was a masterpiece and the whole world knew it when those chords sounded on the radio. You were happy and proud for all of them, it was great to see them all achieving a dream that you followed from the beginning.

You were really excited to go on tour with them, You had already made many different pieces and I'm really looking forward to seeing them using what you created for them from the beginning. Today was the day of the first show, if you weren't even going to be on stage, you were nervous, you couldn't imagine how they were.

You couldn't contain the tears of emotion when you saw them there, the fans screaming excitedly and a long-time dream coming true, it was an amazing feeling and you were so happy to be part of this somehow.

It wasn't easy to deal with the information about the last situation you had with Eddie, of course, Billy had returned and you had spent less time together but that whole scene never left your mind. You tried to expel the flashes as much as possible while pretending to listen to what Camila was saying.

"Swetie, are you paying attention to me?" She says between a laugh, the music from the celebration party made it hard to hear her.

"Aham." You lie, watching Eddie talk to Warren and another girl you didn't know a few steps away. Camila follows your gaze, and turns with an arched eyebrow.

"What's going on?" She asks, her voice softly.

"I feel like I'll never be able to leave what we had behind me." You felt the words leave your mouth with honesty for the first time in a while.

"Have you told him that?" She asks, looking between you and him.

"I'm pretty sure he hates me, so..." You let out a breath, trying to hold back your tears.

"Eddie could never hate you Y/N."

"How can you be so sure?" You take a sip of your beer, avoiding looking at the distant group.

"Oh honey, if you only knew how many times he told me how he felt... How many songs I heard—

"Songs?" You cut her off, holding her arm. "He wrote songs about me?"

"Many." She responds, stroking his hand with a motherly affection. "You should talk to him."

You gather all your strength to follow her advice, and little by little you get closer to them. Warren is the first to notice you, waving in a comical way for you to come closer, Eddie avoids your eyes, the girl greets you with a small smile.

"Hey guys, the show was amazing." They smile at your congratulations. "I'm really proud of you guys."

"Thank you sunshine." Eddie says, almost regretting using the nickname. "I'm sorry..."

"It's okay." You say under your breath. "Look, can we talk alone for a second?"

"Sure." He turns to Rojas and the curly-haired woman. "I'll be right back."

Automatically you take his hand and guide him to a more private place, it's a few seconds of silence before you know how to start. He doesn't rush you, he just waits for you to feel good to begin with what you had planned.

"I read your letter." That's all you can say, he swallows hard. "I'm sorry it took me so long..."

"It's okay, it doesn't matter anymore." He tries to say, but you cut him off.

"It does! It matters and you know it." Tears manage to fill your eyes. "We matter for each other, you matter to me... And I don't know about you, and I know it's probably too late but I can't forget you."

He takes a step closer to you, never taking his eyes off of you. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I love you." A choked laugh comes out of you, it was impossible to contain it all longer.

"Fuck." He holds your face in his hands, touching your foreheads together. "Please, don't mess with me." He jokes.

"I'm done building this wall between us." Her voice was honest, her eyes never stopped staring into his. "I just want to be with you."

He kisses you, a kiss you've missed for years, a connection of souls, an inexplicable feeling. His hands cupped your cheeks and caressed your skin, you pulled him close to feel him after so long. He would always be your point of comfort.

"I love you too." He whispers against your lips, your eyes closed. "I love you so fucking much."

"I know it took a while but I kind of want to stay with you." You joke, he lets out a laugh.

"We can tell our children that we've been dating all this time, they don't need to know about this hiatus" He says while caressing your hair.

"Children?" Rojas' voice made you jump in fright. "Damn, you guys are emotional, huh?"

...

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David Bowie and the End of Gender, Anne Rice, Vogue, November 1983

Scavengers Reign (2023)

vessel be like "you got me in a chokehold". yeah, no shit bro. you got the most prettiest throat ever

Anything For You - chapter 17 part 2

Word count: 10k (bro??)

Warnings: smut. Smut. Smut. Smut. Graphic detail. Oral (f&m), piv, unprotected sex (like that shocks anyone), other stuff but yeah. Language.

AN: thank you for your patience as I’ve taken so long with this. I hope you enjoy ◡̈ I decided last minute to cut this chapter short. thought I’d give you something nice and wait on the not nice.

Masterlist

The hotel room could have been heaven itself and you wouldn’t have noticed, nervous energy flooding your veins as you sit on the edge of the massive bed. Well, not nervous energy per se. Actually, it was hard to identify. Some kind of energy that made it an impossible task to unlace your boots or take off your dress or do anything to make yourself more comfortable once you got to the hotel after the show. Some kind of energy that filled you with warmth so radiant and golden your vision actually spun. Maybe that part wasn’t great but still.

Jake was whisked away to B stage and you didn’t get a moment with him after that. You could say “not for lack of trying” but that would be a lie; you made no effort to stop the rockstar who loved you as he did his magic. Really, you just watched him in a stupid daze and tried to pull rational thoughts out of the spun sugar your brain had turned into once he said those words.

I love you, Y/N.

Alone in the hotel room, the thought makes you blow a heavy breath through pursed lips and shake whatever that energy is from your hands - like that was possible.

You stand and wander the room, trying to ground yourself in some way. Balcony. Brick fireplace. Huge, floor-length mirror. Vanity that could honestly be worth the value of your car. Bed that must be a California king. Or not. You’ve never owned anything bigger than a full. It was just huge.

Oh fuck. Sex with Jake.

Jake. Jake. Jake.

You let yourself sink to the floor, groaning and doubling over with your face in your hands.

Jake. Jake. Jake.

You can recall for a second how, just a few months ago, the thought of him would bring tears to your eyes. Angry, justified tears. Now you feel like a ball of frantic light that will implode if you can’t touch him soon.

You lean up to grab your phone from the bed to check it. No notifications from Jake. You do have Josh giving you a rundown of his view of the show and you’re able to focus enough to read it all and send him a few texts in reply, including your own thoughts and encouragement. You try to exclude your thoughts of Jake. You wonder if that’s the right choice.

When you finish sending those, you look at your thread with Jake again. Nothing from tonight.

Did he mean it? Did he regret it? Why didn’t he try to find you again?

Was he drunk and stupid again and you just didn’t notice? Were you so desensitized to it now?

