Ryland Grace who gets BONERS from KISSING. Walk with me…
pre/post PHM, doesnt matter.
Ryland turns when he feels the weight of your gaze prickling at the skin between his shoulderblades and scalp. Your head is tilted a little bit, a smile on your face as you watch Ryland move toward you.
He barely murmurs a small “hi” before he’s got his lips on yours, feeling the rushing blood under his fingertips as he brings his hands to your waist. Slipping his hands under your shirt, Ryland feels the warmth radiating through your lower back and feels a pulsing in his own body. Feeling you, here and now, hot and loving him was just… an answer to a prayer he’d forgotten he’d asked for.
You do that thing where you press your front to his after your pointer finger sloooowwwly pulls him closer to you by his belt loop, and damn is Ryland a goner. You groan a little into Ryland’s mouth when he pulls you up and towards him: the sheer tangibility of his want only adding to the lust in your mind. You feel the little spikes of his hair as you slowly bring your hands up to the nape of his neck to feel him and then the smoothness of his skin as you bring your hands to his face in any attempt to mold you two impossibly closer.
Only when you start to feel your head physically weigh heavier and when you hear the loud whooshing of your blood behind your ears do you force yourself away. Panting, you see Ryland’s eyebrows screwed up. He whines and rests his forhead on your chest: how could you be so cruel as to pull away from him? Ugh. “I’m hard,” he whispers.
You chuckle breathlessly. “What’d you say?”
Ryland looks up: the epitome of want and desire and undercover eroticism. “I’m fucking hard.” His hand reaches for yours and he palms the back of your hand. Eyes locked on yours as he brings your hand to the crotch of his pants to make you feel just what you do to him. The way his throat vibrates with a barely withheld whimper when you palm him makes you want to drop his pants right then and there. “Y/n.”
An evil glint is in your eyes. “I love when this happens.”
Ryland groans, this time from embarrassment. “I love that you love it but I- it happens so often.”
You exhale a laugh throught your nose as you lean in to kiss him again. “We’ll take care of that, honey.”
◜ including ⠀! ⠀matt murdock. benjamin poindexter. frank castle.
◟ warnings ⠀! ⠀nsfw. minors dni. obsessive characters. fem reader. masterlist. english is not my first language.
matt murdock
you barely get him inside you before his hips jerk violently.
“fuck— oh god—” his voice cracks as he buries himself to the hilt in one desperate thrust. his whole body tenses, muscles locking up. you feel his cock twitch hard, then he’s cumming already, thick spurts flooding you in under a minute.
“shit— i’m sorry,” he gasps, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. “i didn’t— i couldn’t hold it. you feel too good. too fucking wet and tight around me.”
he stays buried deep, still twitching, face flushed with shame and lingering pleasure. his guilt hits instantly. “i wanted to make you feel good first… i ruined it.” but even as he apologizes, his cock is already twitching back to life inside you. he rolls his hips slowly, pushing his cum deeper. “let me make it up to you. please. i’ll stay hard for you this time. i’ll eat you out first if you want— just don’t be mad.”
benjamin poindexter
dex is already shaking the second he pushes inside you.
his eyes are wide, pupils blown, staring at your face like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. he manages maybe thirty seconds of frantic, shallow thrusts before his rhythm falls apart completely.
“f-fuck— wait— i c-can’t— i’m gonna— stop stop stop— p-please—” his voice cracks into a pathetic whimper. his hips stutter violently as he cums way too fast, spilling deep inside you with a broken sob. “no— no no no— i d-didn’t— i couldn’t stop—”
he freezes, still buried in you, but his face crumples. tears spill down his cheeks instantly. his hands grip your hips too tight, trembling.
“i’m sorry— i’m so f-fucking sorry— so s-sorry” he stutters, voice wrecked and cracking. “you feel t-too good. i disappointed you. i a-a-always disappoint you. i’m p-pathetic— i couldn’t even last a minute— p-please don’t hate me... please.”
real tears are running down his face now. he looks genuinely devastated, like he might spiral. his cock is still twitching inside you, not fully soft, but he’s too busy panicking to move.
“i’ll do b-better— i swear. l-let me stay inside. i’ll get hard a-again. i’ll make you c-cum first next time. just… please don’t push me away. i need you. i-i love you. i’m sorry i’m such a fuck up...”
he buries his face in your neck, crying quietly while his hips make tiny, desperate little movements, like he’s terrified you’ll leave him over this.
frank castle
frank grunts as he sinks into you, but he only gets a handful of deep thrusts before his control snaps.
“goddamn it—” he growls, voice strained. his hips jerk hard once, twice, then he’s cumming with a low, frustrated groan, flooding you in thick pulses. it’s over.
he stays buried deep, breathing heavily against your shoulder. “fuck. too fast.” he sounds pissed at himself more than anything. one big hand slides down to rub your clit roughly, trying to make up for it immediately.
“didn’t mean to bust that quick,” he mutters, voice rough. “pussy’s too fucking good tonight.” he doesn’t pull out. instead he starts grinding slow and deep, pushing his cum around inside you while his thumb works your clit.
“you gonna let me try again?” he asks, nipping at your neck. “i’ll last longer next round. i’ll fuck you right.” his free hand grips your thigh hard, you can feel his frustration. “ain’t stopping till you cum all over my cock like you deserve.”
Some of Ryland’s middle school students overheard him address the person on the other end of a phone call as “baby” and they immediately screamed, “Ewwww!” Ryland is still trying to make them understand that one day, they will love someone so much that they will call them cute names. In response, the kids countered, “Baby isn’t cute, Mr Grace. Bae is” leaving Ryland questioning everything he has ever known.
One day, you go to the school because Ryland forgot something, and you have the time to drop it off. Even though you are both acting completely casual, the kids see you together and immediately put two and two together. That you are Mr. Grace’s “baby”. Once you leave and Ryland goes back into being the science teacher, the class wastes no time. They instantly start teasing him, with one student asking, “Mr Grace, how did you bag such a baddie?” Ryland is left completely stunned. Before he can even say that their comment is entirely inappropriate, another kid exclaims, “Mr Grace is in loveeeeee!” which causes the whole class to join in on the teasing.
In that moment, he wishes the ground would just open up and swallow him whole. Yet, despite it all, he still loves this chaotic bunch of kids who make his life so difficult sometimes, but also because they are entirely right. He is deeply in love with you.
pope with a sweet, young girlfriend that doesn't play about manners ♡
leaning over slightly in the passenger seat, telling andrew your order in the drive thru so he can echo it back to the speaker in his gruff, booming voice.
"oh- oh! 'nd an iced coffee, please!"
"and an iced coffee."
you frown a bit at him, n he sighs a little, turning his head back dramatically, sassy little expression on his face, "please..."
you giggle n kiss his cheek, jokingly calling him "such a good boy," as he turns away to hide the blush that he feels heating up his cheeks.
Oneshots | STALKER!WINTER SOLDIER X BOOKSTORE OWNER!READER
summary:: The Winter Soldier was trained to kill, not to love. Then he sees you — stalks you and eventually plans on rocking your world <33
warnings:: 18+,Stalker!Bucky,Dark winter soldier,reader has a personality lmao (she likes pink roses,books,wears vanilla perfume),reader turns out to be not that innocent either,she kinda matches his freak,PiV,no protection, questionable aftercare,public sex,sex on a motorcycle lmaoo,mentions of Hydra,trauma,masturbation,dubcon,predator/prey,orgasm denial,he cums on reader's tits and stomach
word count:: 7k
A/N:: I love love love this so much
The Winter Soldier doesn't love anyone, he’s got a heart made of Siberian ice and a soul that drowned in the dark waters of his past.A past he can’t even remember, leaving him completely numb to the world.
They built him to be a cold-blooded killer, a weapon wrapped in tactical gear, moving through nights like a phantom. He doesn’t know the touch of a real romance, he doesn't know how to hold a girl's hand without feeling the weight of a trigger.He only understands the darkness.
His metal arm is freezing to the touch, smelling of gun oil, cheap gasoline, and the bitter copper of old blood. It's a flawless piece of Soviet machinery designed to break pulchritudinous things into a million little pieces.
He has seen too many empires fall, too many cities burn, and too many innocent people beg for their lives. There’s no softness left in his damaged mind, no vintage love songs from the quadragenarian years playing in his head. The only sound it the loud static of old military radios and a long list of names he was programmed to erase from the earth without a single spark of pity or regret.
He is a monster masquerading as a god, a beautiful nightmare that you just can't wake up from no matter how hard you scream. When he breathes, it’s just the freezing air of a perpetual winter filling up his hollow chest.
He is not a human, he’s just a ghost trapped in a body of muscle.A hollow shell where a man’s soul used to live before they tore it out and replaced it with wires and Soviet steel. He does not feel, he doesn't know what it’s like to have a warm heart beating against his ribs. He doesn’t feel the sting of the freezing rain on his face, he doesn’t feel the ache of loneliness in the middle of the night, and he certainly doesn’t feel a single drop of guilt when his hands are wrapped around someone’s throat in a dark alleyway.
You could cry right in front of him, you could bleed all over his black leather boots, and those storm-colored eyes wouldn’t even blink, because there is no pity inside him, no tenderness.
So why is it that every time he sees you in your little bookstore, tucked away between the dusty old paperbacks and the soft glow of the lamps, he swears he feels something?—a terrifying little spark that cuts right through his chest?
It’s probably a glitch in his programming...right?An agonizing malfunction that shouldn’t exist in a man like him. Every time he looks at you, the heavy static in his brain suddenly clears, replaced by a strange warmth. It feels like a forgotten memory of a summer sun he hasn't seen in fifty years.
It makes no sense to an asset like him; it scares him more than any bullet ever could, because he doesn't know how to handle the sudden weight of being almost human again.
Because of that terrifying feeling, he’s been stalking you for months now. And he's completely unable to stop himself from drifting toward you. He’s become a permanent fixture in the shadows across the street, parking his motorcycle.
He watches you through the rain-streaked glass of your shop as you dust the shelves, drink your black coffee, and read those sad, romantic books until closing time. He knows the exact time you turn off the radio, he knows the sound of your keys jingling in the front door lock, and he has completely memorized the way your perfume smells when you step out into the night air.An intoxicating mix of expensive vanilla and something he can't name.
He tracks your movements like a predator, knowing which train you take, which street corners you cross, and exactly how long you linger at the flower shop down the avenue.
Pink roses are your favorites,he has learned.
He hates himself for it, he hates that a cold-blooded killer like him is utterly hooked on the simple, mundane sight of a girl who doesn't even know his name. He’s an addict, unable to tear his dead eyes away from you.Because in a world full of blood and white noise, you are the only thing that makes his heart beat against his metal ribs.
He tried to forget you, god knows he tried to wipe the very memory of you from his damaged mind. He went back to the dark streets of foreign cities, trying to forget you. He threw himself into the violence, losing himself in the familiar comfort of high-stakes missions and the sound of gunfire.
He was desperate to let the adrenaline wash away the soft light in your eyes. He stared at the cracked ceilings for days, trying to force his brain back into the icy state of a perfect soldier. But none of it worked, absolutely none of it, because no matter how many miles he put between himself and your shop,it just didn't work.
Mostly, he just can’t get your soft lips out of his mind. It’s a sick obsession that keeps him awake in the dead of night A cold-blooded killer shouldn't know longing, but he craves the thought of your lips more than his next breath, imagining how incredibly soft they would feel against his own unholy mouth.
He imagines the sweetness of you on his tongue even when he’s surrounded by the bitter smell of gunpowder and blood, a torture that makes his metal fists clench in sheer frustration. He is a monster completely ruined by the simple, devastating thought of your lips.
He can’t get the thought of you on your knees for him out of his head.It’s an obscene image that burns behind his eyelids every time he closes them. It's a vision so sharp it makes his breath catch in his hollow throat.
He imagines you there, small and completely surrendered on the cold hardwood floor of your little shop, looking up at him through your eyelashes with that soft innocence. He craves the total submission of it. He wants to look down and see you ruined by him
And your lips. God, your lips on his...
The thought alone is a lethal dose of adrenaline running through his frozen veins. He wants to feel the agonizing contrast of your warmth against his vile mouth. He wants to ruin your neat little world with his heavy, rough hands.
He wants to press his mouth against yours until the taste of blood and gunpowder is completely drowned in your sweetness, leaving him choked on a desire he has no right to feel.
It’s a suffocating hunger. He knows he would break you—but the dark, selfish part of his broken soul doesn't care. He wants to be the one who brings you to your knees, and he wants to be worshipped by your mouth.
He knows that this wrong. Every single cell in his genetically engineered body screams at him that this is a fatal error. A weapon doesn’t crave the softness of a girl’s lips. A soldier doesn’t dream of a submissive angel on her knees in the warm glow of a bookstore.
It’s a betrayal of everything he is. Every time his mind drifts back to the vanilla scent of your skin, a cold sweat breaks out under his tactical gear, a raw panic that he hasn’t felt since they first strapped him into the chair.
Because he knows what happens if Hydra finds out.They will come for you. They would see you not as a girl, but as a contagion. A weakness to be excised with surgical precision. They would hunt you down, shatter the glass of your pretty little shop, and paint those dusty paperbacks with your blood just to prove to him that he belongs to them.
They would make him watch. Or worse, they would re-program him, wipe his mind until his eyes are dead again, and force his own flesh and metal hands around your delicate throat.
The mere thought of Hydra discovering your existence sends a spike of pure terror through his chest. He can already hear the clinical voices of his handlers, the heavy clanking of the laboratory doors, and the terrifying phrase that strips away everything he is: Longing. Seventeen. Daybreak.
He should leave. He should turn the key to his motorcycle, speed into the freezing rain, and never look back at this street corner again. He should let the winter swallow him whole.
It’s Valentine’s Day, but the flashing red and pink neon signs down the avenue don’t mean a damn thing to you. You’re standing inside your little bookstore, surrounded by the comforting scent of old paper and dust, completely detached from the cheap, plastic romance that the rest of the city is buying into tonight.
