PUSSY JOB.
— pairing: Task Force 141 × fem!Reader [ + bonus ]
— cw: established & unestablished relationships; smut and fluff; light dom/sub; domesticity; wc: 5.1 k
you might also want to read ⤷ SHAVING.
— S. RILEY:
It starts as a punishment.
Simon's been gone for three weeks—classified, no contact, the usual—and he comes home expecting the hero's welcome he'll never admit he wants. What he gets is you, cross-legged on the sofa in one of his shirts and nothing else, not even looking up from your phone.
"Hey," he greets, dropping his bag.
"Mm."
He knows that mm. That mm means trouble. That mm means he did something—or specifically didn't do something—and now he's going to pay for it in ways that make waterboarding look straightforward.
He showers and changes; comes back to find you in the same spot, still on your phone, legs stretched out now so the shirt rides up just enough to show the curve where your thigh meets your arse. Calculated. Everything about you is calculated when you're angry.
"You gonna tell me what I did?" He sits beside you, arm over the back of the sofa.
His hand nearly touches you and you shift away deliberately. "Nothing."
"Right." His eyes flash as he watches you for a moment. Then his brawny hand lands on your knee—warm and heavy. "C’mere."
"No."
He clicks his tongue. "Wasn't askin’."
You put your phone down and look at him—finally—and there it is. Not anger. Worse. That look that says I missed you so much it scared me and I'd rather die than admit it. He knows it because he fucking invented it.
"Three weeks," you say, swallowing. "Not a word."
"Couldn't—"
"I know you couldn't." You shrug his hand off, pouting. "Doesn't mean I'm not pissed off."
Fair enough. He can work with pissed off.
He sighs, then pulls you onto his lap—or tries to. You resist like a cat going liquid, then give in, but on your terms, straddling him with your hands on his shoulders and a look that says he’s not forgiven yet.
"What do y’want?" he asks roughly. Quiet and direct.
You’re still pouting. "I want you to suffer."
His mouth twitches, he huffs half a laugh through his crooked nose. "Dramatic."
"Three. Weeks." You poke his chest and it flexes under your touch.
"I heard you the first time."
You shift in his lap—deliberate, rolling your hips once—and his jaw tightens. You're bare under the shirt. He can feel the heat of you through his joggers, and his hands move to your hips on instinct.
"No," you hiss, lifting his hands off and pinning them to the back of the sofa. "You don't get to touch."
His eyes darken. "That so?"
"That's so."
You roll your hips again—slower this time, grinding down against the hardening length of him through the thin fabric. His cock twitches against you and you feel it, the thick ridge of him pressing right between your folds, and the friction sends a jolt through you that you must fight to keep off your face.
"You're playin’ a dangerous game," he growls, voice low.
"I know."
And you set a rhythm—slow and torturous rolls of your hips, dragging your bare cunt along the length of him through his joggers. The fabric's already damp. You can feel yourself getting wetter with every pass, coating the outline of his cock through the cotton, and his breathing is getting heavier even though his expression hasn't changed.
Almost hasn't changed. His jaw is clenched tight enough to cut glass.
"Pull them down," you demand breathlessly.
He lifts his hips without a word and shoves his joggers down just enough for his cock to spring free—thick and hard, flushed dark at the head when his foreskin slides back. You resettle over him, and when your bare cunt meets bare skin you both hiss.
"Still no touching," you remind him.
"You're goin’ to fuckin’ kill me, bunny."
"That's the idea."
You slide forward, letting his cock drag through your folds; hot and slick, the head catching against your clit on every pass. Your wetness coats him in seconds, making the glide obscene. Wet sounds fill the living room, and Simon's hands are white-knuckling the sofa cushions, veins standing out in his forearms, every muscle in his body taut with the effort of not grabbing you.
"Fuck," he breathes. Barely audible. "You're soakin’ me."
"Mm-hm." You press down harder, trapping his cock between his stomach and your cunt, and grind. The underside of his shaft drags against your clit and your thighs clench around him. "Three weeks' worth."
"I can feel it." His head drops back against the sofa, eyes half-closed, watching you from under his lashes. "You're fuckin’ drippin’ all over my cock and you won't even let me inside."
"No."
"Cruel woman."
"Learned from the best."