You didn’t actually have a time that Jake would be back despite his promise to be “so fast.” You wished, in your anxiety-addled brain, that you had asked. Even if it was wrong or he got caught up, at least you’d have a reference.

Another groan is cut off by the sound of the lock whirring open and your gaze shoots to the door just as it opens and Jake is standing there, eyeliner smudged and an uncertain smile flickering on his lips.

You get to your feet as fast as you possibly can and just stand there like he is in the doorway. Silent.

Oh Jake.

He’s so beautiful. So beautiful. So nervous. His leather duffel is slung over his shoulder, post-show sweatshirt riding up on his hip and hair an absolute disgrace of a birds nest from all his on-stage thrashing and sweating.

He clears his throat, but his voice is still wavering when he speaks. “I didn’t know I was going to say that.”

You nod after a moment, the eye contact you keep at once anxious and safe.

When you don’t have a verbal reply, Jake steps fully into the dimly-lit room and lets the door click shut behind him. He drops his bag and toes off his shoes, padding across the floor to you until he’s a foot away, dropping to his knees before you. Like instinct, you hold his cheeks in your hands as his find the backs of your thighs.

Safe. His touch is safe. So is yours.

His eyes shut, brows unpinching as a sigh leaves his parted lips.

“I love you too, Jake.” You whisper, the pad of your thumb brushing over the seam of his lips as they purse.

When his eyes open into yours, there’s an almost panicked sheen to them. “Really?”

You nod, unable to control the smile that overtakes your face. “Really.”

Jake’s face floats through a series of expressions - elation, worry, confusion, relief - before his forehead tips to rest on your belly and he sighs heavily. “Thank you.”

You sink to your knees, his hands inadvertently brushing your silver satin dress up before they stop at your ass. You wrap your arms around his head to hold him close and you both just breathe it in. Safe. Thank you.

Pulling back, you hold his face in your hands again and kiss his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, his ears, his closed eyes, whispering “I love you, I love you, I love you” between every slow kiss. His hands come up to hold your wrists, chin bowed reverently until your nose brushes his, inviting him to kiss you. It’s gentle, a hymnal, a moment of vulnerability you swore you’d never give each other.

You don’t remember much of the night you accidentally made a baby, but you remember that you didn’t get to experience Jake. It was never something you would say out loud - the desire to be this close. The sadness you felt when you were with your ex and knew his touch would never be home was often overwhelming but here, now, with Jake wrapping one arm around to the small of your back and the other on the edge of your upper thigh, thumbs stroking soothing patterns, you cannot picture how you ever could have lived without him. Without this. Magic exists. It’s in Jake’s touch. In his kiss. His soft lips as they move against yours.

Your heart beats in double time when his tongue coaxes yours forward, deepening the kiss that has already laid you to rest in some other dimension. Dead to it all. Just him and you and your baby.

When he pulls back, he quickly wipes a tear from his cheek and you laugh softly, pulling his hand away from his face. You press a kiss to where the tear had fallen, Jake’s breath of relief fanning down your throat.

He wraps his arms around you and stands, lifting you onto the edge of the bed before kneeling in front of you again. One hand on the back of your ankle, the other on your calf, he looks up at you through wet eyelashes.

“You are everything I want, Y/N.” He breathes, kissing your knee, the same one he kissed all those months ago.

You smile, fighting tears of your own. “Oh yeah?”

He chuckles, reaching up to tap under your eye. “If I have to cry, so do you.”

“Wrong.” You reply, holding up a finger. “I made the rules. I’m in charge.”

His smile becomes sly for a second. “Correct, honey girl.”

Your heart trills at the nickname and you can’t help the tear that slips out. You quickly wipe it away, laughing. “Ignore that.”

Jake begins unlacing your boot and easing it off. “I liked being able to see you the whole show. Thank you for staying there.”

Your hands find your bump, watching him gingerly lift your other foot to unlace that boot. “I loved watching you.”

He pretends a faint pink blush doesn’t color his cheeks as he eases your other shoe off, rolling down your socks before kissing the inside of your knees and standing up. “We should stay here forever.” He states, guiding you to sit further up on the bed so he can crawl up and lay with his head beside your hip.

You lean back on one hand, the other still on your bump as Jake rests a hand beside yours. “The hotel? We haven’t made many memories here yet.”

“Wrong.” Jake corrects, laying on his side and kissing your belly. “It’s where you told me you love me. I never want to leave.”

You smile, the thought of how you felt about yourself only creeping up for a split second before your heart melted at the sight before you.

“And also I plan to give you some unforgettable moments here.” Jake mutters before looking up at you.

You laugh as you lay down, Jake coming up to rest his head on your chest. The tenderness puts this feeling in your stomach that feels almost like you’re about to throw up, but a warmth overwhelms it that eases your muscles into the embrace.

“I’m okay with staying here.” You whisper.

Jake hums in acknowledgment, then hums again when he feels more little kicks under his hand. He freezes like any movement would scare the little feet away, making you smile and kiss the top of his head.

“She likes you.” You note, resting your hand on top of his.

Jake’s sigh holds so much weight. “You think so?”

“If she’s anything like me, I can guarantee it.”

“I hope she’s everything like you.” Jake breathes after a moment of quiet.

You both lay in silence for some time, reveling in the careful peace, the room lit by one lamp that casts a warm, dim glow over the room. You’re still in your silver dress and jewelry, he’s still in jeans and a sweatshirt, and you’re certain you’d both never move if you had the option.

“I love you.” He says. It’s factual. “Thank you.”

“I love you.” You reply, running your thumb over his hand on your belly.

“I need to shower.”

“No.” You state, holding him closer. “Don’t leave.”

He chuckles, kissing the exposed skin of your chest. “Come with me, then.”

You sigh, heat blooming in your chest. “Mmmm let me think about it …”

Jake slips a finger under one of the straps of your dress and slides it over your shoulder, exposing the top of your full breast. “Think faster.”

“Someone’s needy.” You remark as he kisses the swell, not making any movement to advance anything.

“Someone feels disgusting from performing and wants to only think about you and not how sweaty I am.” He corrects you. “But also, yes. Needy.”

Before you can reply, he rolls over and gets up, holding a hand out to you.

You sigh dramatically. “Fine, but you have to kiss me some more first.”

Jake’s smile is dreamy. “I would love to.”