You haven't cared about this day in years, closing your heart off to the hollow promises of drugstore chocolates and rushed dinners, choosing instead the quiet safety of your own solitude. It’s not that you’re bitter; it’s just that you have these impossibly big, cinematic expectations of what love should be.A grand, dangerous kind of devotion that nobody in this mundane world could ever give you. You have these high standards built from the poetry and romantic novels on your shelves, and you’d rather spend your nights completely alone than settle for a lukewarm boyfriend who doesn't understand the depth of your personality.
You look out the rain-streaked window at the couples rushing past under their umbrellas, knowing that you’re waiting for a different kind of romance.
So it shouldn’t bother you that all of your friends are out tonight with their partners, dressed up in their expensive, velvet clothes, drinking cheap red wine under the dim lights of fancy downtown restaurants. It shouldn't matter that they are whispering sweet, mundane little clichés into each other's ears.
But it does, it really does. You can feel your chest tightening with a heavy ache at the thought of spending another long night entirely alone.
It’s always been like this though. They’ve always had their fun, drifting through the easy phases of normal romance, while you—well, you always stayed behind. A disastrous girl locked away in her own ivory tower of old paper.God,it sounds like you're a character in a Paula Fox novel.
You try to tell yourself that you’re above it all, that their drugstore version of love could never fulfill a girl with your kind of imagination. But as the hours tick away, the quiet of the bookstore becomes an absolute prison, and the crushing, agonizing realization that you are completely on your own in the dark.
Or...are you?
You glance at the clock on the wall and realize it’s finally time to close up, because the streets have been empty for hours and nobody is going to walk through that door tonight. I mean, who in their right mind would come to a dusty old bookstore on Valentine’s Day anyway?
You start moving through the golden shadows of the shop, your fingers lingering on the spines of the sad poetry books as you prepare to shut it all down.
You turn off the vintage radio, cutting off the melancholic jazz that was keeping you company, and the sudden silence hits your chest like a physical weight. You grab your keys, the metal clinking sharply in the quiet room, ready to lock the door, completely unaware that the only man who has ever truly looked at you is still waiting out there in the dark.
You step out into the freezing night, turning the key in the lock until the bolt clicks firmly into place. You pop open your black umbrella against the pouring rain, pulling your trench coat tight around your chest as you take your first step onto the wet pavement.The wind is howling down the avenue, and you’re walking with your head down, just trying to escape the bitter cold.
You only take three steps before you crash hard into a solid, unyielding wall of muscle and wet leather. A force so heavy it sends a sharp shock straight up your spine and makes your umbrella wobble in your hand.
You stumble back, your breath catching in your throat as you look up through the rain-streaked air, trying to make out the silhouette towering over you.It’s too dark to see his face under the shadows of the street corner, but you can perceive his shoulders and the dark tactical gear strapped tight under his jacket.
Then you look down, and your heart skips a heavy beat.A single, delicate pink rose is lying in the puddle, its soft petals bruised by the cold water. It must have fallen from his hands the moment you collided.
“I'm so sorry,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly in the freezing air as you lean down to gently pick up the flower.You stand back up, holding the bruised pink rose out to him. You wait for him to take it, wait for a curse, a brush-off, or the sound of his voice—anything to break the awkward silence stretching out between you under the pouring rain.
He doesn’t say a word. He just reaches out and takes the pink rose from your hand, his black leather glove brushing against your fingers for a brief second. He tucks the flower into his jacket pocket, turns around, and walks away into the rainy night, leaving you standing alone under your umbrella.
You stay there on the sidewalk for a long time, watching the spot where he disappeared. Your mind is spinning, completely confused by what just happened.
You wonder who this giant of a man was.You touch your fingers to your lips, still tasting the bitter scent of his gasoline and gun oil in the air.
You walk back to your apartment, the freezing rain soaking through your coat, but you can barely feel the cold. You climb the stairs, turn the key to your bedroom, and throw your wet clothes on the floor.You pour yourself a glass of cheap red wine and sit on the edge of your bed, staring at the ceiling.
Your mind is completely hijacked by him. You can’t stop thinking about the dangerous contrast of his body against yours.It’s a haunting image that keeps looping in your head—this silent, terrifying monument of a man, carrying a single pink rose through the storm like a cliché.
You crawl under the blankets, wondering where the stranger was going.
You don't know that outside your window, tucked away in the alley, his motorcycle sits idling in the dark. The Winter Soldier feels so incredibly foolish, a cold-blooded assassin frozen in place by a girl who smells like vanilla and old books.
He looks down at the bruised pink rose resting on the leather seat of his bike. He hadn't planned on any of this. He had only intended to slip into your shop during the closing chaos, to leave that soft, stupid flower on your counter when you weren't looking—a silent, anonymous token from a monster who has no right to feel like this.
But then the brass lock had clicked, you had stepped into the rain, and you had broken right against his chest.He couldn't even speak. A machine that knows how to order an execution in five different languages completely lost his voice the moment your hands brushed his glove.
Oh,he's pathetic.
Maybe it was because, for the very first time, he actually looked at you. Not through the distorted scope of a rifle, not through a rain-streaked windshield, but right there in the blackness of the street corner.
He saw the soft innocence in your eyes, the gentle way you rescued his bruised flower from the puddle. He feels trapped between his violent programming and the terrifying realization that your sweetness has officially conquered something inside him.
He decides it’s better to keep his distance, at least for a little while. He needs to pull back and disappear, if only for a single day, just to analyze the fatal error running wild through his system.
He needs to look at the situation with the calculating precision of the weapon he was built to be, rather than the desperate longing of a man who has lost his mind over a bookstore girl.Yeah..he's pathetic.
Few hours later he sits in a cheap motel room on the edge of the city. The bruised pink rose sits on the nightstand next to his silver handguns and his black tactical knife—a delicate little intruder in his violent world.It's kinda ironic.
He tells himself that one day away from your bookstore will cure this sickness, that twenty-four hours of isolation will put the ice back into his veins and force the vanilla scent out of his head. He promises himself he will stay away, that he won't drive past your street corner, and that he will find a way to become himself again.
And then...the air in the motel room is thick. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his tactical gear half-undone, staring at that pale pink rose on the nightstand until his vision blurs. He tried to think like a soldier, he tried to run the numbers, but the cold analysis completely shatters under the memory of your body breaking against his chest in the pouring rain.
His heavy leather glove hits the floor with a dull thud, and he reaches down with his bare human hand, his fingers trembling with hunger he hasn't felt in a lifetime.Or has he? He knows what he's doing,how to...but why? He knows pieces are missing from his brain.
He closes his eyes, and suddenly he’s not in this rotting room anymore—he’s back in the golden glow of your bookstore, watching your soft lips part, visualizing you shape,your submission as you drop to your knees on the hard wood floor just for him.
He touches himself with a rough slowness, his breath catching sharply in his hollow throat as the image burns behind his eyelids. He visualizes his metal fingers tangled ruthlessly in your hair, holding you down, forcing you to take every inch of him.You look up at him with those innocent eyes,that tear up a bit,and he gets harder at the thought. Every stroke is fueled by adrenaline and a fatal error in his system that makes his muscles lock up and his chest heave as he chases the taste of your skin and your sweet, ruined mouth in the dark.
He groans into the empty room, a low sound that tastes like sins, his hips moving in a punishing rhythm against his own bare hand. He’s completely losing his mind in the red neon light of Valentine's day, hallucinating the friction of your soft thighs against his waist.
He pulls his own hair with his metal hand, wanting the sharp sting of pain to wake him from this wicked dream, but he’s too far gone, too deeply drowned in the fantasy of ruining you. His imagination ahifts from the bookstore.He imagines pinning you down into this mattress, your delicate wrists held captive above your head by his silver fingers.
He is chasing a high he was never meant to know, driving himself closer and closer to the edge with the devastating thought of your lips stretched wide around him.
His muscles lock, veins standing out against his neck as an electric jolt of adrenaline tears through his frozen spine. With one final thrust against his own hand,it hits him like a physical blow, that leaves him completely undone in the bleeding red light of the neon sign.
He gasps, a low sound echoing against the peeling wallpaper. He collapses back onto the damp sheets, his human hand slick and his silver fingers trembling against the mattress, completely paralyzed.
The static in his brain is gone, replaced by a silence that offers no comfort,and terrifying realization that he didn't wash you out of his system at all. He just let you entirely inside,his heartbeat slowly drops back into the freezing dark.
...
Two days. Two whole days of absolute silence.
He managed to stay away from your street corner for forty-eight hours, hiding out in the dark. Trying to cure himself of a wicked addiction. He cleaned his weapons, and tried to pretend that the sweet scent of vanilla had finally faded from his leather jacket.
He told himself that the error in his system was corrected, that the cold-blooded killer was back in control, and that your little bookstore was just a hallucination he had successfully left behind in the rain.
But it was all a lie, a delusion he built just to keep from tearing the city apart. Every single tick of the clock on his nightstand felt like a blow against his ribs. He didn't cure the sickness; he just let it fester in the dark, his hands shaking under his tactical gloves every time he pictured your soft lips.
Two days of playing dead was all his broken soul could take. He needed you.During those two days, you felt a strange mix of disappointment and relief. Part of you wanted the dangerous stranger to reappear out of the rain, to prove that the shock of your bodies colliding wasn't just a figment of your wild imagination. But as the hours dragged on and your shop remained empty, the ache in your chest began to soften into a familiar numbness.
You told yourself it was for the best. You cleaned the shelves, reorganized the poetry section, and drank your black coffee in silence, slowly letting the memory of his heavy leather jacket and the bruised pink rose fade into white noise.You had almost forgotten the whole thing, convinced yourself that he was just a nameless stranger passing through the dark, never to be seen again.
He can't take the distance anymore, and he sure as hell doesn't do polite invitations.So he writes you a letter.It’s not a soft, romantic Valentine's card; it’s a rough piece of paper torn from a tactical notebook, written in aggressive black ink that nearly rips through the page. It’s short, blunt, and so utterly typical of the Winter Soldier that it’s almost funny—a dangerous machine trying to command a girl who smells like vanilla.
Midnight.The old abandoned observatory on the hilltop. Under the broken dome.Don’t make me come fetch you.Be there.
He slips the note straight under the front door of your bookstore right before closing.You find the paper lying on the hardwood floor, your heart doing a dangerous flip against your ribs as you read the crude ultimatum. He isn't asking for a chance,—he is ordering a surrender.
You hold the rough piece of paper in your hands while the cold adrenaline starts to flood your veins. Your mind is racing, honey, frantically trying to piece the puzzle together as you stare at the ldark ink and the aggressive handwriting that feels more like a tactical order than a love note.
You find yourself wondering who could have possibly slipped this under your door. Who even knew you were here...well,you have a lot of costumers. So it could be anybody.
But deep down, in the dark corner of your soul, you already know the answer. Or at least, you desperately hope you do.
You know it’s crazy, you know a smart girl would tear the paper to pieces and lock her bedroom door, but your heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs because the thought of him waiting for you up on that star-lit hilltop is a drug you’re already too weak to refuse.
You spend the next few hours in a fever dream, the minutes ticking away on the wall. You step into your bathroom, the mirror fogging up with warm steam as you try to wash away the mundane exhaustion of the day.
You pick out your clothes. You slide into a soft, dark slip dress that clings to your curves, and pull your heavy leather trench coat over your shoulders to protect you from the freezing night air.
You don't put on much makeup, just a touch of your signature expensive vanilla perfume behind your ears and on your wrists. You stare at your reflection one last time.
The winding mountain road is completely black, swallowed by the suffocating silence of the pines and the cold mist rolling off the hills. You drive up the dark asphalt, while the radio hums a slow melody.
When you finally reach the crest of the hill, the abandoned observatory rises from the darkness. Its massive, rusted dome looks like a fractured skull against the midnight sky, with jagged shards of broken glass catching the brilliant light of the stars above.
You cut the engine.You step out of the car, the gravel crunching beneath your boots.And then, you see it—tucked away beneath an old oak tree, the dark silhouette of his motorcycle sits in the dark, its guttural purr vibrating straight through the ground and up into the soles of your shoes.
He just watches you step closer in your dark slip dress and leather trench coat, his jaw clenched tight as he realizes you actually came.
He cuts the engine, and the sudden silence on the mountaintop hits you both. He swings his leg over the seat, stepping off the motorcycle with a predatory grace that makes your breath catch in your throat. He takes a long step toward you, his massive combat boots crunching against the gravel.
“You came,” he mutters.
“I didn't think you'd actually show up,” you whisper.You try to sound brave, but the slight tremor in your voice betrays every high expectation and desperate hope you've been nursing for the last two hours.
He leans down just a fraction of an inch closer, his hot breath brushing against your cold cheek.“You've been in my sights for a very long time.”
He grabs your wrist—his grip tight but not breaking you—and leads you up the rusted iron steps of the observatory, toward the highest observation ledge right under the open sky.
When you reach the top, the entire world opens up below you. The city is distant, completely insignificant compared to the silver cosmos stretched out over your heads.He walks right to the edge of the stone platform. He sits down, letting his heavy combat boots dangle over the ledge into the empty blackness, and nods once toward the space beside him.
You take a slow breath, your heart hammering against your ribs, and sit down right next to him. The contrast is devastating—you in your delicate black silk, and him wrapped in cold tactical gear and wet leather.
Your bare shoulder brushes against his heavy jacket, and the electric warmth of his body almost makes you shiver. You both look up at the infinite dark, completely isolated from the rest of the living.You sit there on the cold stone ledge, your bare legs dangling into the empty blackness right beside his heavy combat boots.
“Which one is your favorite?” you ask softly. You tilt your head back, your eyes search the silver dust of the Milky Way.
He doesn't look up at the sky. His storm-colored eyes stay fixed on the side of your face, watching the way the starlight hits your cheekbones.