He huffs another short laugh while you pick up the pace—faster, wetter, chasing the friction against your clit while his cock slides through your folds in long, slick strokes. He's leaking too, pre-come mixing with your slick, and the sound of it—the obscene, wet sound of skin on skin—is filthy enough to make heat coil tight in your belly.
"Can I touch you," he says, and it's not quite a question. Not quite begging. Simon Riley doesn't beg. But it's close. Closer than you've ever heard him.
"No."
"Please." Gritted through his teeth. His hips jerk up involuntarily, his cock pressing harder against your clit, and you gasp.
"Hands on the sofa, Si."
He swears low and vicious under his breath, but he obeys. His strong fingers dig into the cushions hard enough to tear fabric while you use him, sliding your pussy along his cock in tight, deliberate rolls, chasing the pressure building between your legs.
"'M close," he warns, teeth gritting. "If y’don't stop—"
"Don't stop what?" You grind down hard, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance without slipping in, and he makes a sound you've never heard before. Broken and raw. "This?"
"Fuckin’—Christ—"
You come first—barely, by seconds—your swollen clit twitches against the underside of his shaft as your whole body goes rigid and shakes. He follows you over the edge with a rough groan, cock jerking between your folds, cum spilling hot and thick over his own taut stomach and your cunt in messy pulses.
You collapse against his chest, both of you breathing hard, and his arms finally come up—wrapping around you, pulling you in tight, hands spread wide across your back.
"Punishment's over," you mumble against his neck, nipping the pale skin there.
"Good." His voice is wrecked. His hand slides into your hair, holding you against him. "Because if you ever do that to me again, 'm goin’ to lose my fuckin’ mind."
"Promise?"
He doesn't answer. Just holds you tighter, inhaling your scent shamelessly.
— K. GARRICK:
It's your first night together.
Properly together, not the almost-kisses in the corridor or the loaded looks across the briefing room, and of course, of course, neither of you has a condom.
"I can go! There's a shop on the corner—" Kyle's already reaching for his jeans.
"Kyle." You catch his hand. "It's two in the morning."
"I'll be five minutes—"
"Kyle. Stay."
Kyle looks at you—all soft brown eyes and swollen mouth and his shirt already on the floor—and the fight goes out of him. He climbs back onto the bed, kneeling between your legs, and his hands settle on your thighs with a gentleness that makes your chest ache.
"I want to do this right," he says quietly. "For you."
"We don't need—" You sit up, pull your top over your head, and his eyes drop to your bare chest. His throat bobs. "There are other things we can do."
"Yeah?"
You guide him down, flat on his back, and straddle his hips. He's hard. You can feel him through his boxers. The thick shape of him pressing up against you, and when you roll your hips experimentally, his hands fly to your waist.
"Like this," you breathe, tugging at his waistband. He lifts his hips and you pull his boxers down, and his cock springs up against his belly—flushed, hard, a bead of clear pre-come already gathered at the tip. You shimmy out of your underwear and resettle over him, and when your bare cunt meets the length of him, he makes a sound like you've knocked the air out of his lungs.
"Oh fuck," he whispers.
"Good?"
"You have—You have no idea." His voice is strained, his long fingers flexing on your hips. "You're so warm. Shit."
You start to move—slow, lazy rolls, letting your folds part around his throbbing shaft. He's thick enough that you can feel every inch, the ridge of his uncut head catching against your clit on every forward slide. You brace your hands on his chest, and he watches you with an expression caught somewhere between reverence and total ruin.
"Tell me what feels good," he murmurs, because he's Kyle and even with his cock sliding through your pussy he's still thinking about you first.
"This. Just—this." You press down harder, grinding, and the wet sound makes his eyes flutter shut. "You feel so good between my legs."
"You can't just—say things like that—" His buff chest heaves.
"Why not?"
"Because I'm trying really hard not to embarrass myself and you're making it—" You shift your angle and his cock slides through a particularly slick patch and his whole body tenses. "Difficult! You're making it difficult!"
You grin down at him. He catches it and groans, covering his face with one hand.
"Don't bloody laugh at me—"
"I'm not laughing. I think it's sweet."
"I don't want to be sweet right now! I want to be—" He cuts himself off with a sharp breath as you grind forward again. His hand drops from his face, and both palms grip your thighs, fingers sinking into the soft flesh. "You're so wet. Fucking hell, you're dripping."
