Okay so I've been thinking ever since I've read your brat tamer+body guard fic, and how reader goes to all theese clubs cus her dad's got money, but what if they went to a bar instead yk. And reader wants to rile Six up so she asks him to teach her how to play n bend her over the pool table and stuff GRRRWW
Anyway hope you had a nice day our highly respected leader 🫶
AHAHAHA AM I THE LEADER ON SIERRA SIX NOW ???
but anything for you my babies
TW: brattiness but no sex happens
The bar was dimly lit, thick with the smell of whiskey and cigarette smoke that clung to the air like a secret. You knew Sierra Six was watching you. He always was. Your stoic, unflappable bodyguard had tailed you from the moment you slipped out of the safe house, his sharp eyes tracking every sway of your hips as you pushed through the crowded room in that short little black dress.
You could feel his presence even when you couldn’t see him. Tall, broad-shouldered, moving like a shadow. He stayed back, leaning against the wall with a drink he hadn’t touched, jaw tight. Perfect. You wanted him riled up tonight.
You sauntered over to the pool table in the back corner, the green felt glowing under the hanging lamp. A couple of guys were finishing a game, but they scattered the second you leaned against the rail, flashing them a sweet, wicked smile. You picked up a cue, running your fingers along the smooth wood.
“Six,” you called out, voice playful and loud enough to carry. “I need you.”
He was at your side in seconds, moving with that quiet, lethal grace. Up close, he looked even better, dark shirt stretched across his chest, sleeves rolled up to show those corded forearms. His eyes flicked down to the hem of your dress before locking onto your face.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said lowly, voice rough.
You tilted your head, biting your lip. “Then why’d you follow me, bodyguard? Come on… teach me how to play pool. I’ve always wanted to learn.”
His jaw flexed. He knew exactly what you were doing. Still, he stepped closer, taking the cue from your hands. “You’re pushing it.”
“Good,” you whispered, brushing past him so your body grazed his. “I like pushing.”
Six exhaled through his nose, clearly fighting for control. He racked the balls with quick, efficient movements while you picked up another cue, twirling it innocently. When the table was set, you positioned yourself at the end, arching your back dramatically as you lined up a shot you had no idea how to make.
“Like this?” you asked, bending over the table slowly. The short dress rode up the backs of your thighs, the curve of your ass on full display for him. You made sure to shift your weight, letting your hips tilt just right.
You heard the sharp inhale behind you.
Six stepped up close, so close you could feel the heat radiating off his body. One of his hands landed on the table beside yours, caging you in as he leaned over you, his chest nearly brushing your back.
“Feet apart,” he murmured against your ear, voice dangerously low. His other hand settled on your hip, guiding you. “Lower your shoulder. Eyes on the cue ball.”
You arched a little more, pressing back against him just enough to feel the growing hardness in his jeans. A soft, bratty laugh slipped from your lips. “Is that right, Six? Or am I doing it wrong on purpose?”
His grip on your hip tightened, fingers digging in with barely-restrained need. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
You glanced over your shoulder at him, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Then play with me. Or are you scared you’ll lose control?”
For a second, the bar noise faded. Six’s hand slid lower, palming the curve of your ass under the dress, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. His mouth hovered near your neck, breath hot against your skin.
“You keep bending over like that,” he growled, “and I’m not gonna teach you pool. I’m gonna bend you over this table and fuck the brat right out of you in front of everyone.”
Your pulse spiked. Heat flooded between your thighs.
You pushed back against his hand, grinning. “Promise?”
Six’s eyes darkened with raw hunger. He took the cue from your fingers, setting it aside. His hand wrapped around your wrist as he pulled you upright and spun you to face him.
“Outside. Now,” he ordered, voice like gravel. “You wanted to rile me up? You succeeded. Let’s see how much you can handle.”
You let him drag you toward the back exit, heart racing, a satisfied smirk on your lips. Mission accomplished.
i can NOT stop thinking about courtland gentry with a pregnant wife at home. the discord is to blame for this. yall know what you did
TW: none !
Court Gentry never planned on having a wife, let alone a pregnant one. But here he is, retired (mostly), living in a quiet, defensible house somewhere off the grid, watching the woman he loves grow round with his child like it’s the most dangerous mission he’s ever been on.
Court stands behind her in the kitchen, one large hand splayed protectively over the swell of her belly while the other holds a mug of decaf coffee he pretends to like. She’s complaining about her swollen ankles again. He doesn’t say much, he rarely does, but he presses a slow kiss to the side of her neck, then lowers himself to his knees without a word. Big, scarred hands gently lift her foot onto his thigh as he starts massaging it with a care most people would never believe the Gray Man possesses. “You’re doing the hardest job in the world,” he murmurs against her knee, voice low and rough. “Least I can do is this.”
-Court was already hyper-vigilant, but pregnancy turned him into something else entirely. He checks the perimeter of their property four times a night. Sleeps with a pistol within reach and a knife under the pillow. Has three different escape plans memorized depending on where she is in the house when an alert goes off. He tries not to hover… but he *does* hover. If she sighs too hard, he’s already scanning her face for signs of pain.
-There are moments when he catches her rubbing her belly or talking softly to the baby and he just… stops. This lethal, emotionally shunted man gets the softest look in his eyes. He’ll rest his forehead against her stomach and whisper things in that low rasp, promises, apologies, little fragments of hope he never thought he’d be allowed to have. “I’m gonna do better than my old man. Swear it.”
-Court was never big on casual touch before her, but pregnancy unlocked something in him. He’s always got a hand on her, rubbing her lower back, cradling her bump when they’re on the couch, tracing lazy circles on her skin when they’re in bed. He’s obsessed with feeling the baby kick. The first time it happened, he went completely still, eyes wide like he’d been shot. Then he smiled, actually *smiled*. and pressed his lips to the spot like he was greeting his kid.
-He’s read every pregnancy book. Knows the signs of preeclampsia better than most OBs. Has a go-bag for the hospital that includes medical supplies most people wouldn’t even know how to use. Built the nursery himself, reinforced the walls, installed a top-of-the-line security system, and painted it a soft, neutral gray because “bright colors might overstimulate the baby.” She teases him that their child is going to come out knowing how to field-strip a Glock before they can walk.
-He lets his wife paint his nails (badly) when she’s bored on bed rest. Carries her up the stairs when she’s tired without being asked. Makes her weird 2am food requests with the same focus he used to give wetwork. Once drove forty minutes to find the specific brand of pickles she was craving at 1:17am. Didn’t complain once.
-Court doesn’t talk about it much, but he’s terrified. Terrified he won’t be enough. Terrified his past will come back for them. Terrified he’ll fail as a father the way his own father failed him. Some nights he wakes up in a cold sweat and just pulls her close, burying his face in her neck and breathing her in until the panic fades.
-He’s a mess. Stoic on the outside, but his hand never leaves hers. He’s whispering encouragement in her ear the entire time, “You got this, baby. Strongest person I know.” When he finally holds his child, this tiny, fragile thing that’s half him and half her, the Gray Man, the man who’s ended more lives than he can count, quietly cries for the first time in years.
He never thought he’d get this. A wife. A child. A home.
But now that he has it? Courtland Gentry will burn the entire world down before he lets anyone take it from him.
TW: religion, corruption, improper use of a confessional booth teehee
smut below cut !
Father Holland March stood in the dimly lit confessional, his black cassock clinging to his broad shoulders, the white clerical collar suddenly feeling far too tight around his throat. He’d taken his vows years ago, mostly as a joke, or a way to dodge real responsibility, but God had a sick sense of humor, because nothing tested his faith like you.
You knelt on the other side of the lattice, voice soft and trembling as you confessed your sins. Impure thoughts. Touching yourself at night. Fantasies about a man of God.
His cock twitched hard beneath his robes.
“Tell me more, my child,” he murmured, voice low and rough, that signature Holland drawl dripping with false piety. His hand pressed against the growing bulge, squeezing through the fabric. “Describe exactly what you did… how your fingers felt sliding into that tight, untouched cunt while you whispered my name.”
You whimpered.
He smiled in the dark, a wicked, hungry curve of his lips. Corruption tasted so much sweeter when they came to him already halfway gone.
“Father… I’m sorry,” you breathed.
“Don’t be,” he said, opening the confessional door and stepping into your side. The small space made it easy for him to crowd you against the wall, one large hand sliding up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher. “You’re exactly what I’ve been praying for. A pretty little lamb who needs to be ruined.”
His fingers found your soaked panties and pushed them aside, two thick digits sliding into you without warning. You gasped, gripping his cassock.
“That’s it,” he groaned, pumping slowly, curling to find that spot that made your knees buckle. “Let me corrupt you properly. I want to bend you over this kneeler and fuck the grace right out of you until you’re dripping my cum down your thighs during Sunday mass.”
He leaned in, biting your ear as he added a third finger, stretching you open.
“Say it. Tell your Father how badly you need to be defiled.”
“P-please, Father… corrupt me.”
Holland March grinned like the devil himself wearing a collar.
PLEASE DO SIERRA SIX PUH-LEASE I NEED EVERY INCH OF THAT MAN maybe a body guard six! x brat!reader 😙😙😙😙
okay i got wayyyyy too carried away this hehe also i'm sorry this took me so long. work has been kicking my asssss
TW: brat, pet names, canon typical violence
Word Count: 11.7k
begins under cut !
The penthouse smelled like expensive leather and your father’s cologne, too heavy, too sharp. You were sprawled across the massive sectional sofa in silk lounge shorts and a camisole, scrolling through your phone with deliberate disinterest as your father paced in front of you.
“I’m not asking, I’m telling you,” he said, voice tight with stress he rarely let show. “There was another attempt last night. Closer this time. I’ve hired someone… different.”
You didn’t even look up. “If it’s another ex-Marine meathead who calls me ‘Miss,’ I’m jumping off the balcony.”
The elevator dinged.
Your father straightened like a man who knew exactly how dangerous his next decision was. “He’s already here.”
The doors opened.
He stepped into the penthouse like he owned the shadows themselves.
Tall. Broad shoulders under a simple black jacket. Sharp, angular face with a faint scar along his jaw. His eyes were cold and pale blue as they swept the room once, assessing every exit, every window, and finally landing on you with zero expression.
Your father cleared his throat. “This is Sierra Six. You can call him Six for short. Former CIA. He’ll be your personal security detail until I say otherwise. Twenty-four seven.”
You slowly sat up, letting your phone drop to the cushion. A smirk tugged at your lips as you dragged your gaze up and down the man standing ten feet away. He looked like a loaded weapon in human form.
You tilted your head.
“So… they sent you to babysit me?” You let out a soft, mocking laugh. “This should be fun.”
Six didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink. His voice was low, rough, and completely flat when he finally spoke.
“Ma’am.”
Just that. One word. Dry as desert sand.
Your father exhaled, already exhausted. “I have meetings in Geneva. Try not to make his job harder than it needs to be.”
He gave Six one last nod and left.
The heavy door clicked shut, leaving you alone with him.
You stood up slowly, walking toward him with that signature sway in your hips you knew drove bodyguards crazy. Stopping just a little too close, you looked up at his impassive face and smiled sweetly.
“Rule one, Six,” you said, tapping one finger against his chest. “I don’t do rules. And I *especially* don’t listen to men who look like they’ve never smiled in their life.”
You arched a brow, waiting for a reaction.
Six stared down at you, completely unbothered. After a long beat, he said calmly:
“Rule one, Princess. You try to slip away from me… I’ll cuff you to something heavy. We clear?”
You stared at him for a long second, lips parting in genuine disbelief. He was supposed to get flustered. Or at least *annoyed*. Instead, Sierra Six just stood there like a damn statue, watching you with those flat, unreadable eyes.
Your irritation flared hot and immediate.
“Excuse me?” you snapped, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “Did you just threaten to *cuff* me? Who the hell do you think you are?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just gave you one slow blink.
You huffed loudly, spinning on your heel and storming toward the open kitchen. The silk of your shorts rode up with every angry step, but you didn’t care. You yanked open the fridge, grabbed a sparkling water, and slammed it shut harder than necessary.
“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, loud enough for him to hear. “I don’t need a glorified babysitter following me around like some shadow. Especially not one who thinks he can talk to me like that.”
You cracked the bottle open and took a sip, glaring at him over the rim. Six hadn’t moved from his spot near the elevator. He simply watched you, hands clasped loosely in front of him, posture relaxed but clearly ready.
After another tense beat of silence, he finally spoke, voice low and even.