You take his hand and follow him to the bathroom where he sets you on the marble counter. The LED lights from the mirror make his eyes glow and you feel your heart skip a beat.

“You won’t be able to do that much longer.” You remark as Jake pulls his sweatshirt off along with the t-shirt underneath.

He stands between your legs and nudges your nose with his, pecking your lips. “Lift you?”

You nod.

“Wrong. I’m resolved to make sure I’m strong enough to lift you and however many babies we have for the rest of my life.”

Your heart skips a beat, your hands coming to rest on his chest. “Excuse me?”

He kisses you again, slower. His mustache is filling out and tickles your lip, making you smile. He’s real. He’s concrete.

“You heard me.” Jake mumbles against your mouth, tongue running against yours.

You run your hands down his soft belly and grab his waist, pulling him forward. “Maybe you should run your big plans by me first, yeah?”

He smiles, nipping your lower lip. When he speaks, he’s only barely not kissing you, neither of you wanting to pull apart. “Yes ma’am. Fine. But I will always be able to lift you, pretty baby belly or not.”

You tip your head back, momentarily overcome with that electric buzz Jake gives you. You loop your index fingers through his belt loops and go back to kissing him. “Fine. I accept.”

Jake reaches a hand down to undo his belt and you can’t help how fucking hot you find it, sighing against his mouth. He smirks. “I got you into the bathroom, can I bring you into the shower with me?”

“You gonna fuck me in there?”

He sighs, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be so crass.”

You laugh, all the while reaching down to unbutton his pants. A silent acceptance of his invitation. “How much do you remember of that night?”

“Which one? The night I learned you had a breeding kink or the night I learned the consequences of said breeding kink?”

A stupid one-two punch that leaves you laughing again, head tipped back so you don’t hurt his ears with the volume. He must notice, because he grabs your chin and tilts it back down again, kissing you softly.

“The first one.” You reply.

He slides your strap down again and kisses your shoulder. “Almost all of it.”

“Almost?”

“Well I remember everything up until the end. Which is torturous because I’ve been replaying the first time I touched you since it happened.” He kisses either side of your clavicle, grazing his teeth over the ridge.

“The end?” You ask, breath beginning to pick up.

“Making you cum with my cock deep inside you.” He answers like it’s nothing, but you press your fingernails into the back of his biceps, pressing your cheek to his dipped head. “I guess I remember parts of it. I remember the noises you made … but that’s probably because I’ve heard them many times since then.”

“Not nearly enough.” You correct him as he slips your other strap over your shoulder.

“Have you missed me, baby?” His voice is low and rough, one hand gripping your hip just firmly enough.

You nod. “Badly, honey.”

“Tell me what you remember.” He whispers, wrapping an arm around your waist so he can lift you up enough to pull your dress up to your hips. He’s taking his sweet time with you and you try not to complain about it.

You sigh, carding a hand through his tangled hair when his lips find the center of your chest, pressing little kisses, barely-there touches skimming your waist.

“I remember being so drunk that letting you fuck me seemed like a good idea.”

He chuckles. “How did that turn out?”

“Well, I’m in a beautiful hotel room being kissed by an even more beautiful man who gave me a baby.” You reply, and he hums against your skin, his smile evident in the sound. “So I think it turned out fine.”

His hands creep around your back and he pulls you into a hug, his kisses pausing as his forehead rests on your shoulder. You hug him back, wrapping your legs around his hips.

“My point being,” You continue. “I don’t think I have to worry about being crass with you, Jacob.”

This makes him chuckle, leaning out of the hug and unzipping his pants.

This is taking forever.

“No, I guess not.” He agrees. “But you’re mistaken if you think I’m treating you how I did that night.”

You hum questioningly, two fingers under his chin to guide him back to kissing you. So reverent.

He hums affirmatively against your lips. “My sweet girl, it’s all about you. I want you to take whatever you want. I’m all yours. Everything you want is yours. And I intend to savor you in every second of it, branding the feel of you all around me into my brain so I’m never without the mercy of the memory of your touch.”

The sigh that leaves your chest is one that would’ve been there even were you not pregnant. Heavy, heady, in love. In love. In love.

“I want what you want.” You reply in almost a whine, unable to bring yourself to accept his offer. Something lives in you that can’t accept that anyone would actively want you, even when they say it. You’ve been wrong before. You’ve accepted pretty words before. And you’ve been burned.

Jake shakes his head. “No ma’am. I said it first. I win.”

Your lips purse and you watch as he pulls away from you, stepping back and tilting his chin up in question.

“Fine.” You mutter.

A smirk appears on his face as he holds his hand out in invitation. “You first. I made a promise.”

You had forgotten his promise. Another wave of warmth fills your chest. “You intend to keep it? Really?”

He nods resolutely as you take his hand and he helps you off the counter. “I do. Now turn around.”

You turn and face the mirror, Jake’s eyes meeting yours as he slowly unzips your dress. He smiles softly and you can’t help but do the same. When the zipper is undone, he steps forward and holds the dress up with a palm under your breasts. You were correct about not wearing a bra being a thing of the past, but apparently that didn’t stop you, because you went braless with this dress too and the silver highlighted your peaked nipples as Jake gingerly slid the dress down your arms, over your tits, slowly over your belly, until it hit the floor - his eyes never leaving your reflection.

You wrap your hands around his arm that rests between your breasts and belly, silently giving him permission when his thumb loops through the band of your panties. They fall to the floor too and you don’t remember feeling so naked before as you do in front of the mesmerizing, mesmerized eyes of Jake Kiszka. You feel your heart rate pick up in a bad way, your eyebrows pinching together with nerves before Jake kisses behind your ear.

“Thank you.” He whispers. “You look so perfect carrying our baby.”

At that, you melt into his bare chest, all tension leaving your body. You remember how you feel with Jake - held. Safe. Safe. Like never before.

He kisses your shoulder and turns you around, kissing you again. “I don’t think I will ever get tired of how you taste.”

You smile softly, thumb brushing over his jaw. “The feeling is mutual.”

“I’m sorry I took so long.” Jake says against your lips as you hook your thumb in his waistband.

You look at him quizzically, head tilting sideways.

“To see you.” He says, hands on your waist pulling you closer to him. “I wish I opened my fucking eyes to you sooner.”

Fucking pregnancy tears. You laugh as you furiously wipe their tracks away, but Jake gingerly pulls your hands away.