“I don't look at them to admire them,” he grunts. He reaches down with his human hand, his rough fingers tracing a line along the seat of the ledge. “In Hy— where I was trained, the stars just meant we had three hours of navigation left before dawn. They aren't pretty, They're just coordinates”
You let out a soft laugh, turning your head to meet his intense gaze. “I know who you are Bucky.”
The realization that you knew exactly what he was didn’t scare him; it liberated him.He leaned in closer, the scent of rain and old leather completely erasef the sweet vanilla on your skin.
“Good,” he growled. “Then I don't have to pretend anymore.”
“You know what I am,” he stated, his human hand moving from the stone ledge to grip the back of your neck. His fingers were rough, anchoring you in place.“You know what these hands have done. And you still drove up a pitch-black mountain just because I told you to.”
He tilted your head back slightly, forcing your eyes to meet his. His gaze wasn't romantic; it was hungry. It was the look of a predator claiming territory it had been stalking for months. He looked at your mouth, his thumb brushing against your lower lip with just enough pressure to part them. He didn't want a sweet, innocent kiss. He wanted you on your knees, entirely consumed by him, surrendering every piece of yourself to his control. He wanted to ruin you for anyone else.
“Maybe I don't want a softness” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly but holding your ground. “Maybe I wanted exactly this.”
A dangerous silence fell between you. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He didn't say another word. He didn't need to. Your answer was the green light the predator inside him had been waiting months for.
With a single, effortless movement, his human hand tightened on your neck and he hauled you up off the stone ledge. He didn't do polite. He marched you backward into the deeper shadows of the observatory, until your lower back hit the cool, metallic frame of his motorcycle.
You submissively started to sink toward the gravel, your knees going weak as your instincts told you to kneel for him. But before your knees could even touch the ground, his metal hand shot out. His vibranium fingers wrapped firmly around your bicep, arresting your descent with effortless strength and pulling you right back up.
“No,” he growled. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Not tonight. You save that for the next time I command it. Tonight, I want to look into your eyes while I take you.”
He didn't give you a chance to process his words. His flesh-and-blood hand moved down to the hem of your dark slip dress, bunching the soft silk upward in his rough palm. His calloused hand dragged against your bare thigh.
He gripped your hip, lifting you effortlessly and placing you right onto the leather seat of the motorcycle. He stepped his heavy combat boot between your thighs, opening you up and claiming every inch of your space.
“Legs up,” he commanded, his voice dropping into a rough growl.You didn't hesitate. You wrapped your bare legs around his waist, the soft skin of your thighs pressing tightly against the rough canvas of his tactical pants. The position placed you perfectly at eye level with him.
He stepped his heavy combat boots closer, crowding right between your thighs until his massive chest was pressing you back against the handlebars. You were completely trapped between his heavy frame and the cold metal of the bike, your delicate black silk dress bunched up around your waist.
His large human hand slid up your bare thigh, his rough fingers hooking into the delicate elastic of your underwear. He didn't ask for permission. With one deliberate tug, he ripped the lace right down your legs, tossing the ruined fabric onto the gravel below without a second thought.
Your breath caught in your throat at the sudden display of dominance. You were completely exposed to the freezing night air now, shivering against the seat of the motorcycle.
He didn't bother taking off his leather jacket or his tactical gear—he wanted to keep you warm, and honestly, he was too far gone to care about undressing completely. Instead, his human hand moved down to the front of his tactical pants. You watched with wide eyes as his fingers quickly unbuckled his belt and lowered his zipper, aggressively freeing his thick length into the cold air.
“Look at me,” he muttered, his eyes dark with an intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs. “I want you to remember this.”
He didn't push in yet. Instead, he just pressed his hot length right against you, teasing the entrance while his storm-colored eyes tracked the desperate, shallow breaths escaping your lips.
“Bucky—”
His human hand clenched tighter around your hip, his thumb digging into your skin to anchor you. “Don't call me Bucky.”
You blinked through the darkness, your breath hitching as your hands clutched the rough leather of his jacket. “Then... what do I call you?”
“Soldat,” he growled.
You didn't fully understand what it meant to him, or what dark memories it triggered in his conditioned mind.You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs as you looked up into his unyielding eyes.
“Soldat...” you whispered softly, the word tasting strange on your tongue.
His eyes blew out completely black with lust, and without another second of hesitation,he drove all the way inside you.
A breathless scream tore from your throat, as the sudden fullness stretched you completely open. Your legs instantly locked tighter around his waist, your boots digging into his lower back as your fingers clawed blindly through his jacket.
He didn't slow down. The rhythm of his hips remained heavy, each deep thrust making the motorcycle shift slightly beneath you. His combat gear and heavy leather rubbed roughly against your bare skin, a constant reminder of his sheer size and power.
“I watched you for months,” he growled against the skin of your throat, his breath scorching hot as he drove into you again. His metal fingers dug firmly into your hip. “I sat in the dark across the street and counted the minutes until you opened the doors.”
A needy gasp escaped your lips, your body clenching tightly around him. Hearing him confess to the unfiltered depth of his stalking didn't scare you—it sent a violent rush of heat straight to your core, making you tighter and completely undone.
“I know,” you cried out breathlessly. “I knew you were there... I saw the edge of your jacket in the pines. And I liked it, Soldat.”
Bucky’s entire body went dead still for a fraction of a second, his chest heaving violently against yours as your words registered in his mind. The realization that his target hadn't been an innocent victim, but an active participant playing the game right back with him, completely shattered the last of his restraint.
“Fucking whore,” he muttered.His grip on your waist turned entirely feral, lifting your hips higher against the leather seat, and he began to drive into you with a relentless pace.
“You liked it?” he growled. He drove deep, bottoming out inside you until you let out a helpless sob. “You liked knowing a killer was tracking your every move? You're a sick little girl.”
The leather seat of the motorcycle creaked beneath you with every ruthless strike.“Look at you now. Completely stretched out on my bike, taking every inch of me.”
“Soldat... please—” you cried out, your legs tightening around his waist, your fingers clawing deep into the leather of his jacket.
“Please what?” he muttered roughly. “You belong to me now. Say it.”
“I'm yours,Soldat” you gasped.
“Damn right you are,” he growled. He pulled back just enough to drive back in with a heavy thud that made your vision spot. “You don't get to come until I tell you to. You hold it in for me, you hear me? You take every single thrust until I'm ready to give it to you.”
Your fingers clawed desperately into the thick leather of his jacket, your bare legs trembling violently where they were locked around his waist.
“I can't... Soldat,” a helpless sob tore from your throat. Your entire body was trembling violently beneath him, as the agonizingly sharp waves of pleasure threatened to pull you under. “You're... you're too deep. It's driving me crazy, please...”
“I told you to wait. I want to watch your eyes roll back when I finally let you break.” His metal hand slid up to cup your jaw, while his flesh hand held your hip perfectly pinned to the leather seat of the bike.
“Tell me what you want,” he commanded roughly, his face dropping down until his forehead rested against yours.“Beg for it.”
“Please, Soldat... please let me come,” you sobbed out. You arched your back against the cold handlebars of the bike, your trembling thighs squeezing his waist as tightly as you could.“I'll do whatever you want... just let me come. Please.”
“Good girl,” he growled, the rough words vibrating straight against your wet lips.He didn't give you another second of warning. His hand slammed hard against your hip, holding you locked flat against the leather seat, while his left hand anchored the back of your neck. He picked up the pace.
The motorcycle creaked violently beneath the sheer force of his movement. You couldn't even breathe, let alone speak, as he ruthlessly drove you over the edge.
“Take it,” he muttered roughly, his face burying into the crook of your neck, his teeth bruising the soft skin over your collarbone. “Come for me now,sweet thing.”
The command was all it took. Your head fell back, a loud scream escaping your lips into the silent night.Hearing you break completely unraveled the Winter Soldier.
He let out a harsh roar—a sound of pure animalistic release—as his own climax hit him. His jaw locked so tight the veins in his neck strained.At the final moment, he shifted, pulling away to ensure the intensity of the encounter reached its conclusion outside of you.
The thick heat of his climax painted the dark silk of your bunched-up dress and the pale skin of your stomach and chest in long surges.He stood there shivering from the sheer force of the release, his chest heaving violently against yours.
The only sound in the ruined observatory was the frantic rhythm of your shared, breathless recovery and the distant, lonely sigh of the pines below.His thumb remained resting against your skin, tracing a slow line over your thigh as if he were trying to process the physical reality of what had just happened.
For a man who had spent decades living as a ghost— who only left blood behind—the sight of his own messy, unmistakable mark of possession on a living person seemed to completely stun him. He looked entirely trapped somewhere between the efficiency of the Soldat and the stunned awakening of a man who hadn't felt this alive in half a century.
His fingers aggressively pulled his tactical pants back up, tucking himself away before his metal hand yanked the zipper shut with a sharp, metallic clack. He reached for his tactical belt, tightening the buckle with a loud snap.Only when he was fully dressed and locked back into his soldier uniform did he look back up at you.
Was it normal to get aroused again just by looking at him? Probably not.
He reached into one of the side pouches of his tactical belt, pulling out a dark military-grade utility cloth.He didn't ask you to move. His large flesh hand gripped your thigh to hold you steady on the leather seat, while his left arm braced against the frame of the bike. He leaned over you again.
The cloth was dry and rough against your sensitized skin. He wiped the cooling smears of his climax from your stomach and chest with firm strokes. He didn't look into your eyes while he did it; his focus was entirely objective, cleaning your skin with the same detached, methodical thoroughness he would use to maintain a weapon after a heavy firefight. His fingers were rough, but he wasn't trying to hurt you—he was just completely devoid of tenderness.
Once your skin was clear, he shoved the cloth back into his pouch. He reached down, grabbing the hem of your bunched-up dark silk dress, and pulled it back down over your thighs with a single, rough yank to cover you up.
“I need my underwear back,” you said.He looked down at the dark gravel between his combat boots, where the delicate, shredded lace was lying ruined in the dirt. He had ripped them off with zero regard for their survival, and they were completely useless now.He didn't bend down to pick them up. Instead, he looked back up at your face, his expression deadpan and entirely unbothered.
“You're not getting them back,” he grunted. He took a single step closer, crowding your space one last time. “I tore them. They're mine now.”
“Take your coat,” he ordered. “The mist is rolling in. You're going back to the city.”
He had taken your underwear, marked your body, and ordered you back to the city with military authority. He was already pulling away, retreating back behind the icy walls of the Soldat.But you weren't ready to let him go yet.
“Can I kiss you?” you whispered into the dark. Bucky went entirely still, his hand freezing on the handle of his motorcycle. In all his decades of programming, nobody had ever asked for his permission to touch him. Nobody had ever looked at his lips—the lips of an assassin—and wanted a kiss.
He leaned down just a fraction of an inch, his hot breath brushing against your lips, teasing you with the very proximity you were begging for. His thumb pressed hard against your bottom lip, deliberately parting them, but he kept his own mouth just out of reach.
“You want a kiss?” he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly warning that rattled down your spine. “You earn it first. Go back to your shop. Sit bare under that dress all night and think about what we did up here. If you're a good girl, maybe next time I'll give you what you want. Now get in your car.”
jackson’s sister ˚⋆ฺ ♡ ⋆˚࿔ | “partner, let me upgrade you.” [long hcs]
holland march x healy!detective!reader
—strangers to coworkers to lovers
࿔ the first time holland saw you, jackson had made the mistake of introducing you too casually. like you’re not the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his entire life. your house was the spot for your brother to relax for a bit, and you were casually walking around, perfect hair and a prettier face. looking entirely too refined to be standing in the middle of whatever chaos your brother and his partner were causing.
࿔ holland had heard jackson say something along the lines of “..my sister..” and it was like he had a full system shut down, completely stopping mid sentence. “that’s your sister?! like genetically?? biologically???” “march.” “no, jackson i’m serious, like look at her and look at you.” you’re trying not to laugh while jackson looks like he’s one more word away from homicide.
࿔ he’s attempting to recover and stands up too quickly, banging his knee against your coffee table, you laugh at his whiney voice, and he looks at you with this lovesick look on his face. jackson noticed immediately.
“no.”
“i didn’t say anything..”
“your face did!”
࿔ you spent the first week of knowing him wondering how the fuck did this man make it to his age. you’re helping them with cases because jacskon keeps dragging you along with him, paperwork, phone calls, and picking locks a little too well for someone who claims to not know much about criminal activity. and holland is unbearable about it. constantly hovering around you, offering you drinks you don’t want, dramatically acting wounded whenever you take a jab at him.
࿔ the chemistry is outrageous because you’re composed and razor-sharp while holland is… holland. drunk, chaotic, dramatic, shamelessly flirtatious. you spend half your time glaring at him while secretly trying not to laugh.
࿔ he starts showing off constantly when you’re around too. suddenly every story becomes exaggerated. every punchline gets louder. he’ll do something objectively dangerous during a case and immediately glance at you afterwards to see if you looked impressed. you usually looks horrified instead. which somehow encourages him more. jackson immediately and absolutely hates it.
“stay away from my sister.”
“i’m not going near your sister.” while holland is visibly staring at you from across the room while saying this.
࿔ you’re one of the only people who can genuinely fluster holland too. not because you flirt openly, but because you catch him off guard. you’ll straighten his tie absentmindedly mid-conversation and suddenly he forgets what year it is.
࿔ you’ll lean close to light his cigarette and holland goes completely silent for once in his life.
࿔ the best part is that you clearly like him long before you admit it.
࿔ you start lingering after work. calling him instead of jackson when there’s new information. rolling your eyes affectionately instead of genuinely.
࿔ holland notices every tiny change instantly because he’s paying an absurd amount of attention to you. one night the three of you are working late on a case and you fall asleep on the couch beside holland while reading files. he goes dead quiet immediately. just sits there staring at you with this soft bewildered expression like he cannot believe someone this lovely trusts him enough to sleep near him.
