"The words of love, which are always the same, take the taste of the lips they come from."
~ dovesinthewind on ao3
~ This is my official masterlist. Works are listed from the first being the most recent, to the last being the least recent. I do not take requests unless stated otherwise. Individual works cite the appropriate warnings, so do advise. My works are 18+ regardless of content. Feel free to engage with my inbox with questions or comments. Please do not repost my works but reblogging is always encouraged! Thank you for reading :)
HEADCANON;
Headcanon Masterlist
READERFIC;
Skin*- Hugo Stiglitz/F!reader, wc 3.6k | on ao3
Sweetest Devotion* - Father Jud Duplenticy/F!reader (multi-part) | on ao3
Dream of You - Eddie Munson/F!reader/Emperor Geta, wc 3.3k | on ao3
Heartbeat* - Demetri Volturi/F!reader, wc 3.6k | on ao3
Close to You - Kyle “Gaz” Garrick/F!reader, wc 1.8k, ficlet | on ao3
Phases - Enedina Arellano Félix/F!reader, wc 4.3k | on ao3
How Do I Make You Love Me - Maddy Perez/F!reader, wc 14.5k (multi-part) | on ao3
In The Dark - TASM! Peter Parker/GN!reader, wc 2.0k, ficlet
Normal Girl - Kiara Carrera/F!reader, wc 4.9k
CHARACTER ANALYSIS/NON-READERFIC;
From Beyond Oz, With Love - Elphaba & Glinda, wc ~ 1.5k
Dear April - Lexi Howard & Rue Bennett, wc 1.7k, character study | on ao3
— cw: established relationship; smut and fluff; domesticity; wc: 5.5 k
— S. RILEY:
Simon loves handling knives. It’s one of his specialities after all. And he’s caught you watching him multiple times; whether it was him cutting vegetables for supper, cleaning his combat knives, or shaving with a razor blade.
So, when you pad into the kitchen in nothing but his shirt and ask him to help you shave, he doesn't even blink.
“Where?”
You tug at the hem. He follows the gesture, and his expression doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes does.
“Right.” The chair scrapes over the tiles as he rises to his full height, rolling his shoulders. “Bathroom. Now.”
He has you up on the counter with your legs spread before you can overthink it. Clinical and efficient, like he’s done this a thousand times.
“Hold still,” he commands, lathering soap between his mammoth hands. “Squirm and I'll nick ya.”
You snort, “Reassuring."
“Wasn’t meant t’be.”
His hands are rough but warm and deliberate as he works the lather over you, one palm flat against your lower belly to keep you pinned. He tilts his head, surveying you like a problem he is solving.
He clucks his tongue, “Not takin’ it all off.”
And you blink owlishly, “Why not?”
“Because I like it.” He drags his thumb through the dark curls at the apex of your cunt, appraising. “Leavin’ a clean strip. You'll thank me later.”
The razor comes up before you can argue. First stroke—slow, precise, the blade gliding through lather and coarse hair with a control that makes your stomach flip. His jaw is set, focused, and there is something unbearable about how steady his hands are when yours are gripping the counter edge so hard your knuckles ache.
He rinses the blade. Goes again. His knuckles brush bare skin this time and your thigh jerks involuntarily.
“What’d I say?” His voice is low, flat; his eyes almost bored as they flick up to meet yours.
“Sorry—”
“Don’t apologise. Stop squirmin’.” He resettles his grip on your thigh, firm enough to bruise. “Almost done.”
But you’re not making it easy on him and he knows it. He can see it—the flush creeping down your chest, the way your breathing has gone shallow, the slick gathering where his hands keep almost-but-not-quite touching.
“You’re wet,” he remarks, the same way he’d say It’s raining.
“Can you blame me?” you squeak.
“No.” Simon finishes the last stroke, rinses the blade, sets it aside. Then he runs his thumb along the neat strip of hair he’s left, then lower, over smooth sensitive skin, checking his work. “Did a bloody good job, if I say so myself.”
His thumb drags lower. Slides through the slick with zero hesitation, and you gasp loud enough to echo off the tiles.
“Responsive,” he murmurs, smug. He does it again—slower, more deliberate, watching your face like he’s taking briefing notes. “All this from a shave, love?”
You nod, voice thick, “From you.”
Something shifts in his expression; shifts to something darker, hungrier. His free hand grips the inside of your thigh and pushes it wider, and he drops to his knees on the bathroom floor like a man settling into a foxhole.
“Si—”
“Shut up,” he growls against your skin. “Let me admire my work.”
His mouth finds you—hot and wet, and completely unhurried. He licks a long, flat stripe over the freshly shaved skin and groans low in his throat like he’s tasting honey on a warm, buttered toast. Your hand flies to his head, fingers digging into the short hair, and he lets you.
Then he pulls back, and you almost whine, but he’s not going anywhere. He brings both hands up instead, spreads you open with his thumbs, rough callused pads pressing into soft skin, holding you apart so he can see everything.
“Look at that,” he murmurs, low and self-satisfied. “All swollen already.”
Your hips buck, but his sheer strength keep you pinned to the counter. “Simon, please—”
“I heard ya.”
But then Simin leans back in and his tongue finds your clit—not a broad stroke this time but a quick, focused flicker, right over the swollen nerve. Your hips buck harder and his grip tightens, thumbs digging into the soft flesh of your pussy lips, keeping you spread wide and pinned open.
“Stay. Still.” Spoken directly against you, the vibration making your thighs shake.
He does it again—that precise, maddening flicker—and you make a sound that’s closer to a sob than anything dignified. He rewards it with a low hum, adjusting the angle, working the tip of his tongue in tight little circles that make your vision blur.
“Knew you’d be like this,” he groans, pulling back just enough to watch your clit twitch under his breath. His thumbs spread you wider, obscenely so. “All wound up from a fuckin’ razor and a steady hand.”
Your cheeks are burning while your hole clenches around nothing. “You’re so full of—oh—”
“Myself? Yeah.” His tongue flattens against you, then flickers again, fast and relentless. “And you love it.”
You can’t argue. You can’t do anything except grip his hair and hold on.
He doesn’t let up. That maddening flicker becomes a rhythm—tight, relentless circles over your clit with the tip of his tongue while his thumbs keep you spread open and pinned like a butterfly under glass. You’e shaking, thighs trembling against his hands, and every sound you make earns you another low hum of approval that vibrates straight through your whole body.
“Simon—Si—I’m going to—”
“Then fuckin’ do it.” His tone is flat as ever, impatient, like you’re wasting his time by holding back.
His tongue presses harder, faster, and you come with a choked cry that bounces off the bathroom tiles. He works you through it—slower now, lapping at you in long, lazy strokes while your legs twitch and your fingers go slack in his hair.
And then you hear it before you see it—the sound of his joggers being shoved down, the slick rhythm of his fist. You lift your head, still dazed, and look down to find him on his knees with his fat cock in his hand, jerking himself in hard, fast strokes while his mouth stays pressed against your inner thigh.
“Simon—?”
“Shut up.” His voice is wrecked now. Rough. Nothing clinical about it anymore. “Needed this since I fuckin’ started.”
He’s close already. You can tell from the way his breathing fractures, the way his free hand grips your thigh hard enough to leave fingerptints. Simon pulls back, angles himself forward, fist working fast and tight, and his eyes are fixed on the mess he’s made of you, all puffy and slick. The neat landing strip dark and matted with your wetness against flushed skin.
“Fuck,” he grits out, low and broken. “Look at you.”
He comes across your cunt in hot, thick stripes—groaning through his teeth, forehead dropping against your thigh as his hips jerk into his own fist, massive shoulders shaking against the onslaught of pleasure. You feel it land on smooth skin, on the strip of hair he insisted on keeping, dripping down between your folds, and the sound he makes is almost pained.
He stays there for a moment. Breathing hard. Forehead pressed to your leg.
Then he straightens up, tucks himself away methodically, and surveys the damage with the composure of a man reviewing a mission report.
“There,” he says, dragging his thumb through the mess on your skin. His and yours, mixed so prettily. “Payment for services rendered.”
Your eyes roll with fond exasperation as your head tips back to rest on the counter.
“You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re welcome, love.” He leans in, presses a single kiss to the landing strip, and stands. “Clean yerself up. Dinner’s in twenty.”
— K. GARRICK
Kyle notices things. It’s what makes him terrific at his job—reading a room in mere seconds, clocking the miniscule details everyone else always misses. So, when you come home looking like the week has chewed you up and spat you out, he’s already running the bath before you’ve kicked off your shoes and put down your bag.
“Self-care day!” he announces. “You. Me. Bathroom. Now.”
“Kyle, I’m fine—”
“Didn’t ask.” He’s already steering you by the shoulders, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ve got you, yeah? Let me do this for you, baby.”
And that’s the thing about Kyle. He doesn’t ask permission to take care of you—he just does it, like breathing, like it’s the most natural and obvious thing in the world.
He starts with your arms.
You’re sitting on the edge of the ceramic tub, warm water lapping at your calves, while Kyle kneels beside you with a fresh razor and a bottle of fancy shaving oil he warmed between his palms. He lifts your arm above your head, long and gentle fingers circling your wrist, and works the oil into the hollow of your underarm with slow, thorough strokes.
“When’s the last time someone took care of you properly?” he asks casually, like small talk.
“You did. Last week,” you deadpan, brows furrowed.
He grins brilliantly. “Doesn’t count. That was just sex.”
You snort softly, “Just sex, he says—”
“Hush now.” He draws the razor up in a smooth, careful line. Rinses. Again. His touch is absurdly gentle for hands that can strip a rifle in seconds. “This is different. This is maintenance.”
“You make me sound like a bloody car.”
“Nah.” Kyle kisses his teeth, then switches to the other arm, lifting it with the same easy confidence. “More like a classic bike. High-performance. Needs the right hands.”
You snort again, but your skin is already tingling where he’s touched—warm oil sinking in, the faint sting of freshly shaved skin, his thumb rubbing slow circles into your wrist while he works.
Your legs take longer. He’s thorough about it—kneeling on the tile floor, one of your calves propped on his shoulder, dragging the razor from ankle to knee in long, unhurried strokes. He takes his time with the oil after, working it into your skin with both hands, thumbs pressing into the muscle of your calf until you groan.
“Good?” he asks, gauging your reaction, and there is something darker in his voice now. Something paying attention.
“So good,” you breathe, eyes closed in bliss.
He slides higher—past your knee, along your inner thigh. Still massaging, still working the oil in, but his fingers are brushing territory that has nothing to do with shaving. He watches your face the whole time, reading every micro-expression, cataloguing what makes your breath hitch, what makes your muscles relax.
“One more spot,” he murmurs, hands settling on your inner thighs. “Yeah?”
You nod. Your mouth has gone dry.
“Need words, love.”
And you nod more enthusiastically, “Yes. Please.”
His smile is warm, but his gaze is filthy.
Kyle repositions you gently, guiding you back against the fluffy towels he’s already laid out on the bathroom floor like he planned this from the start. Probably did. Kyle Garrick is always three steps ahead.
He settles between your thighs and takes his time with the oil, working it into the soft skin of your mound with his fingertips. Not rushing. Letting you feel every slow circle, every press of his thumb, until you’re breathing hard and your hips are shifting restlessly.
“Easy, my love," he says softly, one hand flat on your belly. “I’ve got you. Not going anywhere.”
The razor is careful. Feather-light strokes, angled perfectly, his free hand stretching the skin taut with a confidence that makes heat pool low in your stomach. He shaves you bare, all of it, pausing to rinse the blade and check his work with the pad of his thumb.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs thickly, and means it.
Then the oil comes back. Warm from his hands, drizzled over freshly shaved skin, and he starts working it in with both thumbs in long, slow strokes down either side of your slit.
Your thighs twitch. He notices. Of course he does.
“Sensitive?” he asks teasingly, voice low. Eyes crinkling with mirth.
“Kyle—”
“That’s not an answer.” But he’s smiling, thumbs pressing a little firmer, gliding through the oil and spreading you open slowly. “Tell me how it feels.”
You swallow hard, but your voice still comes out raspy, “Like you’re trying to kill me, baby.”
He laughs; warm, genuine, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Not yet.” His thumbs drag inward, slicking through the oil and your own syrupy wetness now, framing your clit without touching it. “We’re getting there, though.”
Kyle starts massaging in earnest then, and it’s devastatingly precise. Both thumbs working slow circles over your outer lips, pressing and releasing, coaxing blood to the surface until everything is swollen and throbbing and so slick you can hear it. He watches your face the whole time, dark eyes tracking every flutter of your lashes, every bitten-back sound.
“There she is,” he praises when your hips start rolling into his hands. “There you go. Just let it happen, baby.”
And he slides one thumb between your folds—just one, dragging through the mess—and your whole body arches.
“Fuck, Kyle—” you mewl, and Kyle mutters a curse under his breath, pupils blown.
“Yeah, I know.” He does it again, slow and firm, circling your clit with the pad of his thumb while his other hand keeps you spread open. “You’re soaking my hand, love. That all from the shave, or you just like being taken care of by me?”
“Both—God—both!”
“Greedy.” He says it fondly, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. Then he sinks a finger into you—one, then two—curling them forward, and your back comes off the floor.
“Oh—oh—fuck!”
“Right there?” He crooks his fingers experimentally, finds the spot that makes your vision white out, and presses more firmly. “Yeah. Right there.”
He starts working you open with slow, deliberate thrusts—two fingers buried deep, curling against that front wall, while his thumb keeps circling your clit in a rhythm that’s going to end you. His other hand is on your hip, holding you steady when you start to writhe.
“Don't fight it,” he reminds you, and then his mouth replaces his thumb—hot and wet, tongue lapping at your clit in broad, flat strokes that make your thighs clamp around his head.
He groans against you and his fingers pick up the pace, curling and pressing in a rhythm that builds something white-hot at the base of your spine. You can feel it coiling, tighter and tighter, different from a normal orgasm, deeper, more urgent.
“Kyle—Kyle, I’m gonna—”
“I know.” He pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing your clit while your inner muscles clench and flutter around his pumping fingers, urging him deeper. “I can feel it. Let go.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” His fingers press harder, faster, rubbing firmly against that swollen spot inside you. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. Let go for me.”
His mouth seals over your clit and he sucks, gentle and persistent, while his fingers thrust up hard until something inside you breaks. And you come with a sound you don’t recognise; your whole body locking up and then releasing in a hot, pulsing rush that soaks his hand, his chin, the towels underneath you.
“That’s it. Fuck, baby, that’s it—” Kyle’s voice is wrecked, awed, his fingers still working you through it as you gush and squirt over his knuckles, soaking the towels. “Christ, look at you. So fucking beautiful.”
You’re shaking. Trembling all over, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of it, and Kyle is already there to catch you; easing his fingers out gently, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hip, the curve of your quivering belly.
“I’ve got you,” he says again, gathering you up against his lean chest. “I’ve got you, love. You did so well.”
You bury your face in his neck and he holds you. Always solid, warm, and steady. His hand strokes your back in slow, soothing circles while your breathing comes down.
“Self-care day,” you mumble against his throat, chuckling softly.
He laughs, quiet and fond. “Told you I’d take care of you.”
— J. PRICE
John finds you standing in front of the bedroom mirror, fresh from the shower, towel discarded on the floor like an afterthought. You’re turning sideways, then forward again, fingers tugging at the dark curls between your thighs with a frown he recognises immediately.
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. Watches you for a moment.
“Don’t even think about it woman,” he says gruffly.
You jump, because of course you didn’t hear him coming. The man moves like smoke when he wants to. “Jesus, John—”
“I know that look.” He nods toward your hand. “You’re thinking about shaving.”
You tut. Caught again. “It’s gotten—”
“No.”
He pushes off the doorframe and crosses the room, calm and unhurried, the way he does everything. Like the world operates on his schedule and it knows better than to argue.
“You nicked yourself last time,” he reminds you, stopping behind your back. You can feel the warmth of him through his shirt, his breath against the top of your head. “Bled all over the damn bathroom. Looked like a crime scene.”
You frown. “It wasn’t that bad—”
“It was exactly that bad.” His steely eyes meet yours in the mirror. Steady and final. “You want to be smooth, I’ll do it. End of discussion.”
That tone from your husband. The one that ends briefings and closes arguments. It mean Captain Price isn’t asking.
He takes his time setting up, because John Price has never rushed anything important in his life and he’s not about to start with a blade near your precious skin. Warm water in a bowl. A fresh razor—not the one you butchered yourself with last time, but his, the good one he keeps in the leather case. A flannel. Shaving soap that smells like sandalwood and menthol.
“On the bed,” he orders. “Edge. Legs apart.”
“John,” you try to reason again.
“Did I stutter?” And he gives you that look. The head tilt forward to look down at you.
And you sit obediently. He pulls the ottoman over, settles onto it between your knees like he’s sitting down to a job that requires patience and precision. Which, in his mind, it does. He drapes the warm flannel over you first—pressing it gently against the curls, softening the hair—and the heat makes you exhale slowly through your nose.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, absent and fond. “Just relax.”
He works the soap into a lather between his palms, and his hands are broad and rough and unhurried as he spreads it over you. Fingers moving through the hair with a kind of proprietary ease, like this is his to manage. His to maintain. You watch him from above—the focused set of his jaw, the silver threading through his full beard, the absolute steadiness of his hands.
You exhale slowly, willing yourself to relax while heat starts pooling low in your belly. “You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to,” he interrupts calmly, picking up the razor. “I want to. Difference.”
The first stroke silences you. Slow, precise, the blade drawing a clean line through lather and hair. His free hand pulls the skin taut, and his eyes never leave his work with the same concentration you’ve seen him give to maps and mission briefs in his office.
He rinses the blade in warm water. Goes again.
“You’re quiet,” he remarks eventually, a hint of amusement buried under the gravel.
“Hard to be mouthy when your husband’s got a razor on your—”
“Careful.” But he’s smiling, just barely, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “Good time to practice some of that restraint I’m always bloody on about.”
Stroke by stroke, he clears the hair away. Thorough. Methodical. He tilts your hips when he needs a better angle, adjusts your thigh with a tap of two fingers like he’s positioning you on instinct. There’s nothing rushed about it, nothing performative—just a man doing a job properly because it needs doing and he doesn’t trust anyone else to do it right.
When he’s finished, he sets the razor aside and wipes you clean with the warm flannel—slow and careful passes that make your freshly shaved skin prickle and sing. Then he sits back, hands on your knees, and surveys his work.
“There,” he murmurs, thoroughly satisfied. “That’s how it’s done, woman.”
“Thank you.” And when you try to close your legs to get up, his hands stop you.
“I’m not finished.”
Your breath catches. He hasn’t moved—still sitting on the ottoman, still between your thighs, still looking at you with that calm, unhurried authority. But something’s shifted in his expression. His gaze has darkened, and you very well know what that means.
Your stomach swoops. “John?”
“Lie back.”
And you do obediently. Again. Not because he has ordered you to—though he has—but because when John Price uses that voice, your body just listens. Your back hits the duvet and you stare at the ceiling, heart hammering, while he pushes your thighs wider with both hands.
“Smooth,” he murmurs absentmindedly, running his palm over you, feeling his own handiwork. His thumb traces the edge of your slit; barely there, maddeningly light. “Soft.” His eyes flit up to look at you, almost smugly. “See what happens when you let me handle things?”
But you’re still staring at the ceiling, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re wet.” John mentions it plainly, like a field observation. “Have been since I started. Thought I wouldn’t notice?” He snorts.
Your eyes close slowly, praying for patience. “Was hoping you wouldn’t.”
“I notice everything. Especially about my wife. You know that.” He leans forward, presses a kiss just above your mound. Utterly deliberate and proprietary. His beard scratches against the smooth skin and your hips jerk. His eyebrow raises. “Sensitive?”
You exhale a breath. “Your beard—”
“Mm.” He does it again—drags his jaw across the freshly shaved skin, rough against smooth, and the noise you make is mortifying. “That’s bloody new. Like that, do you?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, just settles in, hands hooking under your thighs, pulling you to the edge of the bed and into his mouth like he’s sitting down to a meal he intends to take his time with.
The first broad stroke of his tongue makes you arch clean off the mattress. He grunts, low and satisfied, and pins your hips down with one forearm.
“Stay put,” he mutters against you. “I mean it.”
And then he takes you apart.
It’s not frantic. It’s not teasing. It’s thorough. The way John does everything. Long, slow drags of his tongue from entrance to clit, tasting every inch of smooth skin, learning the new terrain with the same patient focus he gave the razor. His beard scrapes against your inner thighs, your lips, the crease of your legs, and the contrast—soft warm tongue, rough stubble—has you writhing within minutes.
“John—John—”
He hums against your clit and the vibration shoots straight up your spine. His hands tighten on your thighs, pulling you closer, burying himself deeper. He sucks your clit between his lips firmly and flicks his tongue over it in a tight rhythm that makes your hands fist in the duvet.
“Oh God—oh fuck—”
He pulls back. Just enough. Lips still brushing you when he speaks.
“Language, darling.”
“You’re eating me out!” you whine helplessly.
“And you’ll still mind your mouth in my house.” But there is a rumble underneath the words—amusement and bone-deep arousal, barely restrained—and his tongue is back on you before you can fire back, licking into you with a hunger that contradicts every ounce of composure in his voice.
John brings a hand up and slides two thick fingers inside you without preamble, curling them forward, and the sound you make is broken and loud and not remotely dignified. He groans at the feel of you clenching around him, and you feel it everywhere.
“That’s it,” he groans, low and rough. “That’s my gorgeous girl.”
He fucks you with his fingers—steady and deep, curling against the spot that makes your thighs shake—while his mouth works your clit in slow, sucking pulls. He’s not rushing but savouring. Taking you apart piece by piece with the same relentless patience he applies to everything, and you couldn’t stop the orgasm building in you if you tried.
“John—I’m close—”
“I know you are.” He doesn’t change pace. Just keeps that maddening, steady rhythm. “Come when you’re ready. I’ll be here.”
It hits you like a wave. Slow and devastating, rolling through you from the inside out. Your back arches, your legs lock around his wide shoulders, and you come on his tongue with his name in your mouth. John works you through every second of it, fingers still moving, tongue still pressing, until you’re shaking and pushing weakly at his head.
When he finally pulls back, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Looks up at you with dark, satisfied eyes and a beard that’s matted and glistening with your come.
“See? That’s why you let me handle things.”
You can’t even argue with that. Not right now at least. You’re boneless, spent, staring at the ceiling while he presses a kiss to your inner thigh and stands—unhurried as ever, straightening his shirt like he didn’t just ruin you for the rest of the day.
“I’ll make us a tea,” he calls from the doorway, completely composed. “You’ll want a biscuit after that, because I’m going to fuck my wife later.”
— J. MACTAVISH
“Nae, hen.”
Like every time before, Johnny straight up refuses when you ask him to help you shave your bush.
He takes one glance at it and his pupils blow up like an IED, swallowing the baby blue of his irises within milliseconds.
“Why?” you whine, stomping your foot like a petulant bunny. “Johnny, pleeease! I can’t do it on my own! I cut myself last time!”
And you cross your arms, frowning at him, and hoping it’s enough to make him cave. But, alas, it is not.
“Good,” he retorts, turning back to the telly where some Premier League match is playing that he’s barely watching anymore. “Maybe tha’ll teach ye to leave her alone.”
Her.
“Johnny, it’s hair.”
“Aye, it’s hair. Her hair. And I fuckin’ like it.” He slings his arm over the back of the couch, manspreading like he owns the entire living room, eyes fixed on the screen with a kind of stubbornness that makes you want to scream. “End of.”
“You don’t get to decide what I do with my own—”
“Never said I did,” he interrupts flatly, then glances at you sideways, grinning. “I said am no’ helpin’. Big fuckin’ difference, lass. Ye want to hack away at yerself in the bathroom again, be my guest. I’ll be here Mournin’.”
You cross your arms, scoffing, “You’re mourning my pubic hair.”
“Aye. She’s a right bonnie. Deserves better than some dull razor and yer shaky hands.”
You gape at him. He takes a slow sip of his beer, utterly unbothered, eyes back on the match. The audacity of this man. The sheer, Scottish audacity.
“Fine,” you snap, and yank your leggings down right there in the living room. “Look at it then. Look. It’s a mess, Johnny!”