“Your father hired me because the last three agents couldn’t keep up with you. I’m not here to be nice. I’m here to keep you alive.” His eyes flicked over you once. “Throw your little tantrum if it makes you feel better, Princess. Just know I’ve got all night.”
Your cheeks burned with frustration. He wasn’t rising to the bait. Wasn’t yelling. Wasn’t even pretending to be intimidated. It made you even *more* irritated.
You set the bottle down with a sharp clink and stalked past him toward the hallway that led to your bedroom.
“I’m going out tonight,” you announced over your shoulder, voice dripping with challenge. “There’s a party downtown. You can either stay here and play statue, or you can try to keep up. Your choice, Six.”
You didn’t wait for his reply. You slammed your bedroom door behind you, heart pounding with a mix of anger and something else you refused to name.
You spent the next hour in your room, fuming the entire time. The fact that your father had actually done this, assigned some stranger to follow you around like a prison guard, made your blood boil. You weren’t a child. You weren’t helpless. And you definitely didn’t need *him*.
You changed into a tight black dress and heels anyway, not because you were trying to impress or provoke anyone, but because you refused to cancel your plans just because Sierra Six existed. You weren’t going to let this ruin your night.
When you finally came out, clutch in hand, you didn’t even glance at him at first. Sierra Six was still standing near the windows, silent and unmoving.
“I’m going out,” you announced flatly, voice laced with clear irritation. “I don’t care what my father told you. I’m not sitting in this penthouse like I’m under house arrest.”
Six turned around slowly. His expression remained completely neutral as he looked at you.
“Alright,” he said simply.
You frowned, thrown off by how easily he agreed. You’d expected an argument.
He walked over to the elevator and held the door open for you without another word. You huffed and marched past him, arms crossed tightly over your chest. The silence in the elevator was suffocating. You stared straight ahead at the doors, jaw clenched.
Once you reached the garage, he opened the back door of the black SUV for you. You climbed in and immediately looked out the window, refusing to acknowledge him.
As he started driving, the quiet only made you more annoyed. After a few minutes, you finally snapped.
“This is stupid,” you muttered. “I don’t need a babysitter. I’ve had security before and they were never this… *constant*. You’re just going to hover around me all night like some shadow?”
Six kept his eyes on the road, voice calm and low.
“My job isn’t to hover. It’s to make sure you don’t get killed. You can be as irritated as you want, Princess. Doesn’t change anything.”
You let out a sharp, frustrated breath and sank back against the seat, glaring at the back of his head.
“I hate this,” you said under your breath, loud enough for him to hear. “I hate all of it.”
A couple moments later you rolled up to the club. You had decided the best way to deal with this was to ignore him completely and headed straight in.
Since stepping into the club, you hadn’t looked at Sierra Six once. You joined your friends in the VIP section, forcing yourself to smile and act normal despite the heavy weight of his presence behind you. You danced with them, sipped your drink, and laughed at their stories like everything was fine, like there wasn’t a tall, silent man standing a short distance away, watching your every move.
But no matter how hard you tried to pretend he wasn’t there, you could still *feel* him. Every time you shifted or turned, he was somewhere nearby. Not crowding you, but never more than ten feet away. Calm. Focused. Unmoving.
It was exhausting.
You leaned against the railing overlooking the dance floor, nursing your second drink and chatting with your friends. You kept your back mostly to him, refusing to give him any acknowledgment. The music pulsed around you, but your mood remained sour and irritated. Having a constant shadow forced on you like this made everything feel stifling.
One of your friends glanced over your shoulder. “He really doesn’t take his eyes off you, huh?”
You shrugged, keeping your tone flat. “He’s just doing his job. I’m not going to pay attention to him.”
You took another sip of your drink and moved deeper into the VIP lounge with your group, still deliberately acting like Sierra Six didn’t exist.
You were tired of feeling his eyes on you.
While your friends were distracted laughing and ordering another round, you saw your chance. You slipped away quietly from the VIP area, weaving through the crowd without looking back. The main dance floor was packed, dark, and loud. It was exactly what you needed to disappear for a while.
The bass hit harder down here. Bodies moved all around you as you pushed deeper into the crowd. For the first time since arriving, you felt a small sense of freedom. No tall shadow right behind you. No constant reminder of your father’s overprotectiveness.
You found a spot near the center and let yourself move with the music. A server passed by with shots, and you took two, downing them quickly. The burn felt good. You grabbed a third drink from another tray and kept going, determined to enjoy yourself and forget that Sierra Six even existed.
Time blurred as the alcohol started hitting you. You danced harder, laughing at nothing in particular, moving with strangers and friends who had followed you down. The lights flashed across your face and the world felt a little softer, a little warmer.
You were definitely getting drunk now. Your movements were looser, your laughter louder, and your balance a little unsteady.
The alcohol had loosened you up significantly. The music felt louder, the lights brighter, and your usual sharp edges had softened into something reckless. You kept dancing, hips swaying, refusing to check if Sierra Six was still watching.
That’s when he appeared.
A tall guy in a fitted black shirt slid into your space on the dance floor, smiling confidently as he moved with you. He was attractive enough, sharp jaw, easy grin, and under normal circumstances you wouldn't have flirted back lightly. Tonight, though, with your annoyance still simmering, you let him get closer.
He placed his hands on your waist, pulling you in as the beat dropped. You didn’t push him away. Instead, you let your body move against his, a small defiant spark flickering in your chest. *Let Six see this*, you thought hazily. *Let him deal with it.*
The guy’s hands grew bolder, sliding down to your hips, then lower, gripping you tighter as he pressed closer. His breath brushed your ear as he murmured something you couldn’t quite hear over the music. You laughed, tipsy and stubborn, and didn’t stop him.
You allowed it.
For a few moments, his hands roamed, one slipping down to grab your ass, the other staying possessively on your lower back. You were drunk enough to lean into the chaos of it, using it as quiet rebellion against the man you knew was somewhere nearby.
Then suddenly, he was gone.
A strong hand clamped down on the guy’s shoulder and yanked him backward hard. Sierra Six appeared like he’d materialized out of the crowd, his expression cold and dangerous. He shoved the guy away with enough force that he stumbled into other dancers.
“Touch her again and I’ll break your fucking arm,” Six said, voice low and lethal, barely audible over the music but clear enough to make the guy’s face go pale.
The stranger muttered something and quickly disappeared into the crowd.
Six turned to you. His jaw was tight, eyes narrowed as he looked you over. You were still breathing fast from dancing, cheeks flushed from the drinks and the defiance.
He stepped in close, closer than he’d been all night, and spoke directly into your ear so you could hear him clearly.
“We’re leaving. Now.”
“No,” you mumbled, pulling your arm away from his grip as best you could.
Your voice came out weaker than you wanted, slurred around the edges from all the drinks. You tried to step back, stubbornness still burning through the haze in your head. “I’m not… I’m not leaving yet. You can’t just… drag me out.”
Sierra Six didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t argue. He simply looked down at you for a beat, taking in your unsteady stance and glassy eyes, then wrapped one arm firmly around your waist to steady you.
“You’re done,” he said calmly, voice low and final.
You huffed, irritated even through the fog of alcohol, and tried to push at his chest. Your hands felt heavy and clumsy. The shove you attempted barely moved him. “This is so stupid… I was fine. You’re ruining everything again.”
Six didn’t respond. He simply turned and started guiding you through the crowd toward the exit, his arm staying locked around you like iron. You kept loosely fighting him the whole way, half-hearted tugs, quiet complaints, trying to dig your heels in, but your body wouldn’t cooperate. Your heels wobbled dangerously with every step, and the room kept tilting slightly.
By the time you reached the club’s exit, you were mostly leaning against him whether you wanted to or not. The cool night air hit your face as he led you outside and straight toward the waiting SUV.
You muttered under your breath, “I hate this… hate you being here…” but the words were soft and blurry. Your balance was completely shot.
Six opened the back door and helped you inside with surprising patience. You half-fell onto the seat, dress riding up, head spinning as you tried to sit up straight. He closed the door, walked around, and got into the driver’s seat.
As the car started moving, you slumped against the window, still quietly huffy, watching the city lights blur past. Your attempts at rebellion had completely fizzled out under the weight of how drunk you actually were.
By the time the SUV pulled into the private garage beneath the penthouse, most of your fight had drained away. The alcohol made everything feel heavy and slow. You were still irritated, still resentful that Sierra Six had ruined your night, but you didn’t have the energy to argue anymore.
You relented.
When he opened the back door and offered his hand, you took it without protest and let him help you out of the car. Your heels were unsteady on the concrete floor, and the world tilted dangerously with every step toward the elevator.
Six stayed quiet the entire ride up. You leaned against the wall of the elevator, eyes half-closed, arms wrapped around yourself. The doors opened directly into the penthouse. You took a few wobbly steps forward before your balance completely betrayed you as the floor rushed up to meet your face.
Six caught you before you could stumble too far.
“That’s enough,” he said under his breath.
In one smooth motion, he bent down and lifted you, tossing you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. A surprised sound escaped you, but you didn’t have the strength to fight it. Your head spun as you hung upside down, one of his arms locked firmly around the backs of your thighs to keep you in place.
“Put me down…” you mumbled weakly, more out of habit than actual protest. Your voice was soft and tired. “This is humiliating, Six.”
He didn’t answer. He simply carried you through the dark penthouse, his steps steady and quiet. You could feel the strength in his shoulder and arm, solid, unyielding. The silk of your dress had ridden up, but you were too drunk to care.
He carried you all the way down the hallway and into your bedroom. Only when he reached your bed did he carefully lower you onto it. You landed on your back with a soft bounce, staring up at the ceiling as the room continued to spin.
Six stood over you for a moment, looking down at your flushed face and messy hair. His expression was still mostly unreadable, but there was a faint trace of something, maybe mild exasperation, in the set of his jaw.
“Get some sleep, Princess,” he said quietly. “You’re going to feel like hell tomorrow.”
You didn’t fight him anymore.
The second your back hit the bed, the exhaustion and alcohol pulled you under. You barely managed to kick at the covers half-heartedly before your eyes fluttered shut. The last thing you registered was the sound of Six’s footsteps heading toward the door.
Then nothing.
You woke up the next morning to sunlight slicing through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Your head was pounding, mouth dry, and your body felt heavy with regret.
You were still wearing the tight black dress from last night, now wrinkled and twisted around your body. However, your sky-high heels had been carefully removed and placed neatly by the closet. Your face felt clean. No trace of sticky makeup or smudged mascara. Someone had taken it off for you.
On your nightstand sat a tall glass of water and two painkillers, right next to your phone which was plugged in to its charger.
You stared at the items for a long moment, a mix of irritation and reluctant surprise twisting in your chest. You knew exactly who had done this. Sierra Six.
You slowly sat up, wincing as your headache flared. The penthouse was quiet. For a second you wondered if he had left, but you doubted it. He was probably somewhere nearby, waiting like the constant shadow he was.
You swallowed the painkillers with the water, then swung your legs over the side of the bed. Your reflection in the mirror across the room looked rough, hair messy, dress disheveled, eyes tired.
Memories from the club came back in fragments: dancing, the random guy’s hands on you, Six yanking him away, being carried over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes…
Your cheeks burned with embarrassment and lingering annoyance.
You stood up on shaky legs and made your way toward the bedroom door, still wearing last night’s dress. You weren’t ready to face him, but you needed coffee.
You padded out of your bedroom, barefoot and still in the wrinkled black dress from last night. The penthouse was quiet except for the low hum of the city far below. As you entered the open living area, the smell of fresh coffee hit you immediately.
Sierra Six was standing in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup. He looked exactly the same as always, calm and composed. He was dressed in a simple black shirt and pants.
You stopped near the island, arms crossing over your chest. The sight of him made your lingering headache feel worse. He had taken your heels off. Removed your makeup. Left water and pills like he had any right to touch you while you were passed out.
You hated how thoughtful it was.
Six glanced over at you, his expression unreadable as always. He slid a second mug of coffee across the counter in your direction without saying a word.
You stared at the mug for a moment before reluctantly walking over and picking it up. The warmth felt good against your hands, but you refused to thank him.
“I didn’t ask you to do any of that,” you said quietly, voice still rough from sleep and the hangover. “The makeup. The shoes. The pills.”
Six took a slow sip of his own coffee, leaning against the counter.
“You were barely conscious,” he replied evenly. “Figured you’d be more comfortable without the heels digging into your feet and that makeup caked on your face.”
You huffed softly, looking down into your mug. Part of you wanted to snap at him, but the hangover made it hard to muster up the energy. Instead, you settled for cold irritation.