"That's what you do to me."
"Stop." But he's grinning now, that devastating Kyle Garrick grin, even as his hips start canting up to meet your rhythm. "You're going to make me—"
"That's the point."
His composure is fraying; his head tips back against the pillow. You can see it—the way his jaw clenches, the way his stomach muscles flutter under your hands, the way his breathing goes ragged when the head of his cock nudges against your clit and slides through slick heat. His thumbs have found the crease of your thighs and he's pressing in, holding you open, making the contact tighter.
"Can I—" He swallows hard. "Can I hold it against you? I want to feel—"
"Yeah. Whatever you want."
He wraps a hand around himself, pressing his cock flat against his stomach so you're grinding directly against the underside—root to tip, your clit dragging along the thick vein, and the new angle makes both of you moan. He's staring at where your bodies meet, almost in a daze, watching your pussy slide over his cock, and his expression is gone. Completely gone.
"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever—" His voice cracks. "Baby, I'm not gonna last."
"Then don't."
"Not without you." He reaches between you with his free hand, finds your clit with his thumb, and starts rubbing in quick, tight circles while you grind against his shaft. The dual sensation—his cock against your folds, his thumb on your clit—makes your rhythm falter and your thighs shake.
"Kyle—God—!"
"That's it. Come on. Come with me, yeah?" His voice is wrecked, desperate, his hips thrusting up to meet you, cock sliding through your soaked pussy while his thumb works your clit. "Wanna feel you. Please."
You shatter with a broken cry; cunt pulsing against his cock, and he follows seconds later—groaning your name, long and low, as he spills in hot streaks across his own stomach and the underside of your thighs. His hips stutter through it, cock and balls twitching between your folds, and his thumb doesn't stop until you're whimpering and pushing his hand away.
Silence. Heavy breathing. The sound of the city outside.
"So," he says eventually, chest heaving. "That was…"
"Yeah."
"First thing tomorrow. I'm buying a box of condoms."
One eyebrow quirks. "One box?"
He laughs. bright and breathless, and pulls you down against his chest, not caring about the mess between you. His arms wrap around you, his lips find your forehead, and you can feel his heart hammering under your cheek.
"You're right," he murmurs against your hair. "Gonna make it two."
— J. PRICE:
He tells you to lie down.
Not asks. Not suggests. He tells you the same way he tells his men to hold position or his bartender to pour another. That low, gravel-and-whiskey voice that doesn't leave room for negotiation.
"On your back. Legs apart. Hands above your head."
You're already naked. He made sure of that twenty minutes ago, undressing you piece by piece in the bedroom with the patience of a man disarming ordnance. Now you're spread out on the bed like something he's laid out for his own inspection, and he's standing at the foot of it, still fully dressed from the waist up.
His belt is already undone. Trousers open. Fat cock in his hand—thick, heavy, half-hard and getting harder as he looks at you—and he strokes himself with a slow, idle grip. Like he's got nowhere to be, and the sight of you spread open and waiting is something he wants to savour before he touches it.
"John," you mewl.
"Quiet."
His thumb rolls over the head of his cock, pulling the foreskin forward and back, exposing the flushed, ruddy tip. Pre-come beads at the slit, and he catches it with his thumb, smearing it in slow circles. Unhurried. Almost meditative.
"Look at you," he says, voice low. His eyes move over your body the way they move over terrain—systematic, thorough, missing nothing. They settle between your legs and stay there. "Already wet and I haven't even touched you yet."
"Because you're staring—" you whine.
"I'm appreciating." He kneels on the end of the bed. Doesn't climb up. Just kneels there, cock in hand, and reaches forward with his free hand to press your thighs wider apart. "There's a difference."
He shuffles closer on his knees until he's between your legs, and you feel the heat of him. Close but not touching. He keeps stroking himself, that same measured rhythm, his foreskin sliding over the head in a way that makes your mouth go dry.
"Please," you whisper.
"Please what?"
"Touch me, John."
"I will." John leans forward and drags the head of his cock along your slit—one slow, devastating pass from entrance to clit. Your back arches off the bed and he watches with dark, steady eyes. "When I'm ready."
He does it again.
And again.