That gets his attention.
He turns his head slowly, beer bottle halfway to his mouth, and his eyes drop between your thighs. The grin slides off his face and something else replaces it—something hotter, sharper. His jaw works. He shifts in his seat.
“Come here,” he demands suddenly.
“No. You said no.”
“I said come here.” He pats his thick right thigh. “Need a closer look, don’t I? Cannae make a proper assessment from across the room.”
You know it’s a trap. You know it is. But he’s looking at you with those baby blue eyes and that crooked, shit-eating smile, and your feet are already moving.
He pulls you onto his lap the second you’re within reach—hands on your hips, spinning you so your back is against his chest, your bare arse settled right over the growing bulge in his joggers. He spreads your thighs with his knees, hooking your legs over the outside of his, opening you up.
Your eyes widen. “Johnny!”
“Shh, hen. ‘M assessin’.”
Johnny looks down over your shoulder, chin resting against your temple, and his hands slide down from your hips to your inner thighs. He spreads you open with both thumbs and makes a low, appreciative sound that vibrates through his chest and into your spine.
“Aye, see?” he says, voice dropping rougher. “Look at her. She’s fuckin’ gorgeous. All soft an’ warm." He drags his fingers through the curls, tugging gently, and your hips twitch. “Why would ye want to get rid of this?”
“Johnny, I just—”
“Nah, hold on, ‘m talkin’ to her, no' you.” He dips his head lower, mouth against your ear, but he’s addressing your exposed cunt like it’s a separate entity. “Don’t listen to her, sweetheart. She doesnae know what she’s got. Ye’re perfect.”
You sigh deeply, lips pursing. “You’re literally insane.”
“Aye, she says thank ye,” he continues, ignoring you completely. His fingers stroke through the hair again, lower this time, brushing your outer lips. “She’s happy. See? Nice and warm in her wee fur coat. Ye want to take that away from her? In this economy? In this weather?”
“It’s literally June, Johnny.”
“Could get cold! Ye don’t know!” His thumb grazes your clit—barely, just enough—and you gasp. He grins against your ear. “Oh, an’ she’s awake now. See that? She heard ye talkin’ aboot razors an’ she got scared. I’m just comfortin’ her.”
“You’re the worst person I’ve ever—hah—”
His thumb presses down, firm, and circles slowly. “What was tha’?”
“—ever met in my entire—fuck—”
Johnny chuckles with dark satisfaction. “That’s more like it.” He circles again, lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world, like the match is still the most important thing in the room. His other hand holds your thigh open, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “Look at ye. All wet already and I’ve barely touched her. She likes the bush, babe. She’s tellin’ ye.”
Your eyes squeeze shut, trying not to make another sound. “That’s not—that’s not how that works—”
“No?” He sinks a finger into you—just one for now, thick and rough—and you clench around him so hard your vision blurs. “Feels like it’s workin’ to me.”
He starts a rhythm—slow, dragging thrusts with his finger while his thumb circles your clit—and you’re melting into his chest, head falling back against his shoulder. The telly is still on, some commentator yelling about a foul, and Johnny’s watching the match over your shoulder like he’s not knuckle-deep inside your hairy cunt.
“Johnny—fuck—pay attention to me—”
“I am payin’ attention. Multitaskin’, lass. Top o’ ma fuckin’ class.” He crooks his thick finger, and you nearly come off his lap. “Ooh, there she is. Found the spot, aye?”
“Please—”
“Please what? Please shave ye?” He tsks, adding a second finger, stretching you. “Still nae. But I’ll make ye forget why ye wanted to in the first place. Deal?”
You whimper. He takes that as a yes.
Then he pulls his fingers out, and you do whine, loud and needy, and before you can protest, he’s lifting you off his lap and onto your feet. You sway, legs shaking, and he grins up at you as he slides down the couch, lying back with his head on the armrest.
“Come here,” he demands again, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it. He folds his muscular arms behind his head, looking up at you like he’s ordered room service. “Sit on my face.”
“You—what?”
Johnny snickers at the dumbstruck expression on your face. “Ye heard me.” He licks his lips. Obscenely slow and deliberate. Like a wolf licking its chaps. The bastard. “Bring her up here. I want to have a proper conversation.”
“A conversation,” you repeat, not amused.
“Aye. With my tongue. Now get up here before I drag ye.”
Your thighs are still trembling as you relent with a groan and climb over him, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of his head. You hover, suddenly self-conscious, and he rolls his eyes.
“Oh, fer fuck’s sake—” His brawny hands grip your hips and yank you down onto his mouth.
The first thing you feel is his groan—deep, guttural, vibrating against your cunt like he has just taken a bite of the best thing he’s ever tasted. His tongue drags through your furry pussy lips, broad and flat and filthy, and his fingers dig into the meat of your arse hard enough to leave bruises.
“Johnny—oh my God!”
He can’t answer with his mouth full of you, but he slaps your thigh once—hard—and you jolt. And the message is clear.
You roll your hips against his face, tentative at first, then harder when his tongue licks your clit and flicks over it in rapid, relentless strokes He’s making sounds beneath you, groaning into your cunt like he’s getting off on it as much as you are. Perhaps more. His nose presses into the curls he refused to shave and he inhales deeply, moaning like he’s dying.
“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he mumbles against you, pulling back just long enough to breathe. His chin is soaked, his eyes are five shades darker, and he’s grinning like a maniac. “Ride my face, sweetheart. Fuckin’ use me.”
His mouth seals over your clit again and he sucks hard, and your hand flies to the armrest for balance because your legs have stopped working entirely. He’s licking into you with his whole mouth now, tongue fucking you, slurping, then dragging back up to your clit, alternating between sucking and flicking in a rhythm designed to make you lose your mind.
“I’m—Johnny, I’m going to—fuck—!”
He pulls you tighter against his mouth, both hands gripping your arse and leaving finger-shaped marks, and his tongue works your clit in fast, tight circles while his nose presses against your mound and you come so hard your thighs clamp around his head and your whole body convulses.
He doesn’t stop. He licks you through it—slower now, gentler, long lazy strokes through your slit while you twitch and shake above him. When you finally collapse sideways onto the couch, boneless and gasping, he wipes his face with the back of his hand and sits up looking thoroughly pleased with himself; face shiny and mohawk wild.
“So,” he says, reaching for his beer on the side table like nothing happened. Like his grey joggers don’t have a large, damp patch on the front where his hard cock presses against it and reeks of his cum. “Still want to shave?”
You throw a cushion at his head.
He catches it, laughing—that big, stupid, full-body laugh that crinkles his whole face—and pulls you into his buff, hairy chest.
“That’s what I thought.” He presses a kiss to your hair. “Now let me watch the fuckin’ match, ye silly lass.”
It always hurts in that big, bright way, like a thousand sticks of dynamite blowing a tunnel open through a mountain, giving you a way to pass to the other side. Like whispering the same wish over and over again until your lips go numb and your voice goes hoarse, your plea still unheard after all these years.
Perhaps it would hurt less to desire if you could fill that hole every once in a while. If you could wet your tongue with the taste of satisfaction, of a want fulfilled, of the opportunity to say to someone, “Oh, look what I got” or “Look at what all my work has amounted to.”
That’s never been the case though, has it? Never been lucky enough for a wish to come true. You work like a dog for the barest scraps of what you know you’re worth (what you know and what every day seems less and less true).
Vacations that you never had enough money to take, jobs that never came to fruition, mistakes that couldn’t be undone, memories that you could never remake, friendships that grew apart or that never materialized altogether.
It’s not all doom and gloom. You have a good job and a decent network of friends and acquaintances, parties you attend on occasion and warm nights at home curled up in bed. You have a roof over your head. There's more than enough in your life to be grateful for.
But the wanting never goes away. That, you have in spades. That, you have in heaps and bounds. That multiplies itself tenfold.
And it happens that way with your heart too.
There’s a coffee shop down the street from your office with a decent amount of seating and an app to order your drink ahead of time, and every day at around two, you order your coffee ahead of time and walk over to pick it up, rain or shine.
It’s always busy to some degree when you walk in, a handful of people waiting by the counter and a short line at the register snaking around the merchandise display. The whirr of the coffee grinder hums in the background, just a touch louder than the music, always filling the café with the rich, pleasing scent of freshly ground coffee.
The same chairs are always filled by the same people. Plenty of them you’ve even grown to recognize over time—students bent over thick textbooks, elderly men creasing newspapers in ink-stained hands, and laptop screens glowing with blank Word documents, scarcely a sentence added in the time it took to order and finish their coffee.
You recognize most of the takeaway regulars as well.
They’re harder to remember at first. Quick to come and quick to go. Hard to commit their faces to memory. But some give you no choice—some boisterously loud or ostentatious in dress, eye-catching enough to hook you like a fish, drag your attention down river with them.
Then, to him.
He, like you, comes in every day around two for his afternoon coffee. He, unlike you, comes striding in full-chested, confidence nipping at his heels, no world-weariness weighing him down.
Hard not to notice him. Of course you notice him. He takes up space like a living sun, all bright smiles and radiant energy, handsome in the way that, when men are, they draw people in like moths. You feel no better than a moth sometimes, particularly in his presence.
Tea-coloured eyes. What you notice at first is that there’s a beautiful man waiting for his coffee next to you, a tall man with the sculpted physique of an athlete, all long limbs and broad shoulders tapering into a lean frame, and what you notice next are those tea-coloured eyes, honeying under the sun.
You stare so long that you only realize how dry your eyes have gone when the door swings shut behind him.
It’s no wonder then, that you latch onto his presence like so, a little flutter in your chest on your way to the coffee shop every time after that first time, hoping that you’ll cross paths again.
And you do. Cross paths again, that is. Only a few times those first couple of weeks, and then seemingly all the time, the two of you always in at the same time.
That isn’t unusual. There are plenty of other familiar faces picking up their afternoon coffees at the same time as you, people that you recognize at the mobile ordering station and laptop stickers that you’ve come to memorize, the same people sitting at the same seats. People like routine; you’re no different. Neither is he.
It comes over you like an ague, a desperate, eager thing, quiet enough at first when you’ve only seen him in bits and pieces, not studied him at length yet, but it—
It grows.
It grows like a vine in your chest, weaving around your heart and squeezing until you can feel it with every beat.
You don’t entirely blame yourself. How could you? You swear you’ve never seen anyone even half as good-looking as him—broad-shouldered and lean, perfect smile, perfect teeth. Haircut always fresh, his edges neat. He squints with the force of his smile, always effusive with his gratitude and praise, so earnest in his kindness that it makes your teeth ache.
He’s objectively a handsome man. Perhaps the handsomest man you’ve ever seen. What else could you do but go a bit crazy?
Want may not be a strong enough word for what you’re experiencing. It’s more of a torsion of the soul. A desperate, yearning ache that both releases and constricts when he walks into the café to order his coffee.
You don’t know what to do with yourself when he doesn’t show up at the same time as you. Your schedules are so in sync that you’ve grown to expect him, fattened and spoiled by the timeliness of his presence. But he doesn’t owe it to you to show up, and there are days when he doesn’t, held up for some reason, or maybe simply not in the mood for a coffee.
You practically drag your feet on the walk back to the office, a sorry sight. Pathetically despondent. You hardly know what to do with yourself the rest of the afternoon, oscillating between dejection and self-reproach. It’s pathetic that the mere absence of your crush would reduce you to such a state, hardly able to concentrate on your work because the stranger that you’ve become infatuated with wasn’t at the coffee shop where you see him for a total of twenty seconds every other day.
Forgive yourself though. Nothing you’ve ever wanted has come without pain.
What you don’t expect is for him to finally notice you.
It happens on a day when you cross paths rather than arriving at the same time, him leaving the coffee shop as you’re about to enter. Your heart skips a beat when you look up and see him staring down at you, both of you taken by surprise when you go to pull the door open and he’s already pushing on the other side.
“Traffic jam,” he laughs when you both lean left and then right at the same time, trying to let the other go around. “Here, I’ve got you.”
He extends an arm to hold the door wide open and angles his body to let you pass through. You thank him as you pass, your heart pounding against your ribs. His gaze follows you as you step inside, and you nearly jump when his voice calls a farewell after you, leaving through the same door.
You stand near the doorway for far too long, other customers coming in and going around you, cutting you annoyed looks on their way to the cash. Your drink must already be waiting for you on the counter and still you can’t move. It takes someone actually stumbling into you to jolt you back into the present.
That wasn’t part of the plan. It’s thrilling, initially, a rush so overwhelming, so kaleidoscopic, that you ride it all the way back to the office and all the way home, replaying the memory again and again in your head until even you start to tire of belabouring it.
And still you roll around in bed that night thinking about it, heart racing even hours after your short little conversation, picturing it over again in your mind—the crinkle of the corners of his eyes, the smile nearly pulling across his face, all white teeth and soft, supple lips.
The only problem is—
Now he knows who you are.
You don’t expect him to remember you after such a quick encounter. He’s not the one that’s been pining these past few weeks. He’s not the one that’s been beating himself up for crushing on a stranger.
But he does remember you. And not only does he remember you, but he looks for you the next time he’s in.
It’s one of those days when you get there first, coffee already ordered and paid for by the time he walks in, in dark trousers and a quarter-zip today, and filling them both out nicely, the sweater clinging to the muscles of his arms. You expect him to head straight for the cash like he normally does, blessedly and lamentably unaware of your presence.
Instead, your breath hitches when his eyes drift across the café and settle on you, a spark of recognition glinting in them.
His gaze immobilizes you, stronger than any paralytic. It’s what holds you in place as he approaches, the distance between you halved in an instant, and then fully collapsed, the gorgeous man in front of you doing what Zeno’s Achilles never could.
“Hey stranger, no dance today, huh?” he asks, clearly addressing you.
You don’t know what to say. This is your worst case scenario, your category five emergency. In the weeks you’ve spent crushing on him from afar, you hadn’t considered the possibility of him ever noticing you in return.
“Sorry?” you croak.
He gestures with his thumb towards the door. “From the other day, remember?”
You don’t know how you’ll make it through this interaction without making a fool of yourself. “Right. Haha. I guess the dance floor’s closed today.”
You could throw up on the spot. Of all the abysmal conversation rejoinders there have ever been in the history of humanity, the one you just offered must rank comfortably near the top.
For whatever reason though, whether divine intervention or something more dastardly, he chuckles, amused. He seems to like talking to you. Seems to like you even. That only becomes clearer when he approaches you the next day, and then the day after that, and then every day when you stop by at two p.m. for your afternoon coffee, your coffees now handed out together by the barista, as if you had ordered them that way.
The small talk alone almost makes you consider switching to a different coffee shop. It’s too much pressure. You feel sick with anxiety at the thought of him figuring you out.
And he will figure you out. You haven’t exactly played it subtle.
Then he gets your number. Somehow. And your name too, pried so easily from you that you don’t even notice, like freeing a pearl from a clam; barely a flick of his wrist and you offer it up without a second thought, embarrassingly malleable.
You get his too. Kyle Garrick. He spells it for you as he watches you save his number into your phone from over your shoulder, so close to you that your fingers fumble with the keypad, mistyping it almost four times before getting it right.
Kyle doesn’t seem to care that you can barely seem to string together a sentence in front of him. If anything, it seems to endear him to you.
His attraction makes itself apparent in tender words and a new penchant for touch, a hand always reaching out for you.
At first, it’s nothing more than the casual brush of his fingers against yours as he picks up your coffee from the bar and passes it to you, no different than a handshake or a high five. Ostensibly perfunctory. But that too changes over time. A fleeting touch becomes a hand at the small of your back as he guides you to a table for a quick chat before heading back to work, fingers squeezing your shoulder when he laughs at a joke you didn’t realize you made, and quick hugs that grow a little longer each time.
Maybe. Or maybe you’re imagining it.
“So when are you gonna let me take you out for real?”
That snaps you out of the daydream, reality crashing down with such force that it leaves your ears ringing. His words leave you dumbfounded, gaping up at him in that stupid way that you can’t seem to suppress.
“For real?” you repeat.
“On a date,” Kyle clarifies, as if the word alone weren’t enough to wreck you.
“Oh.”
You tell him yes because the word no evaporates from your vocabulary. By the time it returns, he’s already gone, disappearing into the world (likely an office building around the corner from yours, but it might as well be Timbuktu).
This isn’t what was supposed to happen. You were supposed to pine in agony until you died.
It’s everything you ever wanted, and yet, you couldn’t want it less in the moment, terrified for some reason that you can’t quite articulate. You count down the days with growing apprehension, jitters giving way to a full-body sweat.
You’ll break it off at a later date. That thought comforts you to a point. At some point, there will be a moment for you to bail entirely.
The problem is the longer you say nothing, the harder it is to say anything at all. Already guilt stays your tongue when all you want to do is tell him that you can’t do this anymore. You need to leave—go anywhere else, run home and lock the door behind you, never go back to the coffee shop again.
But there’s a text in your phone telling you the time and place, and every time you look at it, it leaves you feeling off-kilter. Sea legs without leaving dry land.
What is it about you that you feel the need to run as soon as you get too close? What about this isn’t what you want? Do you even know what you want?
Of course you know what you want. You want love and affection.
But having is not wanting. Wanting is safe. It’s the having that’s dangerous.
You contemplate cancelling on him about a dozen times until suddenly it’s too late, the man in question standing in the lobby of your building to pick you up. He must know someone in the building because he’s deep in conversation when you spot him, his head turning to meet yours at the same time, as if even in conversation, he wouldn’t allow himself to be distracted enough to miss you. Your heart squeezes when he wraps it up in the same breath, crossing the lobby to meet you.
Dinner is a restaurant in a different part of town, one you’ve seldom spent time in before, trendy in the way that would unnerve you were it not for the abrupt realization that to everyone else, this is simply a familiar part of town.
To some, the restaurant must be familiar as well. There might even be regulars. To you however, the small, dimly lit room with the booths on one side and the chairs lining the bar at the other, an eclectic assortment of framed photos and decorative porcelain plates on the wall beside you, is lovely, uncharted territory.
Over dinner, Kyle peppers you with question after question until your head spins, each answer that leaves your lips betraying some nervous tendency towards clandestinity. You have to keep some things to yourself. You have to keep some things private.
You have to shut your mouth before you—
“A long time,” you reply without thinking, the whole world blowing open when you admit it. You hadn't even consciously registered the question before answering. When was your last date?
Kyle doesn’t seem phased by it though, warm smile somehow warmer than the blood boiling under your skin. “I must be one lucky man then.”
He sweet talks you into agreeing to a drink after dinner, probably sensing the nervous animal in you, the fear about to take flight.
You assume he means a drink at a bar until you’re standing in the kitchen of your apartment, Kyle standing behind the island with a bottle of wine in one hand, uncorking it with practiced ease. When it pops out, you flinch.
What a strange thing, to lose time like that. You lose it again after he pours you both a glass, coming to on the couch with his arm around your shoulders, pinned between him and the side of the couch.
He turned the television on, you notice distantly, staring at it through your glass, red wine sloshing from side to side. It’s not a program either of you would care to pay much attention to, possibly by design.
“Do you have, um…any plans tomorrow?” you ask, swallowing when he drags his fingers over the bare skin of your upper arm.
“Nope,” he answers, playing with the sleeve of your shirt now.
You can hear it coming from a mile away. He makes it too obvious with his fingers trailing over your skin and the heat of his gaze searing into the side of your face.
The sky outside your window is black, the moon only a sliver of its usual brilliance, but your living room is bright, turning the window into a mirror reflecting the two of you, the picture of a couple in repose.
You watch his reflection lean over yours in the window, his lips grazing your double’s ears, your breath catching when his touch yours as well. “If I give you an inch, you’re going to run a mile, aren’t you?” he murmurs.
There’s a lump in your throat when you swallow. “No,” you lie.
He must see right through you though. Must see the creature inside you about to succumb to its instincts.
He must be good at chess, you think to yourself, staring down at him with a stupid look on your face as he lowers himself to lie flat on the bed between your legs, spreading your thighs wide enough to wedge his shoulders between them. Any game of strategy.
If you never give your opponent a moment to breathe, they can’t gather themselves enough to retreat.
That thought crumbles to dust when he makes you watch him lick the first stripe up the seam of your pussy, crudely spreading your lips with his tongue. Nothing more substantial materializes after that.
He eats pussy like he hasn’t had enough to eat. Lips and tongue and hollowed cheeks when he sucks your clit into his mouth and your back nearly arches right off the bed, twisted into such a complex shape that you almost don’t know how to unravel yourself. Fingers grasping at his head, his ears; rasping over the coils of his hair, fingers committing the texture to memory.
Your thighs tremble and squeeze, pried open again and again every time you try to shut him out. The muscles in his arms barely even bulge with the effort it takes to keep your thighs spread.
You are wound up in ways that would be a challenge to anyone, but Kyle doesn’t seem to care. He just holds you down and forces you to come on his tongue, rolling it over your clit until you actually start crying. Big, belting caterwauls. His poor baby, he croons.
When have you been someone’s ‘poor baby’? Someone’s darling, sweetheart, honey, that’s it, I’ve got you, that felt good, didn’t it? God, you’re so pretty, I can’t believe you let me—
He flicks his tongue over your sensitive clit and you yelp, reaching down to slide your hand between his mouth and your swollen sex only for him to lace your fingers together and pull your hand to the side and lick it again.
“It’s still sensitive,” you complain, and he lifts a brow, unmoved by your bellyaching.
“So what, you got twitchy little orgasm legs, that means I’m not allowed to lick your pussy anymore?”
“No,” you hiss, embarrassment warming the blood already pooled under your cheeks.
Warm hands rest on either side of your face as he eases his cock in for the first time, holding your gaze in place as sinks in to the root. All you can do is squeeze your eyes shut.
They don’t stay shut for long. He pries them open without words, without touch, every ounce of his ardor poured into you and lifting your own to the surface.
Sweat drips from his forehead onto yours. The sweat makes his hands slip up and down your face with the force of his thrusts, fingers tugging on your lips and pulling them apart, sliding over your gums and teeth.
“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Kyle pants, sweat dripping off his forehead and onto yours, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them, glassy and feverish.
“Don’t—don’t say that,” you gasp.
He dips his head down to press his forehead against yours. “You can’t tell me that. You can’t tell me what to do.”
Whatever this is, it’s nothing like anything you’ve experienced before. Proper lovemaking. Real kisses with passion, with fervor, with delight; the messiness contained between you, in the sweat rolling down your back and soaking into the sheets, the saliva dripping from his mouth into yours, the squelch of his shaft splitting you over and over, never giving you a second to catch your breath.
Coming a second, no, third time is painful, like a thing wrested unwillingly from you, and you fall back on the bed windburned. Kyle follows you down, hips bucking into yours faster and faster, his own end nearly on his heels.
He comes with a grunt, without warning; a sudden surge of heat and warmth, his fingers biting into your cheeks where he holds your face in his hands, his lip curling up into a snarl that you swear you can almost hear, and—
You expect it to be over after that. For him to roll out of bed and pull on his pants, maybe give you a courtesy kiss for a job well done before leaving you to stew in the mire of another rejection, the small win eclipsed by the enormity of losing him.
What you don’t expect is for him to lay down beside you and pull you into him. Kyle laughs softly when he notices your stiffness, jostling you slightly in an attempt to coax you into relaxing.
“That’s right, baby,” he chuckles a touch breathlessly, pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose before relaxing back down. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Coffee the next day is different than usual. Early for one, the sun still a syrupy morning gold, not yet the starchy afternoon white, and in a different location than usual, the coffee machine on your kitchen counter hissing through its second cup of the day.
Kyle maneuvers around your apartment too naturally, a stark contrast to the way you scurry from the bedroom to the bathroom like a stowaway. He’s entirely at home in your space though, helping himself to coffee and breakfast, only glancing at you for permission, the slightest cock of his head and arch of his brow, and you fold under the pressure instantly.
When you try to skirt around him, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side, the touch of his lips against your chest shocking you still, electrical impulses still skittering under your skin.
“I can feel your heart racing,” Kyle teases, caramel-smooth voice sending a low vibration through your chest.
And why shouldn’t he? Your heart is racing after all. “I’m nervous.”