“Are these happy tears? Or fuck that dude tears?” He’s trying to joke but you can see the worry in his face.

You laugh again, pulling him in for another kiss. His lips are so soft and warm. “Happy tears.”

“Good.” He smiles, trying to fight the worry. “Stay here.”

He steps away and opens the glass door of the massive shower, leaning in to turn the knob and testing the water until it’s where he wants. When he comes back, he runs his hands through his hair, making a sort of ponytail as he tugs and smiles nervously.

“You never said yes to joining me.”

You scoff, kissing his cheek. “Take your pants off, dumbass.”

It’s almost funny how you both waver in and out of nerves despite how you know how badly you want to be right where you are. He obviously does too. The worry comes from not knowing about the other person. But you’re trying. He is too.

You step into the warm shower and he follows suit, immediately wrapping his strong arms around you and kissing you, your hands on his cheeks. This is how you felt safe. If there were ever a statue made of the two of you, you’re certain history would depict his hands on the small of your back and yours on his cheeks while you kissed. You’re certain if you would be frozen in that second, kissing Jake, you’d be just fine with that.

“Fuck.” Jake mutters, pulling back and quickly yanking his big rings off, throwing them one-by-one over the shower door and onto the floor, making you laugh. When he finishes, he pulls you close again, just looking at you. You loop your arms around his neck.

“Remember when you ran me a bath when I got sick?” You ask, Jake’s hand sneaking down to grab your ass. It’s not seeking, it’s just to have you close. And you’re certain he likes your soft edges and curves as much as you like his.

“I do.” He nods once. “That would be the day after the other night I remember.”

You nod back. “Can I repay the favor?”

His eyebrows pinch together. “It wasn’t a favor, honey girl. That was- … that was because I loved you. There’s nothing to repay.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “You loved me then?”

“I think I- … yeah.” He nods firmly, eyes still uncertain.

You both stay with that for a moment, the dual shower heads drenching his hair and causing his smudged eyeliner to leak down his cheeks. You smile, brushing it away.

“Fine. Can I love you too?” You ask, and he smiles.

“Sure.” He shrugs with a faked casual air, but he gently grips your waist in affirmation.

You kiss his cheek and he sits on the bench that takes up a lot of the shower. With shampoo in hand, you stand before him and run it through his tangled hair, carefully undoing each knot with pinched fingers over the strands. His eyes flutter shut and his face is one of nearly zoned-out peace.

As you lather the soap through his hair, his hands come up from the bench and loop around your lower back, both calloused palms splaying against your wet skin.

Jake’s eyes remain shut as he speaks. “Tell me you love me again.”

You smile softly, sweeping suds from his forehead with your thumb. “I love you, Jake.”

A slow smile creeps up his face, a pink blush blooming over his cheeks and chest. “Say it again.”

You lean forward slightly to kiss his cheek, whispering in his ear. “I love you, needy.”

His eyes open at this just before you’re washing the soap from his hair. He blinks quickly and pinches your hip. “I’ve only heard it a few times. I’m filling my bank. Leave me alone.”

You raise an eyebrow, running conditioner through his hair now. “Is that what you want, soldier? For me to leave you alone?”

He shakes his head, eyes intent on yours. “No. At least not tonight.”

Now you pinch his bicep as he laughs at your gasp. “Ass.”

You twirl his hair, lathered in conditioner, into a bun at the nape of his neck. He closes his eyes again, hands traveling to grip your ass as his forehead dips to the top of your belly.

“Kidding.” He mumbles between kisses to your bump. “I’m pondering canceling the tour again, actually.”

“Sure, mister rockstar.” You reply sarcastically, rinsing the conditioner from his hair. “Whatever you say.”

He shrugs, his hum noncommittal between more kisses. “Unless you wanna come with me? Us? You can tattle on me to Josh if I’m an **ass.” He mocks you, chuckling when you spray the water on his face.

“You’re Uhauling, Jake.” You tsk, brushing his wet hair from his face and making him look up at you. Even with his gaze on you, he kisses your bump over and over. The smile that overtakes your face is reflected in his own.

“I don’t want to miss another moment. Sue me.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing the face wash to get the rest of his makeup off. You turning makes him have to sit back for a second, huffing like a child. You turn back and he closes his eyes again, lifting his chin so you have more access to his face. You’re gentle, trying to remove eyeliner without getting soap in his eyes, but he doesn’t seem to notice as his hands find the backs of your thighs, traveling up to grab your ass and squeeze, yanking you toward him. You laugh, steadying yourself with your knees bumping against the bench.

Instead of spraying him, you cup water in your hands and let it wash over his face, removing the last traces of his stage makeup and leaving him finally clean save for his body.

Just as you’re about to turn to grab the body wash, he makes a little noise in the back of his throat to make you stop and he pulls you close, all but lifting you onto his lap as he leans against the shower wall. You happily climb into his lap and kiss him instantly, accepting the millionth of a billion kisses you'll be demanding during the remainder of the night. The shower water running over your faces makes your lips slide together effortlessly as his tongue runs along your lower lip before meeting yours in a slow, steady rhythm.

You can’t help the breathy sound of anticipation that escapes you, one that Jake enjoys if you’re going off the smile you feel against your lips. His hands find your ass again and he pulls you closer. You can feel him growing hard between your legs and you sigh, sinking your hands into his hair.

“I’ve missed you.” You breathe, rising on your knees as Jake pushes you up, his lips trailing down your neck in open-mouthed kisses.

He just hums a reply against your skin, one hand leaving your ass to run up your belly until it finds one of your breasts. His reply, really, is the way he glides the center of his palm over your nipple and makes your breath stutter before his soft hand envelopes your tit and he groans appreciatively. You smile, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. This breaks his trail of movements, making him look up at you with such tender eyes.

You brush some fallen hair from his cheek and kiss his forehead. “What?”

He opens his mouth to speak but it just stays there before he shakes his head. “Nothing. I just … I’m not used to … It’s nothing.” He chuckles, flustered, trying to distract you with his thumb running over your nipple.

You hold his wrist, though absolutely appreciating how he makes you feel. “No, tell me.”

“W- …” He sighs in frustration, getting himself together while placing a long kiss to your sternum. “We’re about to have sex, right?”

You smile, your eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Yes, baby.”