“I don’t need you playing caretaker, Six. Just… doing your job and staying out of my way would be great.”
He watched you for a long beat, those sharp blue eyes steady.
“Staying out of your way almost got some idiot’s hands all over you last night,” he said, voice low. “You can be annoyed with me all you want, Princess. But I’m not going anywhere.”
You tightened your grip on the mug, cheeks warming with a mix of embarrassment and frustration. The worst part was knowing he was right but you weren’t about to admit that.
You scoffed under your breath and walked away without another word, disappearing into your bathroom. The hot shower felt like the only thing you had control over right now. You stayed under the water until your fingers pruned, letting the steam and heat wash away the headache and the lingering embarrassment from last night.
By the time you stepped out and wrapped yourself in a towel, you felt slightly more human.
**Three months later**
Three months had passed, and nothing had really changed.
Sierra Six was still there. Constant, quiet, and impossible to shake. He followed you everywhere: to dinners, events, shopping trips, late nights out with friends. You had tried everything to make his job difficult. You ignored him for days at a time. You ditched him in crowds. You stayed out until dawn just to test how long he’d wait. You gave him one-word answers and cold shoulders whenever he tried to speak to you.
And still, he never cracked.
He never raised his voice. Never lost his patience in front of you. He simply did his job with that same calm, steady presence that somehow managed to irritate you more than if he had yelled back.
Tonight was no different.
You were getting ready for another event, some high-profile charity gala your father insisted you attend in his honor since he had some other business meeting to attend to. You stood in front of your mirror in a sleek, backless black gown, putting the finishing touches on your makeup. Six was already waiting in the living room, dressed in a tailored black suit that somehow made him look even more dangerous than usual.
You could feel his presence even from down the hallway.
When you finally stepped out, heels clicking against the floor, his eyes lifted from his phone and landed on you. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you. His gaze was slow and assessing before giving a single, short nod.
“Ready?” he asked quietly.
You didn’t answer right away. You walked past him toward the elevator, the long slit in your dress flashing skin with every step. Only when the doors opened did you finally speak, voice cool and distant.
“Let’s just get this over with.”
Six followed you inside without another word.
The gala was exactly what you expected, loud, glittering, and full of people who smiled too wide and talked too much. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, champagne flowed freely, and the air smelled like expensive perfume and money.
You had barely stepped inside before you started putting distance between yourself and Sierra Six.
He stayed close, as always. He was close enough to reach you in seconds, but far enough that it didn’t look like he was hovering. Still, you could feel him. That quiet, steady presence at your back no matter where you moved in the ballroom.
You made your rounds with a polite smile plastered on your face, greeting people you barely knew and accepting compliments on your dress. Every so often you’d glance over your shoulder and catch Six watching you from across the room, hands clasped in front of him, expression unreadable.
You were in the middle of a conversation with some politician’s son when you noticed Six had moved closer. Not close enough to interrupt, but close enough that you knew he was listening.
Irritation flickered in your chest.
You excused yourself from the conversation and made your way toward the bar, hoping the crowd would make it harder for him to stay right on top of you. You ordered a glass of champagne and took a slow sip, letting your eyes scan the room.
Six appeared at your side, close enough that his arm brushed yours when someone bumped into him from behind. He didn’t apologize. He just stood there, calm and solid, like he had every right to be in your space.
“You’re doing that thing again,” you muttered under your breath, not looking at him.
“What thing?” he asked quietly.
“Hovering.”
Six was quiet for a beat. Then he leaned in just slightly, voice low enough that only you could hear it.
“Someone’s been watching you from the east side of the room for the last ten minutes. I’m not hovering. I’m doing my job.”
You finally turned your head to look at him. He was close, closer than he usually allowed himself to be in public. The suit made him look sharper, more dangerous. His eyes were steady on yours, unreadable as always.
You hated how your stomach flipped.
You took another sip of champagne and looked away.
“I don’t need you to save me from every person who stares,” you said coolly. “I’ve been handling myself just fine for three months.”
Six didn’t argue. He simply stayed where he was, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his cologne.
“Three months of you trying to lose me,” he said quietly. “And I’m still here.”
The words hung between you, heavier than they should have been.
The night had been moving in that same tense rhythm it always did with him around, you ignoring him and him watching you from a distance. You were standing near the tall windows, half-tuned out of whatever the man beside you was saying, when something in the air shifted.
It happened fast.
You caught the movement in your peripheral vision, a man in a dark suit cutting through the crowd with purpose from the east side, his hand already reaching inside his jacket. Your stomach dropped the second you saw the gun.
Before you could even open your mouth, the attacker raised his arm and fired.
The shot was deafening in the crowded ballroom.
The man standing right in front of you, the one who had been talking about stocks, jerked violently as the bullet tore through him. Blood sprayed in a hot, violent arc across your chest, neck, and face. You felt it hit your skin instantly warm and wet.
The man collapsed at your feet.
Screams erupted around you. Pure chaos.
You stumbled backward with a broken, choked sound, hands flying up. Your heart slammed so hard it hurt. You could still feel the warmth of someone else’s blood on your skin, on your dress, dripping down your collarbone. The metallic smell flooded your nose.
The attacker was already moving again, gun swinging toward you now that his first target was down.
Sierra Six hit him like a freight train.
He came out of nowhere, slamming into the man with brutal force. There was a violent struggle, fists, a grunt, the gun skittering across the floor. Six drove his elbow hard into the attacker’s face, then grabbed him by the back of the neck and slammed him face-first into a marble pillar with a sickening crunch. The man dropped, unconscious or worse.
It was over in seconds.
Six turned to you immediately, eyes sharp as he took in the blood covering your chest and face. He stepped in fast, hands gripping your arms.
“Hey. Look at me,” he said, voice low but urgent. “It’s not yours. You’re okay. You’re okay.”
You couldn’t stop shaking. Your breathing came in short, panicked gasps. The image of the man dropping right in front of you kept replaying. You could feel the blood cooling on your skin.
“I-I felt it hit me,” you managed, voice cracking. “He was right there-”
“I know.” Six’s grip tightened just enough to ground you. “But you’re not hit. We need to move. Right now.”
He didn’t give you time to fall apart. One arm wrapped firmly around your waist as he started moving you through the screaming crowd. People were scrambling in every direction. You stumbled once in your heels and Six caught you without slowing, half-carrying you toward the exit while keeping his body between you and the room.
“Keep your eyes on me,” he said as he hurried you forward, voice steady even as he moved fast. “Don’t look back. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”
The cold night air hit your face when he finally got you outside, but it didn’t stop the shaking. Your legs felt weak. Six opened the SUV door and guided you inside with careful urgency, one hand on the back of your head so you didn’t hit it.
The second the door shut, the noise cut off.
Six slid into the driver’s seat and immediately turned toward you, his expression tight but his voice calmer now.
“You’re okay,” he said again, quieter this time. “It’s over. Just keep breathing for me. I'm going to get you somewhere safe. Okay princess?"
Six didn’t waste a second.
He threw the SUV into drive and pulled out fast, tires squealing slightly as he merged into traffic.
“Eyes on me,” he said, voice low and steady as he weaved through cars at dangerous speed. “You’re okay. You’re not hit. That blood isn’t yours. Just keep breathing for me, alright?”
You were still shaking. Your hands trembled in your lap, and you could feel the blood drying on your skin and the front of your dress. Every time you blinked, you saw the man drop in front of you again.
“I-I can’t stop shaking,” you whispered, voice thin.
“I know.” Six’s eyes watched you through the rear view mirror as he took a sharp turn. “Adrenaline. It’ll pass. You’re safe now. I’ve got you. No one’s getting to you while I’m here.”
He kept talking the entire drive. His voice calm, low, and constant. Reassuring you that you were okay, that he had you, that they were almost to a safe house. He didn’t raise his voice once. He just kept driving like a man who had done this a hundred times, while still making sure you didn’t spiral.
When he finally pulled into an underground garage beneath a nondescript apartment building, he killed the engine and was out of the car before you could even reach for the door handle.
He opened your door, took one look at how badly you were still shaking, and didn’t even ask.
In one smooth motion, he slid one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you bridal-style against his chest. You made a small sound of surprise but didn’t have the energy to protest. Your arms instinctively looped around his neck as he carried you quickly through the garage and into a private elevator.
He moved fast, like every second counted. His heartbeat was steady under your ear. He didn’t put you down when the elevator doors opened. He just carried you straight into the safe house apartment, kicking the door shut behind him with his foot.
Only once you were inside did he finally slow down. He carried you over to the large couch and carefully set you down, but he didn’t step away immediately. His hands stayed on your shoulders for a moment, steadying you as he looked you over.
“You’re okay,” he said again, quieter now that you were behind locked doors. “We’re safe here. No one knows about this place.”
Six stayed close for a few minutes, watching you carefully. You were still trembling, eyes glassy, blood drying on your skin and dress. He eventually spoke, voice low and gentle.
“You should go take a shower. Get that blood off you. It’ll help.”
You didn’t answer. You just nodded weakly and stood up on shaky legs, making your way down the short hallway to the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind you.
You didn’t even bother undressing.
You stepped straight into the large walk-in shower, still in your blood-stained black gown and heels. The second the hot water hit you, something inside you cracked. You sank down onto the tiled floor, pulling your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. The water poured over you, turning pink as it washed the blood from your skin and dress. You stayed there, curled up tightly, shaking as the events of the night finally crashed over you in full.
You didn’t know how long you’d been sitting there when the bathroom door opened again.
Six stepped inside quietly. He had a change of clothes in his hands, one of his own shirts and a pair of soft sweatpants. He set them on the counter without a word, then paused when he noticed you on the floor of the shower, still fully dressed, water soaking through your gown.
He didn’t say anything at first. He just watched you for a moment, jaw tight.
Then your voice came out small and broken.
“…Six?”
He stepped closer to the shower door.
“Yeah.”
You lifted your head slightly, eyes red and wet. Your voice cracked when you spoke again.
“Can you… can you get in with me?”
He went still.
You swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “Please. I-I don’t want to be alone right now. Just… stay with me. I just need help getting it off.”
For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, without a word, Six stepped into the shower with you. The water immediately soaked through his black button-up and slacks. He crouched down in front of you, not touching you yet, just making sure you were okay with him being this close.
You reached for him with a trembling hand.
He took it gently.
Then he started helping you clear the blood off. His careful, steady hands wiping the blood from your arms, your collarbone, your neck. The water ran pink between you as he worked quietly, his clothes plastered to his body, completely focused on you. He didn’t speak. He just stayed there with you under the spray, letting you lean into him when your shaking got too bad.
The water eventually ran clear.
Six stayed crouched in front of you until your shaking had eased into something smaller, quieter. Then he reached over and gently turned the shower off. The sudden silence felt heavy.
“Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s get you out of here.”
He stood first, water dripping from his soaked clothes, and offered you his hand. You took it without hesitation this time. He helped you to your feet, steadying you when your legs wobbled, then stepped out of the shower first. He grabbed a large towel from the rack and handed it to you before turning his back respectfully.
“I’ll be right outside,” he said. “Take your time.”
You nodded even though he couldn’t see it. Once he stepped out and closed the door behind him, you peeled off the ruined black gown and let it drop heavily to the floor. Your hands were still unsteady as you dried off and changed into the clothes he’d brought you, his soft black t-shirt that hung loose on your frame and the gray sweatpants that were far too big but comfortable.
When you finally opened the bathroom door, Six was waiting in the hallway, now changed into dry clothes himself. He didn’t say anything. He just looked you over once, checking that you were okay, before gently guiding you down the short hallway with a hand on your lower back.
The bedroom was simple and clean. He pulled back the covers on the bed without a word, then turned to you.
“Lie down,” he said softly. “You need rest.”
You were too drained to argue. You climbed into the bed and he carefully pulled the blankets up over you, tucking them around your shoulders with surprising gentleness. For a moment he just stood there, looking down at you like he was making sure you were really okay.
Then he reached out and brushed a damp strand of hair away from your face.
“I’ll be right outside if you need anything,” he said quietly. “Door’s open. Just call for me.”
He started to turn away, but your hand shot out and caught his wrist before he could leave.
“Please,” you whispered, voice small and raw. “Don’t go. I… I don’t want to be alone right now. Please stay.”
Six went still. He looked down at where your hand held onto him, then back at your face. You could see the hesitation in his eyes — the way he was weighing everything. Three months of you pushing him away. Three months of him keeping his distance. And now this.
He was quiet for a long moment.
Then he exhaled slowly.