“I know you are, baby,” he murmurs. “This is hard for you, isn’t it?”
It is. A few too many years on your own have turned you to stone, the slightest touch almost too much to handle. You’ve long learned to expect anything you touch to shock you.
“Want me to make this easier on you?” he asks gently. You’re not sure what he means by that, but you have an inkling.
And wouldn’t it be nice to not have to worry? To not have to second guess what you really want or what you should do?
You nod.
“Okay, honey. Then you don’t have to do it. No telling me to go away. I’ve got it from here.”
When Kyle takes your phone from your hand, you don’t stop him, even typing in your password for him when he turns it towards you, watching over his shoulder as he shares your location with his phone.
You exhale shakily, the tightness in your shoulders easing. There he goes with that oyster shucker again, opening you up.
So be it. What use is there in protecting something that’s already his?
✣ summary | after six weeks of collecting your ever-elusive neighbor’s post, what starts as a polite hallway exchange turns into something hard to ignore. cue: a shared wall, unlocked doors, a broken sink, and whiskey kisses.
✣ wc | 13.4k
✣ cw | mdni, older!price x fem!reader, age gap (20s/40s), divorcée!price, john is fatherly toward reader, fluff, smut, fingering, alcohol, regrettably i have a sick, unyielding need for john to call me ‘duck’ and it has bled through this fic.
masterlist | part two ⇾
The rain never falls straight this time of year. It slants, needling sideways through the cramped street your apartment stands, puddles collecting in the dips of uneven pavement. It’s the kind of rain that forces its way into coat collars and boots, into the mortar between old brick.
Your building absorbs it, wears it like a second skin – three stories of weathered red brick darkened to a rust, old windows fogged with condensation, black iron railings shining beneath a sheen of wet. The front steps slope down the middle from decades of traffic, water pooling slick there before trickling down to the gutters.
Inside, the air carries a musty dampness with it that’s seems to linger even in the summer, smelling like wet wool and old carpet. The stairwell curves upward in narrow turns, paint layered thick on the banister from too many years and too many hands. Every footfall echoes off the walls, some nights you count the steps on your way up. Nineteen.
By the time you reach the second floor, the cold has settled into your bones.
The landing on your floor sits directly outside your neighbor’s flat, the brass 2A tacked there a stark contrast against the black door. The hallway runs narrow and straight to your own door, the dim fluorescents overhead cast a flickering pale glow that never quite reaches the corners. An earth-toned floral runner threads throughout the entire length of the building, its pattern long faded, fibers worn thin and frayed down the center where tenants have passed in and out for years. The white walls that contain it all are scuffed dirty and nicked, marked up by furniture and careless feet.
Your neighbor’s flat is always giving the impression that it might be back on the market.
Most front doors offer some indication of life – a welcome mat, a potted plant, a pair of muddy trainers set to the side.
Not his door, though. Right now, his door offers post.
It began modestly enough, a single envelope resting against the door. Then more joined it as the days passed – thick envelopes, junk, rolled up circulars and magazines that curl at the edges after a few days of being stepped over. The stack grows and grows, leaning against the wood as though it expects, at any moment, to be scooped up by the man whose name is printed on the address line.
You notice his absence before the absurd amount of post clues you in, though. Once you’ve learned his rhythms, his comings and goings are impossible to miss. When he leaves it’s the hurried weight of heavy boots stomping, doors and drawers slamming shut in the early hours. It’s always followed by a melancholy sort of silence, not the daily hush of an empty home, but a stretched quiet that haunts behind your shared wall for weeks on end.
Then when he returns, you’re greeted with the rush of water through the pipes, the pungent curl of cigar smoke creeping through the vents, and the sounds of his TV carrying through the wall until nearly four in the morning.
He’s never introduced himself, never offered you more than a polite passing nod. You don’t know what he does, not really, and until now, you never really gave him much thought.
And only now because you nearly break your wrist because of him.
Your fingers are aching from grocery bags, your thoughts are already drifting toward dinner, and just as you hit the landing your shoe catches the slick edge of a magazine on the floor. The loss of balance is immediate, and unfortunately, graceless. The hallway tilts, the floor rushes up, and oranges spill across the hall and down the stairs. The carton of eggs bursts open against the carpet with a tragic crack. One of the bags split entirely, spilling its contents in every direction.
For a long moment you just kneel there, the traitorous copy of ‘Guns & Ammo’ that caused your fall lies beside you, addressed to one: Jonathan Price. An incredulous breath of a laugh escapes you before you bat the cover out of sight.
You flex your wrist carefully — achey, but it moves. So, you get yourself to your feet and collect your groceries piece by annoying piece, salvaging what you can, muttering to yourself about why you should stick to takeaway as you coral oranges back into the torn plastic bag.
Before heading inside, you bend to straighten the stack of mail beside his door, patting it neatly into the frame so it no longer sprawls across the carpet.
However, the post continues to arrive.
And Jonathan Price continues not to.
As the days pass, the stack inevitably builds thicker. Something about weeks of untouched post just feels wrong. So, when pass his door on your way back from work, on an unconscious whim, you gather his post up and take it inside with you. And you continue to do so, piling it on the table in your entryway, every single day.
Except Sundays. There’s no post on Sundays.
Six weeks pass in total before, one evening, the pipes in your shared wall suddenly gurgle to life.
You’re standing at your sink, hands submerged in sudsy dishwater when the rush of plumbing vibrates through the plaster with the unmistakable sound of his shower warming up.
You wait until the pipes quiet again before gathering the stack of envelopes and ads. It’s heavier than you expect when you lift it. Thick enough now that it takes both arms to hold it all securely against your chest.
Down the short corridor, you make your way to his door and knock once. The rap lands quieter than you meant it to, swallowed by the heavy wood almost instantly. You hesitate, second-guessing yourself until you lift your hand to try again when there’s a metallic click and the door opens just enough to shroud your neighbor in shadow. For a second, he’s only an imposing shape, but then the light catches him properly as he leans forward a bit.
He fills the frame without even trying. You have to tip your chin just to meet his eyes, this close he’s far broader than any glimpses you’ve caught in passing allowed you to register. He’s thick through the shoulders, forearms corded beneath the long sleeves of a worn grey tee that looks softened from years of washing. It clings where it stretches across his chest, molded to him in dampened patches like he pulled it on too soon after stepping out of the shower.
His jeans are loose everywhere except around his thighs, slung low enough that a strip of black elastic and milky skin catches your attention. Your gaze unintentionally trips over the trail of dark hair that whispers up and beneath his shirt.
You can feel your ears starting to warm before you flick back up to his face, meeting a set of ocean-deep irises ornamented by crinkling lines at the corners, tired purple crescents stamped underneath. His beard is grown out past neat — thick and slightly unruly along his jaw, salt and peppered throughout.
Steam drifts out lazily from behind him, carrying the clean scent of soap into the corridor — it's mild, fresh, a little spice beneath it all.
His eyes settle on you with a subtle recognition, view slightly narrowed before, almost immediately, dropping to the stack of paper you’re gripping.
“Evenin’,” he says almost cautiously, voice roughened, like it hasn’t been used in a while. Or used too much, maybe.
You clear your throat.
“Hi,” you manage, “I’m next door.” You tilt your head toward your flat, never under the assumption that anyone remembers who you are.
His gaze lifts again, meeting yours. There’s a vague hint of amusement glinting in his eyes, it reaches the corner of his mouth, pulling up.
“I know,” he nods gently, almost encouragingly, like he’s urging you to continue with your spiel.
You shift the weight of the envelopes and extend them toward him before you can overthink it.
“Right, erm… your post,” you swallow thickly, then proceed to ramble, “It kept piling up. For, like, a long time. And, anyway, I ended up slipping on a magazine a few weeks ago, and then I thought it might be better if someone kept it from takin’ over the hall until you were back.” You inhale through your nose, catching a breath before continuing despite yourself. “And now you’re back, so…”
His eyes widen before he reaches his arms out to takes the heap from you, the simple transfer of weight draws you a half-step closer to him. His fingers brush yours in the exchange — callouses scratching softly, warm. The contact is brief, but it’s also entirely impossible to unfeel.
“You slipped,” he repeats lowly, not accusatory, more like confirming he heard you properly.
“I’m fine,” you assure him quickly. “I just meant… like, it was a lot of post, is all,” your voice tapers off as your mouth starts to feel dry.
“You’re not hurt?”
You shake your head, “No.”
“You’ve been takin’ it in,” his eyes scan the envelopes before lifting back to you, like he’s quietly calculating something. “All of it?”
“Yeah.” You hesitate, then add quickly, “I knocked once. But no one answered.”
“Yeah, I, uh, had t’work.”
“I didn’t open anything,” you continue, suddenly aware of how that all might’ve sounded. “Obviously.”
He smirks at that, his voice becoming something far smoother than it was when the door first opened. “I didn’t think you had.”
There’s a subtle warmth in his tone now. It does something curious to your pulse. You can feel it tap-tap-tapping just below your jaw.
He balances the pile in one large hand and steps back, widening the door.
Your gaze drifts past him inadvertently and into his flat. It’s uncluttered and tidy – not unlived-in exactly, but lacking the charm that makes a place feel claimed. The furniture is purely functional and dated, the walls bare, the floor impossibly clean, the hardwood shines like it was just buffed.
“M’grateful for that,” he adds after a beat, head bowing enough to move into your line of vision and catch your eye, smirk still prevalent.
“It was startin’ to look abandoned,” you babble before you can stop yourself.
“Abandoned,” he echoes, gaze sharpened.
“I just meant— it didn’t look like anyone was coming back.”
Something in his expression settles, one of his shoulders roll.
“Oh, I always come back, love,” he croons just over a whisper and unhurried, like he knows something you don’t.
Your cheeks warm and your head can’t decide between shaking and nodding, fingers twirling into the soft threads of your jumper.
“No, yeah, of course. I didn’t mean—”
“I’m John, by the way.”
He adjusts his weight again, shifting back under the shadow behind him. This interaction feels like it should be over already, you’re almost wishing it was, but you give him your name in return. He repeats it back slowly, like he’s testing the shape of it on his tongue. There’s something deliberate in the way he says it, like it’s being filed away somewhere permanent.
“Would y’like to come in?” he nods his head. “Least I can do is make you a cup’a tea.”
You hesitate, a pause small enough to miss if he wasn’t watching for it. He notices your hesitation without pushing it. There’s no persuasion from him, no charm turned up for effect. Just patience, like he already figures you will.
Your eyes flick from his, past him, and back again. You step inside before you even understand why, just, caution to the wind. Survival instincts at an all time low. But there’s something about him that draws you there.
His flat smells clean – shower steam still clinging to the air, layered over something warmer. Smoke, maybe. Something musky and grounded that feels likely distinctly his. The door clicks shut behind you.
The place is spare. A brown leather sofa floats in the center of the room, the cushions perfectly aligned as though they’re reset after every use. A low coffee table in front of it holds nothing but a neatly stacked set of coasters and a remote placed dead center.
To the side of the TV, a tall wooden bookcase stands in the corner, books neatly arranged, spines perfectly even, each shelf organized by size. There are no pictures on the walls, no decorative clutter on the tables or mantel. It’s as if you’ve stepped into a hotel, but even they put artwork up.
John moves toward the kitchen with an ease that wasn’t there in the hallway, shoulders a little looser. You follow, watching him push the rescued post neatly into the corner of the counter — probably the messiest part of his flat now.
The kitchen is very similar to yours, appliances a little more dated, but just as compact. A short galley space with a small honey oak table at the end beneath the window.
“I meant to put a hold on it,” he says, glancing down at the envelopes. “But I left on such short notice...”
“You travel a lot?” you ask, leaning against the doorway, hands coming together in front of you, fingernails scratching at your palm anxiously.
He’s already filling the kettle at the sink, water rushing loud for a moment before he shuts it off.
“More than I’d like,” he admits.
“For work?”
“Yeah.”
The burner on the stove blooms blue beneath the kettle with a soft tick-tick.
“You don’t exactly look like someone who works from a laptop.”
That earns you the faintest chuckle before he fully turns around, resting his hip against the pristine white countertop.
“No?”
“No.” You shake your head. “You’re gone for long stretches.”
His eyes travel your form, a single brow perking with an interest.
“You keepin’ tabs on me, then?” he asks curiously.
You shrug at that, allowing a small smile to spread.
“Hard not to when you’re the only other person on this floor.”
He offers a short hum then reaches into the cupboard, his shirt riding up with him, you get a peek of his toned tummy as he pulls two mugs down. The ceramic clinks.
“And what d’you do when you’re not monitorin’ me?” He looks at you again just as the kettle begins a low, building thrum.
Your head tilts involuntarily. “I work normal hours and take it home with me. Watch shit TV and order too much takeaway.”
He tsks before he asks, “Don’t cook?” An edge to his tone that’s not quite judgmental and not quite disappointment, but somewhere in the middle.
“I can,” you defend. “I just don’t always see the point.”
The kettle clicks off and he pours the water slowly over the tea bags, steam rising in soft spirals. “There’s always a point,” he says.
“Do you cook?” you ask after a beat.
“When I’m home.”
“Which isn’t often,” you add.
He sets the kettle aside and finally meets your eyes again. “Not often enough,” he agrees, his features softening.
“And when you are?”
He leans back against the counter again. “When I get home? First few nights are rough. Might get pizza,” he admits casually.
“Jet lag?”
The corner of his mouth twitches faintly. “Somethin’ like that.”
“Can’t sleep?”
“Not well,” he shrugs. “Cup’a strong tea helps.”
“Tea?” you quirk a brow.
“Yeah, it’s almost the only thing that settles me.”
You step further into the kitchen without thinking, drawn in more by his incredibly vague answers. “Settles you from what?”
He bites the corner of his cheek, like he’s assessing how much you’re actually asking for, or maybe how much he’s willing to divulge — which doesn’t seem like much at the moment.
“Lack of noise,” he answers at last, nudging one of his chairs out with his foot, wood stuttering over tile. He gestures to it and you move to sit without question.
He brings your mug, leaning over your shoulder with a large hand placing it right in front of you, you notice a few partially healed scrapes across his knuckles.
“Sorry, don’t have any milk yet. Just got back.”
“S’alright,” you reply quietly, wrapping your fingers around the ceramic. It’s nearly too hot to hold, but you welcome the burn; the tingle that blooms its way into the soft of your palm.
John doesn’t sit. Instead, he stays leant against the counter across from you, mug resting in hand, watching you take your first cautious sip.
There’s something steady in the way he looks at you. You only came over to deliver his post. You’re still not sure how it turned into this.
“You live alone?” he asks suddenly.
You pause mid-sip and peer at him over the rim of your mug, lips pursing. “And what exactly do you plan on doin’ with that information, John?”
His eyes widen just slightly before the tips of his ears grow pink
He exhales through his nose amusedly. “Poor choice’a words,” he concedes, scratching at his beard. “Mind’s still in work-mode.”
“You interrogate people for a living?” you tease, unknowingly.
That has him choking around his tea, forcing down a cough that has him hiding behind the mug as he gathers himself.
An unbridled laugh slips free before you can stop it, and something in his posture relaxes at the sound.
“Sorry, you okay?”
“Mm,” he nods far more than he needs to.
“Well,” you turn back to your tea, “I do live alone. But I know how to use a knife, so don't be weird about it.”
He absorbs that quietly, tongue pressing briefly to his cheek, a thoughtful hum low in his throat.
“Right.”
You narrow your eyes and huff. “That’s all I get? Just ‘right’?”
He sets his mug down, gaze lingering on you longer than necessary. “Place next door’s quiet,” he says slowly. “Jus’ wasn’t sure if you had someone in there I hadn’t clocked.”
“But you’ve clocked my noise levels?” you press, unable to help it.
“Shared wall,” he reminds you.
“And?”
“And,” he says, eyes steady on yours now, “it’s good to know who’s on the other side.”
And after that, the conversation slips into something easier. You learn small, unremarkable things about each other, the kind that don’t really feel important at the time. Like how he prefers mornings to nights. That you can’t even make toast without burning it. That neither of you necessarily trust the boiler in the winter time. It’s nothing intimate, not really. But the way he listens makes it feel like everything you tell him is a secret he’s learning, like each answer matters.
Time warps in his kitchen without either of you noticing. The tea cools in both of your mugs before it’s finished, warmth from the kettle fizzles out, and the distance between question and answer shortens. The conversation stretches easily until you glance toward the door and you’re reminded that this isn’t your flat.
“Well,” you say softly, “I should really let you finish settling in.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Just watches you stand and carry your mug to his sink.
“I’ve interrupted long enough,” you add with a polite smile.
“Hardly,” he breathes, pushing off the edge, leaving his own mug on the counter in his wake.
He moves to the door with you, pulling it open and leaning against the frame, hand resting loosely on the knob.
You stop halfway into the corridor and turn back toward him.
“Try to get some sleep,” you tell him gently.
Something shifts behind his eyes, like he wasn’t expecting you to remember anything he’d said to you. But his silence after that makes you feel like you’ve misremembered things.
“You said it’s harder when you first get back, yeah?”
“Yeah,” he admits, before averting his gaze to the floor.
“Well, good night.”
“G’night.”
You don’t look back as you step into your flat, but you don’t hear his door close until yours opens. And even then, it takes a second longer than it should.
—————
John can’t sleep.
He didn’t sleep the night before either, despite how heavy his lids were. He laid there on his back, staring up at the slow rotation of his ceiling fan, listening to the quiet eerily settle around him. He thought of you more than he likely should have — the way your skin seemed to glow under his gaze, how your smile pulled the apple of your cheeks up and round, how soft your fingers felt when they brushed his.
Your perfume, too. Fruity, light. How traces of it lingered in his kitchen for so long after you left he couldn’t tell if he was imagining it, if it was something his brain cooked up to fill the silence in your wake.
John really wants to sleep tonight.
But on the other side of that godforsaken wall comes a sharp clatter followed by muffled swearing. Then something else hits the floor with enough force that he sits up before he’s even aware he’s moving. If he closed his eyes he might even believe he’s back on base at this point – and that certainly does nothing to calm his mind.
Another thud. Louder this time.
It’s enough to make him swing his legs over and push himself out of bed. Hurriedly, he steps into the jeans he left folded neatly on an armchair in his bedroom. Boots on but untied, he heads out and down the hall. The sounds grow louder the closer he gets to your door, and though two decades of training have taught him to assess chaos with haste, he can’t quite decipher what he’s hearing.
He knocks once, and the door creeps open a fraction on its own. He frowns instantly, jaw tightening – you’ve left it, not only unlocked, but completely unlatched.
You appear seconds later, rushing forward to pull it open the rest of the way. Your hair is wet, plastered to your temples, chest rising and falling too fast. There’s panic humming under your skin, but John barely registers your appearance at all. His eyes are still on the door a moment longer before they meet yours, and even then, he’s really just thinking about how it was unlocked.
“You’ve a habit of leavin’ that unsecured?” he asks, voice edged in a tone that’s harsher than he really means.
You blink at him, dazed. “Huh?”
“That latch isn’t decorative, duck.” He nods toward the deadbolt. “I could’ve walked straight in.”
A beat passes where you just stare at him, wheels turning and trying to catch up.
Then, he blinks a few times himself, and he finally sees you. Taking in your appearance, remembering why he’s here in the first place, his spine stiffens.
“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.
“I—uh, the— the sink—” you stammer, eyes squeezing shut briefly before you step back and sweep an arm vaguely toward the disaster behind you.
He shifts his gaze past you and to the kitchen faucet spraying in erratic bursts. Water ricochets off the basin and across the counter, a pot teeters on the sink’s edge, your cabinets are streaked dark where it’s soaked into the wood. The floor has its own shallow tide.
John steps forward without a word, you move aside instinctively. The space narrows as he passes, his arm brushing your chest.
He reaches the counter in, what seems like, two strides, boots squelching across the tile. One large hand clamps around the base of the faucet while the other tests the handle. It jerks violently in response, spraying harder, drenching the front of his white tee shirt.
“Christ,” he mutters.
He bends, reaching beneath the sink cabinet, keeping one hand steady on the fixture to redirect the spray. Water splashes down his forearm, soaks into his denim and leaks into his boots. His cheek presses briefly against the counter edge as he feels blindly for the valve underneath.
Behind him, you start to hover — unsure, a little guilty. He can feel you there. Aware of the way you shift your weight, the tension in your breath. Of the way you’re watching him. Of the fact that your door was unlocked when you were alone. How anyone could have walked in. That thought lodges somewhere unpleasant in his chest.
But there are more immediate and pressing matters at hand, so he files it away for later.
“Did this just start?” he asks, voice echoing faintly in the cupboard.
“Yes. It just— it wouldn’t turn off properly and then it—”
His fingers find the valve and he twists harder, effectively closing off the flow. The spray sputters, the pipes groan and then it all just… stops.
The silence that follows is almost disorienting, going from overstimulation to nothing but a slow drip of water and some breathing.
“Oh my god,” you huff, letting out a shaky exhale. “Thank you— seriously— I… I don't know what I would've done.”
John straightens slowly, bracing his hands against the edge of the sink to center himself. He looks down at his saturated clothes, the faint ripple in the water around his boot as he shifts.
“Drown,” he replies evenly, “by the looks of it.”
You grin, a soft laugh slipping out despite yourself. If you weren’t so exhausted, you probably would’ve snorted. “I was handling it just fine before you showed up, actually.”
His shoulders rise as he slowly inhales. “I’m sure you were,” he answers mildly.
“You don’t sound convinced.”
He glances down at the shallow tide circling his boot, then at the cabinet door hanging slightly crooked from where you must’ve wrenched it open in a panic.
“I’m reservin’ judgement.”
“On account of what?”
He tips his chin toward the floor, shifts his boot as if to prove his point. “On account’ve the evidence.”
You follow his line of vision and heat creeps into your cheeks.
“Okay, so it escalated,” you concede.
A short laugh slips from him before he reins it in.
“So I see,” he replies, this time there’s no hiding the amusement.
You move behind him, water splashing underfoot. “You didn’t have to come over, you know,” you say – saccharine sweetly, John thinks.
“I don’t know. The noise suggested otherwise.”
You cringe. “Was it that loud?”
“I only knocked because it sounded urgent,” tone less teasing now.
“You could’ve ignored it,” you nearly sing-song, the corner of your mouth twitching with the threat of a grin. He could have stayed in his flat, but he didn’t.
He looks half over his shoulder again.
“Is that what you would’ve preferred?”
“No.”
“Right then,” he murmurs, nodding once.
You go to take a step forward at the same time he pushes off the counter, reaching for a towel just as he turns toward you, and there isn’t enough space in the kitchen for both of you to correct in time. Your palms land flat against his chest with a wet slap before you can stop yourself.
His shirt is soaked through, the cotton warm and heavy beneath your hands, bonded to the breadth of him in a way that makes it impossible not to feel the shape of what’s underneath; muscle that doesn’t need to flex to be felt. Your palms flatten, pressing, fingers splaying unabashedly as if to test the reality of him. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing under your touch, the heat of him, his solidness, close enough that if either of you leaned even slightly forward there would be no space left between you at all. The thought is tempting.
And John doesn’t mean to look at you the way he is. It isn’t deliberate. But your black tee is no better off than his, soaked through, cotton clinging to the soft curves of your body, outlining you in a way that requires very little of his imagination. The lights catch the damp fabric and he’s tracing swells and valleys he has no business tracing.
He has to force his eyes upward only for it to snag on a single droplet of water slowly rolling down the column of your neck, it travels over your clavicle and disappears beneath the stretched edge of your collar.
You pull your hands away from his chest once you notice the moment tipping.
“Sorry,” you exhale, and it breaks the spell.
He steps to the side a full step, creating space deliberately, dragging his gaze upward successfully this time.
“You, erm… you keep a mop?” he asks, voice cracking and a little rough, heel of his hand rubbing his bearded jaw. “Towels, maybe?”
You blink at him once, twice, like your brain needs a second to rejoin your body.
“Yeah,” you manage. “I do.”
You step around him this time with more caution than before, suddenly aware of how narrow your kitchen truly is, how little room there is for any more miscalculations.
“In the hall closet,” you mutter, disappearing around the corner, leaving him alone in the quiet of the kitchen.