A smile flickers on Jake’s face for a second as his chest falls heavily. “I’ve told you about all the women I’ve been with before … right?”

You wince, but recover quickly in his hold. He moves his other hand so they’re both holding your pregnancy-swollen tits and you hold that wrist too, keeping him still. “A bit. But I’ve been around. I’ve seen them.”

He nods, keeping his eyes steady on yours. “It’s just … I don’t know. When you kissed my head I- …”

You lean down a breath to kiss him, feeling his muscles soften at the touch. When you pull back, he’s smiling softly again.

“I’ve never really had anyone be soft with me. It just startled me, is all.” His voice is small, his eyes flickering between yours.

Your sweet boy.

“I’m sorry, Jake.” You whisper, pulling him into a hug that does squish his face into your boobs. But that’s okay. “You deserved better.”

He shrugs. “Debatable. I’m just enjoying this now.”

You giggle as he squeezes your tits, and tilts his chin up for another kiss. You oblige, holding his cheeks in your hands and kissing him softly. Sweet boy.

When his thumbs run over your nipples, you remember where you are and nip his lower lip, earning a chuckle.

You begin to debate if you actually need to wash your hair or if you can just let him fuck you right there.

He must sense this train of thought, because he pulls away from your kiss and makes a dismissing noise. “I told you I’m not treating you like last time. You need to shower too. You’re gonna get glitter on me and I can’t let my brothers see that.”

You gasp, gripping his wrists again. “Rude!”

He laughs, kissing between your breasts again. “I’ll make you a deal, okay?”

You nod, biting your lip as the pads of his thumbs trace under your nipples.

“You wash your hair, I take care of you.” He states, handing you the bottle of shampoo. “Yeah?”

You sigh half-heartedly, taking the bottle and about to complain until his lips make a determined path to your nipple, making your breath hitch. He kisses the bud gently before running his tongue over it, making the muscles in your lower belly tense.

“Have I told you that being pregnant has made me so horny?” You ask, trying not to get lost in the way his mouth makes your heart rate rise dramatically.

He chuckles, kissing your nipple again and squeezing your breasts in either hand. “I could tell.”

You groan, squirting shampoo in your hand and slowly raking it through your hair, eyes closed, taking in how he pinches one nipple and licks the other. Fucking hell.

You massage the soap through your hair, your hands stuttering in their movements when his teeth graze your sensitive skin, a gasp drawn from your throat.

Jake chuckles, not giving in and returning to soft kisses on the other breast. “You’re fun to play with.”

The sentiment makes heat bloom between your legs and you groan as you tip your head back to rinse the shampoo out. He takes the opportunity to wrap his mouth fully around your nipple and bite, his hands splayed on your back holding you up as you arch and whine tremulously; your hand, half covered in shampoo, immediately gripping the hair at the nape of his neck into a fist.

“Jake!” You gasp, remaining arched back as his tongue laves over his bite and you shudder. When his name tumbles from your mouth, you feel his erection twitch between your legs - cannon fodder to your already burning desire.

Jake’s hand moves between your shoulder blades, gently urging you up while his other hand wraps fully around your waist, securing you against him. You look down at his face, his eyes closed as he sucks your nipple between his lips.

He looks like an angel, so caught up in his own world. You yourself begin to think of what he said. How he’d never been treated softly. But you look at his pretty, content face and feel his strong arms hold you in what is essentially a hug and … you’re lucky the shower is a good excuse for any possible tears.

You can’t remember the last time you were treated with such tenderness. Not before him.

You lean forward to whisper in his ear, making him release your nipple and groan. You giggle, holding his wet face in your hands. “You could take me to bed now.”

He shakes his head immediately, his eyes lusty and heavy as his hands both travel down your ass and to your thighs straddled over him. “Lemme take my time, honey girl.” He kisses you slowly and you rise up on your knees, your tits brushing against his chest and making him gasp against your lips. “I wanna worship you.”

“Fuck me …” you groan, trying to quell the burning desire that has overtaken your whole body.

Jake winks. “That’s what I’m trying to do, busybody.”

You tenderly yank on a strand of his hair and he smiles, turning to kiss the inside of your wrist. It melts you, and you can’t help but pull him into an embrace against your chest which does, again, squish his face into your boobs. He, however, doesn’t mind - nipping at the soft skin and humming contentedly.

“Fine,” You sigh, tilting his chin up but still holding him close. “As long as you’re happy.”

“Y/N, I would die happily with my face between your legs. There is nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Jake’s hands massage your thighs as you roll your eyes, earning you a teasing slap to your ass.

“Speaking of,” He starts and stands up, holding you with his hands on your ass as you wrap your legs around him. “Trade places with me.”

You lean your forehead against his, looking in his eyes intently. “There’s just no way you’re always so okay with giving, Jake. Come on.”

He looks genuinely confused. “Who said?”

You roll your eyes again, noting that he’s turned around and moved his hip to uncross your ankles at his back. “My entire experience with men. That’s who.”

He chuckles, easing you onto the bench and sinking to his knees. You run your hands over his hot, wet shoulders as he looks up at you through clumped lashes. “Not to ruin the mood, but you’ve been with at least one other man who you said is apparently just like me.”

“Don’t bring your brother into this.” You chide as he kisses the inside of the leg he’s putting over his shoulder. You lean back on your hands and watch his eyes flutter shut again, lips dragging on your inner thigh. And you’re reminded that you’re wrong about him. Again.

When his eyes find yours, you can tell they’re trying so hard not to flicker to where he’s exposed you. It makes his point. “Y/N, some day, I will prove my point hard enough for you to not doubt me again. But not while you’re pregnant. That’s a hazard.” He winks, his hands wrapping around the outside of your thighs and bracing them open wider. His eyes momentarily flutter between your legs and he groans, his lip between his teeth and eyes pinched shut.

Heat. Hot. He’s so fucking hot. You’re so fucking hot. Two different ways. Fucking hell.

Your palm finds his cheek and he leans against it, opening his eyes into yours.

“You have no idea how often I think about how you taste, baby. I think about how you squeeze my fingers and drip down my chin; how you whine and pant and make such pretty noises for me. I think about how soft and velvety your pussy feels on my tongue and-“ His chin dips and he takes a deep breath. “Alright, enough about me before I lose my mind.”

You giggle softly behind your hand, trying not to comment on the way his stomach tenses as he breathes deeply.