࿔ holland gets under your skin gradually, which makes you also become weirdly protective of him over time. because beneath all the sleazy charm and nonsense you realise he’s actually… kind. pathetically kind, honestly. it’s the little things you notice when he thinks nobody’s paying attention. the way he always positions himself between you and danger automatically. the way he lowers his voice when you’re tired. the way he looks at holly like she hung the moon.
࿔ you realise one night while watching him with his daughter that most of his sleazy persona is armour. performance. a distraction. underneath it is someone painfully soft. and unfortunately for you, you start finding that really attractive.
࿔ you begin looking forward to his visits without meaning to. listening for his obnoxious knocking. catching yourself smiling before you even open the door because you already knows he’ll walk in talking nonsense at full volume.
࿔ holland becomes part of you routine frighteningly quickly. coffee cups left in your sink. his jackets hanging over chairs. the sound of him arguing with jackson in the next room while you secretly try not to laugh.
࿔ you’re memorising him too: the exact tone his voice takes when he’s genuinely worried. how his hair curls slightly when it rains. the fact he gets quieter after bad cases. the way his bravado slips whenever you touch him unexpectedly. holland does get shy around you eventually. that catches you off guard most.
࿔ below all the confidence and flirting, there’s this strange almost-boyish nervousness whenever things become sincere. holland can flirt all day long, but if you compliment him genuinely? he’s finished.
࿔ one night, you’re patching up a cut on his eyebrow after a fight and he suddenly says very softly: “you always look at me like i’m better than i am.” and you answer without hesitation: “maybe you’re worse at seeing yourself than i thought.” holland genuinely doesn’t know what to do with tenderness like that.
࿔ the moment you both realise you’re truly in trouble happens late at night after a rough case. holland’s drunk, bruised, tie hanging loose, sitting at your kitchen table talking quietly for once. he’s telling some story about holly as a child, smiling softly into his whiskey glass. and suddenly you see it. the loneliness in him. not pathetic loneliness. just deep. old. the kind someone jokes through because they don’t know what else to do with it.
࿔ and your chest physically aches looking at him. because beneath all the chaos, holland wants to be loved so badly it’s almost heartbreaking. he can see you looking at him that way, and he knows you feel it too. after that, you’re both softer towards each other.
࿔ he starts drinking less around you eventually, though not intentionally at first. he just likes remembering conversations with you clearly. likes staying sharp enough to notice every little expression you make. you notice immediately of course. “you’re sober.” holland shrugs awkwardly. “trying something new. felt seasonal.”
࿔ one of your favourite things becomes watching holland attempt to act cool when he’s nervous. because he’s terrible at it. he’ll lean casually against walls and immediately lose balance.
࿔ you’re smoothing his clothes out, brushing lint off of him, brushing his messy hair, keeping ashtrays and lighters in every room for him, letting him crash at your house anytime he wants.
࿔ holland notices every single thing. he starts looking at you differently too once he realises you’re caring for him on purpose now. your chemistry gets infinitely worse you begin flirting back intentionally. leaning close while talking just to watch him lose focus. touching his arm casually and feeling him go quiet. calling him “handsome” in that dry teasing voice that makes him stare at her like he’s been shot.
࿔ at some point you catch yourself defending holland automatically whenever jackson insults him. “he’s an idiot.” “he solved the case.” “by accident.” “he still solved it! stop being mean to him!”
࿔ and jackson looks at you with the most confused expression because what the fuck do you like him too???
࿔ holland falls hardest during the quiet moments though. you asleep in the passenger seat while he drives. when you’re humming softly to old jazz records. when you’re instinctively reaching for his hand during stressful moments without even realising you’re doing it.
࿔ one night after a case goes particularly badly, holland shows up at your house bleeding slightly and pretending it’s “mostly superficial”. you clean him up in silence at the bathroom sink while he watches you with unusually soft eyes. and you realise, very suddenly, that trusting holland march feels terrifyingly easy. which is absurd. because he’s a disaster. but he’s your disaster now.
࿔ the first time you kiss him happens almost accidentally. you’re adjusting the bandage near his jaw while he talks quietly about something unimportant, and suddenly he stops mid-sentence because you’re looking at him differently. really looking at him. holland’s voice goes softer immediately. “what?” and you don’t answer. just kiss him. for once in his life holland march is completely speechless. like genuinely stunned silent. then, after several full seconds: “wow.”
࿔ and holland looks at you with this dazed, overwhelmed expression like he cannot believe something this good actually happened to him.
warnings: slightly suggestive content but other than that literally nothing, mentions of blood and injuries
word count: 1.1k
a/n: this came to me in a vision, anyway… i’m sharing it with you… i need this loser so bad, those new ddba s3 pics of him have sent my mind into a frenzy. freak4freak
you were lounging on the bed, your skin still faintly damp from the shower. tiny beads of water clung to the nape of your neck where the spray had brushed against you.
your skin faintly smelled of that new shampoo and body lotion you had tried — the memory of dex wrapping his arms around you and inhaling your scent still freshly engraved in your mind.
“dex,” you had giggled as he all but squeezed you to himself, holding you so tight it felt like he was trying to blend your body into his own.
you raised your hands to his shoulders. he was still clad in his bullseye suit — the dark blue material feeling strangely artificial under your palms.
he smelled of sweat and dust, and you swore you’d noticed a speck of blood somewhere on him when he first came inside, though it was gone now. ever since the two of you had started dating seriously, you’d noticed he always cleaned himself up after coming back from… work. if you could even call what he did work.
he no longer came home covered in grime and someone else’s coppery, crimson blood. he knew you always worried it was his, even if most of the time it wasn’t.
but still, the heavy suit trapped his body heat, and the sweat that came with the adrenaline couldn't be helped.
“what is it?” he grumbled, noticing the way you knit your brows and tried to pull away from his grip. not that the iron embrace he had on your hips would have let you move anyway.
“you smell,” you pointed out, suppressing a laugh at his instantly irritated expression.
all he wanted to do was hold you and kiss you stupid after another successful mission, and here you were — complaining about something he couldn’t control.
“what do you want me to do?” he muttered, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck like a clingy animal. “'s not my fault.”
“benjamin,” you warned, cradling his head as he all but whined. here he was— a grown man, an infamous vigilante who had people shaking in their boots at the mere mention of his name—whining in your arms like a child. “i love you. but please, for the love of god, go shower.”
he sighed, knowing those three words were the exact key he could never resist. he melted every single time you said it, whether it was the first or the hundredth time.
and you were right… he did kind of stink.
so that was how you ended up laying on your bed in nothing but a t-shirt, waiting for him to finish. all the dirt and soot and gore of his day washing down the drain with the hot water.
the door creaked on its hinges as he stepped out, a slight mist rolling out behind him. his blonde hair was damp and ruffled where the water had undone his styling, and he had nothing but a towel loosely wrapped around his hips.
you subconsciously bit your lip at the sight, your breathing stuttering at his appearance. you felt your pupils dilating as your thighs involuntarily squeezed together.
he didn't seem to notice your staring at first, intent on grabbing a shirt and a clean pair of boxers from the dresser.
you admired the hard strain of his back muscles, the perfectly sculpted slope of his shoulders and abs as he turned around, grumbling softly as he sifted through his clothes.
you scooted closer to the edge of the mattress, getting closer to where he stood. up close, he looked even more dangerous, even more gorgeous.
“you’re staring,” he pointed out, and you could hear the smug smirk in his voice.
“is it a crime for a woman to admire her boyfriend’s stunning physique?”
“stunning?” he turned around sharply, a little breathless from the massive grin spreading across his face.
he was still only sporting that towel loosely draped over his hips… if it slipped just a fraction…
“yeah,” you breathed, standing up. your fingers traced over the ridges of his abs, feeling the intense heat radiating from his skin. he tensed instantly under your touch. “stunning.”
you didn’t notice the way dex looked at you with a sudden, dark hunger — you were too caught up in admiring him.
it was one thing for him to worship you all the time, constantly repeating how much he loved you, how obsessed he was.
but it was a completely different beast when you were the one doing it, showing your raw devotion to him openly.
it did something lethal to his brain, cracking open his fragile skull and making his spine tingle right where the scar from his injury lay.
your lips parted as a quiet giggle involuntarily escaped you.
“what is it?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave as he suppressed the urge to shove you onto the mattress and kiss you senseless.
“you’re just so…” your brain searched for the right word. “large. like… in a really good way. it’s hot.”
his mind completely short-circuited at that, your words echoing through his skull like a broken, beautiful record player.
“i like how,” your hands dragged up to his shoulders, “how wide your shoulders are. your chest is so broad… your arms, your abs. your belly.” you spoke of him like he was the most precious thing on earth. like his body was a shrine you were destined to worship. him. “your thighs.”
him, who others feared or viewed as nothing but a monster. a murderer. a tool simply utilizable before discarding. but you… you looked at him like he hung the stars in the sky.
“you’ve been eating more,” you noted matter-of-factly. but before his deep rooted insecurity could surface, you cut it off. “i like that. i like you. i like how you’re…”
you grabbed his hands, pulling his massive frame closer to yours. he made a low, wrecked noise in the back of his throat, every ounce of his self-restraint faltering by the second.
“i like how you have enough muscle for the both of us,” you finally whispered, looking up into his eyes.
and all you found there was purely unfiltered love, adoration, and burning lust.
it made your heart skip a beat. your dex, looking down at you like you were the center of his universe. because to him, you absolutely were.
“you can’t just say shit like that to me…” he whispered, his large hand coming up to cup your cheek. “and expect me to act normal.”
“i never said i wanted you to be,” you shot back, and dex was immediately reminded exactly why you were his.
“show me dex…” you whispered, slipping your fingers between your bodies and carefully undoing the knot holding together the towel. “show me everything you want to do to me.”
you could feel the groan vibrating through his chest as all self-restraint perished and he pushed you towards the bed.
Ryland Grace who has a swear jar in his classroom, and every time a kid swears, they have to put their name in and when he asks a question and no one raises their hand to answer, he'll draw a name from the jar. It's really discouraged his kids from swearing.
Summary: Dex becomes obsessed with one of the waitresses at his local diner. (3.5k)
Tags/warnings: smut (mdni), dry humping, oral (f!receiving), face riding, cumming untouched, pathetic dex, mentions of violence, mentions of murder, stalking, obsessive/possessive behavior, reader is morally grey and kind of a freak (affectionately)
A/N: First time writing for Dex!!! Heavily inspired by the song "She" by Tyler, The Creator and Frank Ocean. English is not my first language and this was not proofread. Enjoy!
masterlist
A routine, that's all you craved for when you skipped town a couple of months ago. That's what you try to remind yourself as another day, identical to the previous, begins.
You wake up tangled in your cheep sheets, glistening with sweat as the first rays of sunshine filter through your open window.
You paddle to the small kitchen of your new home, the floorboards creaking under your bare feet, and make yourself a cup of coffee. Then, you start to get ready for another shift at the diner.
It's not your dream job — far from it, actually — but the pay is decent, and if you manage to flash a sweet smile convincingly enough to the right clients, the tips can be pretty consistent.
After a relatively long drive from the secluded ranch you managed to buy from a man who didn't ask many questions when you asked to pay upfront with cash, you park your beat-up sedan in front of the diner.
As you walk in you flash a smile to the few regulars you recognize, and you great your coworker behind the counter — a young girl too sweet for her own good.
"Morning!" she replies with a smile of her own, despite the fact that's way to early for someone to look this joyous.
After exchanging a few niceties, you tie your apron and officially begin your shift. It's the same routine as usual: go up to tables, take orders, and refill cups with coffee that you know for sure tastes like shit.
But then, just like clockwork, at exactly the same time as every day you work the morning shift, your favorite costumer walks in.
He's older and unfairly attractive, with his broad shoulders and graying blond hair. Like usual, he sits at a booth far from the windows and he picks up the menu, carefully studying it, despite always ordering the same thing.
"Good morning, Tony! What can I get you today?"
You take out your notepad from the pocket of your apron, and let the pen hover over the blank page, waiting for his answer.
"I'll have a banana milkshake," he replies, looking up at you with a controlled smile, making a shiver run down your spine.
There's nothing unusual about him. He's polite, always thanks you when you get him his order, and tips way too much considering he always gets the same banana milkshake.
But there's something in the way you feel his eyes following you whenever he's in the diner that makes you feel naked — like he knows what you're so desperately trying to hide.
Still, you keep on the facade you use whenever you're interacting with other people, especially costumers, and leave to make his banana milkshake.
His gaze burns on the back of your head, and your hands tremble slightly as you pour the milk in the blender. You try to sneak a glance in his general direction, but when your eyes land on his figure, he's already looking somewhere else.
After, the routine resumes as usual. He drinks his milkshake, you give him his check, and he leaves a generous tip before walking out of the diner.
In the past, you tried imagining what his life outside might look like. Where does he work? Does he live nearby? Does he have someone waiting for him at home?
Questions like this usually leave you feeling uneasy and unsatisfied when you realize that you'll probably never know the answer.
Later that night, desperately trying to push further away any thoughts about Tony, you decide to call Chris over.
He's a nice guy. Definitely not the love of your life, but a pleasant enough distraction from your previous life.
You met him a few weeks ago at the diner, and when he shyly asked for your number — after pushing the initial instinct to give him the wrong one — you left it written on his check.
After that first encounter, he brought you on many dates, but still, you never got past first base, and he, like a gentleman, never pushed further.
Tonight, though, things are going to change.
At 8 pm sharp, you hear the doorbell ring, and when you open your door, you find him still in uniform, holding a gorgeous bouquet of flowers.
"Sorry, I just got off work. I would have changed, but I didn't want to be late, and-" you press your lips against his, muffling the rest of his apology.
Truth be told, at first the fact that he's a cop made you nervous. You worried he would look into your past and find out what made you run away. Instead, he seemingly believed every word that came out of your mouth when you told him your made-up background story, and it made you more inclined to keep seeing him. At least, until he realizes that everything you told him, even your name, is a lie.
"Don't worry about it," you mumble against his lips. "I'm pretty sure I've got some clothes that could fit you. Now, come in."