Long, lazy drags through your folds, using the head of his cock like a tool—nudging your clit, sliding through the slick, pressing against your entrance just enough for you to feel it before pulling back. His hand keeps working his shaft in that slow grip, the other fondling his heavy balls; foreskin rolling over the head between every stroke, and the combination—the wet slide of his tip through your pussy, the obscene sound of his hand on himself—has you digging your nails into the pillow above your head.
"Stay still," he orders, the same way he'd say hold position. His cock drags through your folds and catches on your clit, and he presses—holds—watching your thighs tremble. "Good girl."
"John, I need—"
"I know what you need." He angles himself lower, lets the head press against your entrance, and your body opens for him instinctively—slick and ready and aching. But he doesn't push in. Just rests there, thick mushroom tip nudging your opening, and strokes himself with a patience that borders on cruelty.
"You want it?" he asks, and there's something almost conversational about it. Like he's offering you tea.
"Yes—"
"Not tonight." He pulls back, drags himself through your folds again, and the wet sound echoes in the quiet bedroom. "Tonight I want to see you like this. Wanting. Pretty cunt all swollen and open for me and nothing inside it."
The filth of it—coming from him, from that composed, authoritative mouth—makes your pussy clench around nothing. He sees it. Of course he does.
"Greedy," he murmurs, almost fond.
He picks up the pace—still controlled, still deliberate, but faster now. The head of his cock slides through your folds in tight, focused strokes, dragging over your clit on every pass. His fist works his shaft in a rhythm that matches, foreskin pulling back on the downstroke so the bare, swollen head meets your clit with nothing between them.
"Getting close," he mutters, and his voice has roughened. Just slightly. Just enough for you to know the composure is costing him. "Where do you want it?"
"On me. Right there—on my—"
"Say it properly."
"On my pussy. Please, John."
"That's better." His breathing fractures. His strokes shorten, his cock jerking in his fist, the head pressed against your clit now—rubbing, grinding, slick with your wetness and his pre-come. "Going to make a mess of you."
He comes with a low groan that he bites back behind clenched teeth—controlled even now, even at the end—and you feel it land hot and thick on your cunt. He strokes himself through it, painting you with it, smearing his come through your folds with the head of his cock in slow, deliberate passes. Mixing his mess with yours until you're dripping with it—slick and filthy and his. Always his.
He sits back. Studies his work. Tucks himself away with steady hands, does up his belt, and looks at you like a man satisfied with a job well done.
"Don't clean up," he says, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. Tender. Almost chaste. A stark contrast to the filthy mess between your thighs. "I want you like that when I come back to bed."
"You're a bastard, John Price."
"Mm." He straightens his collar. "I'll put the kettle on, love."
— J. MACTAVISH:
"Don't move."
Johnny stares at you. Blue eyes wide, pupils blown, a vein ticking in his jaw beneath the stubble.
He's kneeling between your legs on your bed—shirtless, dog tags hanging, joggers shoved halfway down his meaty thighs—and his cock is in his hand, hard and leaking, and he looks like a man who has been told he can look at the sun but not blink.
"Are ye serious?" His voice cracks.
"Dead serious." You settle back against the pillows, legs spread wide, and click the clit vibrator on. Low setting. The hum fills the room, and his eyes drop between your legs like they're magnetised. "You can touch. Just the tip. Nothing else."
He makes a pathetic sound in the back of his throat. "That's fuckin' cruel, hen—"
"And?" Your eyebrow quirks arrogantly.
He swallows. Hard. His throat works and his cock twitches in his hand and he's already wrecked—has been since you answered the door in a towel and told him you'd been thinking about him. Which is the truth.
You've been thinking about him. For months. Through every loaded joke and every lingering touch and every time he's looked at you like you're the answer to a question he hasn't worked up the nerve to ask.
Tonight you got tired of waiting.
"Just the tip," he repeats, strangled.
"Just the tip."
He shuffles forward on his knees, and you press the vibrator to your clit. The first buzz making your thighs twitch. And he watches, transfixed, as you start working yourself in slow, lazy circles. His cock is so close to your pussy you can feel the heat radiating off it.
"Go on then," you coo. "Touch."
He guides himself forward with a shaking hand—actually shaking, Johnny MacTavish, steadiest hands on the task force—and drags the tip of his cock through your folds. Just the head. Just the fat, flushed head sliding through slick, bumping against where the vibrator sits on your clit, and the sound he makes is wrecked.