The room somehow feels smaller than it did before – not because of the water or the mess, but because something in the air has shifted and neither of you have decided what to do with it yet. John exhales slowly, dragging a hand down over his face as if he can physically wipe the moment away.
From the hallway comes the muted thud of a closet door, followed by something scraping against drywall and the soft rustle of movement.
“You alright back there?” he calls, voice steadier now, back in control of itself.
“Fine,” you answer, slightly breathless. “Found it.”
When you reappear, you’re clutching a mop in one hand with an armful of towels gathered haphazardly against your chest. You look determined in an endearing sort of way that makes something in his chest yawn. He clears his throat quickly before the feeling can settle into something more dangerous.
“Alright,” he says, stepping toward you and relieving you of the mop before you can protest. “Let’s get this sorted before your floor decides to buckle.”
You look up at him, face scrunching, reaching back out for the handle. “Oh, you don’t have–”
He pulls it out of your reach and sighs. “Humor me.”
He works methodically, soaking up what he can while you kneel beside him and press towels into the worst of the puddles, the fibers darkening beneath your hands. The air smells faintly metallic now, musty from dirty water.
The only sounds for a while are the soft scrape of the mop, the quiet rustle of fabric, the steady rhythm of shared movement in a space that feels too small.
John wrings the mop out over the sink, forearms flexing as he twists the handle and squeezes out the excess water. You have to remind yourself not to gawk at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back, shoulder blades rolling as he moves.
When most of the water has been cleaned up, he crouches to inspect the pipes beneath the sink again. One knee rests against the tile, sleeves pushed higher now, brow drawn together in concentration as he checks the valve with deft hands.
“Cartridge in the tap’s gone,” he mutters, tightening the valve again. “Handle can’t shut the water properly anymore. Maintenance’ll replace it in five minutes.”
“I wouldn’t even know what to tell them,” you sigh, wiping your temple with the back of your wrist and leaving a faint streak of wet there.
He turns to you, blue eyes softening almost imperceptibly. “Just tell ‘em it won’t shut off fully. They’ll know what that means.”
You nod, committing the issue to memory as if it’s more complicated than it is.
He rises and reaches past you to push the window open a few inches, letting a swirl of cool night air slip into the room. It curls around your ankles and lifts the damp edges of your shirt, carrying the scent of wet pavement and the distant hum of traffic.
“Keep it open till it’s dry in here,” he says, brushing his hands together lightly as if to rid them of the last of the mess.
He heads toward the door, and you follow. On the other side of the threshold, he pauses. He peers over your shoulder – to the sink, the cabinet, the open window, the floor – checking each detail like he’s committing it to some internal list. Only after that does he land on you, but he quickly skips to your door, to the deadbolt you hadn’t turned earlier.
He tips his chin toward it. “Lock it properly behind me.”
You follow his gaze, fingers already reaching for the lock. “I will,” you say, trying and failing to keep the smile from pulling at the edges of your lips. “Thanks again. I don’t even know what to say,” you breathe a nervous laugh.
“Don’t have to say anything,” he shakes his head. “Just… don’t touch it until maintenance comes, yeah?”
“I promise you that I won’t,” you giggle quietly.
“Good,” he takes a small step backward, eyes lingering for a beat.
“Night, John,” you murmur.
“Night.”
You close the door, sliding your latch into place as promised. And on the other side, he waits just long enough to hear it catch.
————————
Two days after the flood, you’re stepping out of your flat, tote bag sliding off your shoulder, phone unlocked in your hand, half-reading an email you should have responded to last night, when your hear the creek of John’s door opening at the same time, stealing your attention.
He’s standing there with his keys still in the lock, coat on but open. There’s a faint flush in his cheeks likely from being outside, a takeaway coffee balanced loosely in his free hand.
There’s a split second where you both recalibrate. He blinks a few times as you walk in his direction, taking his keys out and slipping them into his coat pocket, foot planted to hold his door from shutting.
“You alright?” he asks, tone casual, like nothing unusual has ever happened between you.
“Yeah,” you reply, equally steady. “Are you?”
He nods once. “You get your sink sorted?” he asks as you drift toward the staircase.
“Oh, yeah. Landlord sent someone ‘round yesterday.”
“Any good?”
You huff a faint laugh. “Very enthusiastic about pipes. Less enthusiastic about fixing them.”
He scowls slightly. “They fix it?”
“Yes,” you say. “Apparently I ‘over-rotated the cartridge.’ Which sounds a lot like something you say to avoid admitting it was old.”
“It means you forced it.”
“I did not force it,” your jaw falls open slightly in offence.
“You forced it,” he repeats dryly.
“It was an old tap!” you insist.
He studies you for a second, eyes glinting with an admiration for the way you stand your ground over something so inconsequential.
You reach the the stairwell landing, passing by him closely as you take the first step down, hand on the banister, turning sideways to keep him in your sights.
“You call straight away?” he asks casually enough that it should feel that way, but there’s something in his tone that’s almost challenging. “Or did you try fixin’ it again yourself?”
“I called straight away.”
“Good girl,” he replies absently, the words folded so naturally into the rhythm of the conversation that they almost disappear. Almost.
Your breath hitches quietly, every nerve inside of your body coming alight with a current that zips up your spine, tingling the base of your neck before spreading through your jaw until every bit of flesh above your neck begins to glow. Your belly tightens with a molten fever that begins to reach places far lower than it should.
He’s not even looking at you, he just adjusts the lid on his coffee like he hasn’t altered the chemical composition of the air between you.
“Off to work?” he continues mildly, eyes flicking to yours.
You clear your throat, steadying your voice before you answer.
“Y-yeah.”
“Right,” he says, as if concluding the world’s most ordinary exchange. “Have a good one.”
You nod once, adjusting the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder, mouth running dry.
“Yeah, you too,” you manage as he pushes his door open and steps inside.
He glances once more from the doorway, offering a tight line of a smile before the door closes and separates you.
——————
The sun’s an orange yolk dropped into the cradle of a purpling sky. You’re halfway home from the office when you notice the liquor store’s neon sign buzzing red against the early dark. You slow on the sidewalk, hands tucked into your coat pockets, breath fogging in front of you.
There’s no obligation, of course. He saved you from your untamed sink because that’s just the kinda guy he is. But the memory of it, of him, has lingered with you for days now, slipping in uninvitedly while on calls with clients, during meetings with your boss, fingers flexing unconsciously against your thighs as you remember the solidness of his chest beneath them that night.
The distraction was at its worst today, with John’s ‘good girl’ chanting like a feverish prayer that only the devil themself could’ve conjured and stitched into the back of your skull – his voice, the bass of it, reverberated between your ears for so long you found yourself wishing the vibration would travel lower.
He looks like a whiskey man, you decide.
Inside the store, the air smells like cut cardboard and oak, a little dusty. You wander longer than you should, reading labels you can’t pronounce, lifting one bottle after another, circling the aisle with the indecision of someone pretending to know what she’s doing. Your shoes stick faintly against the hardwood as you pace.
The clerk notices your hesitation eventually.
“Need a hand?” he asks.
“I’m just looking for something… smooth,” you decide, though it comes out more like a question than an answer.
He nods as if he’s heard that a thousand times before and points you toward three options just in front of you. You choose the one priced in the middle, not too expensive, but enough to be considered a gift, you think. You carry it to the counter with an anxious flutter beneath your ribs.
The building’s stairs feel longer tonight. Each step echoes louder than the last, paper bag crinkling in your grip with every movement. By the time you reach your floor, your pulse has climbed into your throat. You pass his, going to your own door first, stepping inside just long enough to set your purse down on the table and search deep into the pit of your gut to find some bravery.
You could leave it at his door with a note, you consider.
But you won’t, because that’s not really what you want to do, is it?
The hallway between your flats feels like it begins to narrow with you in it, the overhead light flickering ominously as it always does. His door is only a few steps away, and yet the walk toward it feels more like a trek.
John hears your door before he hears the knock.
The old building carries sound in that way old buildings do. Your door opening and closing is a sound he’s come to recognize now. The soft chime of your keys too, because everyone’s keyring sounds different, the jingle is unique, yours are no exception.
So when the knocks come a few seconds later, he already knows it’s you.
He stands at his kitchen counter, rag still in hand, his heartbeat behaving in a way it hasn’t outside of work in a number of years. He doesn’t know how, in less than a week, he’s gone from not knowing your name to timing his morning coffee run with when you leave for work just to get a glimpse of you, to catch the scent of your perfume in the stairwell.
By the time he reaches the door, he’s aware of the way his shoulders square on their own, the way his hand smooths over his beard, the way his fingers rake through his hair before he turns the handle.
And when he finally opens the door, you’re right there. It takes him half a second too long to draw in a full breath.
Your work coat is still on and hanging open at the collar, the fleece folding over just enough to reveal that hollow at the base of your throat that he just can’t keep himself from finding every time you’re in front of him. Your cheeks are glowing from the stairwell, clothes still carrying the cold, hair slightly mussed from the wind, perhaps.
“Hey,” he breathes, voice getting caught in the folds of his chords enough to crack on its way up.
You lift the brown bag in response, that crooked little smile he’s starting to recognize appears like you can’t quite decide whether to commit to it or not.
“A thank you,” you present it to him, the base of it resting in your hand precariously.
His eyes land on the bag and then return to your face.
“Should I be concerned?” he asks with a teasing lilt.
You step closer to the door, holding it out for him to take.
“It’s just whiskey, John,” you giggle and instantly wish you could take back the hyenic sound that leaves you.
He takes it from you and peers into its depths, letting out a low appreciative whistle.
“That’s… very generous.”
“I didn’t know what you liked,” you admit, aware of how exposed this feels, almost embarrassing now with how slick your neck is beginning to feel. “The man at the store said this one was smooth. I figured that was safe.”
He studies you for a moment in a way that warms your skin even more beneath your coat. Like he’s weighing your intention behind the gesture.
“Be a shame,” he starts, moving to the side of the doorway, “to let it sit unopened.”
“You invitin’ me in?” you ask, aiming for lightness and landing somewhere breathless instead.
This was the idea, wasn’t it? That he would invite you in? So why do you want to run back down the hall now?
“I am,” he nods. “If you’d like.”
He opens the door wider, and when you step past him the air changes in that way it always does when you cross into someone else’s space. Not just in temperature, but in atmosphere and energy – the smells change, the lights change, the sounds change.
He puts the whiskey down on his entry table, holding his hand out while he asks for your coat. You shrug out of it so he can hang it on the hook beside the door.
You quickly notice, however, it doesn’t smell like soap tonight.
It smells like food.
Butter and garlic and something a little smoky, like an iron pan that got a little too hot on the burner. There’s rosemary in there somewhere, you think. It makes your stomach rumble a little, suddenly aware that you left work on a granola bar and a few cups of lukewarm coffee.
“Oh…” you murmur before you can stop yourself, gaze drifting into the kitchen. “Were you eating?”
“Was about to. Just finished cookin’.”
You look closer this time, there’s a plate on the counter with a steak resting in its own juices, some mash beside it still holding the groove of the spoon, green beans piled neatly on the side.
It looks good, but you instantly feel guilty.
“I’m sorry,” you apologize, taking a small step backward toward the door. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I can come back.”
He exhales a faint huff of amusement from behind as he slips around you, his hand brushing along the small of your back as he passes toward the kitchen. “You didn’t interrupt anything.”
“I did,” you insist, following behind him now like you're being pulled. “You were literally about to eat.”
“And you were ‘literally’ about to go home and order takeaway,” he counters mockingly without even looking.
You stop short in the threshold, a hand finding rest on your hip. “Excuse me?” you scoff.
At the counter, he looks over his shoulder, one brow lifting. “Let’s not pretend.”
He’s still faintly smiling as he reaches for a knife.
“I wasn’t,” you lie, though even to your own ears it sounds a bit defensive. You were definitely planning on ordering palak paneer for the third night in a row.
“S’that why I see Indian outside your door every night? I thought it might be becomin’ part of the decor…”
Your mouth falls open despite the grin yanking at your edges. “First of all, that’s, like, borderline stalking.”
“Shared hallway,” he replies entirely unapologetic.
“Second of all,” you continue, undeterred, “sometimes it’s Italian.”
He hums thoughtfully. “Right. A woman of culture then.”
He slices into the steak with an adept sort of ease, cutting it into even strips before he reaches into the cupboard to bring down a second plate. It takes a moment before what he’s doing dawns on you.
“John,” you step further into the kitchen, hand reaching out before pulling it back. “You don’t have to feed me.”
“I know,” he says, back still turned. “But I reckon you’re hungry…. So, have a seat.”
He transfers a few pieces of steak to the second plate, adds another spoonful of mash without asking whether you want it, then nudges a few green beans alongside it.
“I didn’t come to eat your dinner,” you continue your weak protest.
He doesn’t wait for you to say anything else, he just slides the plate along the laminate countertop towards you and then tips his head to the small table by the window.
“Sit,” he says, not too firmly, just with an expectation that you will.
And you do, which is something you’ll have to dissect later.
You hesitate half a second before taking the plate and floating toward the chair. You lower yourself into it, perched on edge stiffly, feeling a little unsure of yourself despite having sat here before.
You can feel John notice your tentativeness, a quick sideglance from him as he finishes up pricks at the hairs on your arms.
“Sit comfortably,” he corrects pointedly, as though amending the first instruction. His voice is low and even, commanding even when he isn’t trying to be.
Heat creeps up your spine, but you reposition anyway, scooting back until your shoulders touch the wooden stiles, tucking one leg beneath the other. Only then does he set a fork and knife beside your plate, fingers brushing yours in the exchange. He places a glass of water in front of you too, condensation pooling around the base of it almost instantly, leaving a ring that distorts the grains in the honeyed wood.
He grabs his own plate and sits across from you.
The table isn’t very large, you become acutely aware of that very quickly. Beneath it, his knees hover close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from them. If you extended your leg any further, it would press against his without any effort.
“There,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, eyes lifting to yours across the small space. “Eat somethin’ proper for the first time this week, will ya.”
You take a bite mostly to busy your hands. The mash is still warm, butter melted into salty pockets. The steak all but melts between your teeth, tender in a way you’ve never managed to get it yourself, seasoned simply and perfectly and with the confidence of someone who has never once second-guessed himself over a pan.
“This is so good, John,” you say, before you’ve even fully swallowed. “Like — really good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You nod, watching one brow lift. “And not ‘I’m being polite’ good. Actually good.”
“Mm. High praise from such a cultured young duck,” he replies, dry as anything.
“I don’t just hand it out willy-nilly,” you say primly, the tips of your ears tingling.
That draws a soft breath of laughter from him. “No, of course not,” he agrees. “You don’t strike me as the type.”
“And what type is that?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
“Stubborn,” he answers, a little too easily, eyes steady on yours.
You tilt your head. “Think you’ve got me all figured out then?”
“It’s kind of my specialty,” he says. “Believe it or not.”
“Is it?” you press. The fork turns between your fingers in thought, like you might actually learn something deeper about him right now. “And what else have you figured out?”
He considers you for a moment. “That you ask a lot of questions.”
“I’m curious,” you say. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Yes.” You lean forward slightly, elbows finding the table. “Asking questions means I’m interested. Asking a lot of questions means I’m very interested.”
Something shifts in his expression at that, a subtle recalibration, like he hadn’t expected you to say it so plainly. His eyes hold yours for a beat before he glances down at his plate, the corner of his mouth doing something restrained and infuriating.
“Careful,” he says, low and easy.
“Maybe I don’t see what there is to be careful about.”
He looks at you again then, and there’s something in his eyes that is slightly too warm to be neutral.
“No,” he says, almost to himself. “I don’t suppose you do.”
You hold his gaze, refusing to be the first one to look away, even as the back of your neck starts to prickle pleasantly. Eventually, he picks up his fork again, and you take it as a small victory.
“So,” you say, after a moment, tilting your head like the thought has only just occurred to you. “How long have you been holding out on me like this?”
He glances up. “Holdin’ out? On you?”
“Yeah.” You gesture lightly at your plate. “I’ve been living next door to this for how long, exactly?”
“Fourteen months,” he answers, immediately and without blinking, like the number was already sitting on the tip of his tongue.
Taken aback, your hand goes slightly clammy around your cutlery. Less than a week ago you were fairly certain he barely registered your existence.
A faint exhale of amusement leaves him at your silence, eyes dropping briefly to his plate. “Didn’t realize I was under an obligation to feed you.”
“I think, legally, you are now,” you counter, recovering.
He studies you over the rim of his glass as he takes a sip of water, eyes narrowing slowly. “Are you always this demanding?”
“When properly motivated.”
He nods once, like he’s filing that away somewhere.
“You like to cook?” you ask then, watching him.
“I do.”
Frustrated, you drop your fork and knife down with a little more force than intended, the sound of it clattering, ringing out in the small kitchen. His head snaps up at you.
“That’s so vague,” you whine almost indignantly. “Why are you always so vague?”
John sits back slowly now, arms crossing over his chest, fingers tucking beneath his beefy biceps, pushing them out to strain against the sleeves of his shirt. His head tilts, forehead creasing with many lines. “I’ve answered every question you’ve asked me,” he says, tongue licking over his canine behind closed lips.
“You’ve responded to every question,” you correct. “It’s not the same thing.”
Something twitches at the corner of his mouth.
“Men and their refusal to elaborate,” you mutter, rolling your eyes before landing back on your dinner.
“I’d argue it’s more like ‘women and their refusal to be satisfied’,” he returns mildly.
“How can I possibly be satisfied, you give me nothing to work with!” You can feel yourself getting animated now, leaning forward again, and beneath the table your knee presses into his without you even noticing.
He notices, though. And he makes no move to change it.
“Every time I ask you something real you just— you do this thing where you answer juuust enough to qualify and then you stop. And I can see you stopping, John, I can physically see it!”
That gets you a real laugh, fuller than you’ve heard from hin before, it’s gravel-deep and a little raspy, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening as his teeth show just long enough to catch. It dissolves the tension so suddenly you almost feel cheated out of it.
“Alright, alright,” he placates, reining himself back in, still smiling faintly. “What d’you want to know?”
You blink at him, recalibrating your attitude. “Oh, now you want to cooperate.”
“Ask your question before I change my mind.”
You study him for a second, aware that this is a small window of opportunity that may not open again given his track record.
“Okay,” you say carefully. “What do you actually do? Not ‘I work,’ not ‘I travel’. What do you do?”
He exhales slowly through his nose, his smile fading into something more straight lined. His thumb traces an idle line across the back of his knuckle, back and forth across those healing scrapes.
“Special forces,” he admits. “That’s— that’s about as much as I can give you.”
The answer gives your pause. You’re not particularly surprised by it, somewhere in your gut you already knew. So you absorb the information quietly. It reframes him in a way, things you’ve already half-noticed about him like his posture and his stillness, the way he speaks, the way he gives these subtle orders that you never know how to read.
“Okay,” you settle on simply, his answer still swimming around in your head like disconnected puzzle pieces slowly attaching to one another.
He looks at you like he expected more. “Okay?”
“Okay,” you repeat, shoulders shrugging smally. “Thank you for telling me.”
Something in him settles before he picks up his fork again, and for a moment you eat in a comfortable quiet, only the soft scrape of cutlery filling the room.
“Does that bother you?” he asks eventually, without looking up.
“No,” you answer honestly. “Should it?”
“Some people find it… complicated.”
“I imagine the right people don’t.”
He looks at you then, eyes shifting from his plate cautiously, something unreadable flickering across his face before he glances away again.
Outside the window beside you, the sky has gone fully dark, the glass reflecting an image of the kitchen, the two of you small and warm inside of it.
“How old are you?” he asks suddenly, like he’s been holding the question back for a while. Your eyes snap over to him again.
“Twenty-six,” you tell him. “How old are you?”
A puff of air exhales slowly from between his lips. “Old enough to know better,” he murmurs to himself, which, again, is not an answer.
“Know better than what?”
He doesn’t reply to that either, just looks at you with that steady expression he has, the one that makes the back of your throat go dry and the tops of your thighs squeeze.
And it’s now, in the quiet of his kitchen, under the gaze of blue eyes, that you realize he is perfectly aware of what he’s doing to you. And probably has been for longer than he’d even admit.
“You’re insufferable,” you inform him pleasantly.
“You’re not the first to think so,” he agrees, unbothered.
Afterwards, you insist on helping with the dishes despite his objections.
“You’re stubborn,” he says.
“You like it,” you push.
John sighs like it pains him as he hands you a dish towel.
There’s something about the domesticity of it that feels intimate. Standing hip to hip in the narrow galley, light above the sink draping you both in a golden curtain, him washing and you drying, neither of you talking very much but not minding the quiet either.
He passes you a glass and his shoulder brushes yours as he reaches past you to set a fork in the drying rack, neither of you move away afterward. The inch that used to be between your arms stays closed now, pressed to each other.
“D’you do this often?” he asks.
“Dry dishes in strange men’s kitchens?”
His mouth twitches. “Yes.”
“No,” you hum through a smile. “You’re the first.”
“First strange man or first time drying his dishes?” He reaches past you again.
“First time drying his dishes,” you chuckle. “Jury’s still out on the other one.”
He makes a sound that might be a laugh, low, suppressed, eyes crinkling as he keeps his gaze on the sink.
When the last dish is done and the towel is damp in your fingers and the tap has gone off, the kitchen settles into a silence that buzzes with something unspent. John dries his hands and leans back against the counter, looking at you in an unhurried sort of way.
“C’mon,” he says, tilting his head toward the living room.
——————
He moves to the sideboard where the whiskey is waiting and you drift naturally toward his bookcase, drawn there by the same restless energy that’s been humming under your skin all evening. It’s something to do with your racing thoughts while he’s occupied with the bottle.
“Am I allowed to snoop,” you ask, fingers already trailing over the spines of his books, “or are there rules?” squinting at a title, tipping the text out of line to have a brief look at the cover. You look back at him.
“There are always rules,” he replies, glancing up from the glasses in front of him.
“Naturally,” you murmur, and return to it.
It’s mostly as you remember from that first night in his flat — books arranged by size, spines perfectly even — but you look more carefully this time, now that you know more about the hands that arranged them. History, mostly. A few novels with cracked spines that suggest they’ve actually been read rather than kept for show. A dog-eared paperback in a language you don’t recognize, the cover worn soft at the corners.
There’s a small brass compass that sits at the end of one shelf. A scattering of foreign coins too, silver and copper that don’t match anything in your wallet, currencies from places you probably couldn’t even find on a map.
You lift one, turning it over in your palm. It’s smooth from handling, warm from the ambient heat of the room.
“You’ve got coins from everywhere,” you observe.
“Habit,” he says from behind you. You can hear the quiet glug of whiskey meeting glass.
“Of picking them up?”
“Of keeping them.”
You set it back carefully, exactly where it was. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” he admits, and then he pauses, thinks about it. “Reminds you where you’ve been,” he says. “When everywhere starts to look the same.”
You turn that over for a moment, looking at the small scattered collection with different eyes now.
“That’s either very philosophical or very sad,” you decide.
“I think it’s a bit of both, no?”
You glance over your shoulder at him. He’s watching you with an almost smile. He holds out a glass toward you and you cross the room to take it, your fingers closing around the cool curve of it, pressing over his fingers in the exchange.
“The books,” you say, nodding back toward the shelf. “Have you read all of them?”
“Most of them.”
“Which ones haven’t you?”
“The ones that were gifts,” he says, after a thoughtful pause.
You don’t push that one. Just let it sit between you as you both settle onto the sofa — you first, then him, and the distance he leaves is careful and deliberate and already smaller than it probably should be, honestly.
“You’re very minimal,” you say, cradling the glass in both hands.
“You’ve mentioned,” he says before taking a tight-lipped sip.
“I’m saying it again.” You tilt your head. “Does it ever feel lonely?”
Something moves across his face — not offense. More like the question landed somewhere real and he wasn’t quite expecting it to. “Sometimes,” he says, which is more than you expected him to give you.
“But you keep it this way anyway.”
“Easier when you’re never sure how long you’ll be back for.”
You look at him for a moment, this big, careful, frustratingly guarded man, and you feel the particular ache of understanding someone just enough to know how much you don’t.
“That’s a very lonely way to live, John,” you say not unkindly, just honestly.