“Okay, pretty boy.” You croon, relishing in his tender kisses to your palm as his fingers press into the flesh of your thighs. “As long as you let me repay the-“

His eyebrow quirks.

“The not-favor.” You correct yourself. “The thing I want to do because I love you.”

A smile breaks out on one side of his lips. “Deal. Me first though. Please.”

Another playful roll of your eyes. “If you insist.”

Jake keeps his eyes on yours while half-heartedly biting the inside of your thigh hitched over his shoulder. “Good girl.”

You sigh, leaning back against the shower wall as his face dips between your thighs, tender kisses trailing the junction of your legs and your core. It would be so easy to get stuck like this, in some made-up heaven where Jake makes you feel like a worthy human and not like a masturbation tool. Where he’s not receiving or even, really, giving. He’s just worshiping. Coddling. Appreciating. Slow, deliberate, one hand running up and down your thigh soothingly. It’s not hot and heavy, it’s there for the long haul.

Please.

When his lips begin a trail of kisses on the seam of your heat, you bite your lip and whine. The teasing is fun, yes, but fuck if you haven’t missed his mouth.

“Please, Jake.” You whisper and he looks up at you with a face that assures you he will not be listening to your pleas any time soon.

In fact, he pulls back to leave open-mouthed kisses on your inner thigh before biting down like he did on your nipple. Your legs tense on either side of his head, a new heat flooding your pussy. You resolve then to maybe try and possibly just let him do what he wants, trust him with the pleasure he so obviously loves giving you for some reason.

Jake kisses your folds again, nipping gently before breathing you in, his eyes softly shut. “I’ve missed you.” He breathes.

“Me or my-” You begin to tease but he cuts you off.

“It’s better not to ask, you’ll only hurt your own feelings.” He says with fake pity just before licking a long stripe from your aching entrance to your throbbing clit.

You suck in air between gritted teeth, your head knocking against the tile wall.

He feels so good. He’s always so good. Alternating kitten licks and long, slow laves of his tongue, over your clit in languid circles or teasing your clenching center with a stupid, mocking smile on his face.

You reach forward just to hold one of his hands and he accepts gratefully, never changing pace as you bite your lip and moan breathily.

“Good girl.” His voice rumbles against your skin and sends shockwaves through your body. “Let me hear how good you feel.”

“Fuck,” You breathe out, chin dipping and giving you a better view of his cocky wink as his tongue flutters against your clit and you have to fight to keep your thighs from crushing his head.

“You taste like heaven.” Jake whispers, kissing your clit and pulling back less than a hair's breadth away, the fingers of the hand not holding yours slowly tracing under your thigh until they ghost over your pussy and make you whine. “And you sound like it too.”

You try to pull yourself back for a second so you don’t look too desperate and come right there. You’re not sure why, which makes sense given the only thought you can manage that isn’t related to Jake Jake Jake is how crazy it is that a shower can maintain hot water for as long as you’ve both been in there. But Jake slides his middle finger inside of you and a gasp rattles through your chest, shattering that one thought into a million pieces and bringing you back to him, his hand squeezing yours.

He keeps his heavy brown eyes on yours as he gratefully suckles your clit, his one finger dragging in and out of your pussy, and you’re certain that not only has no one ever wanted your pleasure as much as Jake … but no pretty face has ever been so erotic as his. Blushed cheeks, eyes fighting to stay open, lips wrapped around your clit and lapping so perfectly you momentarily think you’ll shatter right there.

You squeeze a fist in his wet hair and push your hips further against his mouth. He accepts gratefully, burying his face between your legs and making lewd, slurping noises as your legs begin to shake.

“Jakey, baby …” you breathe, your heart rate skittering in your chest. He looks up at you for a split second, just letting you know he’s listening while his finger curls upward. Your mouth drops open and you feel it. The Jake-induced orgasm you’ve grown to love just beginning to crest. Your head knocks back against the shower wall and your back arches as you squeeze his hand hard.

“Jake!” You half whine, half moan. “Jake plea- Jake don’t stop please.”

He groans, surely suffocating from how wholly he’s devouring you, pulling you even closer and drawing a gasp from you as the wave finally crests. Staccato moans bounce off the tiled walls as you come on Jake’s face, his hummed approval only prolonging the explosive pleasure that floods your brain.

“Good girl.” He croons, muffled by his proximity to your pussy, his swollen lips grazing gently over your clit and making you wince and whine. He smiles. “Good girl.”

Your chest heaving, you move your hand from his hair and finding his cheek again, your thumb on his pink lips. His own breathing is labored, his now-free hand squeezing the inside of your thigh, slowly and carefully bringing you down.

“You’re so pretty.” You breathe, cheeks absolutely blazing.

“Mm. Mhm.” He kisses your thumb and slowly guides your thigh from his shoulder. His hand still in yours, he guides both of his hands to your belly and kisses just under your naval. “Says you.”

You pinch his cheek and smile. “Now let me love you, baby. Please.”

Jake groans into a chuckle, tipping his forehead against your belly. “Don’t wanna move.”

You laugh, moving his head so he can look up at you. “I’m remembering that time at that guys party now.”

He looks half-drunk with his heavy eyes and pink cheeks. He looks wholly enamored. “Me too.”

“Oh yeah?” You ask, teasing.

Jake nods, his cheeks squished in your hands. “Remembering how I thought I would explode, yes.” He chuckles, then sighs wistfully. “I didn’t know how to explain the burning in my chest until now.”

“And what was it? Indigestion?”

He wrinkles his nose at you, smiling. “Obsession, actually. Gliding my tongue between your swollen pussy for the second time, knowing how you tasted but feeling again just how …” he looks at you in complete rapture. You want to suck his dick so bad. “Just how it felt to tongue fuck you and feel you come on my face. Fucking hell, Y/N … I don’t know.” He trails off, chuckling. He wraps his arms around your hips, still kneeling on the **definitely uncomfortable tile floor.

“Well I’m glad you had the balls to ask to me return the favor.” You whisper, your ass on the edge of the bench as you twirl his hair around your finger.

He rolls his eyes, reaching over and shutting the shower off. You’re immediately chilly and he stands, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around your shoulders. You pout. He mimes it back.

“What?” He asks when your lips part, drying himself off.

You finally get to see him. Holy fuck.

You squeeze your thighs together, eyes unable to leave it. Him.