"Oh, Jesus fuckin' Christ—" His head drops forward, chin to chest, dog tags swinging. "Ye're so wet. Fuck. Fuck, ye're so fuckin’ wet."
"Mm-hm." You press the vibrator harder against your clit and let your eyes fall half-closed. "Keep going, MacTavish."
He drags himself through your folds again, agonisingly slow; the head of his cock parting your lips and sliding through the slick. He gets to your entrance and stops, the tip just barely pressing in, and you see his whole body tense with the effort of not pushing forward.
"Can I—"
"No."
"Just the tip—the actual tip—jus’ lemme—"
"I said no, Johnny."
He swears—a string of Glaswegian filth that would make his mother weep—and pulls back. His cock is shining wet, coated in your syrupy arousal, and his fist squeezes the base like he's trying to keep himself from blowing his load too quickly.
"You're pathetic," you snicker, and you don't mean it—not really—but his cock jumps and his breath stutters and oh. Oh. "You like that?"
"Shut up—"
"Look at you. Shaking. Can't even handle a little bit of my pussy without falling apart." You circle your clit with the vibrator, letting him watch, and roll your hips up so his cock slides through your folds again. "Big, tough soldier. On his knees. Begging."
He shudders, balls twitching. "I'm no' beggin’—"
"You will be." You reach down and wrap your free hand around his shaft—just for a second, guiding him—and drag his tip from your clit to your entrance and back again. Slow. Deliberate. He whimpers. Whimpers. "There. Like that. Stay right there."
"Ye're gonna fuckin' kill me, lass—"
"Don't be dramatic. Just keep rubbing." You click the vibrator up a setting and your breath catches. "And don't you dare come until I say."
He obeys—barely. His hips move in short, desperate thrusts, the head of his cock sliding through your pussy in a rhythm that's falling apart at the edges, foreskin pulled back taut. His abs are clenched under the hair, his thighs are shaking, and there's a flush creeping up his chest and throat that makes him look almost feverish. Pre-come leaks from the tip in a steady dribble, mixing with your slick, and every pass through your folds produces a sound so obscene it makes your cunt clench.
"Feels so good," he gasps, head still dropped forward. "Yer pussy—Christ—feels like fuckin' heaven and I'm no' even inside ye—"
"And you won't be." You press the vibrator directly against your clit and your back arches. "Not tonight. Tonight you just get this."
"Please—"
"There it is." You're getting close—the vibrator and the wet slide of his cock working you toward something bright and sharp. "There's the begging."
"Aye, fine, am beggin'—" His voice is raw. Desperate. Completely undone. "Please let me come. Please. I cannae—I'm no' gonna—fuck—please, hen, I need to—"
"Come on my pussy," you tell him, and your own voice is breathless now, the vibrator pushing you right to the edge, legs flexing and trembling. "Right on my clit. Now."
He breaks with a shattered groan—his cock jerking in his hand as he aims the tip right where you told him, cum pulsing hot and thick onto your clit, your folds, mixing with the vibration and the slick and your own orgasm that crashes into you half a second later. It’s a lot.
Your legs clamp around his hips and you shake through it, the vibrator still buzzing, his come dripping down your cunt, and Johnny's gasping above you like he's just run a marathon in full kit.
He collapses. Just crumples forward, catching himself on his corded forearms, forehead pressed to your collarbone. His dog tags are cold against your sternum, and his breathing is ragged and he's shaking all over.
"Ye," he pants, "are the most terrifying woman I've ever met."
You click the vibrator off and card your fingers through his mohawk. "You loved it."
"Aye." He turns his head, presses his mouth to your throat. "Ah did. Do it again."
— C. REED [ OC ]:
Morning light through thin curtains.
The mattress dips and you open one eye to find Callum propped on his elbow beside you, already awake, watching you with that quiet half-smile that makes his eyes crinkle.
"Morning," he says. Soft. Like he's trying not to spook you.
Last night was the first time. Dinner that turned into drinks that turned into his mouth on yours in the cab that turned into stumbling up the stairs with his hands under your shirt and his laugh in your ear. And then—slow, careful, both of you learning each other's sounds in the dark.
"Morning," you murmur back. Your voice is sleep-rough, your hair is a disaster, and the sheets are tangled around your waist. You should feel self-conscious. You don't.