His jaw shifts. “Maybe,” he concedes, and the word is low and a little rough at the edges.
You take your first cautious sip of whiskey. The burn blooms along your tongue and spreads slow and deep into your chest, and your eyes sting just slightly at the corners. A small cough escapes despite your best efforts to hold it back.
He watches you over the edge of his own glass, amusement soft in the lines around his eyes. “It’ll settle,” he assures you gently.
“That’s what everyone says right before it doesn’t,” you answer, though you take another sip anyway, slower this time, letting the heat spread rather than fighting it.
A low chuckle leaves him at that, and something about the sound in the dim room makes the space feel smaller, the careful distance between you on the sofa somehow already less than it was a moment ago. You’re not entirely sure which of you is responsible for that.
Outside the window the city carries on in its distant, indifferent way — the low hum of traffic, the occasional sweep of headlights across the ceiling — and in here the lamp burns warm and the whiskey is settling into your chest exactly like he said it would and the space between your knee and his thigh has quietly, incrementally ceased to exist without either of you making a conscious decision about it.
You look at him to find he’s already looking at you. His eyes are very blue even in the dim light of the room. Ocean deep and sparkling with amber flecks from the lamp, carrying something unguarded for the first time, simmering on the surface.
“You’re staring,” you say softly.
“Am I.”
It isn’t a question though, not the way he says it. His glass rests loose in his hand, and he makes no effort whatsoever to look away.
“You are,” you nod, the edge of your mouth quirking as you look back into your glass.
His thigh is solid and warm against your knee. And you can smell him this close. Dish soap and whiskey, something musky and spicey, something you’ve decided must belong distinctly to him.
Your pulse is conducting itself with an embarrassing lack of composure that you hope, without much conviction, isn’t visible.
He reaches up toward your face and, regrettably, you flinch gently. Certainly not because you want him to stop, you just weren’t expecting it. And John seems to register that, he pauses instantly when you do. His hand flexes slowly in the air beside you, palm opening unhurried and safe, like an apology before he continues his gingerly movement forward and tucks a strand of hair back from your face. His knuckles just barely graze the line of your jaw as his hand drops.
It was such a small thing, barely anything at all, and yet your whole body responds to it like a held breath finally releasing, like something that has been wound tight behind your ribs all evening just gave way.
“Still think I’ve got nothin’ to say for myself?” he murmurs.
All you can manage in a small shake of your head, your fingers twisting into the wrinkled fabric of your skirt.
The corner of his mouth lifts. And then his eyes drop to your mouth and stay there. He doesn’t pretend otherwise, and you feel the intention of it like a change in pressure, like what the air does in those calm minutes before a storm.
John moves slow enough that you see it coming and still aren’t ready. He leans inward just a fraction, almost imperceptible. It’s the kind of movement that could mean nothing, that could be dismissed totally if you were inclined to do so.
But there is nothing incidental about the way he’s looking at you, and nothing accidental about the way the distance between you continues to melt. He stops short, just close enough that all either of you would need is the smallest shift and there would be nothing left between you at all.
There he waits, close enough you can feel his breath, close enough to admire the freckle on his nose. He’s infuriatingly patient and unbearably still, like a man who has made his intentions very clear and is now perfectly content to let you decide what happens next. In the span of a single held breath, you learn he isn’t going to close the gap.
So you do.
Your mouth meets his and he kisses you carefully. Like he’s learning the shape of you. One large hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb resting at the curve of your jaw, and the touch is so steady that something in your chest just — gives. It comes loose like a knot that’s been tied tight all evening finally being pulled free, its tension unraveling all at once, its ribbon fluttering to floor with an exhale that he swallows.
The whiskey is warm on his lips, a faint sweetness beneath the heat of him, and it mingles with the warmth already blossoming in your chest.
You feel him reach, it’s followed by a soft clunk of his glass setting on the table. Then you feel his hand on yours, prying your cemented fingers from your own cup so that he can place it beside his. All the while his lips continue to capture yours, his beard scratching at your chin when he tilts to deepen it.
Your newly freed hand finds the front of his shirt. Fingers curling into the soft of it like you need something solid to hold onto while the world around you tilts ever so slightly off its axis.
He pulls back, and for one terrifying second you think it’s over, your eyes open, but he’s only paused, his thumb tracing a slow arc along your jaw. His eyes open to find yours and they are blown dark, grey and navy, pupils fighting for space with his irises.
“Alright?” he murmurs lowly, the word barely more than a vibration between you.
“Yes,” you breathe embarrassingly quick, which makes the corner of his mouth curve, and then he comes back to you and this time he’s a little less careful.
His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers curling at the nape of your heated neck, the kiss deepens by degrees, his tongue pushing through to sweep along yours like a tide coming in high.
Your fingers tighten more in his shirt, closing into a fist that twists the cotton tight across him. You can feel the heat of him through it, and it’s so much better than the memory from that night in your kitchen, so much realer, and something akin to lava in your belly responds to the realness of it in a way you feel all the way down to your thighs.
When his other hand finds your neck, the pad of his thumb traces the line of your jaw until he finds your pulse just below it, pressing into it until a soft squeak escapes your throat and he’s grinning against you.
You push into him without thinking about it, closing whatever distance is left between your bodies, your free hand finding his jaw, scratching through the short coarse hair of his beard. He makes a low sound against your mouth that you feel at the back of your teeth, in the base of your throat, in places further south than either of those.
The hand at your neck slides slowly, tracing down over your collarbone, your shoulder, coming to rest at your waist, fingers pressing in through the fabric of your blouse with a firmness that makes your thighs press together. He pulls at you just enough to
communicate something without saying it, and you follow.
Swinging one leg over him, your pencil skirt rides up over your thighs as you stretch across his wide lap, it bunches just under your hips, leaving a salacious bit of fabric between his zipper and the thin lace covering your center.
You pull back just far enough to look at him, to catch your breath, lips swollen, chin chapped. His hair is slightly displaced, your doing. His mouth is bitten-red, also your doing.
His hands are warm and heavy on your hips, fingers pressing into the fat of them.
“Hi,” you say softly, which is an absurd thing to say and you know it the moment it leaves your mouth.
Something like amusement crosses his features and he reaches up to tuck a strand of hair back from your face for the second time tonight.
“Hi,” he says back, voice rough with restraint.
But not too much because then his hands are sliding from your hips to the backs of your thighs, calloused palms grazing across your skin.
“Okay?” he asks, thumb tracing that slow arc against the inside of your knee.
“Very,” you manage.
The corner of his mouth pulls up and his hands begin, with absolutely no hurry whatsoever, to move.
He kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, no longer learning. His hands move from your thighs to your waist, sliding under your blouse, palms meeting hot skin.
You press into him greedily, hips shifting forward, chasing something instinctive, a feeling so insistent it makes you rock again, and then again, and you feel him — solid and unmistakable — beneath you, the heat of him coming through the denim. The breath that attempts to leave you hitches in your chest and sticks there.
His hands tighten at your waist and you roll into it again, his jaw tightens and he exhales a groan into your mouth.
The kissing gets away from both of you quicker than you can even keep up with it. His hand climbs your back, fingers spreading wide between your shoulder blades, pressing, pulling you closer until your chest is firmly to his and your back is arched like a bow.
Your fingers fist his hair and then his beard and the warm column of his neck, touching everything you can reach.
You pull back from his mouth, breathing unsteadily, your forehead tipping toward his.
“John,” you breathe, and it comes out lower than you intend.
“Mm,” he answers, his lips finding the hinge of your jaw, the soft patch just beneath your ear, and your eyes close.
“I want—” you start.
“I know what you want,” he whispers against your neck, and you can feel the curve of his mouth against your flesh as he says it.
Your fingers tighten in his hair. Your hips shift again, more pointed this time, and his breath comes out slow and controlled through his nose in a way that tells you it’s costing him his currency of composure.
“John.” More insistent now, your hand fitting between your bodies, fingers crawling to his belt, making yourself clear.
He pulls back to look at you, eyes steady, his hand catching your wrist gently before you get any further.
“Easy,” he says, low. His thumb strokes across your pulse point once before he pulls your hand aside.
“I want—”
“I know what you want,” he says again. “But, not tonight,” he finishes, tone on the edge of pleading.
You make a sound of frustration that dissolves as his hands slip to the backs of your thighs and up, kneading the flesh of your exposed backside.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he starts, very quietly, like he’s telling you a secret, his eyes holding yours with a steadiness that makes your stomach drop toward the floor. “You’re gonna stay right where you are.” His fingers trace the hemline of your underwear, just enough to make you very aware of where they are and where they are not. “And I’m gonna take care of you.” He takes a pause, eyes searching around your face. “Properly.”
Your bottom lip catches between your teeth and you nod.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoes softly. “Lean back, duck.”
He helps shift you back to give himself enough space to get a look at you, to soon fit his hand between your already spread thighs.
He doesn’t look anywhere else, only your face, as he gingerly slides his big hands the length of your thighs, his thumbs pressing into the meat inside on their way up until they hit the hot crease that meets your core.
You look down at his hands, your own finding purchase on his wrists — he doesn’t seem to mind. He moves one to your hip, the other descends, the heel of his palm pressing against your lace. He takes his time, moving in excruciating circles, like he’s learning the shape of you through fabric first. You try very hard not to come apart immediately but it's a losing battle from the start given how long it’s been since anyone has touched you like this.
Your head falls back with a soft, helpless sound and your hips push into the pressure, chasing it, making your own friction.
“There she is,” he murmurs, and you can hear the smile in it.
“John,” you whimper, hips rocking, asking for more without words.
He answers by hooking a finger into the hem of your underwear and pulling them aside. He traces through your folds at a pace that makes your thighs tremble. You can hear your slick separating around his digits, you try not to think about how embarrassing it is to be this wet.
“Look at me.”
And it’s hard. It’s hard to lift your head back up, to meet his wrecked gaze, but you do. You can feel the blood rushing around your cheeks, the whiskey bubbling under your skin.
When he finally — finally — plunges one thick finger into the well of you, your whole body folds, your forehead dropping to his. Your hands move to his shoulders, finger nails digging half-moons through his shirt and into his skin.
“Good?” he asks, low.
“Yes,” you manage, “yes, please—”
He works you open slowly, one finger and then, after he’s made you wait, two. And the stretch of it, the fullness of it slipping in beside his index, pulls a moan from you that bounces off every surface in the room.
He finds a rhythm that unravels you. He pushes deep, until each knuckle is nestled into your heat. He moves them, curls them, pumps them achingly slow until you are completely and utterly lost, rocking into his hand, face buried in his neck, panting.
The tension builds inside of you like a spring, coiling tight and hot. Your breathing goes ragged and your grip tightens.
And then, when you’re already spinning, when there’s nothing left in you capable of forming a coherent thought about anything, he turns his head, his lips at your temple.
“This is why you came ’round, yeah?” The words drop like molten silver into the shell of your ear. “This is what you wanted?”
You can’t answer him, and he knows that, so you just press closer, and let the last of it break over you in a long, consuming wave that starts somewhere deep and radiates outward until you feel it in your fingertips, your jaw, the backs of your knees, and up the length of your spine. Your walls pulse around him, and you can feel how damp it’s all left you in his hand.
You stay where you are, forehead against his shoulder, your breathing coming back to you. His free hand moves in a slow idle path up and down your back.
You lift your head eventually and look at him.
There’s a warmth in his expression that’s more unguarded than anything you’ve seen from him all night, his careful composure worn down, and it does something to your chest that has nothing to do with what just happened and everything to do with who he is.
“That was—” you start.
“Yeah,” he agrees, before you’ve finished.
You laugh softly at that, and he almost does too, that almost-smile making an appearance.
Outside a car passes, headlights sweeping briefly across the ceiling before disappearing.
“I should go,” you say, which is true, but it’s also a little bit of a shame.
He doesn’t argue with you. He nods once, and the arm around your back loosens.
You clamber off of his lap with less grace than you’d like, your skirt fighting with you before it sits correctly again. You feel him watching you fix yourself with a composure that you find deeply unfair given that he’s largely responsible for the state you’re in.
“Not a word,” you warn, without looking at him
“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” he croons in a tone that suggests he absolutely was. He reaches for his long forgotten whiskey and takes the last of it down in one gulp.
You smooth yourself out, retrieve your shoes from where they’ve ended up beside the coffee table, and carry them with you to the door. He stands, straightening his shirt, and you notice with some indignation that he looks entirely unruffled. Like the last hour happened to you very specifically and left him more or less untouched.
“Ready?” he asks.
You huff a small laugh, and find you’re unable to look him in the eye, your face turning to your bare feet on his rug.
“You don’t have to walk me,” you say. “It’s literally a hallway.”
“But I’m going to,” he says, and moves to the door anyway.
The corridor is dim, the floral runner threadbare underfoot. You count the paces between your doors. It’s nine.
At your door you turn back to face him.
He’s standing just behind you, hands tucked into his front pockets.
“Thanks for dinner,” you say.
“Thanks for the whiskey,” he returns.
“Yeah, that— It was good.”
“It was,” he agrees, and you both know neither of you are talking solely about the whiskey.
“Night, John,” you say softly.
“Night, duck.”
You turn and let yourself in, the door swings shut behind you, and you stand in the dim of your own flat for a moment just… breathing. Just letting this electric air calm around you.
Your coat is still on his hook. You’ll get it tomorrow.
On the other side of your door, John doesn’t move immediately. He stands where he is and waits. Waiting for the click of your deadbolt to slide home.
But it doesn’t come.
He even waits another moment, just in case, gives you the benefit of the doubt, which he notes is more than past events warrant.
He exhales slowly through his nose, tips his head back briefly toward the ceiling, and turns back around.
Three steps, his hand finds your door handle, turns it, and the door swings open without resistance, which is exactly what he was afraid of.
You’re in the entryway still, back against the wall in thought. You turn your head to the side when the door opens, eyes going wide, lips parting with confusion.
He leans against the door frame, arms crossing slowly over his chest, looking at you with the hard expression of a man who is being very patient. His chin is tucked and his forehead creased three times over.
“I—”
“Second time,” he says over you. “Second time I’ve found that door unlocked.”
“I was literally ten seconds behind you—”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Nothing was going to—”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says again, the same way.
You look at him for a moment, shoes still in your hand, and he looks back, and you let out a breath through your nose that is not quite a sigh and not quite a laugh and is mostly a concession.
“Fine,” you say.
“Lock it,” he says. “Tonight and every night. Are we clear?”
“We’re clear,” you mutter.
He holds your gaze a beat longer like he’s making sure the message has actually taken root this time, and then he nods once and pushes off the door frame.
“Good night,” he says, pulling your door closed from the outside.
You stand there in your entryway listening. You can hear him waiting, the impatient shift of his weight against old floorboards.
You reach out and turn the deadbolt.
Then all that’s left to hear are his retreating footfalls heading back down the hall to his own door.
You stand there, fingers still on the lock, a smile pulling at the corners of your mouth.
After moving into your grandmothers old house and intending to continue studying after the summer is over, you meet an older gent who lives across the street and want to befriend him.
cw: slight violence, age gap, slow burn, awkwardness
Hi! I have a prompt for 141: Reader sending her husband spicy text messages while at a family gathering
This is only going to go one way: reader getting dicked down because they can't stop being a horny menace to their partners. I know the above says "husband" but I threw in a little cheeky boyfriend moment because why not.
For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE
Task Force 141 x Female Reader
Content & Warnings (mdni): sexting, oral sex, unprotected piv, creampie, dirty talk, family gathering/holiday, teasing, punishment, established relationship, risk of getting caught, breeding
Word Count: 2k
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
John Price
John is across the room, talking with your father.
They’re deep in conversation, your father speaking while John stares, silent and focused. Your father didn’t want you to marry military, thought the idea of John leaving you alone for long periods of time disrespectful. Whether their conversation is civil or not, it’s the perfect opportunity to mess with John.
Retrieving your phone, you open your messages. Glancing up at the two men, you smile, knowing that what you’re about to send will set John off.
I’m wet and horny. Can’t stop thinking about you fucking me on my childhood bed with everyone downstairs.
The messages become bubbles on the right-hand side of the screen. Locking your phone, you count the seconds, observing John as the messages come through. Your father turns away to say something to your cousin. In that moment, John pulls out his phone and glances at the screen.
You’re already up, already moving through the living room and toward the hall. Looking back to see if he’s following will ruin it. Either he’ll follow you or he won’t, but you’re betting on the former.
You take your time ascending the stairs. Everything about your movements is casual and unhurried. Rushing will only draw suspicion and questions. With the whole family in the house, you won’t be missed for a while. There are plenty of people here to bother each other.
At the top of the stairs, you head down the hall, stopping at the far door on the left. Without glancing back, you enter the room, shutting the door behind you, only to meet firm resistance. This is when you turn, finding your husband, his hand gripping the edge of the door. You release the handle, taking a step back as John forces himself inside, closing the door softly behind him.
“What are you up to?”
“Nothing,” you answer, shrugging.
John places his beer bottle on top of the dresser. Reaching for his belt, he undoes the front, never taking his eyes off you.
“That’s the bed,” says John, but it’s almost teasing, more of a “why are you not bent over already?” statement.
“It is,” you reply, hands behind your back, swaying.
John is on you seconds later. The man is so much stronger than you, and he uses it to his advantage. Spinning you around, he brings you flush against him, one arm braced over your front to hinder escape.
“Telling the truth? Or teasing?” he breathes into your ear.
“Can it not be both?” you counter, pressing your hand against the bulge in his pants, squeezing.
You bite back a yelp as you’re bent forward. Hands rising to brace yourself, they land on the bed, forehead pressed against the glittery duvet. Holding your hips, John shoves your dress up. It pools around your breasts, leaving most of you exposed.
“Be quiet, cabbage,” coos John, hooking a finger in your underwear, dragging it down to expose your pussy. “Don’t want daddy to hear.”
It’s the air, cool and biting against your arousal, and then you’re choking, fingers curling as John bottoms out. With one hand on the small of your back and the other supporting your pelvis, John’s hips move like a well-oiled piston. The stretch of him requires adjustment, but the lack of preparedness forces the ache higher.
The metal frame of the bed squeaks softly with his thrusts. John works fast, rough, his dick hitting deep.
You whimper and John fists your hair. “Said quiet,” he growls, and you promptly bite down on your knuckles.
Erratic and raw, you cling to the bed, taking John’s heavy hand, moaning around your fist as he explodes inside you.
“Don’t let your family see my cum sliding down your leg.”
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
You’re drooling, unable to peel your gaze away from your husband.
Kyle is crouched low, talking to his niece. She waves her hands excitedly as she talks, and Kyle hangs on every word. His parental nature is downright sexy, and though you’re resistant on having a kid, your ovaries are screaming at you, and when your ovaries are in control, you never make anything but horny decisions.
I want you to put a baby in me.
You send the text before you can think twice.
“Let’s sneak off.”
Kyle’s voice close and quiet. “Fucking Christ, you startled me.”
He taps your phone screen where the offending message glows back. “No one’s looking, bird. Plenty of places to hide here.”
“It’s nothing,” you shrug.
“Nothing?” he questions teasingly. “You asked for a baby.”
“Kyle—”
“Think of my cum dripping down your leg. And only we know about it.” He’s pressed in, a flirty twinkle in his eye. “Can make a break for it. Now. If that’s what you want.”
“Where, then?”
“Garage. Car.”
A minute later and you’re in the backseat of your father’s Jeep. The car isn’t locked and you didn’t turn the light on. If anyone opens the door, they’ll see nothing unless they step inside, the motion-activated overhead igniting when someone enters.
Sitting reverse in Kyle’s lap, you brace your hands on the center console, rocking your hips, his hands guiding and helpful.
“Love watching you take my cock. Fucking gorgeous.” Kyle groans. “Best fucking view.”
You’re doing most of the work, your thigh muscles aching from the position, but you’re sliding easily, arousal thick, perfectly coating Kyle’s cock.
“I’m gonna come,” you whimper.
Kyle is the only man who has ever given you an orgasm with penetration alone. He really is the perfect fit.
“Only when I fill your pussy, bird. Gotta stuff you first. Then you can. Promise.”
Kyle’s grip on your hips tightens, control slipping into his hands. You’re forced down and back up again in frequent, unrelenting succession.
“Kyle—I can’t. I—”
With a growl, Kyle thrusts up into you, holding you still as his cock pulses, emptying every drop. Fingers find your clit, circling, drawing forth the orgasm until your back bows and your head falls back, resting on his shoulder as you come undone.
Kyle is kissing your ear, kissing your neck, nipping at your throat as you come down.
“Don’t think I want to leave,” he murmurs.
“Your family—”
“I know.” He holds up your discarded thong. “But I’m taking these.”
John "Soap" MacTavish
Johnny’s phone pings.
Pings again.
You bite back a giggle, unwilling to blow your cover.
The MacTavish family is enormous, suppose that’s the way with Catholics. They don’t believe in birth control and with that comes armies of kids who have kids themselves. You’re surrounded, but you can still poke at your husband, especially with his family present.
Won’t be a better opportunity.
Johnny is smiling, laughing along with his siblings. You watch as he fishes his phone from his pocket, reads the screen, his smile fading, eyes widening. His head snaps up, scanning the room for you. When he spots you, the smile returns, but with it comes that look you know so well, the one where he’s up to no good.
A few strides and he’s butting into the conversation. “Excuse me. Need my wife. Only a moment.” He flashes his charm and everyone nods, waving the two of you off as he half-drags, half-leads you down the hall and into the nearby guestroom.
“What did you want to talk about?”
“You know what.” Johnny closes in, grasping, playfully tugging you closer. As you squirm, attempting to evade him, Johnny lunges, wrapping his arms around you, wildly humping your leg like a dog.
“Johnny!”
“Gonna show me how wet really are?” he breathes, his erection rubbing against your thigh. “Or was that a lie?”
Every shove on your attempt is feeble, not meant to fuel escape, but to play along.
Johnny pops the button on your jeans, sliding his hand in and down, cupping your sex, the tips of his fingers grazing your pussy.
“Show me,” he says, all playfulness gone. “Take it off.”
“No.”
Johnny has you face down, bent over the bed in seconds. Keeping one hand on the back of your neck to hold you in place, Johnny tugs at your jeans. They fall to your ankles, pooled at your feet. Johnny knees your legs wide, exposing you.
“There she is,” he coos, landing a soft slap to your pussy, the sound wet. “Could use a good fucking.”
He slides in one finger, then two, then three, stretching stretching stretching until your slickness is all over his fingers, preparing you to take his cock.
“Johnny,” you pant. “We can’t. Your family—”
His hold on the back of your neck tightens, silencing your next words. “Should of thought of that before telling me how badly you wanted me to fuck you.”
Fingers gone, they’re replaced with his cock. There is no sweetness to him, just rough thrusting that has you moaning into the bedding. It’s the only thing stifling your sounds. The rest is full of Johnny, of his grunts and groans, of the slick friction of your bodies meeting.
The orgasm rises, quick and sharp, ready to severe your head. You’re unable to do much except submit, clenching down on him as it bubbles forward.
A choked noise follows, and then you’re overfull, stuffed with Johnny’s cock and cum.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Awkward. Stiff.
It’s the only way you can describe Simon while he’s surrounded by a bunch of men he doesn’t know. Family gatherings often follow a routine with the men and women separated while the children run around the house. A stranger might mistake his silence for rapt attention, but you know all of Simon’s tells.
This function is growing boring anyway.
Time to save yourself—and him.
While a distant cousin rattles off about her last five pap smears and recent pregnancy, you tap away at your phone, sending Simon a quick message. Nothing fancy, just a blunt statement that’ll grab his attention.
I’m bored. Can I suck you off?
You draw your gaze to the men. Simon is looking down at his phone, his expression unreadable. The shift is subtle, just Simon’s eyes finding you, the rest of him a statue.
“I’ll be right back,” you murmur to your aunt.
She inclines her head in acknowledgement, but her attention remains on your cousin. Perfect. They’re all preoccupied and the children are hyped on sugar. No one will care that you’ve stepped away, or that Simon will disappear.
You take two steps into the upstairs bathroom before Simon is on you. Back pressed against the closed door, Simon grasps the sides of your face, drawing you into a kiss. It leaves you breathless, hands rising to rest against his chest as he devours.