You take his free hand in yours and drag him past the threshold, closing the door behind him.
Then, after putting the bouquet in a vase, you walk towards your bedroom, looking at him over your shoulder, silently inviting him to follow you. Like a siren luring in an unfortunate mariner.
He seems to take the bait, and gladly follows you. Men are so predictable.
"Here, let me see if I can find some sweats," you say, looking inside your closet.
In the meantime, Chris stands awkwardly near the door, looking so out of place in your bedroom.
As you rummage through the few clothes that you brought with you, he takes off his holster and places it on your nightstand, making it land on the wooden surface with a loud thud.
The cold night air enters the room through your open window, moving the blinds in an almost hypnotic way, catching Chris' attention.
Then, he freezes.
You turn around in that exact moment, holding a pair of oversized sweats in your hands, and furrow your brown when you see him looking attentively at a distant point outside your window.
"What is it?"
"I think I saw something."
You let out a giggle, taking a step closer to his unmoving body.
"I live near the woods. It was probably just an animal."
You can see it in his eyes that he's not convinced, so you lay the sweats on your bed and place your hands on his chest.
"Come on. Let's get you out of this uniform, officer," you whisper near his ear, before placing a languid kiss on his jaw.
It turns out to be a good enough distraction. His gaze shifts in your direction, and his hands immediately find your hips, pulling you closer to his body.
You push him on the bed, and then straddle him, before moving your hands on his shoulder and leaving a trail of kisses from his jaw down to his neck.
His back is pressed near the window, making it possible for you to see some movement near a couple of trees outside your house.
Before you can think about your next move, a knife slices the air, landing on the opposite wall. You let out a scream, as Chris moves your body and lunges towards the gun on your nightstand. He then fires two shoots in the general direction of the attacker. But it's too late. He's gone.
Your heart is beating so fast in your chest that you're pretty sure Chris can hear it as well. He has something more urgent to think about though.
Blood is running down his left arm, soaking his uniform. The wound is pretty close to the spot where your hand was just a few moments ago, and yet, you're unharmed.
Did the attacker miss, or were you never the target?
"Shit," Chris says, as he tries to apply some pressure on the cut.
"Wait, let me help you."
You raise from the bed and run to your bathroom, where you keep your first aid kit. Once you're back in the bedroom, you help him take off his uniform, and as you begin to disinfect the wound, Chris breaks the silence.
"Who the fuck was that? He had a fucking- A fucking mask, and he-" his tone is understandably panicked, and his mind was clearly running a hundred miles an hour.
"Was that one of your exes?"
The question sounds so absurd you almost laugh, but decide that now is probably not the right moment.
"If that's your ex you should probably own a pistol, you know that?"
You blame his rambling to the adrenaline that's probably running through his veins right now, and keep cleaning him up.
It doesn't take you long to stop the bleeding. The cut is actually not that deep, but it doesn't seem to ease his mind. On the contrary.
As soon as you finish securing the sterile gauze over the wound, he grabs his things and almost runs to the door, mumbling something about calling you tomorrow.
He does offer you to spend the night at his apartment, but when you decline he doesn't try too hard to change your mind, instead getting in his car and driving away as if someone were chasing him.
When you go back to your room, for some reason unknown to you, you don't feel scared or threatened.
Your eyes land on the knife, still plugged in the drywall. You walk closer and pull it out, the weight feeling oddly comforting in your hands.
There's some of Chris' blood on it, so you wipe it on your sleep shorts, before hiding it in your underwear drawer.
And in that moment you think: it was never meant for you. It was meant for him only.
The next morning, when you check your phone, you don't find any missed calls from Chris. You think that what happened last night must have scared him away for good, and, weirdly enough, it gives you a strange sense of relief.
Throughout the rest of the day you keep occasionally checking your phone, mostly because it feels like the right think to do, not because you're actually concerned.
You should be worried. Maybe you should try to reach out. Go to his apartment, even. But you never do.
Instead, you go back to your house and slip in the shower, trying to wash away the smell of fried bacon and burned coffee that always lingers on you after you leave the diner.
Once you're done, you realize you've forgotten your towel, leaving you no option but to walk completely naked to your bedroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the floorboards.
The blinds in your bedroom are open — as they usually are — but now, for the first time since you moved in this house, you feel a pair of eyes on you.
A shiver runs down your spine, but you do nothing to cover yourself or close the curtains, because there's something familiar about this feeling.
You brush it off, instead applying lotion over your damp body, before finally putting on your clean pj's and going to bed.
Next time you're at the diner, something strange happens.
Tony walks in at the same time as usual, he sits at his usual booth, and he orders the same banana milkshake.
Nothing is out of the ordinary. Except this time the way his gaze follows you feels warmer than usual, and just as you're about to pour the drink inside the glass, the realization suddenly dawns on you.
Tony's the one who has been looking at you through your window. And he's probably the one who threw that knife at Chris.
You remain frozen on your spot until another waitress squeezes past you, reminding you that you're still in a public place. And he's in the same room as you.
You swallow hard enough to make noise, before pouring some whipped cream over the milkshake, grabbing a straw and walking up to Tony's table.
"Here you go," you said placing the glass down on the table, praying he didn't notice the way your voice wavered.
"Thank you, ma'am," he replies, reaching for his milkshake and accidentally brushing your fingers with his.
You immediately move your hand as if you got burned, and without saying anything else you walk away, busying yourself with other costumers.
His gaze, though, weights heavier than it ever has today, and you can't breath properly until he leaves.
The drive home after your shift is silent — you don't even turn on the radio — but that's fine, because your thoughts make enough noise on their own.
The road that usually seems never ending, today feels uncharacteristically short. Even after turning off the engine, you remain seated inside your car.
Your skin is prickling with a feeling similar to anxiety, but not quite.
Excitement, that's what it it.
Despite the rational part of your brain telling you that you should feel scared, that you might be in danger, and that Chris' radio silence might have been caused by something quiet dark, you can't help but hope Tony will be outside your window, watching you.
So you walk inside your home.
Everything's silent. The only sound that can be heard is the low buzz of your fridge. Despite that, you have a feeling you're not alone.
"Tony? Is that you?" and after a moment. "Is that even your real name?"
Then, from a dark corner, a broad figure emerges. Despite the tactical gear and the mask covering everything beside his eyes, you know immediately that the figure that has been inhabiting the shadows near you for longer than you might expect is none other than your favorite costumer.
"Hi, Tony," you great him, your voice just above a whisper. "Or you wanna tell me your real name?"
For a moment you're met with silence, so long that you begin to wonder whether you got it all wrong and there's an actual stranger in your house. Your heartbeat begins to raise, until he speak.
"Benjamin."
"Hi, Benjamin."
You stand there, staring at each other, until you take a step forward in his direction.
"So it was you, uh? How long have you been watching me?" you ask, but there's no real malice, or anger in your voice. Just plain curiosity.
"Ever since I first met you."
It's weird, you would have expected him to be unwavering, sure of himself. Terrifying, even.
Instead, he sounds almost ashamed, making it difficult for you to believe that he's the same man that threw a knife at your date the other night.
You take another step forward, never moving your gaze from his masked face.
"Are you going to show me you pretty face or not?"
He lets out a sharp exhale, sounding like he just got punched. Experiencing first hand the power your words have over him makes you feel almost high.
When he doesn't make a move to take off his mask, you raise your hands to his neck and do it yourself.
The moonlight shines over his messy locks, and the scar on his cheek catches the light just right, making you want to lick it.
Instead, you let the mask drop on the floor, and begin lightly scratching his chest over his suit, your touch featherlight, almost imperceptible.
"So, you watched me for weeks. What was I doing?"
The way his expression shifts and the tips of his ears redden slightly make your lips curl into a smug smile.
You can see his gloves hands clenching at his sides, almost like he's making an active effort not to reach out. Like he's waiting for your permission.
"You were reading, mostly. Sometimes you would watch a movie, if you were not too tired. Most of the times you were too exhausted to do anything. Other times-" and he stops, his face burning.
You tilt your head, confused by what he might be referring to, until you realize.
"What? What was I doing?"
Silence.
"Touching yourself."
Your grin widens, and your hands shift from his chest to his hair.
"Hm, and how did that make you feel, uh? Did it turn you on? Did you wish you could replace my fingers with yours?"
As you ask him these filthy questions, you tug his hair. Hard.
In response, he lets out a low moan, and his hands fly to your hips, mostly trying to ground himself.
"P-Please..."
The word comes out almost uncertain from his mouth, making your lips curl in amusement.
How the tables have turned. How did he go from being your stalker to begging you to let him touch you?
"Please, what?"
"Let me make you feel good."
His voice is strained, almost as if he were in physical pain.
"You really think you can do that?" you ask mockingly.
He nods, looking so eager to please.
You don't offer him a response. Instead you start walking to your bedroom — the same bedroom he has been spying for weeks — and you don't have to look back to know he's following you.
The mattress sinks under your weight as your sit on it. Benjamin doesn't hesitate before falling on his knees, right in front of you.
He starts soft, gently kissing your knuckles. Then he starts traveling higher, his lips caressing the soft skin of your arms, making your eyes flutter closed.
He then places his hands on either side of your body, steadying himself as he kisses your neck. He keeps getting closer to his final destination, grazing your jaw, your cheeks, and finally your lips.
At first the kiss is soft and tender, until you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer. This seems to be enough of an invitation for him.
The kiss turns hungry, almost desperate. You can feel the weight of his body over yours as he lays you down on the bed. But you don't stay in this position for long.
Taking him by surprise, you flip him over — but you have the suspicion he's right where he wants to be, underneath you.
His hands begin exploring your body, and your own move back to his hair, burying your fingers in his graying locks.
Underneath the layers of his tactical gear, you can feel him getting progressively harder. All it takes is you grinding your hips over his bulge to get another moan out of him.
You keep moving, chasing friction with his clothed cock, trying to ease the heath between your legs.
Surprisingly, he's the first one to break the kiss.
"Please, can I taste you?"
He sounds so desperate you can feel your panties getting even more wet than before.
In response, you take off your pants and your underwear in one go, but when you move to lay on the bed, he stops you. Instead, he moves your hips higher up, near his face.
Without a warning, he pushes you down on his face. Your hands immediately travel back to his hair, tugging them as you let out a high pitched moan.
At first, he drags his tongue from you needy hole to your clit, before laying a kiss on the bundle of nerves.
His movements are unsure at first, like he's trying to memorize the shape of you. Then, when you start grinding on his face, he seems to gain more confidence, and begins to eat you out like a man starved.
Even though you're completely lost in your pleasure, you can feel him moaning and whispering praises into your cunt.
Things like "you taste so good," and, "you're so perfect."
But the closer you get to your release, the darker his words get.
"Ain't no man allowed in your bedroom except for me," or, "he couldn't have made you feel this good," or simply, "you're mine."
The possessiveness in his voice is enough to make you reach your orgasm, holding onto him like an anchor.
The sound of your release paired with the way to keep pulling his hair — hard enough to sting — is enough make him cum untouched in his pants.
After catching your breath, you move from Benjamin's face and roll over, laying by his side.
He moves as well, resting his head in your lap and wrapping his arms around your waist, holding you so tight that you think he might be afraid that you're going to disappear at any moment.
A moment of silence passes between the two of you.
"Benjamin?"
"Mhm?"
"What happened to Chris?"
"I killed him."
A/N: This was the fic! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated, even if it's criticism (as long as it's constructive). I love talking with you angels, so my dms and inbox are always open!
summary: the way you and ryland grace got involved with the hail mary are polar opposites. he was forced on this mission against will, despite wanting to live. on the contrary, you volunteered on this mission to die. both of you get caught up in the antithesis of your initial reasoning as ryland finds someone to die for, and you find someone to live for.
tags: somehow angsty?? i meant to write fluff?? reader is lowkey suicidal lmao, reader joined the hail mary to die, rocky mentions and many tears, mentions of eva stratt
Ryland Grace seems to be under the false impression that you are everything he is not.
Being alone in a confined space for so long, you were bound to talk a lot, and it was only a matter of time the topics brushed over how and why you ended up floating in space to find but a semblance of hope to save your planet before extinction in the vast void of the universe.
"Why did you join the mission if you weren't, you know..." Grace trails off, sheepish in his inquiry, "... Sure?"
"Your eloquence astounds me, Doctor Grace," you chuckle, giving him a half hearted shrug. Not meant to be a full reply, but to convey your stance on the matter.
"I had the gene. That was the most important factor, I think. Everything else they could just hammer into my head pronto before launch. Same for the whole astronaut training, apparently." With a contemplative hum, you purse your lips, "Though I suppose it helped Stratt immensely that I picked things up super fast." Purely to show you have a speck of modesty left; "Not to toot my own horn, but to totally toot my own horn," you tack on as an afterthought, just so Grace doesn't think of you as an arrogant ass.
"All the horns are yours to toot, honestly," Grace lifts up both hands in surrender, then gesturing at you with open palms as if to say the stage is yours. "I had heard your name come up multiple times the moment I was cleared to handle confidential information." He mirrors your earlier shrug, like he doesn't want to fully commit to his perception. "Stratt sounded oddly self-assured, like you were the one ace up her sleeve that wouldn't fail her."
That draws a short bark of a laugh out of you. Eva Stratt is many things, but unprepared is not one of them.
Having blind faith in people, also. Not her style at all.
"That's an exaggeration," you push at his shoulder like you push away the ridiculous idea, "I had many back-ups like everyone else, I assure you." Stretching out your legs, you sink back into the impromptu pillow fort with a sigh, "I trust your judgement. If you say so, that is how it must've looked like to an observer. Even if so, it's probably just that she saw high odds of success with my presence or something. Nobody is indispensable to Stratt."
"Oh, I would know."
The bitter chuckle that leaves his lips drip with venom.
... You probably shouldn't ask, but what is humanity without curiosity?