“Just this once,” he said, voice low.
He didn’t make you ask again.
Six walked around to the other side of the bed and pulled back the covers. He climbed in beside you without another word, the mattress dipping under his weight. He stayed on top of the blankets at first, like he was still trying to keep some kind of line between you, but when you instinctively shifted closer, he didn’t stop you.
After a beat, he lifted his arm and let you curl into his side. Your head rested against his chest, and you could hear the steady, calm rhythm of his heartbeat. One of his arms came around you, careful and warm, holding you there.
He didn’t say anything else. He just stayed.
You could feel the warmth of him through his shirt and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to fight the contact with him.
You closed your eyes, exhaustion finally pulling at you.
Six’s hand moved slowly up and down your back in soothing strokes.
“Sleep,” he murmured against your hair. “I’ve got you.”
***
You must have fallen asleep first.
The steady rhythm of Six’s heartbeat under your ear, the warmth of his arm around you, and the exhaustion from everything that had happened pulled you under quickly. At some point during the night, he must have pulled the covers over both of you, because when you slowly blinked awake the next morning, you were completely wrapped up in him.
Your legs were tangled with his. One of your arms was draped across his chest, and his hand was resting low on your back, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of the shirt you were wearing. Your face was tucked against the side of his neck, and you could feel the slow, even rise and fall of his breathing.
He was still asleep.
For a long moment, you didn’t move. You just laid there, listening to the quiet of the safe house and the sound of him breathing. The events of last night felt distant now, like a bad dream, but the memory of how he’d carried you, stayed in the shower with you, and climbed into bed without hesitation was still fresh.
You tilted your head slightly to look at him.
Even in sleep, he looked calm. The sharp edges of his face were softer in the morning light filtering through the curtains. His arm was still securely around you, like even unconscious, he was making sure you were safe.
Something in your chest tightened.
For the first time in three months, you didn’t feel that sharp, irritated urge to push him away. You didn’t feel the need to be difficult or cold. Instead, there was something quieter. Warmer. A strange, reluctant softness you weren’t ready to name yet.
*Maybe he’s not so bad*, you thought.
The realization settled over you slowly as you stayed curled against him, not wanting to move just yet. His hand flexed slightly on your back, like he could sense you were awake, but he didn’t open his eyes.
You closed yours again and let yourself stay there a little longer, limbs tangled, breathing in sync.
You didn’t move.
Instead, you settled in deeper against him, letting your body relax fully into the warmth of his chest. Your fingers curled lightly into his shirt as you closed your eyes again, breathing him in. For once, you didn’t feel the need to create distance. You just wanted to stay exactly where you were.
A few minutes later, you felt him stir.
Six’s breathing changed slower, then deeper as he started to wake. His arm tightened around you instinctively before he even opened his eyes. When he finally did, he blinked a few times, gaze soft with sleep as he looked down at you still curled against him.
He didn’t pull away.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You could feel his heartbeat pick up just slightly under your cheek. Then his hand moved slowly up your back in a gentle stroke.
“Morning,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.
You didn’t answer right away. You just hummed quietly, still not ready to move.
Eventually, Six shifted and sat up slowly, careful not to jostle you too much. You followed, sitting up beside him. The blankets pooled around your waist as you rubbed at your eyes. The events of last night felt heavier in the daylight, but the fear had dulled into something quieter.
Six ran a hand through his hair, then glanced over at you.
“We’re going to lay low here for a while,” he said, voice calm but firm. “Until we know it’s safe. No going out. No contact with anyone outside this place. Just us, until I get word that the threat’s handled.”
He looked at you for a moment, studying your face.
“You okay with that?”
You nodded slowly, still feeling the ghost of his arms around you from the night before.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I’m okay with that.”
Six gave a small nod, then stood up from the bed.
“I’ll make some coffee. You can take your time.”
He headed toward the door, but before he left, he paused and looked back at you.
“You did good last night,” he added, softer this time. “You stayed calm when it mattered.”
Then he was gone, leaving you sitting in the quiet bedroom with your thoughts.
**A couple of days later**
The safe house had fallen into an easy, quiet rhythm.
Mornings started slow. You’d wake up tangled in the sheets, sometimes alone, sometimes with the faint smell of coffee drifting in from the kitchen. Six would already be up, always early, making breakfast or checking in with whoever was handling things on the outside. You’d sit at the small kitchen island in his oversized shirts, sipping coffee while he moved around the space with calm efficiency.
Afternoons were quiet. You read, watched movies, or sat by the window while Six worked on his tablet or cleaned weapons you pretended not to notice. Sometimes you talked. Sometimes you didn’t. The silence between you had changed. It wasn’t cold anymore. It was comfortable.
Evenings were when things felt most natural. You cooked together (or rather, you tried while he actually cooked). You’d eat on the couch, knees touching, the TV playing something low in the background. And every single night, without fail, the same thing happened.
You would look at him across the couch or from the bedroom doorway and ask, voice soft but insistent:
“Can you sleep in the bed with me tonight?”
Six would usually pause, that familiar hesitation flickering across his face. Sometimes he’d say no, gently, but firmly. “Not tonight.” Other times he’d just look at you for a long moment before giving in with a quiet sigh.
But on the nights he said no, you didn’t argue.
You just waited until he was asleep on the couch or in the spare room, then climbed into his bed anyway. You’d curl up against his back or press yourself into his side, and every single time, he would eventually give in. His arm would come around you. He’d pull you closer and let you stay with him.
Tonight was no different.
You stood in the bedroom doorway in one of his shirts, watching him as he finished checking the locks on the front door. When he turned and saw you, he already knew what you were going to say.
“Six…” you started, voice quiet. “Please sleep in the bed with me tonight.”
He looked at you for a long moment, that unreadable expression softening just slightly at the edges.
Then he exhaled, running a hand over his face.
“Just this once,” he said again, the same thing he’d told you that first night.
But you both knew it wasn’t just this once anymore.
He followed you into the bedroom without another word. You climbed into bed first, and when he slid in beside you, you immediately moved into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t fight it. He just wrapped an arm around you and pulled you against his chest, his hand resting warm and steady on your back.
Neither of you spoke.
You just laid there together in the dark, breathing in sync, the rest of the world locked outside.
And for the first time in a long time, you felt safe.
You were curled against his side like you had been every night for the past few days, your head on his chest, one leg draped over his. His arm was around you, fingers tracing slow, absent patterns on your back. The safe house was dark and still.
You’d been thinking about it for hours. About how different things felt now. About how you didn’t hate having him around anymore. About how you actually looked forward to these quiet nights.
Your voice came out small in the dark.
“I used to hate you being here,” you admitted quietly. “Like… really hate it. I thought you were just another one of my dad’s control freaks. Another babysitter.”
Six didn’t say anything, but you felt his hand pause on your back for a second before continuing.
You swallowed and kept going, voice even softer.
“But these last few days… I don’t know. I’ve been waiting for you to come to bed. I’ve been climbing in with you even when you say no. And I don’t think it’s just because I’m scared anymore.”
You lifted your head slightly to look at him. His face was half-lit by the moonlight coming through the curtains.
“I think I just… want you here. With me.”
The words hung in the air between you.
Six was quiet for a long moment. His expression didn’t change much, but you could feel the shift in his body, the way his muscles tensed slightly under you.
Finally, he spoke, voice low and careful.
“You shouldn’t.”
You blinked.
“What?”
He exhaled slowly, staring up at the ceiling instead of looking at you.
“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Me staying in this bed with you every night. You curling up against me like this. It’s a bad idea.”
You felt your stomach twist.
“Why?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.
“Because I’m not supposed to be doing this,” he said, still calm, still quiet. “I was hired to protect you. Not… whatever this is turning into. And I’m not good for you. You know that.”
He finally looked at you then. His eyes were steady, but there was something tired behind them.
“I’ve done a lot of ugly things in my life, Princess. You don’t need to get caught up in that. You deserve better than someone like me sleeping in your bed just because you’re scared.”
You stayed quiet for a moment, heart sinking a little.
“So what?” you asked softly. “You’re just going to keep pretending you don’t feel anything?”
Six’s jaw tightened.
“I’m going to keep doing my job,” he said. “And right now, my job is keeping you alive. Not letting this get more complicated than it already is.”
He gently brushed a strand of hair from your face, the touch lingering for just a second too long.
“Go to sleep,” he murmured. “We’ll talk about it another time.”
But you both knew he was hoping there wouldn’t be another time.
He didn’t pull away from you, though. His arm stayed around you. His body stayed warm against yours. He just closed his eyes and let the silence settle again.
You were quiet for a long moment after he told you to go to sleep.
Then you pushed yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him. Your voice came out smaller than you wanted it to.
“So all this touching?” you asked quietly. “All these nights with me in your bed, you holding me… that means nothing to you?”
Six’s eyes opened. He looked up at you, expression unreadable.
You swallowed, throat tight.
“I’m just a job to you?”
The words hung there, sad and heavy.
Six didn’t answer right away. He stared at you for a long moment before exhaling slowly.
“No,” he said, voice low. “You’re not just a job. That’s the problem.”
He sat up a little, one hand gently cupping the side of your face.
“I care about you. More than I should. But this… it’s a bad idea. I’m not supposed to want you like this.”
You leaned into his touch, eyes never leaving his.
“I want you,” you whispered. The confession felt terrifying and freeing at the same time. “I don’t care if it’s a bad idea. I want you, Six.”
He closed his eyes for a second, jaw tight, clearly fighting with himself.
Then you asked, voice barely above a whisper:
“Kiss me.”
Six’s eyes opened again. You saw the exact moment his resolve cracked.
“Fuck it,” he breathed.
He surged forward and kissed you.
It wasn’t soft or hesitant. The second his lips met yours, all the months of restraint disappeared. He kissed you like he’d been starving for it. His hand slid into your hair, tilting your head as he claimed your mouth completely.
You moaned softly against him and he responded with a low groan, rolling you onto your back and pressing you into the mattress with his body weight. His other hand gripped your hip, fingers digging in as he settled between your thighs.
When he finally pulled back for air, his forehead rested against yours, breathing ragged.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he muttered, voice rough. “I’ve been trying so fucking hard to stay away from you.”
You pulled him back down into another kiss, legs wrapping around his waist. His hand slipped under your shirt, warm palm sliding up your bare skin as the kiss grew hotter, more desperate.
This time, he didn’t try to stop.
Six kissed you like he was finally allowing himself to let go.
His mouth was demanding, almost punishing in its intensity, but his hands were surprisingly careful as they moved over you. He pushed your shirt higher, palms sliding up your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. When he finally broke the kiss to pull your shirt over your head, he sat back on his knees and just looked at you for a moment.
His eyes darkened as they dragged slowly down your body.
“Been thinking about this for too long,” he muttered, almost to himself.
He leaned down again, mouth finding your neck, then your collarbone. His hand cupped one breast, squeezing gently before his thumb brushed over your nipple. When you arched into his touch, he let out a low sound of approval and lowered his head, taking your nipple into his mouth.
You bit your lip, trying to hold back a moan, but a soft, breathy sound still escaped.
Six glanced up at you, eyes sharp even in the dark.
“Don’t hold back,” he said, voice rough. “I want to hear you.”
You gave him a small, defiant little smirk, even as your breathing was already uneven.
“Make me,” you whispered.
Something flashed in his eyes, equal parts amusement and warning.
He moved lower, kissing down your stomach, hands gripping your hips as he settled between your legs. He peeled your sweatpants and underwear down slowly, tossing them aside. For a moment he just looked at you, completely bare beneath him, his hands running up your thighs.
You shifted restlessly, suddenly feeling exposed.
“Six…” you started, a bratty edge slipping into your tone, “are you just going to stare all night or-?”
He cut you off by spreading your thighs wider and dragging his tongue up your center in one slow, firm stroke.
Your words died instantly, turning into a sharp gasp.
He did it again, slower this time, savoring you. When your hips twitched, he pressed one strong arm across your lower stomach, holding you down.
“Stay still,” he murmured against you, the vibration of his voice making you shiver.
You tried to move again anyway, just to test him, and he responded by sucking on your clit with just enough pressure to make your back arch.
“Fuck- Six,” you moaned, one hand fisting the sheets.
He pulled back just enough to look up at you, lips shiny, eyes dark with heat.
“You’re still being a brat even when I’ve got my mouth on you?” he asked, voice low and dangerous. “Careful, Princess.”
Then he lowered his head again, this time sliding two fingers inside you while his tongue worked your clit. The combination was overwhelming. You couldn’t help the needy sounds that kept falling from your lips, even as you tried to keep that teasing edge.