“On your knees,” he growls, breaking it off, making quick work of his pants.
His cock is out and in your mouth seconds later. You nearly choke with how rough that first thrust is. Fisting the base, you stroke him in time with the bob of your head. Simon keeps one hand at the back of your head, the other on your shoulder, the pressure of both keeping you in place.
“Didn’t lock the door,” he says. “Someone might walk in. Your father, perhaps. Think he’d enjoy seeing his daughter on her knees?”
Simon is not your husband. He isn’t even your fiancé. The two of you are still in the dating period, serious, living together, but not moving forward. If your father walked in, or a brother, and found Simon fucking your mouth, they’d lose their shit.
Not that Simon couldn’t take them. Wouldn’t hurt them for your sake, but he’d stand his ground.
“Suck harder, love. Make this quick. Wouldn’t want dear old dad to find out.”
You obediently do as you’re told, taking more, allowing Simon to seize the lead. Tears form in your eyes as you gag. Simon remains steady and unrelenting, pace quickening as your cheeks and chin are painted with drool and tears.
“Almost there, love,” he grunts.
Simon’s head falls back, and then he’s holding you flush, lips touching your hand, muscles flexing as he comes down your throat.
Kinda Outta Luck - Chapter I - Lalo Salamanca x Reader
Tags: First meeting, age gap (reader is 18, Lalo is 44), light flirting, kinda slow burn, light papi kink lol
A/N: Hi everyone, this is chapter 1 of my first Lalo x reader fic! I hope you all enjoy and stay tuned for more <3 if you’d like to be tagged when I post future chapters or any other fics, you can let me know. Also I’m making reader 18 in this fic because I’m 18 and I don’t have experience being any older lmao but you can either ignore that or just go with it
⟡ ˙⋆ 🍒🌵🍒 ⋆˙⟡
It was a sweltering hot summer day in Albuquerque, New Mexico. The sky was blue, the dirt was red, and the sun was beating down relentlessly, causing heat waves to warp the long desert road that you were driving along in your cherry red 1972 Mercury Marquis.
You impatiently tapped your manicured fingers against the steering wheel, biting your lip as each white line on the road sped past you. You were nearly out of gasoline, you just needed to make it to the nearest service station, and you were almost in town, but-
“No no no- wait- come on-!” You groaned in frustration, just managing to pull onto the side of the road before your car sputtered to a complete halt. Empty.
You leaned back in your seat with a sigh, hands still gripping the steering wheel as you stared into space for a minute before getting out of the car. You looked around, seeing nothing but the boundless blue sky and the vast desert stretching out to the horizon. The lone road you were on was desolate, not a soul around to help, your only company was a single cactus that seemingly stared at you sympathetically.
You were kinda outta luck.
You huffed. Guess there was only one way out of this.
You grabbed your purse, locked your car, and began to walk towards town, your heels clicking with each step. You were only a few miles out, so you figured it shouldn’t take you that long.
But it was hot; the sun smouldering white hot up in the sky above you. You gratefully welcomed it whenever a cloud would float by, giving you a few moments of relief.
⟡ ˙⋆ 🍒🌵🍒 ⋆˙⟡
After walking a few miles, you had finally made it into town. It had taken a bit longer than you were anticipating, but you were relieved nonetheless.
Deciding that your car would have to wait because you were in desperate need of an ice cold drink, you pulled your red heart-shaped sunglasses down the bridge of your nose and looked around for a place to rest.
That’s when you spotted the bright yellow building. El Michoacáno. You shrugged, stepping into the parking lot. You had never heard of it, but it seemed like a cool little place. You enjoyed trying new things, and as long as they had ice and something to drink, you were sold. You pulled the door open, lively Spanish music filling the air as you strolled in.
There were only a few men seated in the restaurant, and their eyes all snapped to you, their conversations halting immediately upon your entrance. It felt like you were interrupting something. Did they rent the place out for a private party or something? You began walking up to the front counter, feeling their eyes following you.
But that’s when he saw you.
Lalo did a double take, nearly slicing his finger off as he chopped a tomato, peering through the window from the kitchen. He slowly stopped what he was doing, watching closely as you positioned your sunglasses on top of your head and looked around the place before making your way to the front counter. Lalo shamelessly looked you up and down; your high heeled sandals with your toenails painted cherry red, your long smooth legs, denim low-rise daisy duke shorts, the red crop top that you wore. And your face- you were cute as a button, a beautiful goddess, an angel.
Lalo had never seen a creature as gorgeous as you in his life. And he was rendered speechless, which had been an impossible feat before you decided to waltz into El Michoacáno. He was surprised at himself, but he supposed that there was a first time for everything.
Smoothing a hand through his greying hair and regaining his composure, Lalo quickly made his way out of the kitchen to behind the front counter.
“Hola, Cosita. How may I help you?” He grinned charmingly, leaning forward, his hands resting on the counter.
Everything seemed to stop as you laid your eyes on him. He was.. really good looking. Much other than you, old enough to be your father, but… it was undeniable, he was so handsome.
Lalo’s grin widened as he noticed your glossy lips parting as you stared at him.
You blushed, flicking your eyes away. “Um.. I’ll have a coca-cola. Do you have cherry coke? With extra maraschino cherries please?” You asked, biting your lip and looking up at the man through your thick lashes.
“Ah, sí, Ángel. We do.”
That damn smile of his combined with his intense gaze had you feeling flustered. But you decided to blame it on the heat. You had just walked a couple miles in the searing hot sun, after all.
The man studied you for a moment longer, his dark eyes flicking down to your lips before he met your gaze again. It was intimidating, but just before it got too overwhelming, he turned around. He grabbed a glass, filled it with ice, and cracked open a cold bottle of cherry coke, pouring it in. To finish it off, he popped in some maraschino cherries and a straw.
“Here you go, Cosita.”
“Thank you, Sir.” You looked down, unzipping your purse and softly smiling at the cute nicknames he’d called you in the two minutes that you’d been there.
“Ah ah ah. Consider it on the house. That is, if you would give me the pleasure of knowing your name?” He asked charmingly.
From behind you, you caught a quiet scoff from one of the other men in the restaurant that made you let out a soft giggle.
You told him your name, and he immediately took your delicate hand in his, placing a gentle kiss onto the back of it, causing your cheeks to flush.
“A beautiful name for a beautiful girl, no?”
“And what’s your name, mister?” You asked, looking the man in the eyes while you coyly sucked on your straw, quenching your thirst with the refreshingly ice cold sweet cherry fizz.
“Soy Lalo. Lalo Salamanca.” He declared proudly.
“Well it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Salamanca.” You smiled.
“Oh, por favor, Muñequita.. Mr. Salamanca is my father. You can call me bebé.” He winked at you flirtatiously, causing you to giggle.
“Well, Bebé, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” You replied with your own flirtatious little smirk, fishing a maraschino cherry out of your drink and biting into it without breaking eye contact.
“Oh, I can… definitely assure you.. the pleasure is… all mine.” Lalo insisted, voice low and eyes twinkling, his gaze darting down to your cherry-stained lips. He swallowed hard, watching you lick the juice from your lower lip.
Lalo united his apron, walking out from behind the counter. Placing a hand on the small of your back, he gently led you to one of the tables, chivalrously pulling out a chair for you and graciously encouraging you to sit.
You did, and he took the seat across from you.
“That’s Nacho.” He suddenly pointed to one of the men sitting in the restaurant. “That’s Domingo.” He pointed to another. “And those two are Marco and Leonel, mis primos!” Lalo finished, pointing to a pair of serious men in shiny, expensive looking suits.
“Oh, um, hello.” You waved, garnering a few awkward waves back.
“So what brings you to our humble family restaurante?” Lalo asked, returning your attention back to him.
You explained that your car had run out of fuel a few miles from town, and that you’d walked the rest of the way and decided to stop for a cold drink before making your way to the nearest gas station.
“¡No manches!” Lalo exclaimed in disbelief. “You walked miles?? In this heat?? Pobre Cosita!”
“Uh huh.” You nodded. “I guess after I cool off, I’ll walk to a service station, get a can of gas, and then walk back to my car with it and fill it up.”
“¿Qué? No no no. You will let Lalo take care of you, Princesa.” He stated, already having made up his mind. “I will drive you anywhere you need to go.”
You mulled it over for a moment. Your mother had always taught you not to go with strangers… but he did seem quite nice… Then you pictured having to walk all those miles carrying a heavy can of gasoline…
“Well, I guess if you insist. I wouldn’t want to be a bother.” You decided.
“Of course I insist, it’s no bother at all.” Lalo waved off your concerns.
“Thank you, Lalo.” You smiled genuinely.
While you sipped on your cherry coke, you and Lalo spoke, conversation coming easy as you got to know a little bit about each other. He told you funny stories, and- Dios mío- when you laughed, he swore he could see the rest of his life in your smile and in your eyes. What was this feeling? Could this actually be love at first sight?
Lalo was old, so of course he had dated before, but he was never into it. No one ever felt right, and he always ended relationships rather quickly. He surely had never felt like this before, and it was strange. But he sort of liked it.
He found that he really enjoyed making you laugh; in fact, he began priding himself on each cute giggle that he was able to pull from your lips by telling his stories, cracking jokes, or from poking fun at Nacho’s seriousness while you tried to hide shy, hushed laughter.
You finished the last of your soda pop, feeling refreshed, cooled off, and very relaxed thanks to Lalo’s friendliness.
“Ready to go?” He asked, standing up.
“Uh huh.” You nodded, following him to the door.
“Nachito!” Lalo called. “I will be back later, sí?”
The man- Nacho- nodded, and you could swear you detected a hint of relief on his face through his stoic yet somewhat tense composure.
Lalo held the door open for you, and before he led you outside into the parking lot, you waved goodbye to the other men, who were now beginning to resume their hushed conversations, pulling out a duffle bag from under one of the tables.
Lalo opened his car door for you so you could sit in the passenger seat.
“1970 Chevy Monte Carlo, nice.” You commented, earning a big smile from him.
“You know your cars, huh?”
You only shrugged coyly as he let out a chuckle and started the car.
“Were those your friends?” You enquired, looking over at the man while he drove.
“The twins are mi familia, cousins of mine. Nacho and Domingo are close friends of the family, practically family themselves. Especially Nachito, he’s a very close friend of the family. He does a lot of good work for us.” Lalo explained, glancing over at you.
“Do you all work at the restaurant?” You asked.
“Eh, sort of.” He shrugged. “You know how family businesses go, everyone kind of… works there.”
You nodded in understanding. “So… are you there all the time?”
Lalo’s eyes flicked over to you once more. “Often, yes. I just recently came to town. I’m from Chihuahua, back in México. But mi familia brought me in for the business side of things because I have a… good head for numbers.” He smirked playfully, tapping his head.
You smiled back at him; you were charmed by the way he spoke, the way he explained things. Your eyes locked with his momentarily as he pulled into the gas station parking lot. You couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but something about the man piqued your curiosity. You felt that there was more to him than just working at his family’s small restaurant.
And Lalo… Lalo was charmed by your innocence, your curiosity, your coy coquettishness. He found your youthfulness refreshing, and he enjoyed talking to you and describing aspects of his life to you. That is, of course, without revealing too much detail. He wouldn’t want to scare you away with the truth.
“Now. La gasolina.” His moustache accentuated his handsome smile.
The two of you got out of the car and headed into the convenience store, picking out a couple of red gas can and heading over to the cashier.
“We’re gonna get these and fill ‘em up on pump three.” Lalo stated, and the cashier rang up the price.
You reached in your purse, but Lalo gently grabbed your wrist, shaking his head.
“Lalo, you can’t- you’re already doing enough driving me all over the place. I’ve disrupted your whole day-”
“Cosita, please. You’ve disrupted nothing, it’s my pleasure.” Lalo insisted, not entertaining any of your protests. From the pocket of his fitted jeans, he pulled out his leather wallet, thick with an impressively large wad of cash. The man flipped through the bills, placing the money on the counter. “That should cover it, sí? Keep the change.”
Hm. Interesting, for someone who works at the humble family business. Maybe it was an off time, but from what you saw, there were no actual paying customers at El Michoacáno. But Lalo did say he had a good head for numbers. Or, perhaps, since he had just come to town from Mexico, he probably took some money out for living expenses. That must be it.
So the two of you strolled to the gas pump, where Lalo set the gas cans down and rolled up the sleeves of his patterned button-up shirt, revealing the tattoo wrapping around his forearm.
You bit your lip in thought, eyes fixed on the swirls that were inked into his skin. The tattoo made Lalo seem a little more… intimidating. Like there was a depth of danger to the man under that seemingly innocent surface. You couldn’t decide if you should be a bit frightened, or if something about it sparked a hint of excitement deep inside you… Whatever it was, it intrigued you.
But you decided to dispel your speculations, not wanting to judge a book by its cover. Lalo was a very kind and generous man who had helped you out a great deal. He seemed honest, hard-working, and family-oriented. He was a lifesaver, after all, because if he hadn’t been helping you out, you would have been trekking along that long desert road in your high heels, dehydrated and hauling those heavy canisters.
“You..” Lalo flashed you with that charming smile, “can hold onto these for me. Por favor?” He held out the caps of the fuel containers. You took them from him, your fingertips softly brushing his. You felt like a child, being tasked with something basically useless while your father did the real work. But you liked it. You liked how he seemed to take care of you, never expecting you to lift a manicured finger or worry your pretty little head about anything.
Your father had decided to abandon you and your mother when you were just shy of turning eleven years old, and he wasn’t much of a father when he was around. So while you didn’t have a daddy, you imagined that this is what it would feel like. And you liked it.
You watched as Lalo grabbed the fuel nozzle, filling up the cans one by one, a few strands of his salt and pepper hair falling in his face. He looked handsome like this, you thought, a playful little smirk tugging at the corners of your glossy lips as you quietly observed him.
Once he was finished, Lalo held his hand out, silently asking you for the caps. You handed them to him, one of the caps accidentally tumbling to the ground and rolling a few feet away.
“Whoops, sorry..” You mumbled, turning around and bending over to pick it up.
A naughty grin was playing on Lalo’s features as he watched you bend at the waist.
Que traviesa.
His eyes were shamelessly fixed on your form, his intense gaze sweeping over your long legs, your perfect ass in those little denim shorts. He licked his lips. Were you purposely putting on a little show for him, or were you just too innocent to realize how delicious you looked when you bent over like that? The not knowing excited Lalo. He was usually so in control of every situation, he always knew everything that was happening and exactly what everyone was thinking. But you were something new, something different, and it only made Lalo crave more.
“Here you go.” You handed over the cap, once again brushing your fingers against his. It seemed as though you both lingered there a little bit longer this time; the hot, heady New Mexico air nearly making you melt into one another for just a split second before you pulled away.
“Gracias, Ángel.” Lalo shook himself out of his thoughts. “And now, we’re gonna go get your car, sí?”
You nodded, biting your lip as you looked up at the man, noticing that he was standing close to you, closer than he had before. His deep eyes were twinkling with something unreadable, but it looked like attraction.
You felt naughty; you were taught that good girls bend at the knee and bad girls bend at the waist. You had always been a good girl- a complete angel- and yet here you were, bending over like that for a grown man who you had only just met.
Lalo got into the car after he opened and closed the door for you, putting the keys in the ignition.
But after a beat of silence, he turned to you, just looking at you. His stare burned holes in you like cigarettes, but you met his gaze, holding eye contact for as long as you could before you started to shift uncomfortably. It began to dawn on you that you were all alone with this man and at his mercy. A hint of fear crept into the back of your mind, but for some reason, it was met with a twinge of excitement that you knew you shouldn’t be feeling.
Lalo moved then, leaning in in in, so close that the tips of your noses were almost touching, his arm snaking around your waist. Your cheeks flushed at the intoxicatingly close proximity, not knowing what the man was going to do next. But then he suddenly grabbed the seatbelt, tugging it around your form.
“Put your seatbelt on.” He ordered.
A smirk bloomed on your face, mischief dancing in your eyes as you grabbed his wrist, stopping the hand that was holding the seatbelt. You leaned in ever closer, surprising Lalo as you, this young little thing, met his energy.
“Wanna know a secret?” You asked, your voice soft and quiet and girlish. Like you had something to confess.
Intrigued, the man nodded, wondering what dirty little secret you were about to spill. You moved closer, placing a delicate little hand on his shoulder, your lips close to his ear.
“I don’t like wearing my seatbelt.” You whispered, before pulling away entirely and giggling.
Lalo huffed out a laugh, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair. You little tease. He was impressed though; no one had ever matched him like that before. You didn’t cower to him like everyone else did; you seemed feisty, and he liked that.
“My car, my rules, Cosita.” He stated matter-of-factly with a shrug, his hand grazing your hip as he buckled your seatbelt anyway, turning his attention to the road.
You rolled your eyes. “Alright, Papi.”
Lalo’s eyes snapped to you once more, something dangerous glinting in the depths of his dark irises. But you only leaned back in your seat, smiling at him triumphantly.
“What?” You asked innocently.
You had won. Lalo couldn’t just tell you that he was turned on by you calling him Papi. You’d think he was a giant pervert. Because.. you weren’t trying to turn him on by saying it… were you?
“Nothing.” The man responded, his confident grin returning, stealing another glance at you before the two of you drove away.
⟡ ˙⋆ 🍒🌵🍒 ⋆˙⟡
“Just a couple miles down this road. It’s a red car, you can’t miss it.” You told him, cruising along with the windows down, the warm breeze tousling both you and Lalo’s hair.
Lalo’s eyes were on the road, your eyes were on Lalo. You were studying him, taking in his features when he wasn’t looking, but every couple seconds he would glance over at you, earning a little smile from you.
“Ah, I think this is it, Cosita.” He pointed to your car on the side of the road, slowing down, pulling off the road, and parking behind it.
“That’s it!” You chirped, relieved that your car was still there and no one had vandalized it in while you were gone.
“1972 Mercury Marquis. Nice.” Lalo grinned, ambling up to your vehicle after retrieving the fuel containers from the trunk of his car.
“You know your cars.” You responded with a smirk, echoing your earlier conversation.
Lalo only turned to you and winked, causing your cheeks to redden and butterflies to flutter in your stomach. You leaned against your car next to him, watching while he filled it up.
A quiet, almost melancholy air settled over the two of you. This was the end of your little adventure. You enjoyed spending time with this man, and you wished it didn’t have to end.
And, little did you know, Lalo was thinking the exact same thing.
“So.. are you at the restaurant, like, all the time?” You enquired casually, glancing surreptitiously at the man.
A warm smile bloomed on Lalo’s face. He was just about to ask if there was any way he could see you again.
“Yeah pretty often. Por qué, you wanna come in and see me again?” He teased, dropping the empty canisters onto the ground and dusting off his hands.
You scoffed. “No… it’s just that when I walked in, it smelled like something really good was cooking.” You shrugged, but the smile on your lips and the sparkle in your eyes betrayed your true intentions.
Lalo placed his hands on the car on either side of you, caging you in.
“Come Thursday. I’ll be there. I’ll fix you something.. especial.” He told you, his voice low, almost predatory, luring you in as he shifted closer to you, causing you to bite your lip.
“So you have a good head for numbers and for cooking?” You asked, glancing up at him playfully.
“Sí, Cosita, I am a man of many talents.” Lalo grinned. “So you gonna come on Thursday?” He pushed, a teasing glint in his eyes at the double meaning.
“I dunno mister, you gonna make me come on Thursday?” You challenged, catching him off guard and causing a huff of surprised laughter to erupt from the man.
You little devil. Once again, Lalo couldn’t tell if you were teasing him with an innuendo or if you were simply too innocent to understand what you were doing to him. Either way, it sparked arousal deep inside him, and he fought to contain it.
“I’ll be there Thursday.” You promised reassuringly, your naughty little smirk fading into a soft smile.
Satisfied, Lalo took a few moments to let his eyes wander up and down your form before taking a step back, allowing you to get into your car and start it up.
He let out a little sigh, almost wistful as he caught your gaze through your rearview mirror.
“Lalo?” You called out.
He perked up as he heard your pretty voice calling his name, making his way back over to you and resting his tattooed forearm along your window frame, leaning in.
“Sí?”
“Well.. thank you. Really. Without your help today, I… well, I would have been,” you shrugged. “kinda outta luck.”
“It was my pleasure to be of service to you.” He replied. It may have sounded like a flirtatious line, but Lalo truly meant it; you made him feel a way that he never had experienced before, and he wanted more.
His words made you smile. How sweet of him; a true gentleman.
After exchanging final goodbyes, he watched as you drove off, leaning against his own car while yours become a little red speck in the distance.
🂱 ⠀ ⠀ ── ⠀ ⠀ ＡＦＴＥＲ ＨＯＵＲＳ ⠀ ... ⠀ falling only for the night, so i throw two-thousand ones in the sky...
PAIRING: Javier Peña x Original Female Character [Written as Reader/“You”]
SUMMARY: Everything is glamorized in Las Vegas: money, bodies, violence, love. When your family stops funding your socialite scandals, you do what any heiress who’s lost everything does: take the pole working at a high-end strip club. That’s where you learn what happens After Hours when the city finally whispers its secrets. You capture the attention of Javier Peña, the newly promoted boss of the DEA’s Vegas branch, tasked with taking down criminal powerhouse The Ivory Saints. What follows is a volatile, addictive affair, dancing on the fault line between justice and corruption, desire and self-destruction, lust and power. No one truly knows who is using who.
RATING: E. Modern!AU. 18+. Explicit topics and other triggering matters will be explored in this body of work.
GENERAL TAGS: The reader is kind of an OC since she has a backstory/last name, no use of y/n, reader is a woman of color but everyone is encouraged to read, glamorization of a city that probably isn’t this exciting, sex work, agent/informant dynamic, smut, angst, violence, organized crime, drug/substance abuse, toxic relationships, unrequited love, hurt/no comfort, porn with plot, age gap (reader is in her late 20s/early 30s, Javier is in his late 40s), alternating povs, NO HAPPY ENDING. More specific tags will be listed per chapter.
DISCLAIMER: This story portrays sex work as valid labor and affirms the autonomy, skill, and agency of sex workers. At the same time, it does not ignore the very real dangers, exploitation, stigma, and systemic harm that many people in the industry face (often without protection or support). The glamor shown here is part of the fiction, not a denial of reality.
🂱 ⠀ ⠀ 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧.
part one: midnight cowboy
part two: headache
part three: use me
part four: worst girl in america
part five: after hours
interlude: what’s it like, to be liked?
part six: too late
part seven: until i bleed out
🂲 ⠀ ⠀ 𝗠𝗜𝗦𝗖𝗘𝗟𝗟𝗔𝗡𝗘𝗢𝗨𝗦.