"Could be a different case for you," Nodding, you carefully try breaching the subject. "She was very insistent that you join. I know she's bossy and persuasive, but I still cannot fathom how she managed to convince you. That's Stratt, alright."
It takes you a second that might have come off as you underestimating him.
"Not in a bad way!!" Before he can speak, your hands fly up in defense, "I mean, you just seemed so..." Rolling your hands before clasping them together once you scrambled for the appropriate word for long enough, "... Hesitant. Not to say you were meek or bad at your job or anything, but I was under the impression that you didn't want to be involved any more than the bare minimum needed for the science." Taking a breath through your teeth, you offer a quiet "Sorry."
"You're right on the mark," he says, tone somber, and oh, you're not sure if you can bear to look at him. You have come across him with a mournful expression on his face once or twice, seemingly expressionless but the bleak mood hanging heavily in the air as he watches the stars; and it tugs at your heartstrings in all the wrong ways. "She didn't."
"Hm?"
"She didn't convince me."
Heart dropping to your stomach at the implications, you turn your head to face him at the speed of a medieval gate opening.
"I didn't volunteer," His mouth twitches up, though it's more a grimace than anything else, "I refused — tried to escape when she tried to force me into it. The memories are still a little spotty, but I remember being hunted down."
The sheen of tears in his eyes reflects your own, your lower lip wobbling as he continues; "The grass against my cheek. Uncomfortable pressure on my lower back. A rainbow. The feeling of an intrusive needle in my neck."
They didn't give him a choice. He was hunted down like an animal and forced on a suicide mission with one order, all in the name of greater good. And yet.
And yet he works to help those back home — home, if you can even call it that with the newfound revelation. You cannot imagine being stripped of your autonomy in such a way and still have the resolve to help the very people that betrayed you.
Sure, it is not the entire population. A powerful few, if not just one, but still. You don't dare label him a saint or assume his feelings on the matter, with considerable effort.
The feeling of being betrayed, deceived, far outweighs the sorrow, your resentment manifesting itself as molten anger streaming down your cheeks.
How dare they. How dare they.
"I'm nothing like you, Yao, or Ilyukhina," Grace mumbles, the words haphazardly thrown together as he moves to get up. "Sorry I'm not who you think I am."
Your hand flies to latch on his wrist so hard you hear one of your joints pop.
"We," Swallowing thickly, you close your eyes to pull yourself together, trying to refrain from choking on your words, "We were told you agreed. Yao was against forcing you from the very beginning, as were the rest of us. Stratt said after a long discussion, you wanted to be put in the medically induced coma before launch for nerves or something—!!"
Bile raises in your throat. Your ignorance makes you feel almost complicit in what happened to him, even if you had no say in the matter.
"I'm so sorry," you barely manage to get the words out, lightly tugging at his wrist.
Grace crumples in your arms like a flimsy doll, fingers clumsily digging into your shirt in a poor attempt to hold onto you — or to hold himself together. You can't tell.
"Thank you," you barely hear the words, muffled by your own shoulder, "It's nice to know at least some cared."
Your circumstances could not have been more different. The revelation hangs in the air, present yet not in focus.
It's not like you had someone to die for, you have told Grace that much. No heroism or bravery was involved in your decision, you did simply because you could. No grand aspirations behind it.
It would be nice to be hailed as a hero if you succeed, though it's a double edged sword. You have enough grasp on history to know how quick people are to pin the blame on whoever is the easiest target, in which you and Grace are the very ones.
"I still think that you're extremely brave." Grace croaks, breaking the silence. The glassy sheen in his eyes match yours.
Craning your head to meet his gaze, you can't help but furrow your brows in disbelief. "... I just told you I wasn't thinking much of anything. Might as well have been on autopilot the entire time."
"Doesn't change a thing," Grace shrugs with a surprisingly smug smile that comes with proving himself right, pinky bumping against yours as he adjusts his position gaze at the pixellated beach more comfortably, a small oop— sounding in the room at the contact.
"I think you're extremely brave, too." Before he can pull away, you curl your pinky around his, grip loose in case he wants to pull away, "Brave, and kind."
His pinky curls around yours. The gesture feels like making a small promise, though you don't know what you're swearing to.
The space walks are the fun part of this entire ordeal, rare as they are.
Grace — Ryland, disagrees. He has always been more at home in the lab, which, you get it, him being the lead scientist, and being the only one who can manage to get something done and all.
"Are you sure about this?" Ryland grunts, hooking a foot in the net as he spins around, trying to put his suit on to accompany you, despite it being more strategically aligned to have someone on base at all times, having insisted you don't go exploring alien territory on your own.
Especially in the form of a golden ship at least three times as long as Hail Mary harbouring intelligent life.
"More than," you chuckle, floating over to zip him up, stabilising both him and yourself with practiced ease. "We're not saying anything, though. Can't risk jinxing it. But they did invite us in the form of attaching themselves on our ship, so at least we're not uninvited guests. All implications included."
"Alright, yeah, got it, no problem," Ryland rambles, releasing a shaky breath as he raises his chin as you zip him up, giving you the most unsure thumbs up combined with the soggiest look you have ever seen.
Holding back a giggle, you pull his helmet closer, though you make sure to splay a palm over his head to mess up his hair affectionately before putting it on him, finally baiting an exasperated chuckle out of him.
He still looks like an elastic band stretched too thin, threatening to snap any minute, though. Like, you're sure he's going to get cramps from how tense he is from nerves.
The solution to such a problem comes to you in the form of latching onto one another, which proves surprisingly effective.
Until Ryland gets startled upon first contact.
The scream scared off himself, you, and the creature, until the situation was somehow diffused, and hopefully written off as a misunderstanding on both sides.
The creature is extremely intelligent, and you love it immediately.
Similarities in culture is not impossible by any means even across stars, though it's still astonishing that body language and gestures convey their meaning this well, mimicking aside. You gesture for it to wait, and after a few demonstrations, it understands, and waits. Mimicking the gesture as closely as his physiology will allow, it tells you to wait as well, and you wait.
God, you're communicating. You're actually communicating with an alien creature.
You decide to take shifts to avoid losing time — or brainpower. Ryland tripped four times just trying to bring a clock over, and you walked in circles back and forth between Mary and the Blip-A for seven minutes before it dawned on you that you forgot what you were searching for.
The process of breaking the language barrier is as close to smooth sailing as possible after the arrangement, so much so that after you take off the soundproof earphones when you wake up, a robotic voice greets you.
"Hi friend!"
You take off your eye mask to see Rocky greeting you with a three-clawed wave.
Any semblance of sleep you had in your body evaporates.
"Hi Rocky!!" you coo, voice going up several pitches from excitement as you jog to meet him behind the xenonite, waving at him before turning to Ryland, "You gave him a voice?"
"Makes things a lot easier," he tilts his head, voice laced with sleep. "Welp, guess it's my turn to sleep." He places a hand on your shoulder, lingering before it slips off your bicep, "Knock yourselves out."
"What Grace mean, question?" Accompanied by two taps for emphasis.
"It's an expression, Rock. He means have fun."
There is a void all around you.
No sound, no sight, no feel. No memory of what happened.
Inhale, exhale.
You feel your lungs fill with air before you force it out. That means you can breathe. Good.
There is still no feeling in your fingertips. Nor your face, for that matter, and you worry it's blunt force trauma. Chances of you being treated in some void pool meant for sensory deprivation is quite low. You try shifting your weight somewhere to test where you are. On the floor, probably, until you feel your entire weight pull you down, and suddenly you're like a marionette on a string.
Not the floor, then.
The tension tells you you're strapped in, and—
Blue eyes blown wide with terror flash in your mind. A hand reached out towards you, not your face, but in front of it before your memories cut off.
You yank the safety belt off with pure muscle memory, your entire body protesting as it tries to stand upright, your arm shooting out to find support wherever the panels are.
Your senses come back to you slowly, like static sounding more and more coherent until you stumble upon a channel when searching for one in the radio.
The once muted sound of beeps are now deafening alarms blaring in your ears. The once blurred lights are now blinding as they flash red. The smell of something burning makes you gag.
An inhuman wail makes its way to your ears, and the sight that greets you is of Rocky in the corridor, trying to pull a limp Ryland towards the Lab.
Rocky is out of his space, wisps of black smoke rising out of him. So I no die in Grace and friend atmosphere, you recall. Ryland is unconscious, and probably in worse shape than you are.
You lunge forward before your brain can register what you're seeing.
"Your results are everything I could hope for," Says Stratt, and though her voice remains stoic as ever, you can tell she's impressed as she looks over the report in her tablet, your chest swelling with pride. "To call your body durable would be an understatement. Your performance has not fallen under the optimal metrics in any of the environments we tested you for; not to mention your short recovery time. The textbook definition of sturdy, really."
Your hand hooks into the back of Ryland's collar as you throw your body forward to drag him faster without falling over, barely managing to avoid slamming into Rocky, putting one foot in front of the other with unprecedented determination.
The moment Armando is in sight, you grab the first thing you can reach, which happens to be the insulated blanket Ryland has left lying around, and you flick it in Rocky's direction.
Before you can rasp out the command; ever so smart, Rocky steps onto the blanket, and you waste no time dragging him to his enclosure with all the strength you can muster, even with the world swaying beneath your feet, vision growing dim.
The small wail that comes from the medical bed falls on deaf ears.
"I will make it," you hiss, more for yourself than for Rocky, eyes trained on the clear xenonite, "I've got you, buddy."
Only one out of you three set out on this mission to die. You're not about to let either of them be the ones to die, not when Ryland wants to live. Not when Rocky has a mate, a home to return to.
Your hand slams on something as you lose your footing, though you make sure to curl your arm up, just to save Rocky a few steps.
"Please, God, anyone—" you croak, not having the strength to even lift your head to see if Rocky made it, "Please let them make it. Let them live. Kill me instead. I'll do anything. I'll die, I'll live— anything."
Your world descends into darkness like your plug has been pulled.
"Eye movement detected. Good morning, Doctor Grace."
There is an eery stillness around him.
Blinking to shake off any uncertainties he has, Ryland sluggishly gets up, gaze dropping to a faint trail of black, peppered with red spots, leading out of the lab.
Dread weighs on his shoulders heavier than a boulder as he moves slowly, trying to brace himself for whatever sight that will greet him with each deliberate step.
He sees you first.
Laying face first on the floor, your face is shielded by your arm curling around your head. If he didn't know any better, he would have assumed you had taken a particularly nasty fall but was too embarrassed to get up.
Swallowing thickly, he brings a shaky hand to your neck, resting his fingertips on your pulse—
There is a faint rhythm beating against the pads of his fingers.
He releases a breath he didn't know he was holding, curling in on himself and squeezing his eyes shut, letting his tears fall.
Your other hand reaches out to the xenonite, towards Rocky, and a sob tears itself from his throat when there is a slight move, quiet wheeze of a sound, followed by a thrum.
"Thanks for watching her sleep, pal. I'll take it from here." Hesitantly pulling away from you, he braces a hand against the xenonite, his voice cracking, "I'll watch you sleep, too. But, uh... you gotta wake up, okay? You both do."
Actress must have no mouth
no feet
shoulder girdle hangs light
hanging
so-o-o
loose
everything
focus my thought on
the partner—
feeling in the end of
my fingers
an unnamed fragment of a poem by Marilyn Monroe, written circa 1951
thinking about touch starved ryland grace whos hips buck up the second your mouth makes contact with this dick, hell! he moaned the second air touched his dick!! thinking about how he definitely grips any nearly surface with all his strength and tries to keep quiet. but he cant stay quiet, of course he cant, its been so long! hes a whimpering mess, groans and moans of 'thank you' and 'so good' come out his mouth. some whimpers so high pitched and pathetic that he cant believe theyre coming from him. he thinks hes the luckiest guy in the universe for this. he apologises when his hips buck making you gag or when he sees tears streaming your face due to the sheer size of him. and you love it.
Pairing | Holland March x reader
Summary | Temptress might be your middle name because seeing you in that dress has Holland begging for a sliver of your attention and not to go out tonight. You can only be so resilient when it comes to him.
Warnings/tags | Established relationship, MDNI (18+), humor? (i tried), smut, fluff, soft dom reader vibes, subby!Holland, rushed intimacy, kissing, p in v, unprotected sex, sex with feelings? Holland needs reassurance, smoking during sex, shotgunning, light bickering, talking during sex, dirty talk, praise kink, pet names (sweetheart, sweets, sweet girl, sugar, baby, pretty boy), use of good boy, no use of y/n
Word Count | 4.3k (i don't know what the fuck happened, to be honest)
A/N | i'm in my ryan gosling era, sorry in advance. i have about 3 ryland wips, and i'm low-key (high-key) struggling to write a long fic, so enjoy this filth while i attempt to fix my brain :,)) only read through this once, so sorry for any errors. (p.s. is his middle name aaron? no. but i like making shit up)
Holland March hated being ignored. He would get this look on his face, where his eyebrows pulled together, and his bottom lip protruded slightly. The kind that said, 'if you don't pay attention to me in about five seconds, I'm going to start day drinking again.'
After quite a bit of convincing, he’d cut back to just one glass at night with dinner. Or on the days when you were both worn out from work, you’d join him for a drink. Still, you suspected he was sneaking more than he admitted.
Now, if you could just get him to stop smoking in the house…
He tilted his head, attempting to grab your attention as you leaned down closer to the mirror. Adjusting your hoop earring, you glanced sidelong at him.
"Yes, baby?" you asked flatly.
"You're ignorin' me," he whinged.
"I'm not. I'm simply getting ready."
"Can't you just stay home? You can go out another time."
"I never get a chance to go out with my friends. One night. You can handle one night, can't you?" you questioned gently, your tone softening to one you might use to coax a child into behaving.
Straightening, you turned to him finally, your gaze locking on those sad puppy dog eyes that he knew you had a soft spot for. One glimpse of those big azure eyes blinking at you, and you were a goner. But it wasn't going to work on you this time.