“That was inside me?” You breathe, biting your lip.

You had never felt much attraction to dicks but fucking hell … seeing the man you love stand there, fully bare, hard for you … you had to control your breathing so you didn’t get lightheaded.

He chuckles, guiding you to stand so he can kiss you again, hands cupping your jaw and fingers tracing back into your hair. He breathes out through his nose and you trace your hand down his stomach until your fingers touch the patch of hair above his hard cock.

“Yes.” Jake smirks, one so full of love and humor. “Why?”

You shake your head, running your fingers down every so slightly. “No wonder I missed it so bad.”

“Excuse me.” Jake tuts, tapping under your chin with a crooked finger. “Eyes up here.”

You whine, kissing him in a short series of pecks where he nips at you at the end. “Please don’t make me beg again.”

Jake really is trying to seem tough but the blush on his cheeks shows you just how affected he is. He bends down to wrap his arms around your thighs. You hop into his arms and wrap your legs around his waist, going right back to kissing him. The thrum in your chest may be permanent if he doesn’t let you taste him in the next few minutes.

“You don’t gotta beg, baby.” Jake mutters against your lips. “I just don’t wanna hurt you.”

You groan, nudging your nose against his as you whisper. “Please, Jake. Please let me suck your cock. Then you can do whatever you want. I’ll be so good, I promise.”

The breaths Jake begins to take are shaking and flustered. “That was not the direction I thought that was going.”

You kiss him again and laugh against his parted lips. “Whatever you want, baby. Just give me this one thing.”

Jake accepts your lazy kisses while he thinks, apparently. You take the opportunity to wiggle your hips until you just brush his cock and he swears, hissing. In an instant, he carries you back to the bed and sits down. You’re back to kneeling above him and his hand finds your bump again.

“Tell me what you wanna do.” Jake’s breathy voice stutters against your skin as his lips brush over your jaw. Your hair drips down your back and you know you’ll make a wet mess in more ways than one but you can’t bring yourself to care.

You smile, tilting your hips so your parted pussy lips drags over him and he gasps, eyes pinching shut.

“That’s not fair, baby.” He grips your ass and lifts you to your knees. “I won’t last long enough for all you want from me.”

You laugh now, softly pressing a kiss to his ear. “I want to get on my knees and sit between your pretty thighs.”

He hums in acknowledgment, lips running over the curve of your jaw as his hands run circles over your asscheeks. “Just gonna sit there all pretty?”

You hum back. “No. I was thinking I’d see how far I could take you in your mouth, actually.”

Jake groans, pulling you closer to him so he can run you over his length this time. Your breath hitches and he grins. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to see what those pink lips of yours look like on my cock.”

He was infinitely better at dirty talk than you were. That was obvious.

“Let me show you, then.” You whisper, peeling yourself off of him and sinking to your knees.

“I don’t wanna- …” He licks his lips even while his legs part, eyebrows scrunching at the sight of you on the floor before him. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me, Jake.” You protest, kissing the inside of his knee and watching his lips part. “If you’re so concerned, keep your hands to yourself.”

He rolls his eyes but sits back on his hands. “Fine. Agreed.”

“Good boy.” You wink, taking him in your hand and pumping once, slowly. You remember that he hasn’t gotten off by your hands, mouth or pussy since that first night. Now, after both of you waiting for so long, a low breath escapes his chest as he looks down at you and he’s immediately dazed.

Slow pumps, kisses to the tip, Jake’s grunt is emphasized by the way he grips the sheets that are slowly getting wet from the drops of water running off his hair.

You open your mouth a touch to leave an open-mouthed kiss to his weeping cock. He’s waited so long. He’s so pretty. He smacks the mattress beside him in some attempt at control when you begin to leave sloppy, wet kisses up and down his length. He’s so heavy and soft in your hand, you want to grip him much harder than you were.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this sensitive.” Jake breathes, eyes fighting to stay open as he watches you.

You smile, one long lick finishing with your lips wrapped around him. The noises from Jake goes straight to your core as you bob your head, flat tongue against the vein that pulses underneath.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he chants, again gripping the sheets and biting his lip.

He tastes so good. Clean and musky and warm. So soft on your tongue, so responsive when your lower teeth graze him. This was everything you had wanted.

You can see his thighs clench and shake as he tries to keep them open, your free hand smoothing down his calf and squeezing, prompting him to relax.

“I’m trying.” He whines under his breath, head tipping back as he fights the urge to move his hips. “I really am trying.”

You pull back just a centimeter from his wet cock, kissing it lovingly while he pants. “What are you trying to do?”

His smile is accompanied by a sigh. “Not cum yet.”

“Why?” You tilt your head to the side, hand still working his length. You love watching him fight to keep his eyes open.

Through gritted teeth, he replies “I wanna cum inside you, dove. Want you to ride me.”

Heat blossoms in your chest and between your legs. Fucking hell.

“What if I want you to cum in my mouth?”

The intensity of his gaze now was so much that you shift and squirm like you can ride it. Fuck.

“Later.” Jake replies gruffly, reaching down to ineffectively lift you up. You both giggle in such close proximity as he lays back and you crawl over him. His warm smile kisses yours, you straddling his waist and him burying a hand in your slowly drying hair, the movement shakes a drop of water onto his shoulder and his muscles tense at the cold. “Forgot we were wet.” He mutters, quickly going back to kissing you.

“You’ve been occupied.” You say between a kiss. “You’re excused.”

He hums mockingly against your mouth. “Mhm. Stop talking and ride me, baby.”

You know his bravado is only teasing but you can’t help the sharp breath that leaves you at his command. You push your hips back into his hands and he eases you back and forth over him, the short breaths that leave him panted against your cheeks.

You feel Jake freeze, his hands tight on your ass to hold you still.

“What’s wrong?” You ask in his ear, kissing his cheekbone.

He shakes his head, lazily kissing your cheek. “Nothin’. Need to calm down is all.”

You can’t help but feel smug. Really. Maybe you were bad at taking hints, sure, but seeing his pink cheeks and swollen lips, feeling his hips arch up into you against his will … even if only physically, you own him.

You lean forward enough to kiss under his ear. He sighs, his shoulders untensing in your grip.

“You’re acting like this is the only time we’ll ever get to do this.” You whisper, kissing a line down his jaw.