"Been up a while," he admits His fingers trace the line of your shoulder, feather-light. "Didn't want to wake ya."
"So you just… watched me sleep?"
"Bit creepy, innit?" That grin—the devastating one, crooked and warm—and you feel something shift in your chest. Like a key turning. "Couldn't help it. You looked peaceful. Beautiful."
He leans in and kisses you. Morning breath and all, unhurried and warm, his hand coming up to cup your jaw with a tenderness that makes your throat tight. This isn't a man in a rush. This is a man who showed up last night and is still here this morning and doesn't seem remotely interested in leaving.
The kiss deepens. His hand slides from your jaw to your neck to your collarbone, slow and mapping, and when your leg hooks over his hip he makes a low sound against your mouth.
"Cal," you whisper.
"Mm."
"Again?"
He pulls back just enough to look at you. Those hazel eyes—warm amber in the morning light, still heavy with sleep—searching your face for something. He must find it, because his expression softens into something that makes your ribs ache.
"Yeah," he answers. "Again."
He rolls onto his back and pulls you with him, settling you on top, and the duvet falls away from both of you. He's hard—not urgently, not desperately, just the easy morning hardness of a man waking up next to someone he wants—and you can feel him against your inner thigh, warm skin on warm skin.
"We used the last condom," you remember.
"I know." His hands rest on your hips, thumbs drawing circles on your hip bones. "Don't care. Come here."
You lower yourself over him, and his cock settles between your folds like it belongs there. No guiding, no adjustment—just the easy slide of warm skin against warm skin, your wetness from the night before mixing with fresh slick as you shift your hips.
His eyes close. His head presses back into the pillow and he exhales—long, slow, like he's releasing something he's been carrying.
"Fuck, that's nice," he murmurs. Not performative. Not filthy. Just honest. "You feel incredible."
You start to move. Slow, lazy rocks of your hips, letting him slide through your folds in long, unhurried strokes. There's no urgency to it. No punishment, no desperation, no power play. Just the quiet, warm friction of two bodies that found each other last night and aren't ready to stop touching.
His hands explore while you move—running up your thighs, your waist, your ribs. Mapping you in the daylight the way he mapped you in the dark. He cups your breasts, thumbs your nipples gently, and smiles when your rhythm falters.
"Sensitive," he notes.
"You figured that out last night."
"Wanted to make sure it wasn't a fluke." He sits up—still inside the cradle of your hips, still sliding between your folds—and wraps his arms around you. His mouth finds your neck, your collarbone, the space behind your ear. Slow, warm, open-mouthed kisses that make you shiver.
"You're really good at this," you say, and you don't just mean the sex. You mean the morning. The staying. The way he holds you like this is exactly where he's supposed to be.
"At what?" he murmurs against your throat.
"Being here."
He pulls back. Looks at you. And there's something in his face—not surprise, but recognition. Like he knows what it cost you to say that. Like he knows you're not used to men who stay.
"I'm not going anywhere," he tells you, simple and steady. The way the tide doesn't explain itself.
He kisses you again, deeper this time, and his hips start moving with yours—rolling up to meet you, his cock sliding through your folds in a rhythm that builds slowly. His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with a gentle precision that makes your breath catch.
"There?" he asks against your mouth.
You arch into his touch, lashes fluttering shut. "Yeah—right there—"
"I've got you, love."
It builds like the morning itself—gradually, gently, warmth spreading through you in slow waves. He rubs your clit in patient circles while his cock slides between your lips, and his mouth never leaves yours. You come quietly—a long, rolling shudder that he holds you through, his arms tight around you, his own hips stuttering as he follows you over the edge.
He spills between your bodies; warm, messy, neither of you caring, and buries his face in your neck with a soft groan that's half-laugh, half-relief. Like he wasn't sure this morning would happen, and he's glad it did.
You stay like that for a while. Tangled together, sticky, his heartbeat under your palm.
"So," he says eventually, voice muffled against your shoulder. "Breakfast?"
"You cook?"
"Full English. My one talent." He lifts his head, and that grin is back—warm, easy, the one that crinkles his whole face. "Well. One of two talents. As of last night."
You shove his chest, laughing, and he catches your hand and kisses your knuckles.
"Come on," he chuckles, pulling you out of bed with him. "Bacon's not going to fry itself." And he doesn't let go of your hand the whole way to the kitchen.