Reaching up, you framed his face with your palms, thumbs sweeping softly over the crest of his cheekbones. He leaned into your touch, his head suddenly feeling heavier in your hands. Reeling him in, you planted the softest kiss to the tip of his nose, then lower, near the corner of his mouth.
"I'll be back in an hour, and then I'm all yours again," you explained, your fingers snaking up the nape of his neck and curling into his dirty blonde hair.
Holland studied your features, his pupils widening slightly and a distant haze settling in his gaze as it flickered over your face. Back when you first started dating, he'd get that same look in his eyes. At first, you thought it might be the alcohol coursing through him, but you eventually came to the conclusion that it was the look of adoration.
Taking a strand of your hair, he twirled it around his pointer finger. "Damn, you're so pretty. Have I told you that?"
You couldn't stop the smile that graced your lips, completely enamored. "A couple times."
"I should really tell you more often. Yeah. You know what?" he began, his free hand finding the curve of your waist and tugging you closer. "If I don't compliment you at least once a day…no…once an hour, feel free to hit me upside the head."
Knowing full well that he was just trying to get you to stay home, you giggled, light and airy, as you closed the distance. Your gaze dipped to his mouth, once, twice, before you spoke, your lips grazing his.
"You're cute…it almost makes me want to forget this whole dinner, slip off this dress, and let you have your way with me…" Your voice was dripping with sweet seduction, and it only deepened the insatiable hunger in his darkening gaze.
Tongue darting out, you traced his bottom lip, tasting him. His breath caught, eyelashes fluttering. As soon as he attempted to capture your tongue, sucking it into his mouth, you pulled back. Grunting, he followed, which only made you duck away from his attention.
"Almost," you repeated, stopping him with a single digit pressed to the center of his lips. "I'm still going."
"Why?" he whined, the word muffled slightly from your finger. "Don't tease me like that, sweetheart."
You tried to wiggle out of his hold, attempting to put the finishing touches on your outfit, but he was quicker. He caged you in, effectively trapping you against the vanity, fingers curling around the edge of the table.
"Holland, I don't have time for this."
The expression in his eyes wasn't hunger anymore; it was pure desperation. "Please."
You rolled your eyes, but it was devoid of irritation. Drawing in a steady breath, you tried not to get sucked into his little act, like every other time. "Don't you have a case to solve or something?"
"Yeah," he muttered. "The one where my girlfriend is neglectin' me."
"I'm not, and you know it."
"You make me wanna take up smokin' again."
"You never even stopped."
"I haven't smoked in two hours. That's a big deal for me," he insisted, raising his eyebrows, causing his forehead to crease. "Maybe I was secretly plannin' to quit, and I was gonna surprise you. Did you ever think about that? But, now the surprise is ruined, so it's not even worth quittin' now."
"Uh-huh. Whatever you say, big boy," you said evenly, still unconvinced, as you lightly patted his side.
Holland's arm curved around your waist, pressing into you, molding his hips to yours. You instantly felt him—the hard outline of his dick against your lower stomach. A warmth suddenly spread through you like wildfire, the space between your thighs heating from the contact.
"Do you feel what you do to me?" he asked eagerly. "Don't leave me like this. All worked up because I can't handle how fuckin' sexy you look in that damn dress."
Hot breath fanned across your flesh before his warm lips brushed your neck. They trailed lower to the center of your chest and over your clavicle before his fingers traced up your side, eliciting goosebumps. He slid the strap of your gown off your shoulder, slowly dragging it down your upper arm.
Your hands were in his hair, gripping the strands as his mouth moved languidly along your bare chest. With quickened breath, you managed a whispered, "Holland," which only made his hips press harder into yours. Then, he was shifting, holding you in place with one strong arm as he rolled his hips once, measured, testing.
One of your hands lowered, clutching the fabric of his unbuttoned shirt. You didn't know if you wanted to draw him closer or push him away, so your palm just stayed there, unmoving. "We can't," you murmured, though it didn't sound very convincing.
The backs of his fingers skimmed your arm as they traveled down your body. They eventually slipped under the hem of your dress, the tips flirting with your thigh. The digits danced over your skin, drawing idle patterns on your thigh until he reached his desired destination. A pair slid down the center of the damp spot on your panties, your knees wobbling slightly as he caressed your clothed clit with the most delicate touch. One hand migrated to his shoulder, nails digging in for balance.
Holland lifted his head, leaning into your ear, and clicked his tongue. "We can't have you leavin' the house like this. You'd be sittin' at dinner with that poor pussy throbbin'. Never claimed to be a good man, but 'm not that cruel. Lemme take care of you, sweets."
Teeth nipped at your earlobe as his fingertips swirled around the sensitive bud. You were practically trembling from how aroused he was making you. It only took six little words, adding that nickname, and those wandering hands, and dinner with your friends was the farthest thing from your mind.
He could feel your perseverance crumbling as your neck craned back and the way you held him close. You may wear the pants in this relationship, but you were weak for this man. And, dammit, he knew it because he was grinning against your ear like an idiot.
With the grip you had on his hair, you gently pulled him back so you could look him in the eyes. He blinked at you, feigning innocence. Arching a brow, you tilted your head, silently calling him on his shit.
"Fine," you surrendered, and you could almost see the mental fist pump at the forefront of his mind as his eyelashes fluttered in relief. You put a single chiding finger in his face. "You'd better be quick, or so help me, Holland Aaron March…"
Grabbing a hold of your finger, he brought it to his lips, kissing the tip. "I'll be so good for you, I promise." He ended it with a small smirk, which could only mean mischief.
Regardless, your hands fell to his belt, immediately slipping the leather from the loop. The sweet sound of metal clanking filled the room as you freed the belt from your grasp and moved to unclasp his dress pants. Your thumbs hooked into the waistband, yanking them down unceremoniously.
His fingers wrapped around your wrists, gingerly pulling them away. "Hey," he whispered, warm palms finding your hips instead. "Lemme do the work, sugar. I gotcha."
Taking a handful of the fabric around your hips, he scooted it up your thighs, bunching the soft material just below your waist. He hoisted you up, setting you down gingerly on the edge of your vanity, the surface cooling your heated flesh.
Holland's hands traveled over your plump thighs, prying your legs apart to settle between them. He got a glimpse of your lace black panties, and ran his tongue over his bottom lip before drawing it in between his teeth. A finger drifted up the inner part of your thigh, lightly grazing the edge of your underwear.
You shook your head, but you couldn't stop the smile from spreading across your lips. "I'm gonna need you to focus there, cowboy."
"Oh, 'm focused." His eyes never wavered from between your legs, still admiring the way the lace looked against your skin.
Sighing, you placed a manicured finger under his chin, forcing his gaze up. Then, you wrapped your calves around the backs of his thighs, pulling him closer. "More fucking, less gawking."
Finishing the job you started, he slid the band of his boxers down slightly. Just enough to slip his hand down the front and fish out his hardened cock. The angry, red tip came into view, precum beading at the slit. His thumb swept over it, gathering the milky substance, and stroking his cock a few times.
He bent towards you, his mouth inches from yours. "Yes, ma'am," he rasped before his lips locked on yours.
The kiss was full of urgency and need, teeth clashing and mouths greedily moving against each other. He tilted your head back with the grip he now had on your jaw. All at the same time, his tongue slipped between your lips as he moved your panties to the side. He licked into your mouth, his tongue gliding over yours in a dance of passion. Every crevice of your mouth was claimed by him.
The head of his dick skimmed through your slickness before you eventually heard the wet slap of him tapping his shaft on your soaked pussy. You gasped into his mouth as he nudged your entrance, and he swallowed the sound. His long exhale was echoed by your sharp inhale at the slow push of him expanding your already clenching hole.
Holland invaded all your senses. The mild scent of smoke that remained on his clothes filled your nostrils. The faint taste of whiskey and fervor on his tongue. The way his touch surrounded you. And his partial-moan, partial-whimper that spilled from the gap between your joined lips, reaching your ears, and sending a chill down your spine as his hips came forward.
He moved with an unhurried ease, as if time itself were endless, though it wasn’t. Still, you felt no urge to rush him when the way he filled you felt so right. Everything did with him—especially these moments of intimacy. It was like that satisfying, mechanical click of a car door locking into place. Or the last piece of a puzzle, slipping perfectly into its space.
Fingers dug into your ass while he adjusted your position on the table, scooting you closer to the edge. And then he was moving, grinding deeply as he bottomed out. The tuft of hair below his belly button tickled your lower stomach as your pelvis kissed his.
Finally, he came up for air, gazing down at you with a wild glint in his eyes. Your combined heavy breaths fanned out across your swollen lips. The air between you was charged with tension, and you drank it in as if your lungs ached for oxygen.
He wished time would freeze. That the clocks, hanging on the walls, would stop ticking. That the world would cease from spinning. Because the way you looked at him, as if he'd done something good, something worth remembering, made his heart quiver beneath his ribcage. He wasn't even ashamed of the thrill that surged through his veins—the same way electricity would ride on a wire.
No words were exchanged, but he felt the way you squeezed him and knew you needed him. And without hesitation, he’d give you anything you wanted.
Pulling back, he eased out of you, then thrust back in forcefully. Your breath hitched, clinging to him like a lifeline.
"Fuck me," you cursed lowly, tipping your chin back.
"'m gettin' there," he teased, rolling his hips to emphasize his statement.
He set the pace, driving in with a vigor that surprised even you. His thrusts started shallow, a small mercy for how quickly he plunged through your plush walls. Momentarily releasing your hip, he reached for the bottom of his white tank top and lifted it until it gathered around his midsection. His gaze lowered to where you were linked, watching how he slipped in and out of you.
"Look how good you're takin' me," Holland said, and it almost sounded like disbelief hidden in his voice.
"My sweet girl always takes me so well, though, doesn't she? Like you were fuckin' made for this. Like you were made for me," he rambled, eyes flicking up to you. He looked like a lost puppy who finally found its way home. And that alone worked wonders for your ego.
Your heart was pounding in your chest, your lips slightly parting, as he searched your features for reassurance—a natural recurrence that you were used to by now. Always finding solace in your comforting words—the kind that assured him that he did deserve you. That he deserved to be happy.
Though this time, when you tried to speak, the words wouldn't come. Suddenly, your mouth went dry, because how could you embed it into his very bones that there was nothing to worry about here, in this room, where it was just the two of you. That there were no expectations for him to amount to because you loved him just the way he was.
Fuck.
You loved him.
When had you figured that one out? It seemed like it had been stirring in your chest for quite some time. You'd only been together for…what? Two months? You'd been in longer relationships than this, and that thought had never once occurred to you in any of them.
Swallowing thickly, one of your hands drifted over his shoulder, down to the lump in his shirt pocket. You withdrew the pack of Marlboro Reds, along with the lighter that was tucked safely at the bottom.
"What're you…?" he managed before you cut him off with a flip of the top of the small box.
"I need a cigarette," you answered, extracting one of the burnt orange-tipped sticks before placing the pack back in its original spot.
He huffed out a laugh. "But you don't smoke."
"Well, I do now," you urged.
"Sure, when you smoke in the house, it's alright, but when I do it, it's like I've committed a grave sin," he complained, mostly to himself.
"Shh…" you soothed, before positioning the filter end between your lips and flicking the spark wheel on the lighter until it ignited. You brought the steady flame to the end of the cigarette, watching as the pale paper kindled, tiny embers flaking off. Inhaling deeply, your eyes rolled back, enjoying the way your throat burned from the smoke.
Holland's movements slowed as he observed you through half-lidded eyes. Your gaze fixed on his again as you took the small tube from your lips, blowing out the cloud from the side of your mouth. The smoke swirled in front of your features, floating above your head until it dissipated into the air.
"I don't remember saying stop," you murmured bluntly, fanning away the remaining smoke hovering in front of your face.
Staring dumbly at you, he eventually blinked, picking up his pace again. "Fuck, you just…look so…sexy," he growled, his tone full of awe.
With glittering eyes, you gave him a lopsided smile, absolutely charmed by his smitten expression. That only made his hips jerk forward, deepening the penetration. You mewled, clutching his bicep with a startling strength.
"That's my good boy," you praised, the heels of your feet digging into the backs of his thighs. Your back bowed as he hit that sweet spot repeatedly, causing that pressure to build more rapidly. "Just like that. Don't stop."
Through the haze in your mind, you took another lengthy drag. The flickering blaze briefly illuminated the sharp lines of your face. The second time, it made your lungs twist with discomfort, and your throat felt raw. You pulled the cigarette away, cupping his jaw and hauling him in.
"Open that mouth, pretty boy," you calmly commanded, voice strained from the effort of holding the smoke in.
Obeying, he did as you said, even if his eyebrows creased from confusion. You breathed out a heavy plume of smoke into the cave of his mouth. It bloomed, escaping into the little gap between you, and he immediately sucked it in, as if it were life-sustaining air. He moaned, and it sounded more like a whine, not from the smoke, but the action itself. You caught sight of the arousal swimming in his gaze, eyes dilating to the point that he almost appeared high.
"Holy shit," he grunted pitifully, his hips stuttering and that vein in his neck sticking out painfully. "Do you realize how hot that is?—hmm—I don't think you realize how hot that is—ughhh— Nearly made me cum right then and there."
You snorted softly, amused, but he just kept going. "'m gonna have wet dreams about that. Hell, 'm gonna constantly daydream about that, and walk around with a fuckin' hard on like a pathetic loser."
"Like I don't make you do that anyway," you joked, pressing the lit end of the cigarette into the table, extinguishing it. Holland shrugged, nodding gently to agree with the truth in your words. Your grin only deepened.
Then you leaned forward, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "C'mon, baby. Make me come on this pretty cock. I want that to be the only thing on my mind at dinner."
He exhaled raggedly, his forehead falling to your shoulder momentarily. One hand flattened firmly to your stomach, thumb wandering down to clit as the other was slung around you, cradling the back of your skull. He lifted his head and let it fall to yours, noses nudging one another.