Every time you tried to roll your hips or tug at his hair, he pinned you harder, forcing you to take what he gave you.
He was exploring every inch of you with patient, devastating focus, like he’d been imagining this for months and was determined to make it count.
"Six please. Harder. I need more-" You whined, hips twitching.
Six pulled back just enough to look up at you, his lips glistening, eyes dark with heat and something dangerously close to amusement.
“You’re still running your mouth?” he asked, voice low and rough. “Even with my fingers inside you?”
You gave him a breathless, defiant little smile, hips twitching against his hold.
“Maybe you’re just not doing it well enough to shut me up,” you teased, even as your voice shook.
Six let out a low chuckle, dark and full of promise.
“Oh, Princess…” He curled his fingers inside you, pressing against that perfect spot that made your breath hitch. “You’re going to regret saying that.”
But he didn’t stop you.
In fact, the bratty little challenge in your voice seemed to spur him on. He lowered his head again, sucking on your clit with slow, deliberate pressure while his fingers kept that steady, devastating rhythm. Every time you tried to roll your hips or tug at his hair, he pinned you down harder with his forearm.
You moaned, head falling back against the pillow, but you still managed to gasp out:
“Is that all you’ve got, Six?”
He pulled his mouth off you with a wet sound and looked up, eyes narrowed in that calm, predatory way that made your stomach flip.
“You really want to play this game right now?” he asked, voice dangerously soft. He added a third finger, stretching you as he pumped them deeper. “Because I can keep you right here on the edge for hours if you keep acting like a spoiled little brat.”
You bit your lip, trying to fight the whimper that wanted to escape, but still managed to shoot back:
“Maybe I want you to try.”
Six’s eyes flashed with heat. He clearly liked your attitude more than he wanted to admit, the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smirk.
He crawled back up your body, fingers still buried deep inside you, and hovered over you. His face was inches from yours, eyes locked on you as he worked his fingers faster.
“You’re lucky I like that mouth of yours,” he murmured, brushing his lips against yours teasingly. “But keep pushing me… and I’ll fuck that attitude right out of you.”
You shivered at the promise in his voice, but still gave him a sweet, defiant smile.
“Promises, promises…”
Six groaned low in his throat and kissed you hard, swallowing your next bratty remark as his fingers continued their relentless rhythm between your legs.
He was definitely enjoying this.
And you both knew he’d make good on his threat to tame you eventually.
He pulled his fingers out of you abruptly, making you whine at the loss. Before you could complain, he flipped you onto your stomach with ease, like you weighed nothing. He gripped your hips and yanked them up so you were on your knees, face pressed into the mattress.
“You’ve had your fun running that mouth,” he said, voice low and dangerously calm. “Now I’m going to fuck that attitude out of you.”
You barely had time to react before he lined himself up and thrust into you in one hard, deep stroke.
A sharp moan tore from your throat. The stretch was intense, and the sudden fullness made your fingers clutch the sheets. Six didn’t give you time to adjust. He started moving immediately, deep, punishing thrusts that rocked your whole body forward.
“Fuck- Six, please” you gasped, still trying to sound defiant even as your voice cracked.
He leaned over you, one hand fisting your hair and pulling your head back slightly as he kept driving into you.
“Still talking?” he growled against your ear, hips snapping harder. “Thought I told you I was done with that bratty mouth tonight.”
Each thrust was powerful and controlled, hitting deep inside you. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room along with your broken moans. Every time you tried to push back or say something smart, he fucked you harder, effectively cutting you off.
“You like pushing me, don’t you?” he muttered, voice rough as he pounded into you. “All those months of teasing me… sneaking into my bed… acting like a spoiled little princess.”
He reached around and rubbed tight circles on your clit, making your legs shake.
“Well now you’re going to take what I give you.”
Your bratty attitude started crumbling fast. The overwhelming pleasure mixed with the way he was dominating you completely made it harder and harder to talk back. Your moans grew louder, needier, and more desperate.
Six felt the shift. He released your hair and wrapped his hand around your throat instead, not squeezing hard, just holding you possessively as he fucked you deeper.
“That’s it,” he praised, voice low. “Getting quieter already. Where’s that smart mouth now, Princess?”
You whimpered, pushing back against him despite how overwhelmed you were. He rewarded you by slowing his pace just enough to grind deep, making you feel every inch.
“Beg me to let you come,” he said calmly, still thrusting steadily. “And maybe I’ll be nice.”
You were panting hard, fists clenched in the sheets, the last bit of brattiness quickly disappearing under his relentless rhythm.
Six kept his brutal, steady rhythm, his hips snapping against your ass as he drove deep inside you. His hand was still wrapped around your throat, possessive and firm.
“Beg me,” he repeated, voice low and commanding. “Beg me to let you come.”
You tried to hold onto the last scraps of your brattiness. Even as your body trembled and your walls clenched around him, you gasped out:
“I don’t- fuck- I don’t beg…”
The words barely left your mouth before Six slammed into you harder, punching the air out of your lungs. A broken moan ripped from your throat.
He leaned down, lips brushing your ear as he growled:
“Yeah? Then I guess you don’t get to come.”
He slowed his thrusts deliberately, dragging every inch in and out torturously slow, keeping you right on the edge without letting you fall over it.
You only lasted a few seconds.
The overwhelming need won almost immediately.
“Okay- okay, please,” you whimpered, voice cracking as you pushed back against him desperately. “Please, Six… I’m sorry. Please let me come.”
A dark, satisfied sound rumbled in his chest.
“There she is,” he murmured, sounding pleased. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
He immediately picked up the pace again, fucking you hard and deep, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, tight circles. His grip on your throat tightened just enough to make your head spin in the best way.
You broke completely.
Moans and pleas spilled from your lips without filter as he drove you toward the edge. The bratty attitude you’d been clinging to vanished in seconds under his relentless control.
“Come,” he ordered, voice rough against your ear. “Right now.”
Your orgasm hit you like a wave, crashing through your body so hard your arms gave out. You moaned loudly into the mattress as pleasure ripped through you, thighs shaking violently. Six fucked you through it, groaning as your walls clenched tight around him.
Only when you started to come down did he let himself go. He buried himself deep and came with a low, guttural groan, hips pressed flush against you as he filled you up.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was both of you breathing hard.
Six finally pulled out slowly and flipped you onto your back. He hovered over you, brushing damp hair from your face as he looked down at your flushed, wrecked expression.
His voice was quiet but firm when he spoke.
“Good girl.”
Your face instantly flushed a deep, burning red. The praise hit you harder than you expected. A shy, flustered warmth spread through your chest and down between your legs. You tried to look away, embarrassed by how much you liked it, but Six gently caught your chin and made you meet his eyes.
“You like that, don’t you?” he asked, voice low and knowing. “Look at you… blushing like crazy just from being called a good girl.”
You bit your lip, cheeks still flaming, but you couldn’t deny it. The way he said it made you feel small and wanted at the same time.
Six leaned down and kissed you slowly, deeply, his tongue sliding against yours. When he pulled back, his eyes had softened, but the hunger was still there.
“Think you can handle one more?” he asked.
You nodded, still flushed and a little shy now.
He shifted between your legs, spreading them wider as he settled into missionary. This time there was no rushing. He guided himself back inside you slowly, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt. You both let out a soft moan at the feeling.
Six braced himself on his forearms, caging you in as he started moving. His thrusts were deep and slow, making you feel every inch of him. His face hovered just above yours, eyes locked on you the entire time.
“You feel so fucking good,” he whispered, kissing you between thrusts. “So warm and tight just for me, princess.”
You wrapped your arms around his back, nails lightly dragging down his skin as he moved inside you. The slower pace felt more intimate, more intense in a different way. Every deep stroke made your breath hitch.
Six pressed his forehead to yours, voice rough but gentle.
“That’s it… just take me. No more attitude tonight, yeah?”
You blushed even harder at his words, but nodded quickly, melting under him.
“Good girl,” he praised again, voice low and warm against your lips.
The words sent another rush of heat through you. You whimpered softly and pulled him closer, legs wrapping tighter around his waist as he continued his slow, deep rhythm.
Six kept rolling his hips into you with smooth, deliberate strokes. Every thrust pressed him flush against you, grinding against your clit in a way that made your toes curl.
He never looked away from your face, watching every little reaction you gave him.
“Look at me,” he murmured when your eyes fluttered shut. “Want to see you while I fuck you like this.”
You forced your eyes open, cheeks still burning from his earlier praise. The eye contact felt almost too intense, too vulnerable, but you couldn’t look away. His gaze was dark, focused, and full of something much deeper than just lust.
He leaned down and kissed you again, slow and filthy, tongue sliding against yours as he buried himself deep and stayed there for a moment, grinding in small circles.
“You’re being so good for me right now,” he whispered against your lips. “Taking me so fucking perfectly.”
You whimpered at his words, your walls clenching hard around him. The praise made your stomach flutter and your face grow even hotter.
Six noticed immediately.
“You really like that, huh?” He smiled slightly, almost teasing, but his voice stayed low and warm. “My spoiled little princess likes being called a good girl?”
You nodded shyly, too embarrassed to speak, but your body gave you away. Your hips lifting to meet his thrusts, legs tightening around his waist.
Six groaned softly and picked up the pace just a little, still deep and intimate but with more purpose now.
“That’s it,” he praised, brushing his lips against your jaw. “Such a good girl for me. So wet… so tight… letting me fuck you exactly how I want.”
Every word pushed you closer to the edge. Your fingers dug into his shoulders as your breathing turned into soft, needy moans. The slow drag of him inside you, combined with the constant stream of quiet praise, was driving you crazy in the best way.
Six could feel you getting close. He slid one hand between your bodies and rubbed gentle circles on your clit.
“Come on, baby,” he murmured, voice rough but tender. “Be a good girl and come for me again.”
That was all it took.
Your second orgasm washed over you slower and deeper than the first. You cried out his name, back arching, thighs shaking as pleasure rolled through you in long, powerful waves. Six kept moving through it, kissing your neck and murmuring soft praises against your skin until your body finally went limp beneath him.
Only then did he let himself go.
With a low groan, he buried himself deep and came hard, hips jerking against you as he spilled inside you for the second time that night.
For a long while afterward, the only sounds were your heavy breathing.
Six stayed inside you for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, before slowly pulling out. He rolled onto his back and immediately pulled you on top of him, wrapping his arms around you tightly. One hand stroked up and down your spine in soothing motions while the other cradled the back of your head.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple.
You nodded against his chest, still flushed and a little dazed, enjoying the feeling of being held so securely.
---
Two weeks later, the safe house no longer felt like a cage.
The threat had been handled, your father’s team finally tracked down the people responsible. Six had been on calls most of the morning, his voice low and serious, while you pretended not to eavesdrop from the kitchen. When he finally stepped out, the tension in his shoulders had eased.
“It’s over,” he said simply.
You looked up from your coffee, trying to play it cool even though relief flooded through you.
“So… I can go back to my regularly scheduled chaos now?” you asked, a familiar teasing edge in your voice.
Six walked over and stopped in front of you. He placed his hands on the counter on either side of your body, caging you in. His expression was calm, but his eyes were intense.
“You could,” he said. “But you’re not going anywhere without me.”
You raised an eyebrow, that old bratty spark flickering.
“Oh? Still my bodyguard, Six?”
He leaned in closer, voice dropping low.
“I’m not your bodyguard anymore.” His hand came up to tuck your hair behind your ear. “I’m yours. And you’re mine. That’s not changing.”
Your heart stuttered.
For a moment, the old version of you wanted to push back, to say something snarky, to test him like you used to. But you didn’t. Instead, you reached up and looped your arms around his neck, pulling him down until your foreheads touched.
“I was really awful to you in the beginning,” you admitted quietly. “I don’t know why you put up with me.”
Six’s hands settled on your waist, thumbs brushing gently over your sides.
“Because even when you were being a spoiled little brat,” he murmured, lips brushing yours, “I could see you. The real you. And I wanted you anyway.”
He kissed you then.
When he pulled back, there was the faintest hint of a smirk on his face.
“Besides,” he added, “someone has to keep that attitude in check.”
You laughed softly and lightly smacked his chest.
“Careful, Sierra Six. I can still make your life difficult.”
He caught your wrist and pressed a kiss to the inside of it, eyes warm with affection.
“I’m counting on it, Princess.”
He lifted you onto the counter effortlessly and stepped between your legs, wrapping his arms around you. You rested your head on his shoulder, breathing him in as the morning light filled the safe house.