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#after hours fic
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divider credit @/cursed-carmine
If you are involved in sex work and need support, confidential help is available:
National Human Trafficking Hotline (U.S.): 1-888-373-7888 or text 233733 (BEFREE)
988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline (U.S.): call or text 988 for emotional support, 24/7
SWOP (Sex Workers Outreach Project): local chapters offer advocacy and resources
RAINN (for sexual violence support): 1-800-656-HOPE (4673)
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summary — lalo’s temper is out of control after you unintentionally talk back
word count — 9.2k
warnings — 18 + MDNI, age gap (reader 24, lalo 44), gunplay, controlling/threatening behavior, unhinged responses, established relationship, ass play, vulgar, demeaning speech, hair pulling, rusty spanish (sorry), natural bodies with hair & curves, TOXIC
author's note — i have no excuses…i just hope this reaches the right type of people xoxo
part 1 | part 1.5 | part 2 coming soon
what did you expect to happen when giving lip to lalo salamanca? he already made it clear that you were disposable, useless, and only used your dumb little mouth to take his cock. you were a piece of arm candy, a sweet little treat only meant for him and him only. if lalo didn't care about you then you'd be buried in the desert, but lalo cared—to an extent. the extenuating circumstances of his care meant you weren't allowed to interrupt him, be mouthy, or interfere with his business dealings. that was simple enough, but unfortunately, you slipped up today after a very long spell of good behavior.
it was as hot as a day in hell, and you were lounging on a pool float, occasionally spooning water onto your stomach and chest. that little neon green string bikini didn't leave much to the imagination, but it didn't matter seeing as everyone was more interested in the drinks, music, and hired women. lalo knew how to throw a party, a little morale booster, to celebrate an increase in territory which in turn turned more profitable.
your drink in the pool cooler had floated too far away; the most difficult task was being unable to keep the miniature ice chest closer so you wouldn't have to go without your fix of the fruity seltzers lalo always kept stocked for you. imagine that you, the young, hot fiancè, have no other issues in the world other than your drink floating away and keeping lalo happy. what a hard life, being fed with a silver spoon by a don of the cartel.
the laziness was apparent when you slid off the raft and had to wade over to the fleeting cooler. you adjusted your rounded sunglasses on the bridge of your nose as you made your way across the length of the pool. you moved sluggishly, letting out an exaggerated sigh as you managed to capture the floating drink holder.
lalo was standing in the water, leaning over the edge of the pool to play his next hand of cards. he folded, tossing them to the center of the low fold-out table, a curse leaving his mouth. he ran a hand through his graying hair. the ends of his shirt were wet from resting in the pool water. the light pink shirt was unbuttoned, which left just enough of his chest uncovered to not be indecent, yet somehow more sexy because he looked so put together.
lalo had folded at the turn and was slightly perturbed that he wasn't able to have any luck as the cards were overturned. he couldn't continue to bluff when he knew vasquez, a short portly man sporting three thick golden chains, who was responsible for the product transportation routes definitely had good cards. he kept smirking around the rim of the red solo cup he used to spit out his chewing tobacco. lalo knew he could stay in through the river, but knew vasquez wouldn't fold ultimately leading to lalo's loss during the showdown.
another round began. all seven players had placed their initial bets to begin.
“amor⁽ˡᵒᵛᵉ⁾,” lalo called softly, using two of his fingers to gesture you over. “give me some luck,” he said looking at his new hand of cards once they were dealt. “solo un poco⁽ʲᵘˢᵗ ᵃ ˡᶦᵗᵗˡᵉ⁾,” he insisted, pointing to his cheek.
this hand didn't seem to be in lalo’s favor either seeing as the highest card he was dealt was a five of clubs and that was paired with a three of hearts.
you rolled your eyes though it went unnoticed because your sunglasses were shielding your eyes. you dragged the miniature ice chest with you, gliding it through the water behind you. lalo’s mustached face revealing a sly smirk as you planted a kiss onto his cheek. your drink was in your hand, ready to return to the drifting pool float.
“stay with me,” lalo had a firm hold on your hip as you tried to pull away. he hadn’t had enough of you just yet. your oiled and exposed skin was enough to celebrate especially after having basically nothing to work with as the flop was revealed.
you stood in front of him with his arms wrapped around you. he had his chin placed on your head so he could still focus on his poker match. you moved your ice chest to the pavement so there was no chance that you'd have to exert any extra effort to chase it down again.
lalo was studying the group silently while listening to you run the poker chips through your fingers. the thick discs clicked together softly as you put them in their proper color-coded stacks instead of loosely sorted in front of him in his section of the table.
his wide nose pressed into your cheek, dragging up to your temple and then right above your ear. his breathing was even as breathed in your scent of coconut sun cream, a spritz of a hibiscus perfume, and the salt water.
you were looking at his cards, knowing his hidden annoyance would probably grow if those community cards wouldn't become any better. he raised the bet by another five hundred dollars, forcing the next two men to fold before the turn was revealed. he was hoping his ability to bluff this round would ultimately result in the overall win.
it was interesting to see how little lalo valued money. he had more than he knew what to do with, spending wads of cash on casual poker matches was nothing in comparison to the stacks of money he and the other salamancas were sitting on top of. even the men sitting across from lalo, unrelated to him, had more cash than they knew what to do with.
you couldn't deny your carelessness as well; you had everything you wanted plus more all because of lalo. your swimwear might not have been designer, but the pareo you carelessly threw on the pool chair before getting in the saltwater was pucci, and so were the matching shoes. now the singular piece of wavy patterned coverage and vibrant sandals were discarded. the tortoiseshell printed glasses from neiman marcus that you bought with you into the resort-style pool brought your outfit of very few pieces to cost right over seventeen hundred dollars—now, that was simply pocket change. that was, of course, without mentioning the price of the princess-cut diamond engagement ring that lalo had hired some foreign jewelry expert to design.
so, yes, you were a good, little spoiled fiancè, dumbing yourself down just enough to please lalo, accept his every will, and stay the fuck out of his way to keep receiving the treatment he had promised you. he didn’t want to be alone—correction—he didn’t have to be alone, so why wouldn’t he pick someone pretty, yet still impressionable enough to control.
you dug into the cooler, taking your seltzer to your mouth. the cold sweat from the outside of the can dripped onto your chest. you swallowed the fizzy alcohol, a sickly sweet blend of trouble because it tasted more like candy rather than the tipsy blend of liquor it contained.
lalo’s nose was buried in your hair as you continued to drink. a stream of the cold canned seltzer beaded down your chest, splashing between your cleavage. a stray few droplets flecked onto the cement immediately being absorbed into the searing ground.
the fellow card players noticed you more than the ladies being paid who sat next to them. their wandering eyes finding you, becoming easily more relaxed on the cushions and beach towels they were sitting on.
“ten cuidado⁽ʷᵃᵗᶜʰ ʸᵒᵘʳˢᵉˡᶠ/ᵇᵉ ᶜᵃʳᵉᶠᵘˡ⁾,” lalo mumbled into your ear. his mustache grazed the lowest part of your helix, just above your ear lobe, brushing into contact with the three small rings. they were pierced one on top of the other.
you stiffened in his hold, setting down your drink next to his empty bottles of modelo. you looked at the stout bottles and cleared your throat. a flush had risen on your cheeks, embarrassed from the lingering gazes and drink mishap.
lalo couldn't blame anyone else for looking at you because even when working in his study he made you sit by him so he could watch you. it was like you existed to be stared at.
“i’ll be right back with another drink for you,” you offered, collecting the three empty bottles from his area of the table.
you didn’t give him a chance to deny it. you parted ways from him. his arms were bowed out wide as if you were still standing in front of him as you left. he was still lingering on the fact that your body was against him only moments prior.
you held the scolding railing as you dragged yourself out of the pool heading to the outdoor bar. you passed the caterers who had overtaken the patio area and helped yourself to the fridge pulling out a fresh bottle of unopened modelo.
“helping yourself today, chica⁽ᵍᶦʳˡ⁾?” ignacio “nacho” varga, a frequent goer of lalo’s social events questioned from his stool. he wanted no part in another poker game after lalo’s pestering from the first round. he tried his best to be a good sport but was finding it hard to focus with a gnat in his ear. a gnat he would never be able to shoo.
ignacio was under the covered patio, leaning against one hand. although he was in a shaded area, he could still feel the sun on his bare back, beads of sweat were on his forehead even with the ceiling fans circulating the area. his glass was dripping from the condensation occasionally making him wipe the droplets on his paisley-patterned swim trunks.
“no, helping mi bebé⁽ᵐʸ ᵇᵃᵇʸ⁾,” you corrected nacho while wiggling the beer bottle.
ignacio wasn’t surprised by that answer. no one at that party would've been surprised by that answer. you were devoted to lalo, and he liked it that way. he wouldn't put up with anything less.
“you don’t seem like you’re having any fun.”
your head peaked up at nacho’s assessment of your attitude. you were plucking olives out of a chilled dish and taking a handful of them.
“cards never were my strong suit,” you shrugged, placing a salty snack into your mouth. your left eye slightly twitched, moments prior you were dropping sugary onto your taste buds and now the olives were counteracting every taste of saccharine.
“they aren’t mine either, but definitely not when i’m taking lalo in large doses,” he teased, taking a long drink from his short glass. by this point in the day, he probably made himself an ungodly amount of mixed drinks, trying to look busy enough to not join the other men for poker again.
“what?” you asked, your eyebrows furrowing together. you were trying to figure out if you heard him correctly. he didn't bash lalo, but he definitely made a comment opposing him.
“i never was good at figuring him out,” nacho leaned against his hand, sliding his half-empty drink forward as if he was telling himself to give up on his solo drinking. “i don’t know how you do it every day.”
he wasn't being condescending or rude. he genuinely was questioning how you did it, hell, a lot of people did. you always were properly dolled up any time you made an appearance with lalo, kept your mouth shut, and seemed like a hired servant doing whatever he mentioned.
you shrugged as you slid the cover of the ice well closed on the counter. it concealed the olives, cut citrus, and other garnishes that needed to be chilled. you could feel beads of water still occasionally running down your legs from your soaked bathing suit.
you could hear laughter coming from the poker table, specifically lalo’s. you didn't know if he was the most distinct or if you were just more accustomed to hearing it.
“i never figured him out either,” you confessed, your eyes trailing up to make eye contact with him. a smile cracked at the corner of your mouth.
nacho chuckled, taking his drink back into his hand. he could drink to that. “so, the senorita does have a mind?”
“i never claimed i didn’t,” you said looking back at the card players. your fiancé’s voice had only grown louder. he seemed to be in better spirits, maybe his luck had finally turned around even with a poor starting hand, or even if it hadn't lalo had chosen to hide his annoyance.
soon your conversation turned to wedding planning and all the endless dates, fittings, and projects you were busy with. lalo’s beer was growing a little warmer and the olives in your hand soon diminished.
at the table, the card players were taking sips of their drinks as they bantered. lalo was occasionally glancing at you and ignacio. this wasn't the first, nor would it be the last time ignacio would visit lalo’s mansion. he took notice of your body language, watching as you casually leaned in as you spoke, the way your fingers gripped the drink you should've brought back to him by now, and the way you stood with one hip slightly higher than the other.
“amor,” lalo called halting your conversation with ignacio. “coming back?” he questioned, peeking his head over to you.
you held your finger up to lalo as if a normal person had interrupted you and you needed to excuse yourself. this was no normal person; it was eduardo salamanca.
“it’s scheduled for valentine’s day next year,” you reminded nacho.
“yeah, that's right, lovebirds,” he joked, remembering the bright-colored sketches of the lovebirds on the save-the-date invitation he had received by mail. that intricate and vivid envelope stamped with a lime green seal was now sitting in a pile of odd junk mail next to his whores’ cutting tray.
“amor,” lalo called again, throwing his arms up curiously. he was trying to act casually as if he wasn't feeling pestered by being ignored. you normally would have responded immediately, and yet your eyes were still on the shirtless ignacio attempting to wrap up your conversation.
you gestured lazily back to the card table. “i better get back, but you're welcome to—” you were cut off when you were inviting nacho back to the group.
“amor,” lalo repeated for what he hoped to be the final time, wading through the water closer to the side of the pool near the bar. he knew you could hear him, yet you were trying to be polite to nacho by finishing your conversation.
“give me just a moment, please,” you requested, looking over at lalo directly. you didn't even notice why you shouldn't have said that until it was too late. you were already forcing him to wait, and now, even in your nicest tone, you were not making him your good priority.
“like i said, you're more than welcome to join us again,” you turned back to ignacio as you spoke. he was about to take your offer, standing and refilling his glass with the bottle he had beside him.
lalo was now out of the pool, his arm snugly around your waist. you could feel wet swim trunks pushing against the back of you. he took you into his arms again. he didn't take the offering of his drink. his thumbs were hooked into the band of your bikini again slightly exposing your tan line as he secured his fingers.
“nachito, you keeping my lady to yourself now?” lalo had that iconic smile on his face. anyone who met him would remember it. the one that made his cheeks and mustache lift. the smile that brought out the wrinkles in his eyes. the one you thought loosened his hardened nature. you could feel the lightness in his voice as he spoke.
“she was talking about your wedding,” nacho said as a smirk began to play on the corner of his mouth. “i don't think i could keep up with her like you do.”
ignacio knew how to play. no one had lalo completely figured out, and just as nacho had previously stated, he didn't have lalo figured out, but knowing how to play his game was the way to stay preserved in lalo’s vicious circle.
“i think i’m getting too old because i went with her to the bakery to test the cake and i was winded on the way back to the car,” lalo chuckled. you tried to adjust your stance although your fiancè wasn't allowing you to move. that slight uncomfortably was enough to silence your giggle and feel smaller than you were.
“oh no, you're still kicking it,” nacho brushed off lalo’s comment casually, his eyes glancing back to you. “i don't expect some cake to get in your way.”
“i don't know, some of it might,” lalo teased, moving one of his hands to firmly grasp your ass, giving it a shake.
“if it gets in the way, make her hold it,” nacho jested, though you weren’t unamused.
that was how it always went. everyone wanted to appease lalo even if the joke was at your expense. so, the pleasant conversation you had with ignacio had turned into a bawdy attempt to humor lalo.
lalo took his hand off of your ass extending it to ignacio which he graciously shook.
“i knew i liked you, nachito,” lalo praised, now pointing his finger toward the shorter male. “she’s sure got a lot of it, huh?” he asked, nudging you forward.
ignacio shrugged, holding his hands up in defense. “too much woman for me,” he admitted, giving you a gentle glance. his eyes said enough. he was apologizing without having to say anything. “but the perfect amount for you.”
“don't be modest, nachito, give her a feel,” lalo said, pushing you even closer to ignacio. “i don’t think you're giving yourself enough credit,” he insisted. his arms were crossed over his chest as he watched ignacio.
lalo’s mind games were just a little too intense sometimes. lalo wasn't jealous of ignacio he was jealous of the attention you had given him. he didn't care that ignacio was a muscle pig or closer to your age. lalo had something ignacio didn't—the ability to ignite fear in you. he was able to make you uncomfortable, yet intoxicatingly in love with him in one fell swoop.
“lalo, no, she's your business, not mine,” nacho’s hands were resting by his side, hoping lalo’s prodding would end quickly. that gnat sure did know how to soar high.
they were talking about you like you weren't there. your head looked back to lalo. an uncomfortable pout across your face was met by your fiance’s hand patting your cheek.
“oh, you're telling me this little face is too much for you?” lalo gripped your cheeks turning your head back towards nacho, slightly distorting your face as he turned you back.
“too much and also not mine to try,” he stood firmly on his words.
the moment lalo loosened his fingers you spoke. “bebé, i’m going to see if anyone else needs anything,” you had to pause their conversation for the sake of your own sanity.
“i hired caterers to do that, not for you to serve them hot cervezas y coño⁽ᵇᵉᵉʳˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵖᵘˢˢʸ⁾,” lalo chuckled, placing a kiss on your temple. you looked down at the modelo bottle in your hand with a huff.
“i tried to give it to you while it was cold,” you pushed your sunglasses onto your head. it was clear that the sun had been brutal because even with the application of sun cream there was red resting atop your tanned cheeks. the bridge of your nose had two faint lines etched into it from your glasses.
“did you now?” lalo asked, taking the golden beer bottle from your hand, and holding the neck of the bottle. his thumbs worked to push the shiny foil down and bent the cap back against the side of the patio bar, leaving a permanent scuff in the wood.
he took a quiet drink, his eyes closing, and his adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.
“amor,” lalo paused, scooting the bottle onto the bar. he cleared his throat, taking his sweet time with it.
ignacio had been awkwardly standing there, unsure of what to say or do. his employer’s comments about you had gone from joking to seriously uncomfortable. lalo’s possessiveness over you was nothing new, but unfortunately ignacio, just like you, had become a victim in his new game today.
“this is the worst fuckin’ beer i’ve ever had,” lalo’s face dropped, making your eyes instantly wide. his smile lines were no longer smiling, sitting unhappily at the corners of his mouth. his eyebrows were slightly furrowed.
you pulled your arms to your chest, your lips parting to speak. “i tried to give it to you ten minutes ago when you came to join us,” you shook your head, eyeing the opened bottle on the counter. “that one was colder than the stuff you were sipping on,” you retorted without thinking. “and you've had three of those all of which sat in the sun longer than this one has even been out of the fridge.”
ignacio’s hand raised to try and interject the conversation but was met with lalo’s laughter.
lalo patted the bar stool as he guided you over to sit. his head dipped to lean against your forehead, still chuckling away. you cautiously sat, trying to laugh along with him although finding it hard to see the humor in his joke. nacho was doing the same uncomfortable chortle. lalo really knew how to command a group of people.
“just fuckin’ with you, amorcito,” he smiled, kissing both of your cheeks as he held your face.
lalo placed a drawn-out, over-the-top, lengthy kiss onto your lips. a kiss that no one in their right mind would ever want to be a victim of watching—tongue and all, as lalo tilted your head back, letting his hands wander. ignacio was biting the inside of his cheek so he wouldn't cringe. his eyes darted away multiple times wondering when it would be over. his fingers drummed against his leg and his toes were slightly curled. it was hard to watch. very hard to watch.
lalo pulled away like it was nothing while you sat there a bit stunned and puffy-lipped. your fiancè had gone from perturbed to comical to sultry on a whim. that was probably the most unsettling part about him.
“up for another round of cards?” he questioned nacho, lightly pinching the bit of fat on your side where his tattooed name sat on you. the cursive letters being prodded by his fingers made your mind snap together. that’s when you realized you had fucked up.
you didn't know if it was because the summer heat was unprecedentedly hot, or maybe because you had accidentally skipped lunch, or even if it was because you had one too many seltzers, but when the realization hit that you had ignored him just a few moments prior and now you had sassed him.
anytime he corrected you, even slightly, made your stomach churn. lalo was a man of many faces, but the one he chose when reprimanding you was one you disliked. pinching your side looked affectionate but it was always his sign of saying ‘watch yourself.’
“uh, yeah, another round sounds great,” ignacio had wasted no time beginning his trek back to the table after that mind fuck.
“amor, why don't you go and freshen up then help yolanda with her pozole?” he suggested to you with a gentle smile. another code for ‘get in the fuckin’ bedroom and don't come out.’
the walk back to the bedroom was embarrassing. maybe not for anyone else, but for you it definitely was. your throat was tight and your shoulders were tense.
lalo was calculated and smart, but when it came to you he became stupid and irrational. what man didn’t change when a woman had him wrapped around her finger? although his irrational tendencies with you wouldn't start until the last guest from the party left.
you went from pacing to sitting, knowing it wouldn't do you any good to keep worrying. no matter how much pleading and begging you would do it wouldn't be enough. lalo had made up his mind from the moment the words left your mouth.
you hadn't changed out of the damp swimsuit or even taken your sunglasses off. the most you had done was slide your sandals off, and that was at the front of the house only because you didn't want to be reprimanded again for having yolanda, the housekeeper, doing any extra work.
lalo swung open the door to the bedroom, grabbed his gun off the dresser. your eyes widened, scooching back on the bed. he maneuvered the slide back, efficiently racking the black pistol back and loading a bullet into the chamber. your breath halted, wondering if today was the day that lalo was finally fed up with you, wondering if this would officially be the last moments you spent with him.
he hadn't forgotten a single thing in the two hours he left you to sit and dwell on your actions. he had time to stew and fester. if anything his anger was stronger.
“get up,” he demanded.
however, it wasn't fast enough for his liking because soon he was dragging you by the shoulder and forcing you to the wall.
you shut your eyes as his movement became rougher, the barrel of the gun pressed against your lower back as he guided your legs and feet apart with his armed hand.
his wrist prodded your inner thighs, forcing you to spread further apart. you tried to steady yourself against the wall as you moved your legs apart but were tripped by his brutal enforcement. his unspoken demands were filled with fury just as his spoken ones were.
you were eying him, trying to look over your shoulder. you wanted to read his face. you needed to know if there was more to him than just anger. you wanted to know if your sweet little eyes could give you a glimmer of hope to calm him down.
those sweet little eyes were the same eyes you used when you begged for him on a nightly basis. he was overlooking them—dumb and routine, the same bullshit you always pulled to get your way. not now, he wouldn’t pay any attention to them now.
you hadn’t seen him this way in a while; you hadn’t caused him to be this way in a while. business dealings that went awry, skeevy rats trying to take down the salamancas, lost product, all of that was different, but you, his pretty little toy, had done it. you knew what happened to the others who had interfered, so why wouldn’t you be any different?
that ounce of care—well, mindful attentiveness—that lalo had for you was disregarded at this moment. he didn’t care who you were. he didn’t care about the five years he had spent with you. all of those little times he had remembered letting his guard down around you while you stroked the curled hair on his chest were squandered.
his eyebrows were furrowed together and his forehead wrinkles were prominent. he seemed determined and fueled by his unhinged distrust in you. losing thousands of dollars in a poker game prodded at his agitation, chatting casually with a man he had introduced you to countless times before was enough to irritate him, ignoring him when he spoke provoked him, but you talking back caused him to lose control.
that gun was shoved between your thighs as he held your head against the wall. his slender fingers were laced haphazardly in your hair, gripping at anything he could. he didn’t care about your flinching or attempting to push yourself away from the wall. it was a feeble attempt anyway; lalo had more control over you than you liked in this moment.
“what were you thinking, huh?” his voice lowered, though previously the grip lalo had on your hair only tightened, smushing your cheek further into the rust-colored wall of the bedroom.
“i was—” the barrel of the gun slid across the thin covering of your bikini making your legs tremble. you immediately stopped speaking. how could you speak when lalo was inching his semi-automatic pistol to your entrance? the neon fabric pressed into your hole concealing the cold muzzle.
“no, you weren't thinking,” lalo spat. you recoiled as his be took his hand out of your hair and flicked your temple. “you didn't think at all before you kept talking,” he repeated harshly this time, a bit of spit leaving his mouth from his sharp tongue.
“lalo—” you pleased softly, teary-eyed from being so roughly slammed against the bedroom wall.
“and you still don't know how to shut the hell up,” he ranted, tugging at the knots to the elastic straps on your waist. the bikini bottoms fell. lalo shook them off the barrel of the gun. the front sight was back at your entrance.
“you think it’s cute to do that in front of ignacio?” he asked, tapping the gun against your hole. his other hand was untying the two straps to the bikini top. your breasts fell. the little support they did have in that skimpy top was at least saving some of your modesty.
you didn't say a single word, how could you when he was uncontrollably angry about you speaking?
“i said, do you think it is cute to do that in front of ignacio?” lalo repeated his words slower. his words were condescending.
“i-i don't k—”
he huffed, rolling his eyes. he flicked your temple again. his gun was caressing your inner thighs, prodding slowly at your entrance. he wanted you to be prepared to take it. he couldn't waste you before he fucked it one more time.
“such a dumb little thing, it’s a yes or no question, so use that brain between those empty little eyes and answer me.”
“no,” you mumbled, closing your eyes tightly as if you were waiting on the trigger pull as you felt the gun lift from your lower half.
“so, why the fuck are you talking to me like that?” his hand wrapped around your upper arm, pulling you to face him. he was overlooking your body. the hand he used to adjust your positioning was now holding your face.
“i didn't—”
“oh, you didn't mean to?” lalo interrupted, completing your sentence for you.
you were looking up at him, silently pleading again. looking through your eyelashes at him, your lower lip trembling. you were trying not to break down completely, knowing your tears most definitely wouldn't help.
“didn't mean to,” he repeated with a scoff. he removed his hand from your chin harshly, making your head flick to the side. you faced him again, the guilty expression on your face still evident. you were like a dog with its tail between its legs.
“you didn't mean to,” lalo tsked, having to hear the words come out of his mouth again. “of course you didn't mean to,” lalo was nodding slowly. he adjusted the pistol in his hand, feeling the textured handle. he held it out to you. he had a steady grip on it flipping his hand from one side to the other to present the gun to you.
“amor, what’s in my hand?” he asked, clenching the grip panel and the front strap.
“your gun,” you responded, swallowing hard as he lifted it to your forehead, placing it right between your eyes. you closed your eyes tightly, feeling him push your head back against the wall with the muzzle.
“mhm,” lalo agreed, satisfied with your answer. “look at me when i’m talking to you,” he reminded you. you opened your eyes hesitantly, looking straight ahead. your vision was unfocused due to his hand and pistol blocking most of your view.
“now, do you think i should pull this trigger?” he questioned, prodding your forehead again. a soft thud was heard from the back of your head clicking against the wall.
“no, lalo,” you breathed out. that’s when the tears started to fall. the sniffling came with it.