With renewed purpose, he rutted into you. You cried out instantly, the tip of his cock bumping against your cervix, and causing the pleasure to rise, quick and piercing. And it only intensified when his thumb began rubbing in tight, sensuous circles on your swollen bud. The sound of skin colliding reverberated as he pounded into you harder and harder.
The vanity wobbled, rocking helplessly into the wall behind you with a horrible crashing noise. With the combination of the wooden legs creaking and the rhythmic thump of it slamming against already chipping plaster, you almost thought the table would fall out from under you. It wouldn't be the first set of furniture to end up destroyed by your rough activities. And it certainly wouldn't be the last.
A few makeup products tumbled from the table amongst the chaos—a mascara wand hitting the floor and a tube of ruby lipstick following right after. It didn't stop him, and frankly, it only spurred him on more.
"Holland," you squealed, rouge-polished nails, slithering under his layers of clothing and clawing at his toned back. "There you go, buck those fucking hips. You're doing so good for me."
He whimpered brokenly, panting against your lips. His mouth grazed your top lip, a weak attempt at a kiss, but he was too lost in pleasure to fully focus on giving them the attention he wanted. His cheeks were flushed, muscles tensed, and his jaw ticked from the energy it took to make this last as long as possible. But it seemed like he was fighting a losing battle.
"Yeah," you chirped with a lilt to your voice. "You like that, huh? You like it when I praise you. Does my pretty boy need to be talked through it? Tell me you need it. Tell me you need me."
"I— I need it. Need you," he stuttered, eyes squeezing shut. "Fuck, 'm gonna— Please, tell me— I need to— Ahh—"
"Oh, baby," you cooed. "You're so close, aren't you? Can't even talk properly, poor thing."
He didn't answer; he couldn't. The only sounds that escaped his mouth were half-moans and a string of curses. The head of his dick continued to bully your G-spot until your cunt clamped down around him, then you were moving with him. Your hips rolled desperately, lewd noises slipping from your parted lips.
"I'm right there," you whined loudly. "Come with me. Let me see you come, baby. I wanna see how desperate you are for me. How desperate I make you."
"Sweetheart—" His voice cracked on a whimper as his hips slammed into yours, spurts of warmth flooding your pussy. His wrecked expression—eyebrows tilting upward while his face contorted in pure bliss—made your cunt flutter on instinct. Your head felt light, vision blurring briefly as your orgasm coursed through you. His legs trembled from exertion at the same time that your thighs began to twitch.
Your walls pulsated around him as he emptied the last of his release into you, your pussy practically milking him as his movements turned sluggish. Foreheads pressed against one another, you breathed in each other's air. Your arms wrapped snugly around his neck, kissing his damp hairline, and then the tip of his nose as your forehead settled back against his. Silence fell over you as you both reveled in the quiet intimacy.
It only took him a few seconds to regain his bearings before leaning back, mouth opening. "Wish we could stay like this. Wanna stay wrapped in your warmth," he whispered, voice weak.
A confession lingered on his tongue as he stared at you, one you wouldn’t even need to interrogate him to hear. “I— I lo—”
He was interrupted by the doorbell, quickly followed by three sharp knocks. You glanced toward the sound before turning your attention back to him. You almost urged him to finish his admission, but decided against it, the calm moment already broken.
Sighing, you inclined back, your hands dropping to the wood below you. "Welp, that's them."
Holland glanced down, panic washing over his features at the sight. Cum leaked from pussy, dripping onto the tabletop with comedic timing. "Shit. Shit. Shit."
He pulled out of you with a hiss, hands waving frantically as he tried to figure out what to do. Bending at the waist, he scrambled to tug his pants up, struggling to clasp them. "Wait there," he choked, dashing out of the room. "I'll clean you up."
Laughing, you leaped down from the squeaky vanity. "Don't worry about it," you muttered as you shifted your panties and adjusted your dress. "I don't mind the subtle reminder."
Crossing the room, you snatched up your heels and wandered out the open door. You hadn't noticed that he stopped in his venture to the bathroom, now leaning against the doorframe, arm propped up on the wood. A smirk graced his lips, cocky as ever. His palm slipped awkwardly, practically toppling over, then he righted himself once more as if nothing had happened.
"Yeah? You want me to fill you up until all you can feel is me?"
You snorted. "You're cute."
He scoffed lightly, brows knitting together. "That wasn't supposed to be cute. It was supposed to be…Oh, never mind."
Someone shrieked outside, banging on the door again. "Babe, come on," one of your friends slurred. It seemed they had already started drinking without you. "Or you're gonna have a hell of a time catching up with us."
"Okay, I gotta go," you said, rushing over to plant a kiss on his cheek, leaving a faint trace of lip gloss behind.
"Have fun," he mumbled. "Don't drink too much."
On your way out, you glanced over your shoulder, arching an eyebrow. "That's rich coming from you."
"Just…" he paused, processing his words. "Give me a ring if you need a ride home."
"Alright," you breathed, twisting the knob of the front door. "I love you."
The words were out before you could stop them. They hovered there, floating in the space between you, before his brain eventually registered what you just said.
"What?" he croaked with wide eyes.
"Nothing," you insisted too quickly, then slipped out the gap, slamming the door behind you.
You honestly wish you could've admired the shock on his face for a moment longer, but you'd deal with the repercussions of your words when you returned home.
Hopefully, that would consist of fewer clothes and uncorking a bottle of red wine.
Maybe that was why your 'girls' night' ended sooner than expected.
i'm so sorry, i need that pathetic man so bad, like fucking oxygen...all of my vocal stims have been holland march related...mostly "how stupid do you think i am? i gotta license to carry motherfucker."
*sigh* oh, to be in a room with ryland and holland
Benjamin Poindexter never raised his voice at you.
He got sharp sometimes. Quiet and distant. His jaw would lock up so hard you thought his teeth might crack, but yelling? That wasn’t Dex. Dex controlled himself with brutal precision because he knew exactly what happened when he didn’t.
Which was why the second it happened, the entire apartment went dead silent.
“Can you just stop talking for one second?!”
The words hit harder than they should have.
You froze in the kitchen doorway, still holding the glass of water you’d brought him.
Dex stood near the table, shoulders tight, breathing uneven. There were dark circles under his eyes, his FBI jacket half-unzipped, hands trembling faintly from exhaustion. He’d barely slept in two days. Barely eaten. Every muscle in his body looked wound too tight.
But the second he saw your face—
He broke.
“No—”
The anger vanished instantly, like someone ripped it out of him.
His expression collapsed into horror.
“No no no…”
The glass shook slightly in your hand as Dex stumbled toward you too fast, panic flooding his features.
“I didn’t mean that.” His voice cracked immediately. “I didn’t—I wasn’t yelling at you, I just—”
He swallowed hard, eyes already watering.
You’d seen dex kill a man without blinking.
But this?
This destroyed him.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, quieter now. Desperate. “Please don’t look at me like that.”
You hadn’t even realized you looked hurt until he said it.
Dex grabbed both sides of his head like he was trying to physically stop himself from unraveling.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated shakily. “I’m so fucking tired and everything’s loud and I—I took it out on you and I swore I’d never do that.”
His breathing became uneven.
Then the tears started.
Not dramatic nor manipulative. Just terrified.
He looked at you like he genuinely believed one wrong move would make you leave.
“Please say something,” he whispered.
The glass barely made it onto the counter before he caught your wrists carefully, almost afraid you’d pull away.
“I didn’t mean it,” he kept saying, voice breaking more each time. “I don’t want to hurt you. I would never hurt you.”
“Dex—”
“I know what I sound like when I lose control—I didn't mean it I swear” A tear slid down his face and he looked furious at himself for it. “I know what I am when I get like this.”
Your chest tightened.
Because beneath the exhaustion and panic, there it was—
Fear.
Not fear of being alone.
Fear of becoming someone dangerous to you.
Dex lowered his head suddenly, gripping your hands tighter.
“I’m trying so hard,” he said quietly, crying now without even hiding it. “I’m trying so hard to be good with you.”
That did it.
You pulled him into you immediately.
His entire body jerked in surprise before he folded against you like he was holding himself together by threads alone. One arm wrapped around your waist so tightly it almost hurt while the other covered his face.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled against your shoulder over and over again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
You ran your fingers through his hair carefully.
“You scared me for a second,” you admitted softly.
Dex let out a broken sound that was halfway to a sob.
“I know.”
“But I’m not leaving.”
He went still.
Then he finally looked at you, eyes red and wet, like he didn’t quite believe what he heard.
“You’re not?”
You shook your head gently.
Dex stared at you for a long moment before pressing his forehead against yours, breathing shakily.
“Don’t be nice to me right now, slap me, punch me...” he whispered painfully. “I don’t deserve it. You're being too kind to me.”
Your thumb brushed under his eye.
“Good thing I decide that. Not you.”
For the first time all night, his shoulders finally loosened.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: You and Ryland have a small…incident, leading to a broken bed that a very curious Rocky has to come and fix.
𝐀 / 𝐍: short fic/drabble type thing. there’s no description of smut in this…but it’s implied in the concept ig ++ pretty suggestive so i’ll put the 18+ banner on
“You’re staring at me.” You announced groggily, eyes still closed yet your boyfriend’s gaze burned into your skull; piercing through bone and settling in your frontal lobe.
“What are you gonna do, sue me?” His response coerced you into slowly opening your eyes, lashes fluttering elegantly as you did so. “I don’t know how good the legal representation is here.”
His voice was gruff, but he looked wide-awake, all bright-eyed and ready for the day ahead. His glasses sat askew on his nose, loving eyes peering over them; his fox cardigan was pulled over the top of his clothes, indicating that he’d likely been on a walk already.
Instinctively, you shuffled closer to him; laying your hand against his chest, head eagerly coming to meet its placement. Your leg lifted over his body to cage him in and shove him further onto the other side of the bed, a motion provoked by the feeling of being far too close to the edge on your own side.
All of a sudden, you felt yourself tumbling onto the floor — taking Ryland with you as your body thumped off the ground, causing Ryland to let out a yelp from underneath you. His hands shot to your hips, steadying you on top of him so you wouldn’t continue rolling across the harsh-floor.
“I forgot about that.” You admitted embarrassingly, feeling how Ryland’s hands now caressed up and down your hips to your waist, smiling up at you before he cocked an eyebrow.
“You forgot about the best night of your life?”
You laughed at his outburst, hands coming to playfully steal his glasses from his nose to which he protested, a small pout playing at his lips as you held them above your head — swinging them like a pendulum, enticing him to come and get them.
“Oh, you break the bed once and now you’re mr cocky, is that it?” You teased, narrowing your eyes while you looked down at him, watching as his expression twisted into something you rarely saw from him; a confident kind of mischief.
A few moments passed between the two of you as cogs seemed to turn inside Ryland’s head.
“No.” He spoke simply with a shrug, shooting upwards to sit you in his lap; hands coming to harshly tug at the bottom of your thighs to pull you closer to him. He bit down on his bottom lip at the friction, letting out a brief noise of struggle.
A small yelp left your lips, followed by a giggle as you settled into his lap; watching how he leaned in closer, eyes scanning all over your face.
“Technically, it’s Dr.” He smiled cockily, bringing a hand to travel up your arms to retrieve his glasses, settling them back onto the bridge of his nose as he pushed them up with a single finger.
Before you could get too carried away, there was a hurried knocking on the door — causing Ryland to gently lift you off him, standing up tall and kindly offering you a hand to get up aswell.
Fearing his already-inflated ego, you swatted his hand away jokingly whilst rolling your eyes, scrambling up from the floor as Ryland left the room for a moment, coming back in with Rocky trailing just behind him in his xenonite ball.
“Good morning, humans of Erid!” Rocky announced energetically, clicking his claws. “Grace come to me early, say needed fix—“ He seemed to trail off as he noticed the odd-silhouette of the bed with his limited vision, unnaturally caving to one side, sheets and pillows now discarded over the floor.
Ryland wasn’t paying too much attention to Rocky, only staring at you with a knowing look that made you nervous, knees almost buckling with desire.
“I see problem.” Rocky sounded out, rolling over towards the broken bed, seemingly inspecting the break. “This is made of Eridian strongest material. How this happen, question? Eridians made to withstand great force!” He continued, turning back in his ball to face you.
You suddenly felt scrutinised by the alien, feeling like you’d just been accused of a heinous Eridian crime you didn’t know existed — and Ryland was no help, his previous cocky demeanour shifted into a wave of apprehension and embarrassment when Rocky began questioning the ‘how?’ of the situation.
Immediately, a smirk fell on your face noticing how Ryland turned sheepish, an idea popping into your head to tease him even further for his ego-fuelled activities from minutes before.
“Well Rocky.” You began, crouching down to match his height as your hands steadied themselves against your knee caps ready to explain the whole process to the unsuspecting alien.
You practically felt Ryland freezing up beside you, the air in the room shifting.
“Sometimes when two humans love eachother very much, they get this feeling.” You looked to Grace for a moment, watching as he seemed to turn red in the face, silently begging for you to stop; but you wanted to see how far you could take it.
“Feeling!” Rocky repeated in confirmation, evidence that he was hanging on every word.
“It’s a very strong feeling, an urge to—“
“Can you just fix it? Rocky. Please.” Ryland sounded out urgently, his hands coming to gesture aimlessly in the air, before his hand came to aggressively press against his forehead in frustration.
A smug expression overcame your features, standing up proudly with your hands firmly pressed against your hips in a sassy stance as you turned to Ryland.
“Grace have attitude problem! Grace need human-sleep-box fixing. Maybe then will be nice to Rocky.” The alien seemed to grumble, begrudgingly following behind Grace on his adventure of apologetically picking up the discarded sheets and pillows.
You smiled obnoxiously at the two, leaning against the wall whilst letting out a pleasant sigh of contentment as your plan had worked.
Although, Ryland didn’t allow much room for you to revel in the blissful, prideful moment — immediately tossing a pillow to bounce off your chest, softly falling to the floor as he mouthed sarcastically.
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