For the first time in your life, you didn’t feel trapped.
You felt safe. Wanted. *Chosen.*
And as Six held you close, one hand gently stroking your back, you realized something:
"Starved dog trying to eat you out with a muzzle on"
VERY DRIVER. I would love to muzzle and torture him ugh
muzzled ! driver x reader
TW: pet play, cunnilingus
AN: pet play really isn’t my thing but i tried my best ! this is so so slutty dirty nasty but also so yummy. i need him carnally
smut below cut!
Driver has always been a man of brutal control.
- He’s on his knees in the half-dark garage, leather jacket hanging open with his wrists bound behind his back. The steel muzzle is locked tight around his lower face, cold metal bars pressing into his skin. His breathing is already ragged, chest rising and falling hard as he stares up at you.
- He strains forward desperately, no shame left in him. The muzzle keeps him from reaching you properly, so every attempt is frustrating and clumsy. He presses the cold bars against your cunt, trying to use pressure and the heat of his breath to get what he needs. His tongue pushes against the gaps, licking desperately at whatever he can touch, leaving the metal slick with spit.
- Low, muffled groans vibrate against you as he works his face between your thighs, chasing every inch of contact he’s allowed. His shoulders tremble from the strain of holding himself in this humiliating position, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t.
- When you shift away even slightly, he immediately follows, leaning in harder, almost frantic. The quiet, composed Driver is gone. In his place is a man who’s been pushed to the edge for too long, reduced to desperate, sloppy devotion.
- Only when you finally remove the muzzle does the last of his restraint snap. He buries his face between your legs, licking and sucking with pure hunger. No technique, just raw need. His tongue flat and greedy, hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks as he pulls you tighter against his mouth.
Even after you’re done, he stays there, forehead pressed to your skin, breathing shakily. The muzzle lies forgotten beside him for now… but you both know he’ll let you put it back on whenever you want.
Because this is the only time Driver ever lets himself fall apart so completely for someone.
OHH OHH GAURD DOG DRIVER WHOS SUBMISSIVE TO YOU LIKE THIS OHH OHHHHH...
guard dog! driver x reader
bwah i’m not very good at writing subby men but i tried my best (anything for you jude bb) ! i may write guard dog! driver as a dom soon because now i’m inspired
Driver doesn’t kneel easily. He doesn’t beg with words. His submission is quieter, heavier, like a loaded gun he chooses to keep holstered for you.
- He’s the ultimate guard dog sub. Stoic, watchful, lethal when necessary. To the outside world he’s the same silent man who sizes up every room he enters. But for you? He lowers his head without being asked. Not because he’s weak, because he *decides* you’re worth the deference. Every single time.
- Service is his love language. The car is always spotless when you need it. Routes planned three steps ahead. He stands just behind your shoulder in crowds, one hand loose at his side, ready. If anyone steps too close, the violence is instant and economical. Then he’s right back at your heel, calm again, waiting for the next order.
- Physical affection is rare and deliberate. He’ll rest his forehead against your thigh after a long night, hands loosely around your leg, breathing steady while you run fingers through his hair. No desperate whining, just the quiet relief of being allowed this close. Being *yours*.
- In private he lets the mask slip just enough. Lets you push him against the wall, lets you tilt his chin up so he has to meet your eyes. The first time you tell him to stay, really *stay*—he sits on the edge of the bed for twenty minutes without moving, muscles coiled, pulse visible in his throat. Loyal to the full extent.
- He’s not soft. He’s not demure. He’s a guard dog who chose his person and will tear the world apart to keep them safe, then come home, wipe the blood off his hands, and kneel at their feet like it’s the only place he belongs.
The backlot is quiet this late. It's the kind of hush that only falls after wrap when the last crew trucks have rolled out and the big lights are killed. Just the low hum of distant generators and the occasional creak of scaffolding remain. You’re still in your work clothes, black tactical pants, a fitted long-sleeve tee with the production logo, and your steel-toed boots, standing between two parked stunt vehicles under the dim security lamps.
Colt Seavers is leaning against the hood of a battered muscle car, arms crossed, that signature cocky grin lighting up his face even at 1 a.m. His flannel is half-unbuttoned from the last take, a smear of fake blood still on his collarbone. “C’mon, Coordinator,” he teases, voice warm and rough from shouting directions all day. “You’ve been riding our asses for three weeks straight. Least you can do is let us return the favor.”
A few feet away, Driver stands silent beside the black sedan he’s been precision-driving for the high-speed inserts. The scorpion jacket is unzipped just enough to show the tight black shirt underneath. He hasn’t said much all night, but he’s been watching you those pale, unreadable eyes tracking every move you made while you coordinated the sequence. Now he’s looking at you like the only stunt left is how fast he can get you out of those pants.
You fold your arms, trying to keep your professional tone even though heat is already pooling low in your stomach. “This is still a work site, boys. Cameras are off, but security still does rounds.”
Colt pushes off the car and steps closer, crowding you gently against the side of the sedan. “Security knows better than to come back here when I’m testing rigs.” His fingers brush a loose strand of hair from your face, surprisingly gentle for someone who throws himself off buildings for fun. “And Driver… well. He’s been real patient all week. Haven’t you?”
Driver finally moves. He closes the distance on your other side, gloved hand settling on your hip with unmistakable possession. The leather is cool against the sliver of skin where your shirt has ridden up. He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he speaks for the first time in hours, voice low and gravel-rough:
“Take a break.” His fingers tighten. “Now.”
Colt’s grin widens, playful but hungry, as he tilts your chin toward him. “What do you say, sweetheart? Let the stunt team take care of you for once.”
The decision is made with barely any words. Colt flashes that boyish, troublemaker grin and tosses you the keys to his truck. “You’re riding with me, Coordinator. Driver’s gonna follow. He drives like a goddamn ghost anyway, better not lose him.”
Driver doesn’t argue. He simply nods once then slides into the black sedan. The engine purrs to life.
You end up in the passenger seat of Colt’s big black truck, the scent of motor oil, cologne, and faint gunpowder still clinging to the leather. The lot gate barely swings shut behind you before Colt’s hand finds your thigh, squeezing possessively as he pulls out onto the dark service road.
“Been thinking about this for weeks,” he admits, voice lower now that it’s just the two of you and the rumble of the engine. His fingers slide higher, rubbing slow circles against the inside of your thigh through your tactical pants. “Every time you chewed us out during rehearsal… every time you climbed up on the rigs in those tight pants… yeah. Real professional of me, I know.”
In the rearview mirror, Driver’s headlights stay right on your tail; close, steady, never falling back.
The drive to your apartment is only fifteen minutes, but it stretches. Colt keeps teasing, his hand stroking higher, thumb the seam where you’re already aching. He doesn’t go further than that. Not yet. Just enough to make you squirm in the seat while he murmurs filthy little observations about what he wants to do to you once you’re home.
When you finally pull into the underground parking of your building, Driver’s car glides in right beside you. The three of you step out in charged silence. Colt slings an arm around your waist as you lead them to the elevator. Driver walks on your other side, gloved hand resting at the small of your back, heavy, quiet, and impossibly controlling.
The elevator ride up is thick with tension. The second the doors close, Colt crowds you against the mirrored wall, kissing you hard and greedy, all tongue and playful nips. Driver watches for half a second before stepping in, turning your chin toward him with two leather-clad fingers and claiming your mouth next, slower, deeper, almost devastatingly intense. You taste the difference between them instantly: Colt’s heat and cocky hunger versus Driver’s quiet, barely-leashed control.
By the time the elevator dings on your floor, your lips are swollen and your pulse is hammering between your legs.
You fumble with your keys at the door. Colt’s chest presses against your back, lips on your neck. “Hurry up, sweetheart. I’ve got plans for you.”
Driver’s voice is right at your ear, low and rough: “So do I.”
The door barely clicks shut behind the three of you before the tension snaps.
Colt’s hands are the first to find you, gentle but eager, sliding around your waist from behind as he presses a soft kiss to the side of your neck. “Easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your skin, voice warm and reassuring. “We’ve got you. No rush.”
Driver steps in front of you, his gloved hand cupping your jaw with firm, deliberate pressure. He tilts your face up to his and kisses you hard, deep and commanding, tongue stroking possessively against yours until your knees feel weak. When he pulls back, his pale eyes are dark with intent. “Breathe,” he orders quietly.
They work together without rushing you. Colt’s fingers find the hem of your fitted production tee, slowly peeling it upward. Driver’s hands slide down to unbuckle your belt and work open your tactical pants with precise, efficient movements. Every time your breath hitches, Colt murmurs soft praise against your lips, “Good girl… so fucking pretty for us”, while Driver keeps one firm hand on your hip, grounding you.
Soon your clothes are pooled on the floor, leaving you in just your bra and panties. Driver’s gloved fingers trace the edge of your bra with strict patience before unhooking it. Colt drops to one knee, kissing down your stomach as he tugs your panties down your legs, helping you step out of them.
“Bedroom?” Colt asks softly, lips brushing your hip.
Driver answers for you, voice low and authoritative. “Couch. Closer.” He guides you there with a firm hand on the small of your back.
They sit on the couch side by side, legs spread, both still fully dressed. The sight of them, Colt with his easy grin and Driver with that intense stare, makes heat flood between your thighs.
You sink to your knees between them. Colt reaches out first, stroking your cheek tenderly. “Only what you want, baby. Take your time.”
Driver’s hand slides into your hair, grip firm but not painful, guiding your mouth toward the obvious bulge in his black pants. “Open.”
You start with him. Driver watches with strict focus as you unzip him and take his thick cock into your mouth. He doesn’t thrust, he lets you set the pace at first, but his hand in your hair tightens when you take him deeper, a low groan rumbling in his chest. “Good. Deeper… that’s it.”
After a few moments, Colt gently turns your head toward him. “My turn, sweetheart,” he says softly, voice thick with need. His cock is already free, hard and flushed. He’s gentler, fingers stroking your hair instead of gripping, whispering praise as you swirl your tongue around him. “Fuck… look at you. So good for us. Just like that…”
You switch between them slowly, taking turns. Colt’s moans are breathier, encouraging, while Driver’s are quieter, rougher, his instructions low and commanding when he wants your attention back on him. Every time you switch, one of them is touching you, Colt’s soft caresses down your back and shoulders, Driver’s firm hand keeping you steady.
Driver’s patience finally snaps.
He slides his hand from your hair to under your chin, tilting your face up. His thumb drags across your swollen lower lip, voice low and commanding. “Enough.”
Before you can catch your breath, he pulls you up from your knees with strong hands under your arms and turns you around. Colt shifts on the couch, making room, his eyes dark with arousal as he watches. “Easy with her, man,” Colt murmurs, but there’s a thrill in his voice.
Driver doesn’t answer with words. He bends you over the arm of the couch in one smooth, firm motion, your chest and stomach pressed against the cushions while your ass stays raised for him. You feel the cool leather against your skin as he kicks your legs wider apart.
“Stay just like that,” Driver orders, voice rough and strict.
You hear the sound of his jeans rustling, then the blunt head of his cock is pressing against your soaked entrance. He doesn’t ease in. With one brutal thrust, Driver buries himself to the hilt inside you, stretching you open in a single hard stroke.
A sharp cry leaves your throat. The roughness is immediate and overwhelming, his hips snap forward again and again, fucking you deep and mercilessly. Each thrust is powerful, controlled, and punishing. His gloved hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise while the other presses between your shoulder blades, keeping your upper body pinned down against the couch.
“Fuck-,” you gasp, fingers clawing at the couch as you attempt to grasp anything to try and anchor you.
He leans over you, chest against your back, teeth grazing your shoulder as he growls low in your ear, “Take it. You can handle it.” His pace doesn’t falter, hard, relentless strokes that make the couch creak beneath you. The wet sound of his cock driving into your cunt fills the room, obscene and loud.
Colt moves closer, kneeling beside the couch so he’s at eye level with you. His hand strokes your hair tenderly, contrasting sharply with Driver’s rough pounding. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” he praises softly, voice warm and soothing. He kisses your temple, your cheek, your parted lips. “Look at you taking him so well… so fucking pretty when you’re getting wrecked like this.”
Driver’s grip tightens. He straightens up again, slamming into you harder, one hand fisting in your hair to arch your back. Every thrust hits deep, brutal, and perfect. The intensity makes your legs shake, pleasure bordering on too much as he uses you exactly how he wants. Each brutal thrust rocks you harder against the arm of the couch, your moans turning into broken, desperate sounds. His gloved hand leaves your hip, only to come down hard on your ass with a sharp, resounding smack.