“don’t start,” lalo groaned, taking his free hand and wiping under each of your eyes as you tried to calm yourself. you tried to stand straight, having to catch yourself as you slouched.
you felt defeated, belittled, and downright humiliated, standing naked in the bedroom you and your fiancè shared knowing your family would be none the wiser if you were alive or dead after this day, not like they had any idea as of now.
“why shouldn't i pull it?” lalo asked, his thumb caressing the grip plate. “and before you answer, make it worth my time, not just because you ‘don't want to die.’” he said mockingly, rolling his eyes. he was already sick of the sniveling.
you took a deep breath, biting your bottom lip trying to collect your thoughts. what would make lalo salamanca have sympathy?
nothing. nothing at all.
you were uneasy trying to find even the smallest amount of something in the brain that lalo always deemed was empty.
“because i live for you,” you mumbled, exhaling as you felt a bit of pressure being taken off your forehead. he lifted your chin with the barrel of his gun, looking you directly in the eyes. the tears started again, though your sniffling was contained by your body occasionally doing small jerks so you wouldn't outwardly cry.
you weren't completely wrong. you did live for him—well, because of him anyway. he had spared your life, taken you in, and trained you accordingly. you were going to get married to him because he asked you to do it. you had everything because of him.
lalo made a soft fawning noise, wiping your tears again. “you came up with that all by yourself, amor? maybe there is some potential still left in that hollow little head.”
he leaned his forehead down, placing it on yours, closing his eyes. “now, tell me now how stupid you think i am to believe it,” he gave a smug smile, placing a gentle kiss on your lips. a quick peck that only lasted a second but that left a lingering flutter between the both of you.
you never understood how he could go from making you terrified to wanting him. he had you wrapped around his finger and able to control your every whim.
useless, mortified, deflated—no matter what bad lalo brought upon you he always managed to easily weasel his way into what he wanted, and in this moment he wanted you.
“i don't think you’re stupid.”
“see, if you could've been this well-behaved earlier i wouldn't have to be so rough with you, amor, but you can't ever just make things easy for me.” lalo lectured. he pulled the gun away from your chin, letting it fall. he tapped the barrel against his lips, the muzzle brushing against his mustache. “now, get on your knees like you do for me.”
you cautiously got down. execution-style seemed a little excessive for talking out of place, but lalo had his cynical methods. your hands quivered in your lap as his thumb guided your mouth open.
instinctively your mouth fell into position, nice and slack, as lalo’s amusement only grew larger. in a demented little way, he liked how fearful you were. he liked the way the anticipation was causing faint perspiration to lay across your neck and forehead.
he placed the tip of the gun into your mouth. a wincing could be seen in your eyes as he brought the barrel further into your mouth, not that you couldn't take it, but he was testing you seeing if you'd move from the position he had requested. you wanted to move your head as your entire body started to rattle again.
he patted your cheek with his free hand signifying you to close your mouth. you had been in this position many times before, though instead of sucking the head of a gun you were wrapped around the head of his cock.
the metallic taste of the heckler and koch was enough to make you gag on the spot. lalo didn't care, nor did he stop until your bottom lip was pressing into the trigger guard. his index finger was stroking the trigger.
“not wanting to say anything now?” he jabbed the gun further, though his index finger now laid to the side of the trigger. it made you flinch, thinking even with his hand pulled away from the trigger it would cause the bullet to come speeding through the chamber. you slouched slightly, earning a sharp nudge with his foot, correcting your unsuitable posture.
you couldn't say anything, not that you wanted to, knowing it would result in a swift slap or even worse him actually pulling that trigger. you knew you couldn't test his patience anymore because the game he was playing was only for his benefit, not to give you more time to live.
he started slowly working the barrel in your mouth, as I'd trying to find the right fit as he repeated his repetitive in and out motion. this free hand was now stabilizing your head, gripping the mess he had made with it earlier.
it was nowhere near as satisfying as the fit of his thick girth in your mouth, but even he couldn't deny that he had created an image that would haunt his brain—shit, it would rewire it for the better. his slack-mouthed bitch taking his gun so well. making the steel so slick and pretty, somehow even better than he ever did when cleaning it.
“take it, amor,” lalo berated, as he became rougher with his movements. the clunky metal entering further, the trigger guard forcefully spurring into your bottom lip, the only cushion and protection for your bottom teeth. a soft whimper was escaping your lips and his hand was forcing more of a connection of your mouth to the gun. “fucking take it while you can.”
he was fucking your mouth good, the kind that made the saliva pool into your lap and run into the cracks of your neatly placed, but quivering hands.
his cock in his pants slightly twitching as he watched with interest, letting your mouth satisfy that odd urge inside of himself. you noticed it too, his well-endowed member increasingly becoming more excited as you were only more dehumanized by his words.
“see, this is what you're meant for, listening,” he huffed, trying to reiterate the fact that other than being his little toy you were useless. his began to get overzealous with his armed carry, knocking the front sight against the bottom of your top teeth. you tried to extend your jaw more without parting your lips, but the raised sight kept scraping the bottom.
“listening and not showing your ass out in front of the men that work for me,” lalo added, shoving the pistol harder. your eyes closed for a brief second as you winced from the sight chipping the slightest bit out of your top tooth. you could feel the tiny white fragment floating in your mouth. lalo felt part of your tooth give way, taking his firearm out of your mouth.
“let’s see what i broke this time,” the annoyance was evident in his tone as you looked up at him further so he could inspect your tooth. he wasn't checking because he cared, mostly because he wanted to see the damage he inflicted.
he unlaced his hold from your hair, tugging it as he tried to flick the few loose strands from it. his thumb felt the top portion of your teeth. it was barely noticeable, though enough for lalo to find and inspect the fragment he pulled out of your mouth. he then caressed the forming bruise right below your bottom lip from the trigger guard being rammed into your face.
he rolled his eyes, flicking the chipped portion of your tooth away, a small click signifying it had hit the hardwood somewhere else in the room.
“get on the fuckin’ bed ass up, so i don't have to see that shit.”
lalo wasted no time getting behind your naked body. his gun placed on the duet as two of his slender fingers buried themselves in your slick arousal.
“and you see that?” he pulled his fingers out harshly, holding them in front of your face. “about to blow your fuckin’ head off and you get goddamn wet.”
he was taunting you still, and yet you had no excuse for your overly stimulated cunt producing ungodly amounts of wetness. he was right. he was always right. the sheer dominance alone was only partially the reason behind your body’s reaction to him.
he tugged down his swim trunks, letting them grace his ankles. you were glancing over your shoulder seeing very little at the angle you were in. you wanted to, like the little whore for lalo you were, you wanted to see what you were pleasuring. you had an imprinted metal image of his large veiny cock, but you would be lying if you weren't excited to see it every time he dropped his pants.
he let out a low whistle as he gathered more of your wet slick onto his fingers and began to slowly jack off his length. you were trying to turn your head, feeling a painful ache in your neck as you craned too far back.
he knew working his own hand up and down his shaft was killing you. god, he had just let your mouth get fucked by his pistol rather than the deadly snake in his pants.
his pinky and ring finger were guiding the majority of his length as his thumb stroked his tip. your wetness was aiding him, but he could tell you were becoming restless. your knees were padding into the bed and your fingers were fidgeting with the duvet.
every time he went back for more of your sweet wetness you were trying to push back on his fingers trying to entice him into leaving them for a moment longer.
you could feel the handgun nudging your knee as it slid closer each time the bed even slightly rattled from movement. that was a quick reminder that you still weren't safe, but somehow, without lalo immediately sticking his dick in you was more torturous than having a gun to your head.
“you can't expect me to want to fuck you after you didn't listen,” he scoffed, nudging you forward keeping your hips in line with your knees. your head dropped down, your nose nuzzling into the sheets.
“you aren't worth a nut if you have some piss-poor attitude attached to you,” he stuck his fingers inside of you again, curling them ever so slightly this time. a soft moan left your lips.
he placed his hand back on his solid cock, working the arousal up and down. “but you don't care. you know i give you whatever the hell you want,” he ranted, placing his free hand on your ass to spread your cheeks further apart for a better view of your slick cunt.
“that’s why i have to act like such an asshole right now because you started expecting things without asking for them.”
his fingers were soon back inside of you as he rambled. “i’m fed up with you treating me like i owe you something.” lalo moved closer you could feel his knuckles begin to graze your skin as he worked your arousal around his cock.
his words were loaded and ridiculous, but you couldn't help but utter the smallest apology. his head slightly tilted as he heard it, stopping the jerking of his hand and pulling your hips even closer. you could feel his shaft against your backside.
“dear fucking god, that’s worse than you crying, amor,” he complained, prodding his dick forward against your wet hole. “some shitty little apology?” he exhaled. “i’m gonna have to use all your little holes to make up for this.”
you were gnawing lightly on the interior of your cheek in anticipation. he was giving in to what you wanted even if that meant giving a little extra.
he ran his clean hand through his salt and peppered hair, dragging it down his chest, and positioning his cock right at your entrance, giving not an ounce of mercy as he pushed his girthy cock into your desperate cunt.
“oh—” you couldn't fully formulate the rest of the words you wanted to say. your breath halted as your muffled gasp hit the duvet.
that tight grip you had on him was enough for him to understand why he kept you around for so long. your pussy was flawless to him; it was the one thing he never had to correct—the one thing he never wanted to correct.
he had one knee propped up guiding you back slightly so his entire length would be sheathed in that gorgeous cunt of yours. his hand had released from spreading your ass and instead guiding your stomach back pinching the soft pudge as he adjusted to the warm hold you were providing him with.
your manicured nails dug into the bed, as he began driving his cock into you. you couldn't understand why it was so satisfying, having him take complete and utter control over your body. he easily made you fall apart with the pleasure he delivered.
lalo’s mouth was slightly agape as he watched the jiggle your ass as he rammed into you. even though he was always reluctant to admit it he was wrapped around your finger and that was mostly due to the sweet pussy you brought into the relationship.
“hold that ass for me,” he demanded, adjusting the positioning of your hips as your hands became situated, around your ass cheeks.
you moved your neck uncomfortably, having to dig your shoulders further into the bed in an attempt to keep yourself in a stable position without falling.
the way you opened up for him was divine. full spread, displaying your holes, one clutching his length as he continued to thrust into you. your ass hole twitched as he kept fucking you.
your face was almost fully buried, smelling the breath from your fruity seltzers being recycled to your nose alongside the gentle cotton-scented washing detergent from the bedding.
he was stretching you just right, just how you needed. the urge of sexual desire was so strong that he forced you to wait as he played with himself.
your erect nipples were being stimulated as his rough thrusts moved your body against the bed. your hands were desperately trying to keep to their instructed place so lalo could watch himself inside of you.
you were enjoying yourself a little more than you should've been, even lalo didn't mind. those sweet whiny moans meant he was fucking you the right way—his preferred way.
the gun that was lingering to the side of your leg was not only pressing onto you but on lalo. he was looking at the black steel, an idea surfacing—or adding to the idea he already had.
lalo slowed his rough movements, leaning his head down, a heap of spit landing on your back door. he made quick work with his thumb, plunging it into the clenched sphincter. this wasn't the first time lalo had decided to use all of your body, but dear god, each time he did you needed to refocus because it always took you by surprise even if he announced his arrival.
a rigid pant left your body, glancing back at him picking up the gun was enough to incite another panic as he lazily fingered your ass with his opposable digit. he was focused and determined to make his pistol fit. his brows were slightly furrowed as he acclimated your ass to his finger again. he figured if you had taken his cock then you were more than capable of taking just the first few inches of the gun’s barrel just as your mouth had.
lalo was liberal with his spit; he wanted his idea to be executed correctly.
he stroked the barrel of the gun with his lubricated hand and began edging it into your ass hole. his dick was throbbing inside of your cunt. your nails dug into your ass cheeks as the handgun entered you. it was upside down to keep the area he wanted to later thrust into clear and available.
“taking that even better than my cock,” he muttered, watching your skin expand around the tepid steel. what did he expect? you had to be good at something to have stayed with him for this long.
his head dipped as your ass fully accepted the barrel of the gun. your eyes rolled to the back of your head. your under eyelid twitched. you felt so incredibly stuffed.
lalo’s hand supported the semi-automatic pistol in your ass as his unsatisfied cock began moving again. he had no concept of ‘this might be too much.’
his hips were pressed into yours with each thrust he gave as if it was incomplete without being completely inside of you with each movement. it was hard for him to hold back with you. you were just so goddamn easy for him to push around; which was, of course, all due to his dutiful training and development he put you through.
being in his mid-forties didn't slow him down. if anything it made him more relentless, trying to prove himself. his body may have more years on it than yours, but even with that being the case he knew his purpose with you at all times.
“so fuckin’ tight, that little pussy has some grab,” he praised from behind you. the hand on the gun occasionally pushed in further, keeping his hand firmly on the handle. his other hand supported one of your wrists in keeping your ass spread.
the wet squelching noises he was creating just from being deep in your walls made his head tilt back. beads of sweat leaked from his face from the sheer amount of effort he was exerting.
your noises of pleasure were covering his own low groans of enjoyment. he was angry, yet still praising you for your sexy body even if it meant he was calling you dumb for only being able to use your body to make him happy. you didn't care, how could you? not when you had a thick length inside of you—his first favorite toy, and then being plugged with his second favorite toy—his gun.
dear god. he had it all the right way. hitting exactly what he needed when he needed to. you knew your body better than you knew it yourself. you were at lalo’s mercy, letting him ravage your pussy and ass as he wanted.
he was so deep inside of you, and your pussy allowed it, swallowing his girthy cock like a fine wine as he forced himself in until he was banging against your cervix.
the vaginal penetration alone was enough to make your mind too dumb, but the more he gave made you go null. so much overwhelming stimuli that caused dribbles of squirt to coat his cock and drop down to the pristine bedding.
“b-bebé,” you sputtered out, almost ignored because the sheets that had become bundled in your mouth muffled your noise. you were unwinding right before him, becoming so tense right before your orgasmic release, unknowing if he would even allow it after your spell of insolence. “p-please, c-come on please,” you managed to plead from your befuddled state.
lalo didn't have much more self-control left in himself either. he kept having to distract himself from the sight below him.
“fuck, let it go, amor,” he agreed as the hand on your wrist bared down harshly.
your back sweat glistened in the natural room lighting, the setting sun only warming the bedroom as it filtered through the windows. lalo’s long shadow casts over you, essentially ramming into you twice.
your eyes closed, having to lift your head just to breathe through your orgasm. a ridiculous noise between a scream and a whine filled the room as you pushed your ass back against him, taking a bit more of the clunky gun and stimulating more of lalo’s cock.
“stay just like that,” he demanded, as his rigid thrusts were coming to a sloppy end. you were riding on a high that was finally seeming to subside, though the aftermath caused your eyes to be droopy and low, stuttery moans to exit as his actions quickened in pace. he was chasing the end, although he would never deny being inside of you longer but he wanted to release.
with your hips and ass causing a pleasurable resistance, lalo drove himself to his climax, his chest pounding and the tops of his ears flushing red. he unloaded inside of you, not needing permission to release his cum in someone he already owned.
he hung inside of you for a few moments, having his eyes adjust to the scene before him as he removed his cock, watching his load spill from your puffy walls. he pulled the gun out slowly, watching your ass hole pucker again. he rubbed your anus softly, watching it clench as your pussy dripped more of his load.
gun in hand he turned you to his side, leaning next to you. he dragged the gun across your chest, prodding your nipples teasingly. you could barely move your arm enough to try and protect your sensitive chest.
he brushed some of your hair back with the pistol as he made himself comfortable next to your limp body.
lalo laid back, placing the gun to your temple. he turned on his side, holding your face so you would focus only on him. your eyes were still hazy, you could barely move, and you were waiting now since he had his fill. you thought lalo’s antics were so incredibly deranged—having seen you orgasm once more, the way he said you looked prettiest, and now was going to end you on the sleek white sheets from charlotte thomas.
his dark brown eyes were fixated on you, as you held the button placket of his pool shirt. he didn't have remorse for what he did. he had fun, though you couldn't read it on his face. you were waiting for him to lay your head down and fire.
at this point when he would allow the bullet to discharge, at least you would be relaxed, halfway buried in his chest in the comfortable bedding.
“if i wanted to kill you i would've done it already.” he tapped the gun’s muzzle against your head. “would've had that pretty little head splattered against that wall.” he gestured with the pistol to the wall he had previously slammed you against.
he gave a low chuckle, pushing the gun on the bedside table, grabbing your face. “just remember that, amor—remember that i can make that decision.”
lalo placed a kiss on your lips. your barely responsive body uttered a peck back to him in understanding his words.
Embedded with the DEA during Colombia’s drug war, an American journalist is used to danger—until a night off in Bogotá brings her into close orbit with Colonel Horacio Carrillo. When violence erupts, professional boundaries blur, forcing both of them to confront what happens when control slips and survival becomes personal.
The bar was loud in that specific Bogotá way—too much laughter layered over music that didn’t quite fit the room, cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling fans that did little more than stir the heat around. It was the kind of place where deals were whispered in corners and sins were forgiven with aguardiente.
She hadn’t expected to see him.
She had gone out that night with the intention of disappearing for a few hours—no soldiers, no briefings, no death tolls scribbled into her notebook. Just a pink dress she almost never wore, soft fabric hugging her in a way her usual button-ups never did. Her hair was curled carefully, lipstick red and deliberate, a quiet rebellion against flak jackets and press badges.
And then there he was.
Colonel Horacio Carrillo sat at a small table near the bar, posture rigid even with a drink in his hand, dark eyes scanning the room like it was hostile territory. Javier Peña lounged beside him, looser, half-smiling, already on his second drink.
She froze for half a second before smiling to herself.
Of course.
She crossed the bar without hesitation, heels clicking against the floor. Javier noticed her first, his face lighting up with genuine surprise.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, standing slightly. “If it isn’t America’s bravest pain in our asses.”
She laughed, leaning in to hug him briefly. “Good to see you too, Peña.”
Her gaze shifted to Carrillo. He stood when she approached—automatic, disciplined—and for a moment, the room seemed to quiet around them. His eyes flicked over her, quick but thorough, like he was assessing a threat. Or trying very hard not to.
“You look…” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “Different.”
She raised an eyebrow, amused “Hello to you too.”
Javier smirked into his glass.
They exchanged a few words—safe ones, polite ones. Then her friends called her back, waving her over, and she left them with a small smile that lingered just a second too long.
From the corner of his eye, he watched as she walked towards the bar and got drinks with her friends. One too many drinks later and now they were on the dance floor with everyone's attention on her.
Carrillo knew it was wrong, keeping eyes on her all night. Javier caught on but didn’t say anything. With the week they’ve had, Peña couldn’t blame Carrillo of checking out the American journalist.
Somewhere between midnight and 1 a.m. while on the dance floor, she’s approached by a man.
Tall, confident, Colombian accent smooth as he leaned in close to hear her over the music. He smiled easily, said something that made her laugh. His hand hovered near her waist—not touching, but close enough to suggest he was considering it.
Across the bar, Javier was mid-story when he noticed Carrillo had gone quiet.
He followed his line of sight.
There she was—curls falling over her shoulders, red lips bright against her skin. The man beside her leaned closer, saying something directly into her ear. She tilted her head, listening.
Carrillo’s grip tightened around his glass.
“She does look good outside her normal clothes, huh?” Javier said lightly, not taking his eyes off Carrillo now.
“The hell if I care,” Carrillo muttered.
Javier snorted. “You’re staring like you’re about to plan a raid.”
Carrillo finally looked at him. “He shouldn’t be touching her.”
He watched as she took the man’s hand and let herself be pulled toward the dance floor. The crowd closed around them almost immediately, bodies and movement swallowing her dress until it was nothing more than a flicker of color and then gone.
He cataloged it the way he cataloged everything else. Exit points. Sightlines. The way the crowd shifted when the music changed.
“She’ll be fine,” Javier said after a moment.
Carrillo nodded once, eyes still scanning. “I know.”
They turned back to their drinks. To the conversation they’d been circling all night.
Javier leaned back in his chair. “We got word this afternoon. Escobar moved money through Envigado again. Same routes.”
Carrillo listened, asked the right questions, followed the thread. His voice stayed even. Controlled. Anyone watching would have thought his attention was fully on the hunt.
But his eyes checked the room out of habit now, not emotion.
The dance floor grew denser. She didn’t reappear.
Then Carrillo saw movement near the back—saw the man again, guiding her through the thinning crowd. A hand at her elbow, not aggressive, but directional. Purposeful.
Carrillo stood.
“Going somewhere?” Javier asked.
“Fresh air,” Carrillo said.
Outside, the noise dulled. The night smelled like rain and exhaust. The man had her near the rear exit now, speaking low. She swayed slightly, laughter loose at the edges.
Carrillo approached without urgency.
“That’s enough,” he said.
The man turned, irritated. “We’re leaving.”
Carrillo met his eyes. “You are. She isn’t.”
She turned, squinting at Carrillo. “You really enjoy this, don’t you?"
The man scoffed. “You a cop?”
Carrillo didn’t answer the question. He didn’t need to. “Go.”
The man hesitated, reassessed, then backed away. “Not worth it.”
When he was gone, she crossed her arms, unsteady and angry.
“You don’t get to manage me,” she said.
Without another word, she turned and went back inside, disappearing into the noise and lights.
Carrillo stayed where he was for a moment longer than necessary.
Javier joined him, lighting a cigarette. “You didn’t even raise your voice.”
It smelled like cordite and spilled liquor, the air sharp with adrenaline and shouted commands. Red and blue lights pulsed through the broken front windows, painting the street in flashes that felt unreal. Chairs lay overturned. Glass crunched under boots.
Carrillo arrived without sirens.
He showed his credentials once and was waved through immediately.
Inside, the scene was already being contained. Bodies covered. Blood cleaned where it could be. The noise had softened into low voices and radios crackling with updates.
He scanned the room methodically.
Tables. Corners. The bar itself.
Then he saw her.
She stood near the back, speaking to two uniformed officers. Her pink dress was wrinkled now, stained near the hem with something dark that wasn’t hers. Her hair had fallen loose, curls undone, lipstick faded. She looked tired. Shaken.
Alive.
Carrillo didn’t rush—but he didn’t hesitate either.
He went straight to her.
She noticed him mid-sentence. Her eyes lifted, and something in her posture shifted immediately. Relief crossed her face before she could stop it.
“Oh,” she said quietly. “Thank God.”
Carrillo stopped directly in front of her.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“No, I—”
He didn’t wait for the full answer.
His eyes moved over her with clinical precision—face, neck, shoulders, arms. His hand hovered near her wrist, then lightly took it, checking for blood that wasn’t hers.
“You’re shaking,” he said.
“I think it’s just—everything.”
One of the officers cleared his throat. “She’s already given her statement, Colonel. Her friends were escorted home earlier.”
Carrillo nodded. “Thank you.”
The officer stepped away.
Only then did Carrillo look fully at her again. “You should not be alone right now.”
She swallowed. “I didn’t want to go home by myself.”
“Then you won’t.”
There was no argument in his tone. No command, either. Just certainty.
He guided her out with a hand at her back—not possessive, not forceful, just present. Outside, the night felt colder than before. She wrapped her arms around herself as they walked to his car.
Neither spoke during the drive.
She watched the city pass by, lights blurring through the window. Her adrenaline was finally wearing off, leaving exhaustion in its place. When the car stopped, she realized they were in front of her building.
Carrillo turned off the engine.
“I’ll walk you up,” he said.
Inside her apartment, the quiet felt too loud. She kicked off her heels, hands trembling now that she didn’t have to hold herself together.
Carrillo stood near the door, giving her space but not leaving.
“You should get some rest,” he said. “I’ll have someone check on you tomorrow.”
She looked at him then. Really looked at him.
“You came back,” she said softly.
“Yes.”
“I’m glad it was you.”
Then, just as carefully as he’d arrived, Carrillo stepped back toward the door. After he left, the apartment felt quieter—but safer than it had all night.
And Carrillo stood outside for a moment longer than necessary before walking away.
For those of you who are revisiting or visiting my page for my Maddy Perez x Reader series, do not fret! I am going to continue the story. I’m just not up to date on the newest season. Obviously, I plan on taking creative liberty but I do like to match the plot as much as possible. Thank you for your kind comments, I did not forget about those of you who have been patient!!
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