Jake smiles lazily, eyes barely open. “I’ve waited so long for you, baby. I told you, if I don’t control myself now, we’re both in trouble.”

You can’t help but smirk. “What do you mean by that, cowboy? Sounds like you have quite an ego on you.”

Jake squeezes your ass again, a gentle push to let you move again. You oblige, and you can see the instant regret in his eyes before it quickly melts into pleasure.

“I mean I’m not gonna last long enough for you to cum.” He pants, eyebrows pinched together. His thumbs find the crease between your belly and your thighs, using his secure grip to tilt your hips just so. “But we’re both gonna have to deal with that, aren’t we?” He mumbles, mostly to himself, capturing your gasp in his kiss when the thick head of his cock nudges your entrance.

You can’t manage a response, your lip between your teeth as you take his pained look as an invitation to keep going. Keep going. Fuck.

“I’m in your hands, Y/N. Use me.” Jake whispers hoarsely, eyes pinching shut like he’s trying to control himself, regain composure. “Just let me feel you.”

You’re so close like this, your foreheads pressed together as open mouths pant into each others. You sink down, pausing every inch or so just to feel him. You want to engrave this into your mind. Maybe this was your snowglobe moment. A disgusting, horny snowglobe moment, yes. But you’d give anything to capture every flash of light in the corners of your vision as Jake’s cock slides so effortlessly into you after you’ve waited to feel him again for months.

“Fuck,” you mumble against his open mouth. “Fuck, Jake … you feel so good.”

Jake just grunts, squeezing your hips. “Stay there for a second, okay? Just … don’t move.”

Your nipples graze his chest as you both breathe heavily, small whines and gasps shared between you as you both wait, letting the moment sink in. Fuck. Fuck.

Another subtle squeeze is invitation enough and you sink all the way down, your back arching your swollen tits nearly into Jake’s face. Apparently, he doesn’t mind. He presses a kiss to your sternum and hums when you move slowly, the aching slide where you meet sending boots of electricity through your skin.

You lean up enough to press your hands into his chest, gaining more leverage to lift and press your hips against him.

Jake takes the opportunity to grab your tits in each hand and present your nipples directly to his mouth, lovingly licking and kissing as you ride him. He is an image beneath you and you wonder how the **fuck you found yourself in bed with Jake Kiszka.

Pushing back ever so slightly, Jake’s perfect dick hits a spot inside of you that pulls the breath right from your lungs. His response to your sudden fluttering is a bite to your sensitive nipple and you both arch and groan.

His head smacks back into the pillows, his hands squeezing your tits as he breathes heavily. “That feel good, honey girl?”

You nod furiously, lip between your teeth. So good. So good.

“You’re lasting a lot longer than I expected.” You note, a lazy smile on your face as you slowly grind against him so he hits that spot over and over.

Jake tries to respond but gets cut off by his own pleasure, his jaw and arms shivering in protest to the rush of dopamine that squeezes his eyes shut. His mouth moves like he’s talking but he’s just whining. He’s so beautiful like this, sweat beading on his forehead and upper lip as he shakes with restraint.

You lean further back so you’re seated fully on top of him and it pulls a groan from deep in his belly.

He shakes his head but manages to keep his hazy gaze on you now. “I’m really trying here.” A breathy laugh escapes him but it’s short lived. “You feel so good, baby. Unbelievable.”

You smile proudly, content to watch the man you love become pussy drunk on you for however long he can manage.

But Jake stops you for a second with another squeeze to your hips that conveys, in the language you’ve somehow created since you crawled onto this bed, that he has something to say. But he doesn’t say anything for a moment, just looks up at you with sleepy eyes.

“What?” You ask, adjusting yourself on your knees and making him hiss.

“Tell me again.” He asks in a whisper, his face arrogant but sweet. “Tell me you love me while you get off on my cock.”

“Fucking hell,” you breathe, your head tipping back as you take in a full breath.

He squeezes again and you look back down. He knows what he’s doing and he knows what he wants.

You can’t help but smile back at him. Jake. Jake Jake Jake.

“I love you,” you whisper, grinding against him slowly but methodically.

You see his jaw clench, but he smiles. “Say it again.”

You rise up on your knees and sink fully down, Jake’s eyebrows shooting up as a ripple of pleasure shocks you both.

“I do-“ you gasp when he drags a hand from your hips to just above where you two connect, middle finger rubbing small circles over your clit. Fireworks bloom inside your chest and you moan out the rest. “I do love you, Jake.”

Jake hums affectionately, his finger picking up pace and making you whine. “You sound so pretty, dove. I love you too.”

Maybe he was more vocal about wanting to hear the sentiment but you wanted it just as bad, evident in the way your fingertips dug into his soft pecs and pressed crescent indents into his skin.

“Jake,” you gasp, his hips thrusting up just enough to meet your pace. “Jake.” You moan, jaw dropping when he perfectly hits your cervix just enough to make lava flow beneath your skin.

“Say it again.” He whispers, looping his free hand around the back of your neck to pull you down and meet him in a kiss. His lips stutter and your mouth falls open when the new angle and touch of his fingers lights the match in your belly. He must feel you fluttering around him because he whimpers “m’gonna cum, baby.”

You nod, trying desperately to kiss him as your pace becomes sloppy. The pleasure that floods your body makes you feel stupid as you lean back again and grip the wrist of his hand playing with your clit. “I love you, Jake.”

He nods frantically, lip between his teeth and biting hard. Before he can respond, his back arches off the bed, the most beautiful moans spilling from his open mouth. You feel his warm cum fill you and the sensation is what does you in, sparks exploding from your skin in every direction as you cum on top of him, your body shaking as you try to ride it out, both of your bodies suddenly becoming stupid with pleasure.

Just like before, Jake is so quick to wrap his arms around you and pull you close to him, his softening length still inside of you as you’re pulled underneath him against the pillows.

As he rests on his forearms above you, he maintains eye contact as he slips out of you, kissing you the second you begin to whine at the loss of contact.

“I love you, too.” He mutters into the kiss.

“I love you.” You respond.

“I love you.” He smiles against your lips, struggling to keep kissing you as you both smile stupidly.

“I love you.” You whisper, wrapping your shaking legs around his hips and yanking him closer.

“I love you.” He whispers back, kissing your forehead and wrapping his arms around your body in a hug. “Both of you.”

_____

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2nd version of this one