The sting blooms hot across your skin. You cry out, clenching around his thick cock.
“Again,” Driver growls, voice dark and commanding. Another hard slap lands on the same spot, then the other cheek, the impact sharp enough to make your eyes water even as pleasure spikes through you. “That’s it. Squeeze my cock just like that.”
Colt’s hand gently cups your jaw, turning your face toward him. “Breathe, baby,” he whispers tenderly before capturing your mouth in a slow, deep kiss. His lips are soft and reassuring, tongue sliding against yours in sweet contrast to the way Driver is pounding into you from behind. Every time Driver’s hips slam forward, Colt swallows the resulting moan, kissing you like he’s trying to ground you in the middle of the storm.
Driver’s hand slides up your back, over your shoulder, and wraps firmly around the front of your throat. He doesn’t hesitate as he squeezes, cutting off just enough air to make your head spin while he keeps fucking you. The leather of his glove feels cool and unforgiving against your heated skin.
Colt pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, “You’re so fucking good for him… taking everything he gives you.” His thumb strokes your cheek lovingly as Driver’s hand stays locked around your throat. “Let go, sweetheart. We’ve got you.”
Driver’s pace turns even more savage, hips snapping against your ass with wet, filthy sounds. He keeps one hand choking you while the other delivers another sharp slap to your already stinging skin. The combination of Driver’s rough thrusts and Colt’s soft kisses has you trembling, pleasure coiling tight and vicious in your core.
Driver leans in close, lips brushing your ear as his grip on your throat tightens just a little more. “You’re gonna cum like this,” he states, not asking. “Right on my cock while I fuck you."
You nod quickly, desperately wanting to be good and cum for him. It only takes him a few more hard thrusts and quick spanks before you're clenching around him. Whining as wave after wave of pleasure hits you as you finish around his cock.
Driver gives one final deep thrust before he stills, groaning low as he cums hard. He stays buried inside you for a few seconds, hand losing his grip around your throat, before slowly pulling out. You’re left shaking, bent over the arm of the couch, thighs slick and trembling as his cum slowly drips out of you.
They give you a short moment to breathe.
Colt gently pulls you up and turns you around, kissing you softly as he sits back in the middle of the couch. His cock is hard, flushed and ready as he shoves his pants down a little with one hand before settling his hands onto your hips.
“Come here, sweetheart,” he says tenderly, guiding you onto his lap. “You’re tired. Let me do the work.”
He helps you straddle him, hands supporting your weight as he slowly sinks you down onto his cock. You both moan as he fills you, thick, warm, and gentler than Driver’s brutal pace. Once he’s fully inside, Colt keeps his hands on your hips, rocking you in slow, controlled movements so you don’t have to use your exhausted legs.
“Just like that… nice and easy,” he murmurs, leaning up to kiss you sweetly, tongue sliding lazily against yours.
Hi! Possessive Colt, that's the whole ask. Okay no, I have more to say
I always love the 'char gets jealous and fucks you senseless to show who owns you' trope
But the idea of Colt just getting excited and so proud when you say little things that prove you're his... ouhhgggh I'm dripping
Like, he just loves it so much that he can't help but want to kiss you and make you cum, no matter where you guys are
Mmfhwifj possesive colttt <3... um. i got carried away w this. um. um. pls enjoy.
The restaurant booth is crowded with your friends, laughter and playful bickering filling the air. You’re wedged against Colt’s side, his arm draped over the back of the seat, fingers tracing lazy circles on your bare shoulder. His thumb brushes the strap of your tank top, nudging it down an inch before you shrug it back up, a game you’ve been playing all night.
Across the table, your best friend leans in, eyes bright with mischief. “So, Colt, how’d you convince this one to date a stuntman? they normally date guys a bit more..boring?”
You feel his chest rumble against your arm, a low chuckle. “Didn’t have to convince them. they knew what they wanted.” His grip tightens on your shoulder, pulling you closer until your thigh presses against his. The heat of him seeps through denim, and you bite back a smile.
“Did I?” you say, tilting your head to look up at him. The restaurant’s dim lighting catches the bearded line of his jaw, the slight smirk tugging at his lips. “I think you had to work for it, actually.”
His eyes darken, just a flicker. The fingers on your shoulder slide down, tracing the curve of your collarbone, then lower, brushing the top of your breast before retreating. “That right?” His voice drops, meant only for you. “You wanna tell them how I earned it?”
Your friends are distracted now, someone ordering another round of god knows what, but your best friend is watching, a knowing grin spreading. You lean into Colt, letting your hand rest on his thigh, squeezing lightly. “I’m not telling them anything. They already think I’m whipped.”
“Whipped?” He snorts, but the hand on your shoulder slides down your back, palm flat against your spine. “Baby, I’m the one who’s wrapped around your finger. You know that.”
“Prove it,” you whisper, loud enough for your bsf to hear.
Theyvcackle, raising their glass just a bit. “Oh, this is getting good. What’s the dare, Colt?”
He doesn’t answer them. His gaze stays locked on you, eyes traveling from your lips down your outfit, then back up. The heat in them makes your stomach tighten. “You're makin' me nervous, sweetheart.”
“Am I?” you ask, innocent, as your hand drifts higher on his thigh, brushing the bulge straining against his jeans. He’s already half-hard, and the brief contact makes him inhale sharply.
“Yeah, you are.” He shifts, adjusting himself, but doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans down, mouth brushing your ear. “Keep that up, and we’re leaving before the appetizers arrive.”
You laugh, pulling back, your hand retreating to your lap. “Fine, fine. I’ll behave.”
But you don’t. Over the next half hour, you find ways to tease him—accidentally brushing his cock under the table, pressing your chest against his arm when you reach for a napkin, licking salt off your wrist while holding his gaze. Each time, his nostrils flare, his jaw tightens, and his hand finds your thigh, squeezing until you nearly gasp.
When another friend of your starts talking about something easily ignorable, you take the opportunity to slide your hand over Colt’s crotch, palming his now-stiff cock through the denim. He bucks into your touch, a sharp intake of air gets stuck in his throat, and his hand clamps down on your wrist.
“Alright,” he says, cutting off your friend mid-sentence. “We’re out.”
“What? The night’s just getting started!” Your bsf protests.
“Something came up.” Colt’s already standing, pulling you up with him. He tosses a few bills on the table—more than enough to cover your share—and wraps an arm around your waist, steering you toward the exit before anyone can argue.
The cold night air hits you as you stumble onto the sidewalk, his grip unrelenting. “Colt, I was just—”
“I know what you were doing.” He stops, turns you to face him, one hand cupping your jaw. His thumb traces your lower lip, parting it slightly. “And I loved it. Every little touch, every look—you know exactly what you do to me.”
You open your mouth to respond, but he kisses you instead, hard and hungry, tongue sliding past your lips. It’s deep, possessive, claiming, a taste of beer and impatience. His other hand drops to your ass, squeezing roughly, pulling you against his hips. You feel him, thick and aching, grinding into your belly.
“Fuck,” he mutters against your mouth. “Get in the truck.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, just tugs you down the street to his pickup, keys already in hand. The doors unlock with a chirp, and he practically lifts you into the passenger seat, slamming the door before circling to his side.
The engine roars to life, and he’s pulling away from the curb before you’ve buckled your seatbelt. His hand finds your knee, sliding up your thigh as he drives. “You have no idea how much I love that you’re mine,” he says, voice rough. “Every time you say something that proves it, every time you touch me like you own me—makes me fucking crazy.”
“Crazy good?” you ask, breathless.
“Crazy good.” He squeezes your thigh, knuckles brushing the heat between your legs. “So good I’m gonna spend the rest of the night making you cum until you can’t remember your own name.”
The drive is short, minutes that feel like hours. His hand never leaves your thigh, fingers inching higher until they press against your damp panties through your jeans, making you moan.
He parks haphazardly in his driveway, kills the engine, and is around to your side before you can unbuckle. The door opens, and he hauls you out, pinning you against the truck. His mouth finds your neck, teeth scraping, tongue soothing. “Been wanting to do this all night,” he growls against your pulse point. “Watching you at the table, knowing everyone saw how you look at me—how you belong to me.”
“I do,” you breathe, arching into him. “I’m yours, Colt.”
He groans, a sound so deep it vibrates through your bones. His hand cups your cunt through your jeans, pressing hard, and your knees buckle. “Say it again.”
“Yours.”
He kisses you again, sloppy and desperate, walking you backward toward the front door. He fumbles with the lock, kicks it open, and pulls you inside, slamming it shut behind you.
The living room is dark, but he doesn’t bother with lights. His hands find the hem of your tank top, yanking it over your head. Your tits bounce free, and he’s on them immediately, mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard while his thumb works the other.
You gasp, fingers threading through his hair. “Colt—fuck—”
“That’s right,” he mutters, switching sides. “Let me hear you. Want everyone to know who makes you sound like that.”
He drops to his knees, unbuckling your jeans and dragging them down your legs with your panties. The cool air hits you, and you shiver. He looks up at you, eyes dark, hungry. “You’re so fucking wet for me. Already, just from teasing me?”
You nod, speechless.
He leans in, tongue flat against your clit, and you cry out, grabbing his shoulders for balance. He works you slow and deliberate, licking, sucking, humming against your flesh. His hands hook under and grip your ass, spreading you open, holding you steady as he devours you.
“Colt—I’m gonna—” you stammer, hips bucking.
He pulls back just long enough to growl, “Not yet. Want you to come on my cock.”
He stands, fumbling with his belt, zipper, then his jeans are down, his cock springing free, thick and slick with precum. He strokes himself once, twice, then lifts you onto his kitchen island, wrapping your legs around his waist. You feel the head of his cock press against your entrance, teasing, just the tip sliding in before he stops.
“Look at me,” he commands.
You do. His face is flushed, lips swollen, eyes blazing with possession. “Whose pussy is this?”
“Yours.”
He slips into you, filling you completely, and you gasp and whine. He doesn’t wait, he knows he doesn’t need let you adjust. He fucks you standing on shakey legs, his hips slapping against yours, each thrust deeper than the last. Your back hits the cabinet, but he doesn’t slow down.
“That’s it—take it,” he grunts. “Take all of me. You wanted my attention? You got it.”
Your nails rake down his back, and he hisses, driving harder. The friction, the fullness, the dirty sound of his hips smashing yours—it’s too much. Your orgasm builds, abrupt and intense.
“Colt—please—can I—?”
“Cum for me,” he growls. “Show me you’re mine.”
And you do, clenching around him, waves of pleasure ripping through you while your nails dig painfully into his shoulders. He follows a moment later, burying his face in your neck and gasping and moaning loud as he fucks himself as deep as he can reach.
He holds you there, both of you panting, sweaty, tangled. After a long moment, he pulls out slowly, letting your numb legs dangle off the counter. He kisses your forehead, then your lips, soft and tender.
“Never get tired of that,” he murmurs.
“Good,” you say, voice hoarse. “Because I’m not done teasing you.”
He laughs, pulling you toward the bedroom. “Oh, baby. We’re just getting started.”
You barely have time to settle your knees on either side of his head before Colt loses it.
The second your thighs bracket his face and you lower yourself onto his mouth, he turns feral. A deep, hungry growl vibrates straight through your core as his strong hands clamp down on your hips and yank you flush against him. No teasing and no mercy, just pure desperation. His tongue drags through your folds like he’s starving, licking and sucking with filthy, eager strokes that have your breath catching.
“Fuck, baby… sit,” he rasps against your soaked cunt, voice rough and muffled. “Don’t hover. Sit on my face.”
You do, and Colt groans like he’s finally home. He buries himself in you completely, tongue pushing inside you, nose grinding against your clit, mouth devouring every slick inch like it’s his favorite meal in the world. His favorite activity. His hands keep you pinned down, forcing you to ride his face as he eats you with wild, relentless hunger. The stubble on his jaw scratches deliciously against your inner thighs while he moans and laps at you like he’ll never get enough.
Every time you rock your hips or tug his hair, he gets louder, more aggressive, sucking your clit between his lips and flicking it with the tip of his tongue until your legs start shaking. He’s rock hard beneath you, hips jerking uselessly into the air, but he doesn’t care. All he wants is you smothering him, using his mouth, soaking his face.
When you finally come, thighs clamped tight around his head and grinding down on his tongue, Colt doesn’t let up. He keeps licking you through every pulse and tremble, greedy and possessive, like he wants to drink every drop you give him.
Because for Colt Seavers, there’s nothing better than having you sitting on his face.
Holland March kicks the motel door closed behind him, already shedding his jacket like it offends him. His eyes drop straight between your legs as you sit on the edge of the bed, and that hungry, cocky smirk pulls at his mouth.
“Lie back and spread your thighs,” he tells you, voice low and rough. “I want that cunt right at the edge so I can bury my face in it properly.”
The second you open your legs for him, Holland drops to his knees between them. He doesn’t tease. He leans in and spits directly onto your pussy, a thick, heavy glob that lands right on your clit and slowly drips down your folds. He watches it slide with dark satisfaction, then drags his tongue through the mess in one long, filthy stroke.
“Fuck… that’s what I’ve been craving,” he groans against your slick heat. “This pretty cunt all wet and messy for my mouth.”
His tongue is relentless. He licks broad, slow stripes from your entrance up to your clit, then circles the swollen bud before sucking it between his lips with obscene wet sounds. Every few moments he pulls back just enough to spit on you again, making everything slicker, sloppier, louder. He spreads the spit with lazy laps of his tongue, then dives back in like he can’t stand to be away from your taste for even a second.
One of his hands is wrapped tight around his thick cock, stroking himself in steady, firm pulls while he eats you. The wet rhythm of his fist fills the room alongside the filthy noises of his mouth devouring your pussy.
“Goddamn, you taste good,” he mutters, voice vibrating against your folds. “So fucking addictive. I could live between these thighs.”
He pushes his tongue inside you as deep as it will go, fucking you with it in hungry thrusts while his nose grinds firmly against your clit. The wet, sloppy sounds grow louder as he buries his face deeper, shaking his head side to side to rub his tongue and lips all over your cunt. Spit and your arousal coat his chin and drip down onto the cheap sheets.
Holland pulls back for a breath, lips shiny and swollen. He spits on your clit again then immediately seals his mouth over it and sucks hard, flicking his tongue rapidly against the sensitive bundle of nerves.
“Don’t you dare close these legs on me,” he growls, the words muffled against your pussy. “This is mine right now. I’m gonna lick and suck this cunt until you’re shaking.”
He laps at you faster, alternating between long, dirty licks and tight, rhythmic suction on your clit. His hand never stops moving on his cock, twisting over the head on every upstroke, smearing the steady leak of precum down his shaft. You can hear how turned on he is by the wet, slick sounds of his fist flying faster.
When your hips start rolling against his face, Holland moans loudly into your pussy, the vibration shooting straight through you.
“That’s it,” he rasps. “Fuck my mouth. Use my tongue. I want you riding my face until you cum all over it.”
He doubles down, sucking your clit with perfect pressure while his tongue flicks mercilessly. Spit runs down his chin as he works you over, messy and shameless. His groans grow deeper, rougher, as he feels you getting closer.
When you finally break, thighs clamping around his head, Holland doesn’t pull away. He keeps his mouth sealed over your clit, licking and sucking you through every pulse, drinking down everything you give him with low, satisfied groans.
Even after your orgasm fades, he keeps going. Softer, slower licks at first, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses all over your sensitive pussy while you catch your breath. Then he spits on you again, rubbing the fresh saliva into your folds with his tongue before he starts building you right back up.
“Again,” he says, voice rough and commanding as he looks up at you. His mouth and chin are glistening, eyes dark with lust. “I’m not done eating this cunt. Not even close.”
He dives back in, tongue working you harder this time, sucking and licking with renewed hunger. His fist pumps faster on his cock, but he’s clearly in no rush to finish. He’s focused on dragging another orgasm out of you with nothing but his mouth licking, spitting, sucking, and groaning like a man who could happily stay on his knees for hours.
By the time the second wave hits you, Holland is moaning loudly into your pussy, licking you through it just as greedily as the first. When you finally start to tremble from overstimulation, he slows down, dragging slow, possessive stripes up your dripping folds, occasionally pressing soft kisses to your twitching clit.
He looks up at you with a wicked, satisfied smirk, lips swollen and shiny, hand still lazily stroking his throbbing cock.
“Turn over,” he says, voice thick with promise. “Ass up. I’m still hungry, and I plan on eating this pussy until you can’t fucking walk straight.”
talking to @prudejudee always gives me wayyyy too many ideas
TW: pervy, daddy kink lowkey, dirty talk,
smut under cut !!
The apartment was a mess, as usual. Empty bottles, overflowing ashtrays, and that ugly lava lamp casting a sleazy orange glow across the walls. Holland March lounged on the edge of his unmade bed like he owned the whole damn world, shirt half-unbuttoned, tie hanging loose around his neck, a glass of cheap whiskey dangling from his fingers. His eyes lit up the second you stepped inside, hungry, glassy, and already half-drunk.
“Well, fuck me,” he drawled, that crooked, boyish grin spreading across his face. “There’s my favorite girl. C’mere, sweetheart. Daddy’s been thinking about that pretty pussy all day.”
He didn’t wait for you to come to him. Holland grabbed your wrist and yanked you between his spread thighs, setting his glass aside so both hands could roam. He palmed your ass greedily, squeezing hard through your clothes before sliding one hand up to grope your tits.
“Goddamn,” he groaned, burying his face between your breasts, breathing in like he was addicted. “I bet you smell so fucking good. Bet you’re already wet for me, aren’t you? Little slut couldn’t wait to get over here and get fucked.”
His fingers made quick work of your clothes, shoving your skirt up around your waist and tugging your panties down just enough. He pushed two thick fingers inside you without warning, curling them deep as he laughed low and dirty against your neck.
“Fuck yeah. Soaking wet. You been thinking about my cock, baby? Been walking around all day with this tight little cunt throbbing for me?”
He pumped his fingers fast and sloppy, thumb rubbing messy circles over your clit while his mouth latched onto your nipple, sucking hard. Holland March was a shameless pervert, and he never tried to hide it.
“On the bed. Hands and knees. Let me see that ass up in the air.”
The second you obeyed, he was behind you, shoving his slacks down just far enough to free his thick, leaking cock. He rubbed the head up and down your slick folds, teasing your entrance, smearing his pre-cum all over you.
“Beg for it,” he whispered hotly against your ear, voice rough. “Tell me how bad you need daddy to wreck your pretty pussy.”
When you gave him what he wanted, he let out that bright, unhinged laugh and pushed inside you in one long, greedy thrust. The stretch made you gasp. Holland moaned loud, no shame at all, hips stuttering as he bottomed out.
“Jesus Christ, that’s tight. Best fucking pussy I’ve ever had.” He gripped your hips hard and started fucking you with deep, erratic strokes. “Listen to how wet you are. You love this, don’t you? Love letting me use you like a cheap whore.”
One of his hands snaked around to rub your clit while the other fisted your hair, pulling your head back so he could growl filthy things right against your ear.
“I was jerking off in my office earlier thinking about this. Picturing you bent over my desk, skirt up, moaning my name while I pumped you full. I’m a fucking pervert for you, baby. Can’t get enough of this cunt.”
His pace was relentless, messy, greedy, and completely uncontrolled. Every thrust slapped against your ass, the sound obscene in the quiet apartment. He kept talking the whole time, voice growing rougher.
“Gonna fill you up until you’re dripping down your thighs. Maybe I’ll make you keep my cum inside you when you leave. Walk around all night feeling me leak out of you like the dirty girl you are.”
He leaned over you, chest pressed to your back, one hand squeezing your breast while the other worked your clit faster. His hips snapped harder, losing rhythm as he got close.
“Come on, sweetheart. Come on my cock. Let me feel this tight pussy squeeze me.”
You fell apart with a cry, clenching around him. Holland groaned loudly, burying himself deep as he came hard, pulsing inside you with every thick spurt.
“Fuck… take it. Take every drop, baby.”
He stayed buried inside you afterward, collapsing half on top of you, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder and the back of your neck. His hand slid down between your legs, possessively cupping your soaked pussy, keeping his cum from spilling out.
“Goddamn, I’m keeping you,” he mumbled, voice hoarse and satisfied. “Best piece of ass in L.A. My dirty little secret.”
He gave a lazy thrust, already starting to harden again inside you.
“Ten minutes,” he whispered, nipping at your ear. “Then I’m flipping you over and fucking those pretty tits before I fill you up all over again. Sound good, sweetheart?”
He chuckled against your skin, drunk, horny, and completely unrepentant.
🙏 Need more thoughts on neighbor!driver OR neighbor colt MWAHAHAAA
RAHH GIRL I LOVE AND ADORE YOU.
Neighbor! Colt Seavers x fem! reader
TW: none !
smut under cut !!
Living next door to Colt Seavers was nothing short of dangerous.
The man was a walking hazard, seemingly perpetually shirtless, covered in bruises and scrapes from whatever insane stunt he’d filmed that day, flashing that easy, cocky grin every time your paths crossed in the hallway. He’d lean in your doorway with a beer in hand, asking if you needed anything fixed while his eyes shamelessly dragged down your body like he was already imagining you bent over the kitchen counter.
One night the power went out during a storm. Colt showed up at your door with a flashlight and that lazy smirk, wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants. Twenty minutes later the lights were still off, but you were on your back across the dining table with Colt between your thighs.
He fucked like he performed stunts, confident, a little reckless, and in total control. Strong hands gripped your hips, holding you right where he wanted as he sank into you with one smooth, deep thrust that made your back arch off the table. Every roll of his hips was deliberate, powerful, the kind of rhythm that had you gasping his name like a prayer.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he groaned against your neck, voice rough and warm. He kissed you like he was starving for it, messy, hungry, smiling into your mouth every time you moaned louder. One hand slid between you, thumb circling your clit with devastating precision until your legs started shaking around his waist.
He didn’t just take. Colt worshipped. His mouth on your tits, teeth grazing your throat, whispering filthy praise between thrusts. “That’s it, baby… let me hear you. Sound so pretty when you’re falling apart for me.”
By the time the power came back on, you were boneless, marked up with beard burns and love bites, while Colt lounged beside you like he’d just pulled off the best stunt of his career. He pressed a lazy kiss to your shoulder and murmured against your skin,
“Anytime you need a neighborly favor… day or night… I’m right next door.” Bastard had even winked
this is heavily influenced from a convo with @prudejudee - this is for you shawty - also probably gonna write a proper fic on this eventually but have rambles for now
tw: panty sniffing, stalker tendencies, i dunno man he’s dark and i love him
continues below the cut !
Driver keeps his distance at first, but the pull is magnetic and unrelenting. He knows your schedule better than you do, when you leave for work, the exact minute the light in your bedroom clicks off, the faint creak of your floorboards he can hear through the thin apartment walls. His scorpion jacket stays on even when he’s parked across the street in the shadows, engine idling low, gloved hands gripping the wheel while he watches your silhouette move behind the curtains.
He starts small. A duplicate key made after lifting yours for thirty seconds one night. He slips into your place when you’re gone, sits on the edge of your unmade bed, and presses his face into your pillow just to breathe you in. Your dirty laundry basket is his altar, panties still warm from your body get tucked into his jacket pocket. He jerks off slowly in your bathroom with a pair of them wrapped around his cock, biting down on his own fist so he doesn’t make a sound, imagining how you’d taste if he buried his face between your thighs right there on the cold tile.
At night he follows you home from a distance, headlights off, the city lights sliding over his blank face. When you bring a date back he’s on the fire escape, crouched low, jaw tight as he watches through the gap in your blinds. The thought of someone else touching you makes his knuckles white. Later he’ll leave a single perfect handprint bruise on that man’s throat as a warning, never close enough for you to connect it to him.
His fantasies get darker the longer he watches. He pictures bending you over the kitchen counter while you’re still half-asleep in the morning, flipping that little robe up and sinking into you raw, one hand clamped over your mouth so the neighbors don’t hear you choke on his name. He wants to mark you, teeth on your neck, fingerprints on your hips, cum dripping down your thighs while you’re still trembling. In his head you’re always soaked, always begging in that soft, broken voice, taking every thick inch like you were made for him.
Sometimes he stands at the foot of your bed in the dark for hours, just breathing with you, cock aching against his jeans as he memorizes the way your tits rise and fall under the sheet. He’s imagined sliding in behind you a hundred times, spooning you while you’re still asleep and pushing inside so slowly you wake up already full of him, whimpering and clenching before you even realize it’s real.
Driver doesn’t talk much, but when he finally decides you’re his, there won’t be any gentle courtship. He’ll take what he’s been starving for, rough, possessive, and obsessive, until the only thing you can think about when you’re alone is the man who’s been watching you cum through your window for months. And you’ll never feel truly alone again.
